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THE 
 
 YOUNG LADIES' t 
 
 ELOCUTIONARY READER; 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 A SELECTION OE READING LESSONS, 
 
 ANNA U. RUSSELL 
 
 INTRODUCTORY RULES AND EXERCISES IN ELOCUTION, 
 
 ADAPTED TO FEMALE READERS, 
 
 WULLIAM RUSSELL, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "LESSONS IN ENUNCIATION," &C, INSTRUCTOR IN ELOCUTION 
 
 AT ABBOT FEMALE ACADEMY, AND.OVEE, AND BRADFORD 
 
 (FEMALE) ACADEMY, BRADFORD, MASS. 
 
 NEW EDITION. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY 
 
 18 51. 
 
63S99 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1845, by William Russell, 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 THE YOUNG LADIES' ELOCUTIONARY READER, 
 
 containing a Selection of Reading Lessons, by Anna U. 
 Russell, and the Rules of Elocution, adapted to Female 
 Readers, by William Russell. Also, 
 
 THE INTRODUCTION TO THE SAME, for Younger 
 Classes. 
 
 These works are intended to combine, in each volume, the twofold advan- 
 tage of a series of Reading Lessons, selected under the special influence of 
 feminine taste and habits, with a manual of Elocution, adapted expressly to the 
 systematic instruction of 'females, in the art of reading. - ^ V 
 
 ^^^\%^ ' 
 
 From Miss A. C. Hasseltine, Principal of Bradford Academy, Bradford, Ms. 
 
 " I have examined the manuscript, plan, and contents of the 'Young Ladies' 
 Reader/ and am free to say, that the importance of the various Rules and 
 Exercises in Elocution, and the fine selection of Pieces for Reading Lessons, 
 will render it a very desirable work to be introduced into all our female 
 schools. We shall not hesitate to introduce it into our academy as soon as 
 it is published." 
 
 From Mr. George B. Emerson, Instructor, Boston. 
 
 u \ have carefully examined the plan of the ' Young Ladies 7 Reader 3' and I 
 like it so well — both the introductory portion and the selections — that I say, 
 without hesitation, I should immediately adopt it, as a reading book, in my 
 own school, if it should be published." 
 
 From Mr. Asa Farwell, Principal of Abbot Female Academy, Andover, Ms. 
 " The plan of the ' Young Ladies' Reader/ strikes me very favourably. The 
 Selections are judiciously made 5 and the Introductory Rules will be exceed- 
 ingly valuable. Such a work, in schools for young ladies, will occupy a place 
 for which there is not now, so far as my knowledge extends, any suitable text- 
 book. The volume will be looked for with pleasure j and, when published, 
 we shall introduce it into our academy." 
 
 From Mr. Joseph Hale Abbot Instructor, Boston. 
 "I have examined, with much satisfaction, the plan of the ' Young Ladies' 
 Reader/ and the selection of pieces which it contains. It appears to me to 
 be prepared with much taste and judgment, and to be admirably adapted to 
 the wants of a numerous class of pupib. I have long — in common, doubtless, 
 with many others — felt the need of sucfl a work; and I do not hesitate to 
 express the confident opinion, that'i.t will be extensively used." 
 
 From Rev. Hubbard Winslow, Boston. 
 "1 have examined the plan and many of the extracts for the ' Young Ladies' 
 Reader/ and have no doubt of the great merit of the work. I shall introduce 
 it into my school. May it find its deserved success, generally ! " 
 
 STEREOTYPED AT THE 
 EOSTON TYPE AND STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The book now offered as an aid to the education of young ladies, 
 is designed to combine the advantages of a volume of reading lessons, 
 selected under the special influence of feminine taste and habits, and 
 of a manual of elocution, adapted to the instruction of females, in 
 the art of reading. The selection of pieces has been regulated by a 
 regard to their fitness for the exercise of reading aloud, — a test which, 
 though inapplicable to many productions of the highest intellectual 
 excellence, becomes indispensable, as the standard of a collection of 
 reading lessons. 
 
 A text-book of English literature, may justly contain passages of a 
 character too abstract, or of a beauty too spiritual, for even the most 
 skilful utterance ; but, in a reading book, the preference is necessa- 
 rily given to matter adapted to the cultivation of a vivid and effective 
 elocution. — The literary merit of the extracts imbodied in the follow- 
 ing pages, has, however, in no instance, been overlooked ; as a ge- 
 nial influence on taste, is one of the most desirable results of the 
 various stages and means of education. Nor have the higher consid- 
 erations of sentiment and principle, been neglected, in the compila- 
 tion of materials which necessarily become elements of thought and 
 reflection, while repeated for the purposes of appropriate and impres- 
 sive reading. 
 
 The introductory rules and exercises, presented in this volume, 
 will, it is thought, be found sufficiently extensive for the use of read- 
 ers not yet advanced to the study of elocution, as a distinct branch 
 of education. The systematic training of the voice may be pursued, 
 — in conjunction with the use of the Reader, — on the system of ex- 
 ercises prescribed in a manual compiled by J. E. Murdoch and 
 William Russell, and entitled " Orthophony, or Vocal Culture in 
 Elocution;" and at a later stage of progress, the rules and princi- 
 ples of correct reading, may be studied, to greater extent, in Rus- 
 sell's "American Elocutionist " 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 • Page 
 Preface 3 
 
 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 Management of the Voice 9 
 
 Faults in the Mode of Utterance 9 
 
 Identity of Musical and Elocutionary Culture 11 
 
 Vocal Culture applicable to Conversation 12 
 
 The Music of the Female Voice 13 
 
 Faulty Utterance an Indication of mental and physical Defects. 14 
 
 Intellectual and moral Effects of Bad Reading 15 
 
 Mrs. Sigourney's Remarks on Reading 16 
 
 Comparative Value of Reading and Music 17 
 
 Organs of Voice 17 
 
 Neglect of the proper Modes of Organic Action 17 
 
 Proper Attitude for the Exercise of Reading 18 
 
 Mode of Respiration required for appropriate Reading 19 
 
 Appropriate Mode of producing Vocal Sound 19 
 
 Management of the Breath 20 
 
 Utterance as modified by the Glottis 21 
 
 Articulation, as dependent on the minor Organs 22 
 
 " Quality " of the Voice 22 
 
 " Pure Tone " 22 
 
 Faults in " Quality " 23 
 
 Exercises in Pure Tone 25 
 
 " Orotund " Voice 36 
 
 Exercises in " Orotund Quality " 38 
 
 " Aspirated " Utterance 41 
 
 Exercises in " Aspirated " Utterance 42 
 
 Force 43 
 
 " Stress " 44 
 
 Exercises in " Stress " 45 
 
 " Melody " and Pitch 46 
 
 " Movement." ." 48 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 Ex. 
 
 1. The Pine and the Olive Mrs. Barbauld. 49 
 
 2. The Two Mothers De Custine. 50 
 
 3. A Mother's Love Emily Taylor. 52 
 
 4. Church Bells N.P.Willis. 53 
 
 5. My Mary Cowper. 55 
 
CONTENTS. 5 
 
 Ex. Page 
 
 6. Margaret Davidson Washington Irving. 57 
 
 7. To My Sister Lucretia Margaret Davidson. 58 
 
 8. Voices of English Birds Jardine. 60 
 
 9. My Mother's Sigh Mrs. Osgood. 62 
 
 10. Accomplishments Jane Taylor. 63 
 
 11. The Clergyman's Daughter Mrs. Hofland. 65 
 
 12. To a Departed Friend 0. W. B. Peabody. 66 
 
 13. The Old Elm of Newbury H.F.Gould. 68 
 
 14. The Farmer Anon. 71 
 
 15. The Iron Mine of Dannamoura Anon. 73 
 
 16. To a Flower * Procter. 75 
 
 17. The Poet, the Oyster, and the Sensitive Plant Cowper. 76 
 
 18. Fata Morgana Anon. 78 
 
 19. The Instructions of Jesus Hannah Adams. 79 
 
 20. Hymn of Miriam Milman. 81 
 
 21. A Hymn of the Sea Bryant. 83 
 
 22. Evening Margaret Davidson. 85 
 
 23. The Rhine Anon. 86 
 
 24. The Ferryman's Daughter T. C. Grattan. 88 
 
 25. Stanzas R. H. Wilde. 96 
 
 26. The Child Angel Charles Lamb. 97 
 
 27. Lucretia Davidson Miss Sedgwick. 99 
 
 28. To My Mother Lucretia Davidson. 101 
 
 29. The Planet Jupiter Anon. 102 
 
 30. Fate of Missolonghi Fabre. 104 
 
 31. The Sailor's Mother... Southey. 106 
 
 32. Fair Sufferers Anon. 109 
 
 33. The Desert Countess Han-Han. Ill 
 
 34. Falsehood Mrs. Opie. 112 
 
 35. The Wakefield Family Goldsmith. 114 
 
 36. Alpine Scenery Reade. 117 
 
 37. Hymn to Mont Blanc Coleridge. 120 
 
 38. The Starry Heavens Young. 123 
 
 39. Miss Mitford Miss Sedgwick. 124 
 
 40. Autumn Scenery of England Miss Mitford. 126 
 
 41. The Victor's Crown Mrs. Hale. 129 
 
 42. Fortitude of the Pilgrims Choate. 130 
 
 43. Chorus in the Fall of Jerusalem Milman. 132 
 
 44. Memories J. G. Whittier. 135 
 
 45. Conversation and Accomplishments G. B. Emerson. 137 
 
 46. Fashion Mrs. Barbauld. 139 
 
 47. Same Subject Ibid. 142 
 
 48. Use of an Interjection Miss Mitford. 144 
 
 49. Death of the Princess Charlotte R.Hall. 147 
 
 50. Same Subject T.Chalmers. 149 
 
 51. Passing Away J. Pierpont. 151 
 
 52. Seasons of Prayer H. Ware, Jr. 153 
 
 53. Niagara J. G. C. Brainard. 155 
 
 54. Ferdinand and Isabella Irving. 156 
 
 55. Good Society Miss Leslie. 158 
 
 56. Twilight Fitz-Green Halleck. 161 
 
 57. The Spectator's Return to Town ..." Steele. 162 
 
 58. The Rich and the Poor Mrs. Barbauld. 166 
 
 59. The Death of the Flowers W. C. Bryant. 170 
 
 1* 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Ex. Page 
 
 60. Madame de Stael Anon. 172 
 
 61. To the Ursa Major H. Ware, Jr. 175 
 
 62. Moral Philosophy Prof. Frisbie. 179 
 
 63. Early Piety Mrs. Ellis. 180 
 
 64. Mont Blanc H. Winslow. 182 
 
 65. Lake Leman and the Alps Bxjron. 184 
 
 66. Flowers Jar dine. 187 
 
 67. Flowers the Gift of Divine Benignity Mrs. Hemans. 189 
 
 68. Flowers sent Me during Illness R. H. Dana. 191 
 
 69. Early Habits Anon. 192 
 
 70. The Card-Player Lamb. 194 
 
 71. Uneducated Woman Dr. Johnson. 195 
 
 72. Nature Gillespie. 197 
 
 73. Hymn of Nature Thomson. 199 
 
 74. Primitive Poetry Hillard. 201 
 
 75. Family Sympathies Irving. 203 
 
 76. Mary Dyre Miss Sedgicick. 204 
 
 77. Same Subject Ibid. 207 
 
 78. Conversation Mrs. Farrar. 209 
 
 79. The Tear of Penitence Moore. 211 
 
 80. Dawn * Anon. 214 
 
 81. Christian Faith Buckminster. 216 
 
 82. To a Child Joanna Baillie. 219 
 
 83. Maternal Instruction G. B. Emerson. 221 
 
 84. Fidelity to Duty Mrs. Grant. 223 
 
 85. The Animal World Mrs. Ellis. 225 
 
 86. Spring Addison. 227 
 
 87. Morning Hymn in Paradise Milton. 229 
 
 88. Uses of Suffering Channing. 231 
 
 89. Catastrophe of Scilla Craven 234 
 
 90. Morning Anon. 236 
 
 91. Fashion in Dress Mrs. Farrar. 237 
 
 92. Printing Anon. 240 
 
 93. Immortality Dana. 242 
 
 94. State of the Soul at Death H. Winsloxc. 244 
 
 95. Sufferings of the Pilgrims E. Everett. 245 
 
 96. The Useful and the Ornamental Mrs. Farrar. 247 
 
 97. Sir Kit and Lady Rackrent Miss Edgeworth. 249 
 
 98. The Southern Cross Dr. Bacon. 252 
 
 99. Baden Anon. 254 
 
 100. The Tea-Rose Mrs. H. B. Stowe. 256 
 
 101. Influence of Christianity on Woman Muzzey. 258 
 
 1 02. The Aurora Borealis Barry. 260 
 
 103. The Two Voices Mrs. Hemans. 262 
 
 104. The Ettrick and the Yarrow- Anon. 263 
 
 105. The Swiss Guide Rogers. 267 
 
 106. Windsor Castle Miss Sedgicick. 269 
 
 107. Light Conversation with a Heavy Man Anon. 271 
 
 108. Ballad Heber. 273 
 
 109. The Blind Sydney Smith. 275 
 
 110. The Blind Man's Lay Mrs. IVhitman. 278 
 
 111. Unwritten Music JV. P. Willis. 279 
 
 112. A Tongue in every Leaf. C. Bowles. 281 
 
 113. Reading of the Bible J.Abbott. 282 
 
CONTENTS. 7 
 
 Ex. Page. 
 
 114. Sunday Evening Anon. 285 
 
 115. The Artist's Wife's Album Howitt. 287 
 
 116. Susquehanna Mrs. Ellet. 290 
 
 117. Female Courage Lady Stanhope. 292 
 
 118. Grace Darling Wordsworth. 293 
 
 119. Monody on the Death of Grace Darling.. Mrs. C. B. Wilson. 295 
 
 120. Female Studies Mrs. Barbauld. 296 
 
 121. Shocking Ignorance Anon. 298 
 
 122. Edgeworthstown Mrs. S. C. Hall. 300 
 
 123. Mysteries of Life Orville Deioey. 303 
 
 124. Scene from Miriam Mrs. E. P. Hall. 305 
 
 125. London Anon. 310 
 
 126. French Politeness Saint- Simon. 313 
 
 127. Pilgrims of the Middle Ages Anon. 316 
 
 128. Autumnal Musings Anna M. Wells. 319 
 
 129. The Ocean ■. Greenwood. 320 
 
 130. Ode to the Flowers Horace Smith. 322 
 
 131. The Besieged Castle Scott. 324 
 
 132. Same Subiect Ibid. 328 
 
 133. Ship by Moonlight Wilson. 331 
 
 134. Beauty R. W. Emerson. 334 
 
 135. The Flower-Stealers Blanchard. 336 
 
 136. Qualities requisite in a Wife Dr. Aikin. 339 
 
 137. Love for Humanity Mrs. Child. 341 
 
 138. A Quaker Meeting Lamb. 343 
 
 139. Song for August H. Martineau. 345 
 
 140. Literature and Morals Frisbie. 346 
 
 141. Birthplace of Burns Cunningham. 349 
 
 142. The Ettrick Shepherd's Mother Anon. 350 
 
 143. Ladies' Head-Dresses Addison. 352 
 
 144. Domestic Education Mrs. Gilman. 355 
 
 145. The Water-Lily Mrs. Hemans. 358 
 
 146. Stanzas on the Death of Mrs. Hemans Miss Landon. 359 
 
 147. The Dying Midshipman Anon. 362 
 
 148. The Departed Mary Ann Brown. 365 
 
 149. " 1 see Thee still " Charles Spraa-ue. 366 
 
 150. A Dirge Moir. 367 
 
 151. The Guelphs and Ghibelines Da Ponte. 369 
 
 152. The Mosque of Santa Sophia Miss Pardoe. 372 
 
 153. Scene from " As You Like It " Shakspeare. 375 
 
 154. Sabbath Musings H. Martineau. 376 
 
 155. A Connecticut Farm-House Mrs. Sigourney. 378 
 
 156. Connecticut Id. 381 
 
 157. Particular People Anon. 382 
 
 158. The Grandam Lamb. 385 
 
 159. Cottage Names Miss Mitford. 386 
 
 160. The Brides of Venice Rogers. 389 
 
 161. Same Subject Ibid. 391 
 
 162. Light Anon. 392 
 
 163. To a Little Cloud Montgomery. 394 
 
 164. Cultivation of Taste 396 
 
 165. December Howitt. 398 
 
 166. The Deserted Home Tennyson. 401 
 
 167. Portia Mrs. Jameson. 401 
 
8 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Ex. Page. 
 
 168. The Mother of Washington Mrs. Sigourney. 404 
 
 169. Female Sentimentalists Mrs. Sandford. 405 
 
 170. The Lover's Echo Anon. 407 
 
 171. Moravian Funerals Anon. 408 
 
 172. Footsteps of Angels Longfellow. All 
 
 173. Dreams Addison. 412 
 
 174. May Fashions Anon. 414 
 
 175. Song of the Shirt Hood. 418 
 
 176. Frederika Bremer Inon. 421 
 
 177. Unlucky Days Frederika Bremer. 425 
 
 178. A Daughter's Wish Montgomery. 429 
 
 179 English Compliments Anon. 431 
 
 180. The Grave-Diggers Dickens. 433 
 
 181. A Lesson to Reformers Mrs. Child. 436 
 
 182. Twilight Mrs. Morton. 437 
 
 183. Elysium Mrs. Hemans. 438 
 
 184. The Existence of God Fen don. 441 
 
 185. Character of Fenelon Saint-Simon. 443 
 
 186. Gertrude's Retreat Campbell. 445 
 
 187. The Family Meeting Sprague. 448 
 
 188. The Acropolis and the Parthenon Cheever. 449 
 
 189. Jephthah's Daughter Willis. 453 
 
 190. Sublimity of Wordsworth Talfourd. 455 
 
 191. Ode on Immortality Wordsworth. 456 
 
 192. Portia's Wooers Shakspeare. 461 
 
 193. Frost at Midnight Coleridge. 464 
 
 194. Character of Hannah More Roberts. 465 
 
 195. Female Accomplishments Hannah More. 467 
 
 196. Dr. Johnson Madame D'Arblay. 468 
 
 197. Washing-Day Mrs. Barbauld. 471 
 
 198. Woman, in France Anon. 473 
 
 199. Anna Maria Porter Anon. 475 
 
 200. The Women of France and of England Mirabeau. 477 
 
 201. Influence of Poetry on Women Mrs. Ellis. 479 
 
YOUNG LADIES' 
 ELOCUTIONARY READER. 
 
 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 
 
 MANAGEMENT OF THE VOICE. 
 
 [The following observations on the management of the voice, are 
 intended to be used as exercises in reading, as well as rules of elocu- 
 tion. One or more of the subjects indicated by the " captions," may 
 be taken up, as a daily lesson.] 
 
 Faults in the Mode of Utterance. 
 
 Few young ladies are aware how prevalent, even among the most 
 cultivated of the sex, are some of the worst faults of utterance, as 
 regards the "quality" of the voice. By "quality," is meant the 
 character which the voice assumes in individuals, in consequence of 
 its peculiar sound, as more or less " pure " in tone, and therefore more 
 or less agreeable to the ear. — A few preliminary observations on this 
 subject, may prove serviceable, as aids to the correction or the forma- 
 tion of habit in this particular. 
 
 " Pure tone " is the designation used, in the science of music, for 
 that perfectly vocalized and liquid quality of voice, which is free from 
 murmur and from "aspiration," or the roughening effect of the 
 breath escaping, in a whispering style, along with the sound, — 
 and audible apart from it. "Impure tone" is as much a fault in 
 reading and in conversation, as in singing. 
 
 Willis, in his essay on " unwritten music," has placed the appro- 
 priate sound of the female voice among the most beautiful of its 
 forms; and there is, unquestionably, a fine analogy between the 
 sound of the running brook, the note of the wood-bird, the voice of 
 a happy child, the low breathing of a flute, and the clear, soft tone 
 
10 YOUNG LADIES 5 
 
 of a woman's voice, when it utters the natural music of home, — the 
 accents of gentleness and love. 
 
 To a well-tuned ear, there is a rich, deep melody in the distinctive 
 bass of the male voice, in its subdued tones. But the key-note of 
 poetry, seems to have been lent to woman. On the ear of infancy 
 and childhood, her voice was meant to fall, as a winning prelude to 
 all the other melodies of nature ; the human nerves are attuned, 
 accordingly, to the breath of her voice ; and, through life, the chords 
 of the heart respond most readily to her touch. 
 
 Yet how often is this result impeded by the processes of artificial 
 culture, — by the over excitement of mind and nerve, attending 
 excessive application, by that unwise neglect of health, and healthful 
 action, which dims the eye and deadens the ear to beauty, and robs 
 life of the joyous and sympathetic spirit which is native to childhood ; 
 and which, otherwise, would ever be gushing forth, in notes of 
 gladness and endearment, — the physical not less than the moral 
 charm of human utterance ! 
 
 It is one of the serious errors of education, that amidst our innu- 
 merable processes for cultivating the intellect, we have so few for 
 developing the sources of health and happiness ; that the common 
 results of education, are so meagre and unattractive, compared with 
 the beauty and perfection of unmodified nature. The child has, 
 usually, a full, sweet, and musical tone : the school girl, too often, a 
 hollow pectoral murmur, of exhaustion or reserve ; a shrill, sharp, 
 and creaking note ; a harsh, grating, guttural utterance, indicating an 
 uncultivated taste, undisciplined emotions, and masculine habits ; or, 
 perhaps, a nasal twang, which addresses itself to the risible faculty ; 
 a drawl, which even Patience on her monument, could not away 
 with ; or a compressed dental articulation, escaping with difficulty 
 from a half-shut mouth. 
 
 There are beautiful exceptions, undoubtedly, to this general fact 
 of ungainly habit. But the ground of just complaint, is, that there 
 is no provision made, in our systems of education, for the cultivation 
 of one of woman's peculiar endowments, — an attractive voice. 
 Our girls do not come home to us, after their period of school life, 
 qualified to read with effect in their own language. Far from them 
 seems the power to realize the beautiful vision of fireside happiness, 
 depicted by the muse of Mrs. Hemans, where, 
 
 " Lips move tunefully along 
 Some glorious page of old." 
 
ELOCUTIONARY READER. 11 
 
 There is wanting-, in their voices, that adaptation of tone to feel- 
 ing, which is the music of the heart, in reading ; there is wanting 
 that clear, impressive style, which belongs to the utterance of culti- 
 vated taste and judgment, and which enhances every sentiment, by 
 appropriate emphasis and pause ; there is even a want of that distinct 
 articulation, which alone can make sound the intelligible medium 
 of thought. 
 
 We evidently need some reforming measures in our modes of 
 early culture for females, by which a vigorous, healthy, organic 
 action, may be secured, as a habit of utterance. We need the aid 
 of systematic training, in this particular, — a discipline, correspond- 
 ing, in results, to the effects of that thorough practice in the elements 
 of vocal music, of which the schools of continental Europe, furnish 
 so beautiful examples. The organs of speech are evidently suscepti- 
 ble of the same practised excellence in execution, which distinguishes 
 the cultivated from the uncultivated vocalist. 
 
 Identity of Musical and Elocutionary Culture. 
 
 Dr. Rush's masterly analysis of the human voice, has rendered 
 systematic training in this department practicable to diligence and 
 study ; and, in Philadelphia and Boston, there are establishments now 
 expressly devoted to instruction and practice in the elements of vocal 
 culture. 
 
 The opportunities thus afforded for the formation of the voice, are 
 invaluable, for the purposes of elocution, and equally so, for the 
 advantages of adequate training in the elements of vocal music ; 
 since whatever imparts power and pliancy of organ for the one, must 
 be as useful for the other. 
 
 The production of pure and full tone, is the common ground on 
 which elocution and vocal music unite, in elementary discipline. 
 Both arts demand attention to appropriate healthful attitude, and 
 to free, expansive, energetic action in the organs. Both require 
 erect posture, free opening of the chest, full and regular breath- 
 ing, power of producing and sustaining any degree of volume 
 of voice, and, along with these, the habit of vivid, distinct, articula- 
 tion. Both equally forbid that imperfect and laborious breathing, 
 which mars the voice, exhausts the organs, and produces disease. 
 Both tend to secure that healthy vigour of organ, which makes vocal 
 exercise, at once, a source of pleasure, and a source of health. 
 
12 YOUNG LADIES 5 
 
 Vocal Culture applicable to Conversation. 
 
 It is not merely in elocution and in music, that vocal culture, in 
 systematic forms, is serviceable to the purposes of education, a3 re- 
 gards the female sex. The effect of such training, on the most 
 useful of all accomplishments for ladies, — that of conversing well, — 
 is not less valuable, than in those respects which have been mentioned. 
 Whether we regard the sphere of woman's duties and influence in 
 society, or in domestic life, her power to render herself useful, — in 
 the noblest sense of the word, — is dependent on her power of 
 expression. The charm of intellectual refinement cannot be felt but 
 in audible words. The living influence of woman's mind, is in pro- 
 portion to her power of utterance. 
 
 The low, suppressed, and husky voice of timidity, can excite only 
 pity or compassion. The bold and rattling utterance, can create 
 only aversion. The fastidious accents of nervous anxiety, soon 
 cause weariness. The affected elegance of false refinement of 
 enunciation, produces distaste. The measured emphasis of a 
 systematic talker, finds no willing listener. But the melodious 
 utterance of genuine sensibility and spirited expression, wins both 
 soul and sense, and enthrones woman in her rightful and gentle 
 sway over the heart. 
 
 Tennyson speaks of the " low melodious thunder," ever sounding 
 from the fountain that gushes up within the poet's mind. You may 
 hear it imbodied in a woman's voice, when she murmurs her appro- 
 bation of a noble deed, from the depths of a soul " capacious of such 
 things." Claverhouse " lifted up a voice clear as the sound of his 
 own war-trumpet." But it never thrilled the heart like a true-toned 
 woman's voice, " summoning to virtue." — Such is nature's untutored 
 power. Judicious culture catches and secures the purest and the 
 best of nature's tones, opens the ear to the beauty and the power of 
 voice, stamps on it the grace of pure and chastened expression, and 
 imparts to it that liquid clearness of utterance, which makes voice a 
 worthy exponent of mind. 
 
 No parent can look, with indifference, on the highly-improved 
 forms in which the rudiments of drawing, and the elements of instru- 
 mental music, are now taught in schools. These branches of education 
 have undoubtedly a great effect in promoting all the purposes of mental 
 culture, as regards correctness of eye and ear, and genuine refine- 
 ment of taste. But neither of these branches approaches, in actual 
 utility and advantage, to the rank of the much-neglected art of using 
 
 
ELOCUTIONARY READER. 13 
 
 the voice, — an accomplishment in which every female ought to be 
 thoroughly versed, for its value in promoting the happiness of daily 
 life, by contributing to the noblest sources of mental and moral 
 enjoyment. 
 
 The Music of the Female Voice. 
 
 " The best music under heaven," says Mr. Willis, in the essay 
 6efore mentioned, " is the music of the human voice. I doubt 
 whether all voices are not capable of it, though there must be de- 
 ;»rees in it, as in beauty. The tones of affection, in all children, are 
 ►jweet ; and we know not how much their unpleasantness, in after 
 Ife, may be the effect of sin and coarseness, and the consequent 
 aabitual 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 elo- 
 quence 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, 
 m every walk of life ; yet never have I known man or woman under 
 the influence of any strong feeling, that was not utterly degraded, 
 whose voice did not deepen to a chord of grandeur, or soften to 
 cadences to which a harp might have been 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. 
 
 "Men have seldom musical voices. Whether it is that their 
 passions are coarser, or that their life of caution and reserve shuts up 
 the kindliness from which it would spring, a pleasant masculine 
 voice is one of the rarest gifts of our sex. A good tone is generally 
 the gift of a gentleman; for it is always low and deep; and the 
 vulgar never possess the serenity and composure from which it alone 
 can spring. They are always busy and hurried ; and, with them, a 
 high sharp tone becomes habitual. 
 
 " 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 incom- 
 patible with it. It is low, but not guttural, deliberate, but not slow* 
 2 
 
14 
 
 every syllable is distinctly heard ; but the sounds follow each other 
 like drops of water from a fountain. It is like the brooding note of a 
 dove, — not shrill, nor even clear, but uttered with the subdued 
 and touching reediness which every voice assumes, in moments of 
 deep feeling or tenderness. 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. 
 
 " I remember listening, in the midst of a crowd, many years ago, 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 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 unconscious awe. I could never 
 trifle in her presence. My nonsense seemed out of place ; and my 
 practised assurance forsook 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 delirium 
 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.'* 
 
 Faulty Utterance an Indication of Physical and Mental Defects. 
 
 An observer, in even our higher establishments for the education 
 of females, will, at once, perceive, on hearing the prevalent style of 
 reading, that, if the voice is a true indication of the physical, moral, 
 and intellectual condition of the individual, culture has failed of 
 effecting its purposes. The feeble, husky tone in which the reading 
 is executed, bespeaks a defective physical organization ; — a culpable 
 neglect of bodily exercise ; — an ear that has caught no lesson from 
 the pure tone of the running stream, the singing bird, or the joyous 
 child ; — an embarrassment which arises from a morbid and unneces- 
 sary self-consciousness, or a blamable timidity, and a misplaced dif- 
 fidence; — the absence of a just moral corn-age, — of the firmness, 
 which seeks only to maintain a self-balance, in all circumstances, — 
 of that rectitude of soul, which does not swerve or shrink from any 
 true position, — that constancy of spirit, which is the foundation of 
 
ELOCUTIONARY READER. 15 
 
 genuine modesty and just reserve, and keeps them from sinking into 
 the vice of bashfulness. 
 
 Another universal indication of ineffectual culture, in the reading of 
 young ladies, is that hurried manner, which, like the suppressed tone 
 already mentioned, tells of a neglected constitution, as regards the 
 invigorating influence of active exercise in the open air, enfeebled 
 nerves, and an enfeebled brain, the absence of self-possession and 
 self-control, — that lamentable deficiency which leaves the individual 
 not herself, the moment that she begins to read aloud. The reading 
 which results from such conditions of mind and body, is, of course, 
 as untrue to the author read, as to the person who reads. It does 
 not convey the sense of the writer, but only, or chiefly, the embar- 
 rassment of the reader. It resembles, in its effect to the ear, that 
 presented to the eye, when the sheet has been accidentally disturbed 
 in the press, and there comes forth, instead of the clear, dark, well- 
 defined letter, executed distinctly on the fair white page, a blur of 
 half-shade, and a haze of double letters, which no eye can reduce to 
 order or clearness, — a page in which there is nothing for the mind, 
 and which the printer, — to use his expressive nomenclature, — lays 
 aside among " imperfections." 
 
 One of the acknowledged characteristics of appropriate reading, 
 is, that the voice of the reader varies, in the progress of the theme, 
 with the varying feelings which the language develops. But the 
 reading of most young ladies is, throughout, feeble, flat, and monot- 
 onous. It seems, sometimes, designed to verify, so far, lago's mali- 
 cious speech about " chronicling small beer." 
 
 Intellectual and Moral Effects of Bad Reading. 
 
 A liberal education, surely, should produce such results, that, when 
 we hand to a wife, a sister, or a daughter, the page of Milton, of 
 Shakspeare, of Young, or of Cowper, or of a writer who is, perhaps, 
 the ornament of her own sex, and ask her to read a noble sentiment, 
 which a passing occurrence, or a thought in conversation, lias called 
 up, in the family circle ; her intellectual culture should tell upon her 
 tone, and add the inspiration of a living voice to the words of the 
 departed bard, causing poetry to fulfil its true office, in exalting and 
 adorning our daily life. The reading, however, if it is done in the 
 usual style, will, in such cases, neutralize the effect of both language 
 and sentiment, and prove a most effectual damper to the celestial 
 
16 YOUNG LADIES 
 
 fire ; the younger hearers will probably soon begin to yawn, and, in 
 a half-audible whisper, propose going to bed ; the husband, who has 
 been looking, with grave abstractedness, into the fire, continues his 
 fixed and solemnly-earnest gaze, in the same direction, after the read- 
 ing has ceased, and wakes up, at last, from his reverie, with, " Have 
 you read it all ? " 
 
 Mrs, Sigourneifs Remarks on Reading. 
 
 It may not be inappropriate to introduce, here, the just remarks of 
 Mrs. Sigourney, on reading, as a desirable accomplishment in the 
 female sex. They were elicited by the occasion of hearing Queen 
 Victoria read the customary royal speech to the assembled houses of 
 parliament. 
 
 " At first view, it seemed remarkable, that one so young should 
 evince such entire self-possession, nor betray, by the least shade of 
 embarrassment, a consciousness that every eye in that vast assembly, 
 was fixed on her. This, however, is a part of the queenly training in 
 which she has become so perfect Her voice is clear and melodious, 
 and her enunciation so correct, that every word of her speech was 
 distinctly audible, to the farthest extremity of the House of Lords. 
 She possesses, in an eminent degree, the accomplishment of fine 
 reading. 
 
 " I eould not help wishing that the fair daughters of my own land, 
 who wear no crown, save that of loveliness and virtue, would more 
 justly value the worth of this accomplishment, and more faithfully 
 endeavour to acquire it. For I remember, how often, in our semina- 
 ries of education, I had listened, almost breathlessly, to sentiments, 
 which, I knew from the lips that uttered them, must be true and beau- 
 tiful ; but only stifled sounds, or a few uncertain murmurings, repaid 
 the toil. — I wish that all who conduct the education of young ladies, 
 would insist on, at least, an audible utterance, and not consider their 
 own office to be faithfully rilled, unless a correct and graceful elocu- 
 tion is attained." 
 
 "My visit to England," said an eminent preacher of our own coun- 
 try, " afforded me no higher gratification of taste than the perpetual 
 pleasure, while mingling with English society, arising from the pecu- 
 liar beauty in the sound of female voices in conversation/* Much 
 
ELOCUTIONARY READER. 17 
 
 of such effects is owing to early influence on habit, in connection 
 with the fact that rank, in European society, is indicated by refine- 
 ment in utterance, as much as by other points of taste and culture. 
 
 Comparative Value of Reading and Music, as Accomplishments. 
 
 An eloquent writer in the North American Review, speaking on 
 the subject of elocution, says, 
 
 "We had rather have a child 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 defence 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 our pho- 
 nasci, as the ancients had, — the framers of the voice, the music- 
 masters of the reading voice ; let us see years devoted to this accom- 
 plishment, and then we should be prepared to stand the comparison. 
 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 re- 
 quires 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." 
 
 ORGANS OF VOICE. 
 
 Neglect of the proper Modes of Organic Action. 
 
 It is an error too common in the practice of young readers, to 
 overlook the important fact, that utterance is an organic process, 
 executed by appropriate instruments, specially provided in the corpo 
 real frame. The use of the voice, in the daily habit of conversation, 
 is a process so entirely free and natural, that, — like the act of 
 2# 
 
18 YOUNG LADIES* 
 
 breathing, — it escapes our notice, or, at least, seldom becoraeg a 
 matter of consciousness or reflection. We do not think of it as a 
 thing subject to the action of the will ; and whilst we feel the impor- 
 tance of devoting the closest attention, and practising with the utmost 
 care, in the execution of a piece of vocal music, we are apt to over- 
 look the fact that every syllable and every letter uttered in reading 
 and conversing, requires an express adjustment and motion of the 
 organs. We contract, consequently, in early life, a negligence of 
 habit in these exercises, which lays the foundation for innumerable 
 errors and defects : our articulation becomes indistinct, our pronun- 
 ciation slovenly, our emphasis feeble and imperfect, our pauses inap- 
 propriate, our inflections inexpressive, our tones monotonous and 
 lifeless, and destitute of the appropriate melody of the human 
 voice, in the utterance of sentiment. 
 
 All these faults have undoubtedly their origin in the remissness 
 of the mind ; but they have their " local habitation " in the action of 
 the organs ; and they are to be avoided or corrected by attention to 
 the latter as well as to the former source of error : we must direct 
 our observation to the organic functions which produce intelligible 
 and impressive utterance : we must analyze the processes of speech, 
 and study the structure and action of the organs of voice 
 
 Proper Attitude for the Exercise of Reading. 
 
 If we contemplate the human frame, in relation to the purposes of 
 utterance, as one great speaking instrument, — as, for instance, we 
 might study an automaton, — one of the first peculiarities that must 
 strike our attention, would obviously be its capaciousness, in the 
 great cavity of the chest, which, by its extensive space, lends to the 
 voice its volume and resonance. The first condition of full vocal 
 sound, is accordingly found to be the full expansion of the chest, — a 
 state of that organ which implies a perfectly erect attitude of the 
 body, attended by a backward and downward pressure of the shoul- 
 ders. The upper part of the chest is thus at once dilated, raised, and 
 projected : ail its capacity of space and resonance is thus attained. 
 
 But a lounging or stooping posture compresses the chest, impedes 
 the action of its muscles, and diminishes the natural and healthful 
 supply of breath. The vocal instrument is thus diminished in size ; 
 the play of its parts cramped, and its quantity of air withheld. A feeble 
 and imperfect sound is the necessary result 
 
ELOCUTIONARY READER. 19 
 
 To all these unfavourable conditions most young ladies subject 
 themselves by habitual stooping postures — particularly in the atti- 
 tude of study and reading. Such postures, while they impair, to a 
 great extent, the general health of the body, are one principal cause 
 of weak voice and imperfect utterance ; as they disable all the pri- 
 mary organs of speech, by cramping those of respiration. 
 
 Mode of Respiration required for Appropriate Reading. 
 
 Having attended to the due enlargement of the vocal instrument, 
 the next step in execution, obviously, is to provide it with a full sup- 
 ply of air. The habit of deep and full inspiration, is at once 
 indispensable to the healthy action of the whole corporeal frame, and 
 to the formation of adequate sound. Let the "blower" fail to do 
 his duty of supplying the instrument with air, and no skill, in the 
 organist, can produce music. 
 
 Young ladies, in general, whether from constitutional imperfection 
 or defective habit, fail in the great requisite of voice, — a full 
 supply of breath. The habitual practice of exercise in the open air, 
 and a special attention to the mode of breathing, are indispensable 
 prerequisites to the right use of the voice.* The organs of respira- 
 tion, it should never be forgotten, are also, by their constitution, the 
 primary organs of voice ; and without their free and vigorous action, 
 no adequate vocal sound can be produced. 
 
 Appropriate Mode of producing Vocal Sound. 
 
 The next stage, in the organic processes, is to give free scope and 
 action to the organs which serve to expel the breath from the lungs, 
 and to form vocal sound. — The preparatory step of deep and full 
 inspiration having been taken, and a full supply of the material 
 of sound having been secured, it is not less important that the 
 remaining condition of effective voice should be* fulfilled, which is 
 that the great expulsory muscles, extending, in front of the body 
 from the chest downward, should be made to play with due energy. 
 
 These muscles, by an impulsive motion, participated in and ren- 
 
 * The appropriate exercises for regulating the breath and forming the voice, 
 are prescribed in detail in the volume entitled, " Orthophony, or Vocal Culture 
 in Elocution." 
 
20 YOUNG LADIES' 
 
 dered expulsory Dy the diaphragm, the pleurae, and the lungs, throw up 
 the breath from the air-cells of the lungs, through the bronchial tubes, 
 which connect these with the trachea, or windpipe, into the larynx, 
 or the upper part of the windpipe, to the glottis, or opening of the la- 
 rynx, where the issuing breath is converted into voice. The vigorous 
 condition, the unembarrassed posture, and the energetic action of these 
 expulsory muscles, evidently must be of the utmost consequence 
 to the formation of full vocal sound. We are thus reminded, once 
 more, of the great importance of healthy vigour, of true position, and 
 energetic action, in the appropriate organs of voice. In imperfect 
 health, the expulsory muscles are incapable of the activity adequate 
 to produce a firm and clear tone ; as may be observed in the habitual 
 utterance of the sick, the feeble, the languid, or the exhausted per- 
 son. By a stooping posture, the expulsory muscles are curved, and, 
 consequently, incapacitated for effective action. 
 
 In coughing, and in sneezing, which are mechanical expulsory acts, 
 and in the utterance of a sudden interjection of fear, joy, or any 
 other strong emotion which causes an abrupt involuntary expulsive 
 act, we may observe how powerful the exertion of these muscles, in 
 such circumstances, becomes. In vehement speaking, it is, — 
 although not so violent, — yet quite perceptible. But, in the 
 usual forms of speech and of reading, it escapes our notice ; as the 
 effort with which it is attended is so slight in comparison, and so easy 
 to the organs. The motion is, in these cases, one of which we are 
 scarcely conscious, and which we are apt to think of as wholly in- 
 voluntary.. It is only in part so, however; and the vividness and 
 expressive character of the human voice, are more dependent on 
 the vigorous action of the expulsory muscles, than on any other 
 condition. 
 
 What is required of the reader, in regard to the play of these 
 muscles, is, that there be a voluntary effort, a consentaneous action 
 of the will, added to the habitually unconscious movement of the 
 organs, — in order to give efficacy to the function of voice. 
 
 Management of the Breath. 
 
 Another stage in the management and control of the vocal organs, 
 is to be attentive to very frequent renewal of the breath, — to keep a 
 supply always in advance of the demand, and thus never to " get out 
 of breath," or to become feeble in voice. — A person of very delicate 
 
ELOCUTIONARY READER. 21 
 
 organization, who is duly attentive to an upright, expanded, and pro- 
 jected position of the chest, and to breathe frequently, can easily give 
 forth a full and resonant tone of the voice. But the prevalent habit, — 
 among female readers especially, — is to neglect all these conditions, 
 — particularly that of renewing the breath at every pause, and in- 
 haling a little frequently ; instead of which, the opposite practice is 
 customaiy, — that of drawing in a long breath, at distant intervals. 
 In consequence of this neglect, there is not at command the only 
 means of giving out a full and true vocal sound, — an adequate sup- 
 ply of air. The voice, accordingly, betrays this fact in feeble and 
 husky sound ; and the tender air-cells of the lungs suffer, at the same 
 time, to the great and lasting injury of health. The rule of vocal 
 exertion in reading, is, a little breath at every pause, to keep the air- 
 cells of the lungs always full, — never empty or approaching to 
 exhaustion. Reading, without frequent breathing, is, in degree, an 
 unconscious process of self-destruction, by partial deprivation of the 
 great means of life, — air. 
 
 Having paid due attention to the use of the vocal organs, in those 
 forms of action which are common to respiration and to speech or 
 reading, it remains that the reader should see to it that the smaller 
 organs of speech be appropriately exerted. We can, by careful 
 practice, gain a great power over these. 
 
 Utterance as modified by the Glottis. 
 
 At the top of the larynx, the upper portion of the windpipe, is 
 situated its opening, called the glottis. The force and the precision 
 of sound, are greatly dependent on the power to shut and open, 
 forcibly and effectually, this aperture. The acts of opening and 
 closing the glottis, and the mode of these acts, make vocal sounds 
 forcible or feeble, abrupt or gradual, definite or indefinite, high or 
 low. — The most useful form of exercise, for securing a perfect com- 
 mand over the glottis, is that of practising, in all degrees of force, 
 from whispering to shouting, from the most abrupt to the most gentle 
 and gradual formation of sound, and on every note from the lowest 
 to the highest, the various sounds of vowels and diphthongs, with 
 perfect exactness of execution,* at the opening and the close, and 
 with perfect purity of vocal sound. 
 
 * See the manual on Orthophony. " Radical " and " vanishing " " move* 
 ments " in Enunciation. 
 
22 
 
 Articulation, as dependent on the Minor Organs. 
 
 A course of exercise and discipline should be practised, next, on 
 the various classes of consonants which call into action the minor, or 
 smaller organs of speech, the palate, the tongue, the lips, &c. The 
 requisite elementary exercises for this purpose, are arranged, at full 
 length, in the "Introduction" to this Reader, as well as in the 
 manual on Orthophony. But classes or individuals who have not 
 practised these exercises, will derive much benefit from the custom 
 of daily pronouncing a few lines, from any reading lesson, in inverted 
 order, so as to detach, for the moment, each word from its connection 
 in the sense, and thus more easily and more precisely observe its 
 component sounds. The exercise should be pursued thus : 1st, Be- 
 gin at the last word in a line, sentence, or paragraph, and pronouncp 
 every word loudly, clearly, and distinctly, — by itself; — 2d. Enunci- 
 ate every syllable of each word, apart from another, with perfect pre- 
 cision, and distinctness; — 3d, Articulate every letter, that is not 
 properly a silent one, in each syllable or word. — In this way, the 
 common tendency of young readers, to imperfect utterance and 
 defective articulation, may, in a few weeks, be entirely overcome. 
 
 "quality" of the voice. 
 
 "Pure Tone." 
 
 When the requisite attention has been given to obtaining a control 
 over the organs of voice, and the character of vocal sounds, in enun- 
 ciation, the next stage of practice is properly that which regards 
 the " quality " of the voice. The term, " quality," in elocution, as 
 in music, signifies, as formerly mentioned, the distinctive quality or 
 property of the voice, which characterizes its sound in individuals, — 
 somewhat as the peculiar sound of one species of musical instrument 
 differs from that of another. Hence the poetic and descriptive 
 epithets applied to different human voices, when we speak of agree- 
 able ones being " bell-like," " silver-toned," " flute-like," " flageolet- 
 sounding ; " and of disagreeable ones being " clarinet-toned," " fiddle- 
 like," &c. 
 
 The appropriate " quality " of the human voice, is an effect produced 
 by the due and proportioned action of all the organs. It consists in the 
 full, even, and smooth sound, which musicians designate by the terms 
 
ELOCUTIONARY READER. 23 
 
 "pure tone." This designation implies a figurative resemblance 
 between perfectly formed, undisturbed sound, to the ear, and a per- 
 fectly pure or transparent substance to the eye ; and the analogy is a 
 very instructive one. The difference suggested to the mind, is that 
 which exists between the water of a perfectly pellucid lake, and 
 that of a muddy pool. As the one delights, and the other offends, the 
 eye ; so is it with vocal sound : pure tone soothes and pleases the 
 ear; impure tone jars and grates it. 
 
 In perfectly " pure tone," all the vocal organs blend their effect 
 The sound issues directly and freely from the mouth, but carries with 
 it the resonance of the chest and of the head, combined; — the 
 latter predominating : hence, the phrase " head tone," is, in music, 
 sometimes employed as synonymous with " pure tone." 
 
 We shall find, on examination, that this property of voice is de- 
 pendent, to a great extent, on the true position of the body ; — the 
 chest expanded and projected, — the head erect, — the throat and 
 mouth freely opened, — all aided by a full supply of breath inhaled, 
 but a gentle and equable emission of it. These conditions secure to 
 the voice the resonance of the chest, the firmness of the throat, and the 
 clearness and softness of the effect of the head and mouth, — all blend- 
 ing into one pure stream of round, smooth, even sound ; or, — to 
 compare the voice to an object of art, — it then becomes a pure, 
 transparent, and crystalline sphere, perfectly free from impurities, 
 projections, and inequalities. 
 
 Faults in the " Quality " of the Voice. 
 
 The common faults of vocal " quality," in young ladies, are the fol- 
 lowing, — all usually connected with incorrect postures of the body: 
 — 1st, the faint, hollow, murmuring, "pectoral" voice, of feebleness, 
 languor, reluctance, or negligence, — which seems pardonable in a 
 sick student of the other sex ; but, — unless in the utterance of deep 
 and solemn emotion, in which case, it becomes a part of appropriate 
 effect in " expression," — it sounds unnatural and disagreeable in a 
 female, and hinders every thing like appropriate effect in utterance. 
 
 2d, a hard, dry, barking effect ; as if the throat had no pliancy, and 
 the feelings of the individual no suavity ; or a false, guttural swell, 
 seeming to issue from the lower instead of the upper part of the 
 windpipe, and causing an effect which is more or less disgusting to 
 the ear. Such modes of utterance belong properly to impassioned 
 
24 
 
 and burlesque expression. Hence an additional reason why they 
 should be avoided as inappropriate, on other occasions. 
 
 3d, the very common fault of a nasal twang, resembling the sound 
 of the violin, when not skilfully played on, — an effect which can be 
 tolerated only in humour and mimicry. 
 
 4th, a feeble and ineffectual voice, which seems to exist in the mouth 
 alone, and derives no depth of sound from the chest, or firmness from 
 the throat. This fault of quality renders all the tones of reading and 
 of conversation light and trivial in their style. It is accordingly 
 used, on the stage, as the appropriate tone of silliness or of affec- 
 tation. 
 
 We see, by this analysis, that the faults of " impure tone " consist 
 in exerting unduly one class of the vocal organs, at the expense of 
 the rest. The wrong position or the disproportioned action of the 
 muscles connected with the vocal organs, causes the sound of the 
 voice to fall upon the ear as if it issued from the chest, the throat, the 
 nose, &c, and has led to the designations of " pectoral," " guttural," 
 " nasal," and " oral " tones, as descriptive of the effect and character- 
 istic of the " quality " arising from errors in the position and action 
 of the vocal organs. — These terms, it is to be understood, are used, 
 in elocution, merely as convenient designations of faults ; for, strictly 
 speaking, the human voice is formed in the larynx only, — not in the 
 circumjacent parts. The opening or the occlusion, however, of ad- 
 joining cavities, has necessarily an effect on the character of sound 
 issuing from whatever source. — Hence, once more, the great impor- 
 tance of attending to the proper posture of the body, and the free 
 play of the organs, in the exercise of reading. — A full, round, and 
 agreeable voice depends, to a great extent, on the free opening of 
 the mouth, by the due lowering of the under jaw, and the full raising 
 of the veil of the palate. The former of these acts is necessarily 
 attended by that opening of the ear-tubes, interiorly, which gives the 
 voice the clear and pure resonance by musicians termed "head 
 tone : " the latter produces that full, ringing, and ample effect, which, 
 in elocution, is termed " orotund." Free utterance requires, farther, 
 in the acts of reading and speaking, a slight rounding and projection 
 of the lips, to give the voice an emissive and projectile force. 
 
 " Pure tone," while it forms an indispensable property in the habit- 
 ual sound of the voice, is one important element of effect, in " ex- 
 pression," — the modification of the voice under the influence of 
 feeling or emotion. All subdued and softened " expression," all quiet, 
 gentle, and moderate, forms of utterance, and the sustained voice and 
 
ELOCUTIONARY READER. 
 
 25 
 
 prolonged notes of calling, — when the sound is meant to reach to a 
 great distance, — require " pure tone," as their natural language. — 
 The following exercises should be practised with strict reference to 
 this quality. The extracts should be repeated till the command of a 
 perfectly pure, smooth, and liquid utterance is fully attained. 
 
 EXERCISES IN "PURE TONE." 
 I. — "SUBDUED," OR SOFTENED, FORCE 
 
 including Tenderness, Compassion, and Pity, — together with Regret, Melan- 
 choly, and Grief and Sorroiv, when gentle and not impassioned. 
 
 Exercise 1. — Tenderness. 
 [To an Infant.'] Coleridge. 
 " Dear babe ! that sleepest cradled by my side, 
 Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, 
 Fill up the interspersed vacancies, 
 And momentary pauses of the thought, — 
 , My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart 
 With tender gladness, thus to look at thee ! " 
 
 2. — Compassion. 
 [To an Aged Beggar.] Coleridge. 
 
 " Sweet Mercy ! — how my very heart has bled 
 To see thee, poor old man ! and thy gray hairs, 
 Hoar with the snowy blast ; while no one cares 
 
 To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head. 
 
 My father ! throw away this tattered vest, 
 That mocks thee shivering ! Take my garment, — use 
 A young man's arm. I'll melt these frozen dews 
 
 That hang from thy white beard, and numb thy breast 
 My Sara too shall tend thee, like a child ! " 
 
 3.— Pity. 
 [The Leper.] Willis. 
 " ' Room for the leper ! ' And aside they stood, — 
 Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood, — all 
 3 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 
 
 Who met him on his way, — and let him pass. 
 And onward through the open gate he came, 
 A leper with the ashes on his brow, 
 Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip 
 A covering ; — stepping painfully and slow ; 
 And with a difficult utterance, — like one 
 Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down, — 
 
 Crying, ' Unclean ! Unclean ! ' 
 
 " And he went forth — alone ! Not one of all 
 The many whom he loved, nor she whose name 
 Was woven in the fibres of his heart 
 Breaking within him now, to come and speak 
 Comfort unto him. Yea, — he went his way, 
 Sick, and heart-broken, and alone, — to die ! 
 For God had cursed the leper ! " 
 
 4. — Regret. 
 [The Death of the Flowers.] Bryant. 
 
 " Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, 
 
 That lately sprang and stood 
 In brighter light and softer airs, 
 
 A beauteous sisterhood ? 
 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." 
 
 5. — Melancholy. 
 [From Verses to a Departed Friend.'] O. W. B. Peabody. 
 
 " The sun hath set in folded clouds, — 
 
 Its twilight rays are gone ; 
 And, gathered in the shades of night, 
 
 The storm is rolling on. 
 Alas ! how ill that bursting storm 
 
 The fainting spirit braves, 
 

 ELOCUTIONARY READER. 27 
 
 When they, — the lovely and the lost, — 
 Are gone to early graves ! " 
 
 6.— Grief. 
 [From the Same.'] 
 "How sadly on my spirit then, 
 
 That fatal morning fell ! 
 But oh ! the dark reality 
 
 Another voice may tell ; 
 The quick decline, — the parting sigh, — 
 
 The slowly moving bier, — 
 The lifted sod, — the sculptured stone, — 
 
 The unavailing tear." 
 
 7. — Sorrow. 
 [Lady Randolph, lamenting the Death of her Hmband and Child.] Home. 
 "Ye woods and wilds, whose melancholy gloom 
 Accords with my soul's sadness, and draws forth 
 The voice of sorrow from my bursting heart, 
 Farewell a while! — I will -not leave you long, 
 For in your shades I deem some spirit dwells, 
 Who, from the chiding stream or groaning oak, 
 Still hears and answers to Matilda's moan. 
 O Douglas ! Douglas ! if departed ghosts 
 Are e'er permitted to review this world, 
 Within the circle of that wood thou art, 
 And, with the passion of immortals, hear'st 
 My lamentation; hear'st thy wretched wife 
 Weep for her husband slain, her infant lost!" 
 
 8. — Example of all the preceding Emotions, in Prose Style. 
 [The Captive.] Sterne. 
 
 "I looked through the twilight of the captive's grated door, to take 
 his picture. 
 
 " I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and 
 confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it is, which 
 arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and 
 feverish : in thirty years, the western breeze had not once fanned his 
 olood; — he had seen no sun, no moon, In all that time:— nor had 
 
28 
 
 the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice : — his 
 children — 
 
 " But here my heart began to bleed ; — and I was forced to go on 
 with another part of the portrait. 
 
 "He was sitting upon the ground, upon a little straw, in the 
 farthest corner of his dungeon, — which was alternately his chair 
 and his bed. A little calendar of small sticks was laid at the head, 
 notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed 
 there : — he had one of these little sticks in his hand ; and with a 
 rusty nail he was etching another day of misery, to add to the heap. 
 As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye 
 towards the door, then cast it down, — shook his head, and went on 
 with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs, as he 
 turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle: — He gave a 
 deep sigh — I saw the iron enter into his soul. — I burst into tears : — 
 I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had 
 drawn." 
 
 II. TRANQUILLITY. 
 
 Exercise 1. — Repose in external Objects, 
 
 [A Day in August.] Wilcox. 
 
 "O'er all the woods the topmost leaves are still; 
 Even the wild poplar leaves, — that pendent hang 
 By stems elastic, quivering at a breath, — 
 Rest in the general calm. The thistledown, — 
 Seen high and thick, by gazing up beside 
 Some shading object, — in a silver shower 
 Plumb down, and slower than the slowest snow, 
 Through all the sleepy atmosphere descends; 
 And where it lights, though on the steepest roof, 
 Or smallest spire of grass, remains unmoved. 
 White as a fleece, as dense and as distinct, 
 From the resplendent sky, a single cloud, 
 On the soft bosom of the air becalmed, 
 Drops a lone shadow, as distinct and still, 
 On the bare plain, or sunny mountain's side, 
 Or in the polished mirror of the lake, 
 In which the deep-reflected sky appears 
 A calm, sublime immensity, below." 
 
ELOCUTIONARY READER. 29 
 
 2. — Serenity of Feeling. 
 [To a Bird of Passage.] Mrs. J. H. Abbot 
 
 "I saw thee guide thy rapid flight 
 
 Along the azure sky, 
 Then, on a crested wave alight, — 
 Bathing thee where it sparkled bright, — 
 
 And soar again on high. 
 
 "Onward, to some far-distant isle, 
 
 Thou'st urged thy trackless way, 
 Where fruits and flowers forever smile, 
 And soft and balmy airs beguile 
 
 All fears of thy decay. 
 
 " Oh ! I would fain have flown with thee, 
 
 And deemed my lot were blest, 
 Could I thus mount on wing so free, 
 To share thy flight o'er land and sea, 
 
 And share with thee thy rest!" 
 
 3. — Repose of Nature and of Feeling. 
 
 [Twilight.'] Margaret Davidson. 
 
 " Twilight ! sweet hour of pea* \ 
 Now art thou stealing on; 
 Cease from thy tumult, thought! and ' r ncy, cease! 
 Day and its cares are gone! 
 Mysterious hour! 
 Thy magic power 
 Steals o'er my heart like music's softest tone. 
 
 "The golden sunset hues 
 Are fading in the west; 
 The gorgeous clouds their brighter radiance lose, 
 Folded on evening's breast 
 So doth each wayward thought, 
 From fancy's altar caught, 
 Fade like thy tints, and muse itself to 
 3* 
 
30 YOUNG LADIES 7 
 
 "Wearied with care, how sweet to hail 
 Thy shadowy, calm repose, 
 When all is silent but the whispering gale 
 Which greets the sleeping rose; 
 When, as thy shadows blend, 
 The trembling thoughts ascend, 
 And borne aloft, the gates of heaven unclose ! " 
 
 4. — Calm and soothing Sentiment. 
 [From a Dirge.~\ Moir. 
 "Weep not for her! — her memory is the shrine 
 
 Of pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers, 
 Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline, 
 
 Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers, 
 Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light, — 
 Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night : — 
 Weep not for her! 
 
 " Weep not for her ! — there is no cause for woe , 
 
 But rather nerve the spirit, that it walk 
 Unshrinking o'er the thorny paths below, 
 
 And from earth's low defilements keep thee back: 
 So when a few fleet severing years are flown, 
 She'll meet thee at heaven's gate, — and lead thee on! 
 Weep not for her!" 
 
 5. — Example of Tranquillity of Effect in Prose Style. 
 
 [The Sabbath Bell, in the country.'] Willis. 
 
 " Beautiful and 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 of a spirit; and, as the leaves stir with its 
 vibrations, and the drops of dew tremble in the cups of the flowers, 
 you could almost believe that there was a Sabbath in nature, and 
 that the dumb works of God rendered visible worship for His good- 
 ness. The effect of nature alone is purifying; and its thousand 
 evidences of wisdom are too eloquent of their Maker, not to act as a 
 continual lesson ; but combined with the instilled piety of childhood, 
 and the 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." 
 

 ELOCUTIONARY READER. 31 
 
 III. SOLEMNITY. 
 
 Exercise 1. — Emotion inspired by Scenery, 
 [Sonnet.] J. H. Abbot. 
 "What time have died the vesper anthemings, — 
 
 The low-toned murmurs of repose that rise, 
 
 When sunset's glow is fading in the skies, 
 From the blest myriads of living things ; 
 When the low evening wind, — its balmy wings 
 
 Laden with dewy freshness, — mournful sighs ; 
 
 And the lone whip-poor-will, in plaintive cries, 
 Its ceaseless lay to night and echo sings; 
 
 While sleeps the lake, holding in calm embrace 
 The star-gemmed arch, pure counterpart and bright. — 
 
 Gleaming reflected from her glassy face, — 
 Of that which heavenward lures the heart and sight ; 
 
 Oh! how intensely glow through soul and sense 
 
 Night's boundless beauty and magnificence!" 
 
 2. — Emotion inspired by Sentiment. 
 [The Funeral Bell.] Margaret Davidson. 
 
 " A spirit from the world hath fled, 
 
 A soul from earth departed ; 
 While mourners weep above the dead, 
 
 Despairing, — broken-hearted ! 
 Through the vast fields of viewless time 
 
 That conscious soul hath gone, — 
 To answer for each earthly crime, 
 
 At God's eternal throne! 
 
 "There at His mighty bar it stands, 
 
 A trembling, guilty thing, 
 To answer all its Judge demands, 
 
 Or his dread praises sing! 
 Dust to its kindred dust returns! 
 
 Earth to its mother earth! 
 Stilled are its passions and its cares, 
 
 And hushed its voice of mirth ! " 
 
32 young ladies' 
 
 3. — Blended Emotions arising from Scenery and Sentiment. 
 
 [Manfred's Soliloquy.] Byron. 
 
 " The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 
 Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful ! — 
 I do remember me, that in my youth, 
 When I was wandering, — upon such a night 
 I stood within the Colosseum's wall, 
 'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome : 
 The trees which greAv along the broken arches, 
 Waved dark in the blue midnight; and the stars 
 Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 
 The watchdog bayed beyond the Tiber; and, 
 More near, from out the Cassar's palace came 
 The owl's long cry ; and, interruptedly, 
 Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
 Began and died upon the gentle wind. 
 Some cypresses, beyond the time-worn breach, 
 Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 
 Within a bowshot, — where the Caesars dwelt, 
 And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 
 A grove which springs through levelled battlements, 
 And twines its roots with the imperial hearths; 
 Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ; — 
 But the Gladiator's bloody Circus stands, 
 A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 
 While Cassar's chambers, and the Augustan halls, 
 Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 
 And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 
 All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 
 Which softened down the hoar austerity 
 Of rugged desolation, and filled up, 
 As 'twere, anew, the gaps of centuries ; 
 Leaving that beautiful which still was so, 
 And making that which was not, till the place 
 Became religion ; and the heart ran o'er 
 With silent worship of the great of old ! — 
 The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 
 Our spirits from their urns." — 
 

 ELOCUTIONARY READER 33 
 
 4. — Prose Example of the preceding Emotions. 
 [Reflections on Westminster Abbey.] Irving. 
 
 " The shadows of evening were gradually thickening around me ; 
 the monuments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom ; and the 
 distant clock again gave token of the slowly- waning day. I ros% 
 and prepared to leave the abbey 
 
 " The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through the 
 painted windows in the high vaults above me : the lower parts of the 
 abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight The 
 chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies of the 
 kings faded into shadow ; the marble figures of the monuments as- 
 sumed strange shapes in the uncertain light; the evening breeze 
 crept through the aisles, like the cold breath of the grave ; and even 
 the distant footfall of a verger, traversing the Poet's Corner, had 
 something strange and dreary in its sound. I slowly 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 endeavoured to form some arrangement in my mind of the 
 objects I had been contemplating ; but found they were already falling 
 into indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies, had 
 all become confounded in my recollection, though I had scarcely 
 taken my foot from off the tlireshold. What, thought I, is this vast 
 assemblage of sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation ; a huge pile 
 of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of renown, and the certainty 
 of oblivion ! It is, indeed, the empire of Death ; his great 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 immortality of a name ! 
 
 " History fades into fable ; fact becomes clouded with doubt and 
 controversy ; the inscription moulders from the tablet ; the statue 
 falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but 
 heaps of sand — and their epitaphs, but characters written in the 
 dust? 
 
 " 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, shall lie in rubbish 
 beneath the feet ; when, instead of the sound of melody 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 
 
34 
 
 gloomy mansions of death ; and the ivy twine round the fallen column ; 
 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 recollection ; his history is as a tale that is told ; 
 and his very monument becomes a ruin." 
 
 II. —MODERATE FORCE. 
 
 I. — GRAVE STYLE. 
 
 Example in Didactic Composition. 
 {Heroism of the Pilgrims.'] Choate. 
 
 " To play the part of heroism on its high places, and its theatre, is 
 not, perhaps, so very difficult. — To do it alone, as seeing Him who 
 is invisible, was the stupendous trial of the pilgrim heroism. 
 
 " A peculiarity in their trials was, that they were unsustained, 
 altogether, by every one of the passions, aims, stimulants, and exci- 
 tations, — the anger, the revenge, the hate, the pride, the awakened, 
 the dreadful thirst of blood, the consuming love of glory, the feverish 
 rapture of battle, — that burn, as in volcanic isles, in the heart of 
 mere secularized heroism. — Not one of all these aids, did or could 
 come in use for them. Their character and their situation both ex- 
 cluded them. Their enemies were disease walking in darkness, and 
 destroying at noonday ; famine, which, more than all other calamities, 
 bows the spirit of a man, presses his radiant form to the dust, and 
 teaches him what he is ; the wilderness ; spiritual foes on the high 
 places of the unseen world." 
 
 II. SERIOUS STYLE. 
 
 Didactic Composition. 
 [Tyranny of Fashion.'] Mrs. Barbauld. 
 " To break the shackles of oppression, and assert the native rights 
 of man, is esteemed by many among the noblest efforts of heroic 
 virtue. But vain is the possession of political liberty, if there exist a 
 tyrant of our own creation, who, without law or reason, or even ex- 
 ternal force, exercises over us the most despotic authority ; whose 
 jurisdiction is extended over every part of private and domestic life, 
 controls our pleasures, fashions our garb, cramps our motions, fills 
 
ELOCUTIONARY READER. 35 
 
 our lives with vain care and restless anxiety. The worst slavery is 
 that which we voluntarily impose upon ourselves ; and no chains are 
 so cumbrous and galling, as those which we are pleased to wear, by 
 way of grace and ornament." 
 
 III. ANIMATED, OR LIVELY, STYLE. 
 
 Descriptive Composition. 
 
 [The Martin.'] Jardine. 
 
 "In summer comes the dark, swift- winged martin, glancing 
 through the air, as if afraid to visit our uncertain clime : he comes, 
 though late, and hurries through his business here, eager again to 
 depart, — all day long in agitation and precipitate flight. The bland 
 zephyrs of the spring have no charms with these birds ; but, basking 
 and careering in the sultry gleams of June and July, they associate 
 in throngs, and screaming dash round the steeple or the ruined tow- 
 er, to serenade their nesting mates ; and glare and heat are in their 
 train." 
 
 IV, GAY, OR BRISK, STYLE. 
 
 Descriptive Composition. 
 [The Court of Fashion.] Mrs. Barbauld. 
 
 " The courtiers of Alexander, it is said, flattered him by carrying 
 their heads on one side, because he had the misfortune to. have a wry 
 neck ; but all adulation is poor, compared to what is practised in the 
 court of Fashion. Sometimes the queen will lisp and stammer; 
 and then none of her attendants can 'speak plain:' sometimes 
 she chooses to totter as she walks ; — and then they are seized 
 with sudden lameness. According as she appears half undressed, or 
 veiled from head to foot, her subjects become a procession of nuns, 
 or a troop of Bacchanalian nymphs." 
 
 V. HUMOROUS, OR PLAYFUL, STYLE. 
 
 Example in Burlesque Verse. 
 [Artificial Education.'] Jane Taylor. 
 " 'Tis thus Education, (so called in our schools,) 
 With costly materials and capital tools, 
 
Sits down to her work, if you duly reward her, 
 And sends it home finished ' according to order.' 
 
 "See French and Italian spread out on her lap; 
 Then Dancing springs up, and skips into a gap ; 
 Next Drawing and all its varieties come, 
 Sewed down in their place by her finger and thumb. 
 
 " And then, for completing her fanciful robes, 
 Geography, Music, the Use of the Globes, 
 &c. &c, which, — match as they will, — 
 Are sewed into shape, and set down in the bill. 
 
 "Thus Science, distorted, and torn into bits, 
 Art, tortured, and frightened half out of her wits ; 
 In portions and patches, — some light and some shady, - 
 Are stitched up together, and make — ' a young lady.' " 
 
 III. — "SUSTAINED" FORCE, OR CALLING. 
 
 Example of Earnest Emotion. 
 [From a Ballad.'] Heber. 
 
 " O captain of the Moorish hold, 
 
 Unbar thy gates to me! 
 And 1 will give thee gems and gold, 
 
 To set Fernando free." 
 
 * " Orotund " Voice. 
 
 This " quality," though, in many instances, perfectly " pure " to the 
 ear, implies a greater exertion of force, in the action of the organs, 
 than is required for the sole effect of " purity." It demands, like- 
 wise, a position of the palate quite different from what is requisite for 
 the production of " pure tone." The latter property belongs to calm 
 and gentle emotions, and needs attention chiefly to a perfectly tran- 
 quil posture and undisturbed play of the organs, with a reserved and 
 
 * The word " orotund" implies, by its etymology, round and full utterance. 
 
 ._ 
 
ELOCUTIONARY READER. 37 
 
 delicate emission of the breath. The " orotund " utterance, on the 
 contrary, is the appropriate mode of expressing 1 full, forcible, and sub- 
 lime emotions. It requires special attention to the wide expansion 
 and full projection of the chest, the free and 'powerful action of the 
 organs of respiration and of speech, with the peculiar round and ringing 
 effect of voice which belongs to inspiring and expressive feeling". It 
 demands, in addition to the expanding of the chest, a peculiar enlarge- 
 ment and tension of the interior of the mouth, a full and energetic 
 raising of the veil of the palate, somewhat as in the act of coughing, 
 and a wider opening of the lips, than in the ordinary use of the voice. 
 
 This "quality" of tone is naturally produced in uttering a shout of 
 joy, of triumph, of courage, or of admiration, and extends throughout 
 the poetic expression of such emotions. It is the natural mode of 
 expressing all feelings characterized by force, sublimity, or gi-andeur. 
 It accordingly takes the place of " pure tone," when utterance passes 
 from mere pathos, repose, or solemnity, to powerful excitement. — 
 The " orotund quality " is, in a word, the full and perfect form of the 
 human voice, when under the influence of strong feeling. Eloquence 
 and poetry adopt this mode of utterance, in all their characteristic 
 forms of expression which do not imply excess, or unchecked pre- 
 ponderance of passion, — a mood which is indicated by the addition 
 of " aspiration," or a partially hoarse and whispering sound. 
 
 It is to the " orotund " form of voice, as the appropriate mode -of 
 full and vivid effect, that culture and training should bring the action 
 of the organs in every individual. It is only when brought to this 
 mode of utterance, as a habit, that the vocal capacities of a learner 
 may be justly said to be cultivated ; and instruction and practice 
 should never stop short of this full development of organic power ; 
 as it is only when " orotund quality " is perfectly at command, that 
 the voice is entirely secured against the disagreeable effects of nasa?, 
 guttural, and other false or defective properties of tone.* 
 
 The principal object of attention, in the practice of the following 
 exercises, should be, to give up the feelings entirely to the " expres- 
 sion." — to enter with full and vivid sympathy into the predomi- 
 nating emotion of each passage. It is in this way that the " orotund " 
 quality will be most effectually secured, and most expressively uttered. 
 No extent of mere artificial repetition can ever yield the fresh and 
 living effect of actual feeling. 
 
 * An extensive course of practice on " orotund" voice, is prescribed in the 
 volume entitled "Orthophony, or Vocal Culture in Elocution." 
 
 4 
 
38 YOUNG LADIES 
 
 EXERCISES IN "OROTUND QUALITY." 
 
 I. — *"EFFUS1VE" UTTERANCE. 
 
 1. — Pathos and Sublimity. 
 
 {From a Dirge.] Moir. 
 
 "Weep not for her! — Her spaa was like the sky ? 
 
 Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright; 
 Like flowers that know not what it is to die; 
 
 Like long-linked, shadeless months of polar light; 
 Like music floating o'er a waveless lake, 
 While echo answers from the flowery brake: — 
 Weep not for her! 
 
 "Weep not for her! — She is an angel now, 
 And treads the sapphire floor of Paradise ; 
 
 All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow, — 
 Sin, sorrow, suffering, banished from her eyes ; 
 
 Victorious over death; to her appear 
 
 The vista'd joys of Heaven's eternal year : — 
 Weep not for her!" 
 
 2. — Repose and Sublimity. 
 
 {Evening.] Milton. 
 
 "Now came still evening on; and Twilight gray 
 Had in her sober livery all tilings clad. 
 Silence accompanied: for beast and bird, 
 They to their grassy couch, these to their nests 
 Were slunk; all but the wakeful nightingale. 
 She, all night long, her amorous descant sang. 
 Silence was pleased. — Now glowed the firmament 
 With living sapphires: Hesperus, that led 
 The starry host, rode brightest; till the Moor^ 
 Rising in clouded majesty, at length, 
 Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, 
 And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw." 
 
 * That mode of voice in which sound is effused, or gently emitted, in a 
 smooth and even stream, without energetic expulsion or abrupt explosion. 
 
ELOCUTIONARY READER. 39 
 
 3. — Solemnity and Sublimity. 
 [From the Hymn to Mont BlancJ] Coleridge. 
 "Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star 
 [n his steep course ? — so long he seems to pause 
 On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc ! 
 The Arve* and Arveiron at thy base 
 Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form ! 
 Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
 How silently I around thee and above 
 Deep is the air and dark, — substantial black, — 
 An ebon mass ; methinks thou piercest it 
 As with a wedge ! But when I look again, 
 It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
 Thy habitation from eternity! 
 
 dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee, 
 Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 
 
 Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer, 
 
 1 worshipped the Invisible alone." 
 
 4. — Repose, Solemnity, and Sublimity, exemplified in Prose Compo- 
 sition. 
 
 [Sound of Sabbath Bells, in {lie City.] Willis. 
 " I know few things more impressive than to walk the streets of a 
 city, when the peal of the early bells is just beginning. The de- 
 serted pavements, the closed windows of the 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 dwell- 
 ings around you, were enough, if there were no other circumstance, 
 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 more solemn than the near thunder." 
 
 * The letter e when sounded in final syllables, is distinguished by a dot, 
 instead of the acute or the grave accent, to avoid confusion, in the notation 
 of elocution 
 
40 YOUNG LADIES* 
 
 11.- *" EXPULSIVE" UTTERANCE. 
 
 I. — f " IMPASSIONED EXPRESSION." 
 
 Joy, Sublimity, and Adoration. 
 \From the Hymn to Mont Blanc] Coleridge. 
 "Awake, my soul! 
 
 -. . Awake, 
 
 Voice of sweet song- ! awake, my heart, awake I 
 Green vales and icy cliffs all join my hymn ! 
 
 "Ye living flowers, that skirt the eternal frosts 
 Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle's nest! 
 Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm ! 
 Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds I 
 Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 
 Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise I w 
 
 H. — J "declamatory" style* 
 
 Wonder and Admiration. 
 [Results from the Sufferings of the Pilgrims.'] Everett. 
 " Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the de- 
 serted settlements, the abandoned adventures of other times, and find 
 the parallel of this. — Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the 
 houseless heads of women and children, — was it hard labour and 
 spare meals, — was it disease, — was it the tomahawk, — was it the 
 deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a brokea 
 
 * In this mode of voice, the sound is not merexy suffered to escape in a 
 delicate and gentle current, as in " pure tone/' nor emitted, in a full but soft 
 stream, as in " effusive orotund :" it is expelled, though not violently, by a spe- 
 cial force of the will, acting upon the organs, and producing a partial " swell,'* 
 or slightly perceptible increase and diminution of volume, on accented andi 
 emphatic syllables. 
 
 t The term " impassioned " is employed, in elocution., in. its poetic sense of 
 high-wrought feeling, transcending all limits of ordinary emotion, but has no 
 reference to violence or ungoverned exeess. It designates the ecstasy of po- 
 etic inspiration. The " expression ■" of malignant emotion,, though sometimes 
 comprehended under the word " impassioned," is not necessarily implied by it. 
 
 X The word " declamatory " is here used as a technical term of ei'ocutioQi 
 It designates the full-toned utterance of eloquent public speaking* 
 
ELOCUTIONARY READER. 41 
 
 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 hur- 
 ried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate ? 
 
 " And is it possible that not one 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 frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration 
 as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so 
 wonderful, an expansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise 
 yet to be fulfilled, so glorious ? " 
 
 III. SHOUTING. 
 
 Exultation. 
 {From the Ode on Immortality.] Wordsworth. 
 "Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! 
 And let the young lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound!" 
 
 III. — *"EXPLOSIVE" UTTERANCE. 
 Alarm, 
 {The Eve of Waterloo.'] Byron. 
 "And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, 
 The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
 Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
 And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
 While the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar, 
 And near, the beat of the alarming drum, 
 
 Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 
 While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb, 
 Or whispering, with white lips, ' The foe ! they come, — they come! ' n 
 
 " Aspirated " Utterance. 
 When the intensity of emotion is such that the organs of speech 
 are, as it were, partially paralyzed, for the moment, and unable to 
 
 * The voice, in this style of expression, bursts forth with the force of 
 abrupt and instantaneous explosion. This is She usual mode of utterance, in 
 the highest moods of excitement arising from emotions wnich have a sudden 
 and startling effect, as anger, alarm, fear, &c. 
 
 4* 
 
4«3 YOUNG LADIES^ 
 
 produce " pure * or " expressive " vocal sound, one of the fbliowin'g 
 effects, according to the degree of feeling, is produced on the voice 
 1st, an absolute whisper, as in extreme fear ; 2d, a partial or half 
 whisper, as in extreme earnestness; 3d, an " aspirated " or partially 
 hoarse utterance accompanying the " orotund quality," and occasion- 
 ally, in the tones of impassioned emphasis, transcending it, so as to 
 leave the harsh effect of the breath predominating on the ear. This 
 form of voice belongs to the characteristic utterance of anger* 
 revenge, fear, awe, and similar emotions. 
 
 EXERCISES IN « ASPIRATED " UTTERANCE. 
 
 I WHISPERING. 
 
 Fear. 
 {Caliban approach™.'? the Cave of Prospero.] Shakspeare. 
 "Pray you, tread softly, — that the blind mole may not 
 jdiea* a foe fa.- 
 
 Speak softly! 
 <f .,. ppJ as midnight yet.' 7 
 
 II. HALF- WHISPER. 
 
 Extreme Earnestness. 
 [From a Fragment.'] Margaret Davidson. 
 "I see her seraph form, her flowing hair, 
 Her brow and cheek so exquisitely fair, 
 Her smiling lips, her dark eye's radiant beam!- 
 A dream? — This is not, cannot be a dream 1" 
 
 III. " ASPIRATED OROTUND." 
 
 " Suppressed " Force. — Awe. 
 [From the Hymn of the Sea.] Bryant. 
 "But who shall bide Thy tempest? who shall face 
 The blast that wakes the fury of the sea ? 
 O God ! Thy justice makes the world turn pale, 
 When on the armed fleet that royally 
 Bears down the surges, carrying war, to smite 
 Some city, or mvade some thoughtless realm, 
 
ELOCUTIONARY READER. 43 
 
 Descends the fierce tornado. — The vast hulks 
 Are hurled like chaff upon the waves ; the sails 
 Fly, rent like waves of gossamer ; the masts 
 Are snapped asunder ; downward from the decks, — 
 Downward are slung, into the fathomless gulf, 
 Their cruel engines ; and their hosts, arrayed 
 In trappings of the battle-field, are whelmed 
 By whirlpools, or dashed dead upon the rocks. 
 Then stand the nations still with awe, and pause, 
 A moment, from the bloody work of war." 
 
 "Impassioned" Force. — .finger and Scorn. 
 [Helen M'Gregor to fllorris.] Scott. 
 " But you — wretch ! you could live and enjoy yourself, while the 
 noble-minded are betrayed, — while nameless and birthless villains 
 tread on the neck of the brave and long-descended, — you could en- 
 joy yourself, like a butcher's dog in the shambles, battening on 
 garbage, while the slaughter of the brave went on around you ! This 
 enjoyment you shall not live to partake of: you shall die, base dog! 
 and that before yon cloud has passed over the sun." 
 
 FORCE, OR "VOLUME" OF VOICE. 
 
 The force of the voice is usually in the ratio of feeling. The 
 intensity of emotion, — except in cases which exemplify the force of 
 passion as overcoming the power of utterance, — is indicated by the 
 comparative force of the voice, on emphatic and expressive sounds, 
 through all stages, from whispering to shouting. The exercises pre- 
 scribed under the head of " quality," comprise all these gradations 
 of force. But a distinct perception of the nature and effect of force, 
 as an element of "expression," will be much aided by reviewing 
 these exercises for the special purpose of watching the result of the 
 various stages of force implied in the examples of " quality " arranged 
 as follows : 
 
 1. Whispering. — 2. The half- whisper. — 3. The successive exam- 
 ples of "Pure Tone," under Subdued and Moderate Force. ~ 4. The 
 examples of " Effusive, Expulsive, and Explosive Orotund ; " reserving 
 for the last stage, the example of " Sustained Force of Pure Tone," 
 in Calling, and the example of " Expulsive Orotund," in Shouting. 
 
 Passages, such as the example of " Expulsive Orotund " in Declam- 
 
44 
 
 atory Style, should be frequently practised for the purpose of train- 
 ing the voice to that gradual and successive increase of force, which 
 belongs to all eloquent and impressive utterance in which the princi- 
 ple of climax prevails. The volume of voice, in such practice, should 
 be moderate, at first, but swell out, by successive stages, till it be- 
 comes ample and powerfully impressive to the ear. 
 
 The daily repetition of a few lines of each class of examples, will, 
 in a few weeks, secure a clear, firm, round, and full tone, and will 
 impart a healthy force to the vocal organs.* 
 
 " STRESS." 
 
 "Radical Stress." 
 
 The word " stress," as a term in elocution, is used to denote the 
 location of force of voice, in single and successive sounds. It re- 
 gards force as perceptibly more intense at the beginning, middle,. 
 or end of a vocal sound, or at more than one of these points. 
 
 Some emotions, fear, anger, and courage, for example, cause the 
 voice to strike the ear with great force, at the first or initial part of a 
 characteristic or emphatic sound. The mode of utterance, in these 
 cases, is explosive in its character, and instantaneous in its effect, — 
 the very opposite to the gradual swell of musical expression. The 
 maximum of the force being on the first part of the sound, has induced 
 Dr. Rush, the great authority in elocution, to denominate this mode 
 of utterance " radical stress." 
 
 Repeat, for illustration, the examples given under the head of 
 " explosive orotund." 
 
 "Radical stress" is reduced to the slightest and most delicate 
 shade, when it is not used for impassioned effect, but merely for 
 distinct and vivid articulation, as in the utterance of the ordinary 
 language of narrative, descriptive, or didactic style, when no effect of 
 impressive emotion is intended, but only a clear, exact communication 
 of thought to the understanding. This mode of stress may be appro- 
 priately denominated the " unimpassioned radical." For examples and 
 practice, refer to all the exercises given under the Moderate Force of 
 " Pure Tone." These should be repeated till the voice has acquired 
 a perfect command of the clear, exact utterance which arises from the 
 vivid effect of the appropriate " radical stress." 
 
 * A more extensive course of organic training, will be found by referring to 
 the Manual on Orthophony. 
 
ELOCUTIONARY READER. 45 
 
 "Median Stress." 
 
 When the main force of the voice, comes on with a gradual in- 
 crease, reaching its height at the middle of an accented sound, it 
 exemplifies what is termed " median stress." This mode of utterance 
 belongs to the slow " movement" and prolonged tones of tranquillity, 
 pathos, solemnity, and grandeur, or to the swelling force of bold and 
 impassioned language, in the style of triumph, exultation, and admi- 
 ration. In the expression of the former class of emotions, it is 
 deliberately expanded and amplified: in that of the latter it is com- 
 pressed and compacted. 
 
 Repeat, for illustrations of the expanded " stress " exemplified in 
 the first-mentioned emotions, the exercises under " Pure Tone," on 
 Tenderness, Grief, and Sorrow, with those on Tranquillity, and those 
 on Solemnity, — the exercises, also, on " Effusive Orotund." Repeat, 
 as illustrations of the compressed " median stress," the examples of 
 "Expulsive Orotund." 
 
 " Vanishing Stress." 
 Impatient feeling and strong determination, are expressed by a 
 " stress " which lies upon the " vanish " or last part of a sound, and 
 is accordingly denominated " vanishing stress." It comes on the ear 
 with a peculiar jerking effect, contrasting with the steady, unimpas- 
 sioned tenor of the voice, as the action of tugging does with that of 
 pulling. 
 
 EXAMPLES OF "VANISHING STRESS." 
 
 Strong Determination. 
 [Battle Song of the Greelcs.] Campbell. 
 "Earth may hide, waves ingulf, fire consume us, 
 But they shall not to slavery doom us ! " 
 
 Impatience. 
 [Hotspur's Impatience at the Fop.] Shakspeare. 
 "For he made me mad 
 To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, 
 And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman 
 Of drums, and guns, and wounds — Heaven save the maik! 
 And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth 
 Was parmaceti, for an inward bruise." 
 
46 
 
 " Compound Stress." 
 
 1 Surprise and contempt are expressed by what is termed " compound 
 
 stress," — a mode of voice in which the force strikes both upon the 
 
 first and last part of a sound. It is, in fact, " radical " and " vanishing 
 
 stress " applied to the same syllable. 
 
 EXAMPLES OF "COMPOUND STRESS." 
 
 Surpinse and Astonishment. 
 [Lord Chatham's Indignation at the Proposal of Lord Suffolk.] 
 " What ! to attribute the sacred sanctions of God and nature to the 
 massacres of the Indian scalping-knife ! " 
 
 Contempt. 
 [Queen Constance to the Archduke of Austria.] Shakspeare. 
 " Thou slave ! thou wretch ! thou coward ! — 
 Thou Fortune's champion, that dost never fight 
 But when her humorous ladyship is by 
 To teach thee safety ! " 
 
 " Thorough Stress." 
 
 Extremes of violent emotion are expressed by a force which is 
 
 powerfully impressed on all the parts of a sound which can receive 
 
 effect to the ear, — the beginning, the middle, and the end. This form 
 
 of utterance is, in coincidence with its effect, termed " thorough stress." 
 
 EXAMPLE OF "THOROUGH STRESS." 
 [From Macbeth' s Adjuration.] Shakspeare. 
 
 "Though the treasure 
 
 Of Nature's germins tumble all together, 
 Even till Destruction sicken; answer me 
 To what I ask you!" 
 
 " Tremor." 
 When the " stress " peculiar to any emotion, is interrupted by a 
 tremulous action of the organs, it is termed, in elocution, the " tre- 
 mor." This mode of utterance belongs to fear, grief, joy, and othei 
 emotions, m their excess. 
 

 ELOCUTIONARY READER. 47 
 
 EXAMPLE OF "TREMOR." 
 
 Grief. 
 
 [From Lines on the Death of a Child.'] Anon. 
 " Pale mourned the lily where* the rose had died ; 
 And timid, trembling, came he to my side." 
 
 Repeat, also, the closing lines of the examples of Grief and 
 
 " MELODY." 
 
 "Pitch." 
 
 The word " melody " applies, in elocution, as in music, to all those 
 modifications of voice which are founded, not on force or " movement," 
 — not on " soft " or " loud," " fast " or " slow," — but on the relations 
 which sounds bear to each other, as high or low on the musical 
 scale. 
 
 " Melody " necessarily implies, in the first place, an initial or 
 commencing note, high or low, to which the successive sounds of 
 a strain may be referred, as the first of a series, or sequence, taking 
 their departure from it. This initial sound is termed the pitch of the 
 voice. Hence we say that a strain expressive of awe or solemnity, 
 has a low pitch, or that the voice, in giving it utterance, strikes a low 
 note. We say, also, that the sounds expressive of joy have a high 
 pitch. 
 
 The word " pitch," as used in elocution, is applied, likewise, to the 
 prevailing high or low sounds which pervade an expressive strain 
 of utterance. Thus, when we say that awe has a low pitch, we mean 
 not only that the voice, in giving it utterance, strikes a low note, at 
 the commencement of the strain, but that it continues comparatively 
 low on the scale, during the whole passage which contains that emotion. 
 
 The terms " high " and " low " are liable to a misapplication, in 
 negligent popular usage, which makes them synonymous with " loud " 
 and " soft." But in elocution, as in music, these words should be 
 restricted to the sense of shrill or grave, as in speaking of the differ- 
 ence between the voices of women and of men. 
 
 " High," " low," and " middle " pitch, with the addition of the ex- 
 tremes of " highest," or " very high," and " lowest," or " very low," 
 are the distinctions in current use in elocution. 
 
 The deepest emotions of the soul, as despair, horror, and awe, and 
 others of similar character, are distinguished in utterance by a " very 
 low " pitch. Reverence and solemnity, in their usual effect, are ex- 
 
48 ELOCUTIONARY READER. 
 
 pressed by " low " notes of voice. All moderate emotions incline to 
 " middle " pitch ; and joyous feeling, is, according to its degree, 
 " high " or " very high." Anger, when it is sharp and keen, is high- 
 pitched ; when grave and stern, it is loiv. 
 
 To observe the varying shades of voice, caused by the changes 
 of emotion, and consequent change of " pitch," is indispensable to 
 true 'expression in reading. Without these variations, the style of 
 utterance becomes flat and dead, from its monotony ; and the com- 
 position to which this lifeless reading is applied, loses its true char- 
 acter and effect. 
 
 The examples and exercises which have been used as illustrations 
 in preceding pages, should be carefully repeated for the distinctions 
 of "pitch," classified as follows: "Lowest," or " very low," the 2d 
 example of Solemnity, under " Pure Tone," " Subdued " Force ; — 
 " Low," the 3d, 1st, and 4th, of the same, the 3d of Tranquillity, and 
 the 3d, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, and 8th of Pathos, and the 1st, 3d, and 
 4th of Solemnity ; — " Middle," the 1st of Pathos, the 1st, 2d, 4th, 
 and 5th of Tranquillity, 1st, 2d, and 3d examples of "Pure Tone," 
 " Moderate " Force, and the example of " Declamatory " Style, 
 under " Expulsive Orotund ; " — High, the 2d example of Pathos 
 under " Pure Tone," » Subdued " Force, the 4th and 5th of " Pure 
 Tone," " Moderate " Force, the examples of " Expulsive Orotund," 
 " Impassioned Expression," and Shouting ; — Very high, the example 
 of " Pure Tone," " Sustained " Force, in Calling.* 
 
 MOVEMENT.' 
 
 The term "movement" applies, in elocution, as in music, to the 
 rate of utterance, as fast, slow>, or moderate. The gradations of 
 "movement," in elocution, are the following: " Slowest," or "Very 
 Slow," including Awe and deep Solemnity ; — "Slow," Reverence, So- 
 lemnity, Pathos ; — "Moderate," Tranquillity, Seriousness, Gravity; — 
 "Lively," Animation, Cheerfulness ; — "Brisk," or " Quick," Gayety, 
 Humour; — "Rapid," or "Very Quick," Haste, Hurry. Repeat, for 
 practice, the examples already given of the above emotions. 
 
 * The other constituents of " melody," beside "pitch/' — as the intervals 
 traversed by the voice in skips, " slides " and " waves," together with the 
 effects of " diatonic " and " chromatic melody/ 7 — may be found exemplified 
 in the volume on Orthophony. Teachers and students who wish for a more 
 extensive course of study, in this and other departments of elocution, as pre- 
 sented by Dr. Rush, are referred to the " Philosophy of the Voice/' for full 
 statements of theory, and to the " Orthophony/' and the " American Elocu- 
 tionist/' for practical applications. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 r 
 
 EXERCISE L 
 
 THE PINE AND THE OLIVE, A FABLE. Mrs. BarbmM. 
 
 [This exercise exemplifies "moderate" force, "middle" pitch, and 
 " moderate " movement. The style of reading 1 , as regards " expres- 
 sion," is that of serious conversation. The common error of young 
 readers, in such pieces, is that of rapidity of utterance, — a fault in 
 consequence of which enunciation is rendered indistinct, and the 
 whole style of reading, unimpressive.] 
 
 A Stoic, swelling with the proud consciousness of his own 
 worth, took a solitary walk ; and, straying amongst the groves 
 of Academus.* he sat down between an olive and a pine tree. 
 His attention was soon excited by a murmur which he heard, 
 among the leaves. The whispers increased ; and, listening 
 attentively, he plainly heard the pine say to the olive as follows : 
 
 " Poor tree ! I pity thee. Thou now spreadest thy green 
 leaves, and exultest in all the pride of youth and spring. But 
 how soon will thy beauty be tarnished ! The fruit which thou 
 exhaustest thyself to bear, shall hardly be shaken from thy 
 boughs, before thou shalt grow dry and withered ; thy green 
 veins, now so full of juice, shall be frozen ; naked and bare, 
 thou wilt stand exposed to all the storms of winter ; whilst my 
 firmer leaf shall resist the change of the seasons. ' Un- 
 changeable,' is my motto ; and, through the various vicissi- 
 tudes of the year, I shall continue equally green and vigorous 
 as I am at present." 
 
 The olive, with a graceful wave of her boughs, replied : 
 " It is true thou wilt always continue as thou art at present. 
 Thy leaves will keep that sullen and gloomy green in which 
 they are now arrayed ; and the stiff regularity of thy branches, 
 
 * Accented, AcadAmus 
 
50 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 will not yield to those storms which will bow down many of 
 the feebler tenants of the grove. Yet I wish not to be like 
 thee. I rejoice when nature rejoices ; and, when I am deso- 
 late, nature mourns with me. I fully enjoy pleasure in its 
 season ; and I am contented to be subject to the influences of 
 those seasons and that economy of nature by which I flourish. 
 When the spring approaches, I feel the kindly warmth ; my 
 branches swell with young buds, and my leaves unfold; 
 crowds of singing birds, which never visit thy noxious shade, 
 sport on my boughs ; my fruit is offered to the gods, and 
 rejoices men; and, when the decay of nature approaches, I 
 shed my leaves over the funeral of the falling year, and am 
 well contented not to stand a single exemption from the 
 mournful desolation I see everywhere around me." 
 
 The pine was unable to frame a reply ; and the philoso- 
 pher turned away his steps, rebuked and humbled. 
 
 EXERCISE II. 
 
 THE TWO MOTHERS. Translated from De Cusiine. 
 
 [The first part of this piece requires " moderate " utterance, merely ; but 
 the latter part, the vivid style of deep and earnest emotion, with all 
 its natural changes of u expression."" The common fault exemplified 
 in the reading of such pieces, is a monotony which indicates the 
 absence of feeling.] 
 
 During the darkest period of the French Revolution, 
 occurred the following incident, so characteristic of the 
 sympathy of one mother with another, in whatever condition 
 of life. The grandfather of the present Marquis De Custine, 
 was on trial before one of the sanguinary tribunals of the day. 
 The father of the marquis, was absent, as ambassador in 
 Prussia ; and his mother hastened to Paris, to save, if possible, 
 the life of her father-in-law. 
 
 " Every day," says the marquis, " she was present in the 
 court, during my grandfather's trial, — sitting at his feet. 
 Mornings and evenings, she visited personally the members 
 of the revolutionary tribunal, and the members of the com- 
 mittee ; and so great was the power of her beauty, and the 
 interest excited by her presence, that, at one of the last sit- 
 tings of the tribunal, the women in the gallery, though unused 
 
READER. 51 
 
 to tears, were seen to weep. The marks of sympathy which 
 these furies gave to the daughter-in-law of Custine, irritated 
 the president so much, that, during the session, he gave 
 private orders, that the life of my mother should be secretly 
 taken, by the public assassins, as she descended the steps of 
 the hall. 
 
 " The accused was reconducted to his prison. His 
 sdaughter-in-law, on leaving the tribunal, prepared to descend 
 the steps of the palace, to regain, alone, and on foot, the 
 carriage which was awaiting her, in a distant street. No 
 one dared to accompany her, at least openly, for fear of in- 
 creasing the danger. Timid and shy as a hare, she had, all 
 her life, an instinctive dread of a crowd. Imagine the steps 
 of the Palace of Justice, — that long flight of stairs, — 
 covered with the crowded masses of an angry populace, 
 gorged with blood, and already too much accustomed to 
 performing their horrid office, to draw back from one murder 
 more. 
 
 " My mother, trembling, stopped at the head of the steps. 
 Her eyes commanded the place v/here Madame Lamballe had 
 been murdered some months before. A friend of my father 
 iiad succeeded in getting a note to her, while in court, to 
 warn her to redouble her prudence ; but this advice increased 
 the danger, instead of averting it. My mother's alarm being 
 greater, she had less presence of mind ; she thought herself 
 lost ; and this idea was almost fatal to her. If I tremble and 
 fall, as Madame Lamballe did, thought she, it is all over with 
 me. The furious mob thickened incessantly about her path. 
 * It is Custine, it is the daughter-in-law of the traitor ! ' — 
 cried they, on every side. Every outcry was seasoned with 
 oaths and atrocious imprecations. 
 
 " How should she descend, — how should she pass through 
 this fiendlike crowd? Some, with drawn swords, placed 
 themselves before her ; others, without vests, their shirt sleeves 
 turned up, were driving away their wives. — This was the 
 precursor of an execution. — The danger increased. My 
 mother thought that if she exhibited the slightest weakness, 
 she should be thrown to the ground, and her fall would be 
 the signal for her death. 
 
 " At last, casting her eyes around, she perceived one of the 
 fish-women, a most hideous-looking creature, advancing in 
 the middle of the crowd. This woman had a nursing infant 
 in her arms. Impelled by the God of mothers, the daughter 
 of ' the traitor ' approached this mother, — a mother is some- 
 
52 
 
 thing more than a woman, — and said to her, ' What a pretty 
 child you have there P — ' Take it,' — replied the mother, 
 who, degraded as she was, understood every thing with a word, 
 — a look, — ' You can give it back to me at the bottom 
 of the steps.' 
 
 " Maternal electricity had acted on the two hearts r — the 
 crowd felt it. My mother took the child, embraced it, and 
 made use of it as an segis against the enraged crowd. 
 
 " The man of nature resumed his rights over the man 
 brutalized by the effects of social disease: — the barbarians 
 ©ailing themselves'civilized, were conquered by two mothers. 
 Mine, rescued, descends into the court of the Palace of 
 Justice, — crosses it, — goes towards the square, without re- 
 ceiving a blow, or the least injury. She reached the grating, 
 and gave back the child to the person who had lent it to her ; 
 and, in the same moment, they separated without speaking a 
 single word. The place was not favourable for thanks or 
 explanations. They said nothing to each other of their 
 secret. They never saw each other again ! — The souls of 
 these two mothers will meet somewhere else" 
 
 EXERCISE III. 
 
 Emily- Taylor. 
 
 [Feeling being the great element of sentiment, and poetry always 
 giving more scope to feeling than prose, the following exercise 
 demands attention, in the- first place, to the tone of full and deep 
 though gentle emotion, and, next, to the comparatively long pauses 
 which feeling always produces.] 
 
 Hast thou sounded the depth of yonder sea, 
 And counted the sands that under it be ? 
 Hast thou measured the height of heaven above ? 
 Then mayest thou mete" out a mother's love.. 
 
 Hast thou talked with the blessed', o Heading on 
 To the throne of God some wandering son ? 
 Hast thou witnessed the angels' bright employ I 
 Then mayest thou speak of a mother's joy.. 
 
YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. S3 
 
 Evening and morn hast thorn watched the bee 
 <jo forth on her errands of industry 1 
 The bee for herself hath gathered and toiled; 
 But the mother's cares are all for her child. 
 
 Hast thou gone with the traveller thought afar ? 
 From pole to pole, and from star to star 1 
 Thou hast ; — but on ocean, earth, or sea, 
 The heart of a mother has gone with thee. 
 
 There is not a grand, inspiring thought, 
 There is not a truth by wisdom taught, 
 There is not a feeling pure and high, 
 That may not be read in a mother's eye. 
 
 And ever since earth began, that look 
 Has been to the wise, an open book, 
 To win them back from the lore they prize, 
 To the holier love that edifies, 
 
 4 
 
 There are teachings on earth, and sky, and air; 
 The heavens the glory of God declare : 
 But more loud than the voice beneath, above, 
 He is heard to speak through a mother's love. 
 
 EXERCISE IV. 
 
 CHURCH BELLS. N.P.Willis 
 
 [Poetic description, in prose, requires the same fulness of feeling, as 
 when the composition is in the form of verse. Pathos, solemnity, 
 and beauty, are the predominating modes of expression, in the fol- 
 lowing piece. The voice should be gentle and low, throughout the 
 reading ; the " movement " slow ; the articulation, delicate but dis- 
 tinct.] 
 
 The music of church bells has become a matter of poetry. 
 I remember, though somewhat imperfectly, a touching story 
 connected with the church bells of a town in Italy, which 
 had become famous, all over Europe, for their peculiar solem- 
 nity and sweetness. They were made by a young Italian 
 artisan, and were his heart's pride. During the war, the 
 5* 
 
54 
 
 place was sacked, and the bells carried off, no one knew 
 whither. After the tumult was over, the poor fellow returned 
 to his work ; but it had been the solace of his life to wander 
 about at evening, and listen to the chime of his bells ; and 
 he grew dispirited and sick,, and pined for them till he could 
 no longer bear it, and left his home, determined to wander 
 over the world, and hear them once again before he died. 
 He went from land to land, stopping in every village, till the 
 hope that alone sustained him began to falter ; and he knew, 
 at last, that he was dying. 
 
 He lay, one evening, m a boat that was slowly floating 
 down the Rhine, almost insensible, and scarce expecting to 
 see the sun rise again, that was now setting gioriously over 
 the vine-covered hills of Germany.* Presently, the vesper 
 bells of a distant village began to ring; and, as the chimes 
 stole faintly over the river, with the evening breeze, he started 
 from his lethargy. — He was not mistaken. It was the deep, 
 solemn, heavenly music of his own bells ; and the sounds that 
 he had thirsted for years to hear, were- melting over the water. 
 
 He leaned from the boat, with his ear close to the calm 
 surface of the river, and listened. They rung out their hymn„ 
 and ceased ; — and he still lay motionless in his painful pos- 
 ture. His companions spoke to him; but he gave no answer: 
 — his spirit had followed the last sound of the vesper chime. 
 
 There is something 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 the 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 circumstance, 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 
 
 * There is a similar tradition regarding the bells; of St. Mary's 
 Church, in Limerick, Ireland. 
 
READER. 55 
 
 echoes roll on through the desolate streets, and are unan- 
 swered by the sound of any human voice, or the din of any 
 human occupation, the effect has sometimes seemed to me 
 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 of a spirit ; and as the leaves stir with its vibrations, 
 and the drops of dew tremble in the cups of the flowers, you 
 could almost believe that there was a Sabbath in nature, and 
 that the dumb works of God rendered visible worship for His 
 goodness. The effect of nature alone is purifying ; and its 
 thousand evidences of wisdom are too eloquent of their Maker, 
 not to act as a continual lesson ; but combined with the in- 
 stilled piety of childhood, and the knowledge of the inviola- 
 ble holiness of the time, the mellow cadences of & church 
 bell give to the hush of the country Sabbath, a holiness to 
 which only a desperate heart could be insensible, 
 
 EXERCISE V. 
 
 MY MARY. Cowper. 
 
 [An example of pathos, which produces "pure tone" in the form of 
 "subdued" force. A softened utterance, gentle "median stress," 
 prolonged " quantity," and prevailing semitone, a high pitch, and slow 
 " movement," are the chief characteristics of the style of reading 
 required in this piece.] 
 
 The twentieth year is well nigh past, 
 Since first our sky was overcast ; — 
 Ah ! would that this might be the last ! 
 
 My Mary ! 
 Thy spirits have a fainter flow; 
 I see thee daily weaker grow : — 
 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 Thy needles, once a shining store, 
 For my sake restless heretofore, 
 Now rust disused, and shine no more, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
58 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 For though thou gladly would' st fulfil 
 The same kind office for me still, 
 Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 But well thou play'dst the * housewife's part, 
 And all thy threads, with magic art, 
 Have wound themselves about this heart, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 Thy indistinct expressions seem 
 Like language uttered in a dream ; 
 Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
 Are still more lovely in my sight 
 Than golden beams of orient light, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 For could I view nor them nor thee, 
 What sight worth seeing could I see ? 
 The sun would rise in vain for me, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 Partakers of thy sad decline, 
 Thy hands their little force resign ; 
 Yet, gently pressed, press gently mine, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, 
 That now, at every step, thou mov'st 
 Upheld by two, — yet still thou lov'st, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 And still to love, though pressed with ill, 
 In wintry age to feel no chill, 
 With me is to be lovely still, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 But ah ! by constant heed I know, 
 How oft the sadness that I show, 
 Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 And should my future lot be cast 
 With much resemblance of the past, 
 Thy worn-out heart will break at last, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 * Pronounced, huzzwifs. 
 
YOUNG ladies' READER. 57 
 
 EXERCISE VI. 
 
 EARLY TRAITS OF MARGARET DAVIDSON. 
 
 Washington Irving. 
 
 [An example of the style of description and narration m the maimer 
 of serious and elevated conversation. A clear, distinct utterance, and 
 a lively but gentle tone, deepening into tenderness and solemnity, are 
 the chief characteristics of the appropriate style of reading, in this 
 extract.] 
 
 Among the earliest indications of the poetical character in 
 this child, were her perceptions of the beauty of natural 
 scenery. Her home was in a picturesque neighbourhood, 
 calculated to awaken and foster such perceptions. The 
 following description of it is taken from one of her own 
 writings : 
 
 " There stood on the banks of the Saranac, a small, neat 
 cottage, which peeped forth from the surrounding foliage, — 
 the image of rural quiet and contentment. An old-fashioned 
 piazza extended along the front, shaded with vines and 
 honey-suckles ; the turf on the bank of the river, was of the 
 richest and brightest emerald ; and the wild rose and sweet 
 brier, which twined over the neat enclosure, seemed to 
 bloom with more delicate freshness and perfume, within the 
 bounds of this earthly paradise. 
 
 " The scenery around was wildly yet beautifully romantic : 
 the clear blue river glancing and sparkling at its feet, seemed 
 only the preparation for another and more magnificent view, 
 when the stream, gliding on to the west, was buried in the 
 broad white bosom of Champlain, which stretched back, 
 wave after wave, in the distance, until lost in faint blue mists, 
 that veiled the sides of its guardian mountains, — seeming 
 more lovely from their indistinctness." 
 
 Such were the natural scenes which presented themselves 
 to her dawning perceptions ; and she is said to have evinced, 
 from her earliest childhood, a remarkable sensibility to their 
 charms. A beautiful tree, or shrub, or flower, would fill her 
 with delight : she would note, with surprising discrimination, 
 the various effects of the weather upon the surrounding land- 
 scape; — the mountains wrapped in clouds; the torrents 
 roaring down their sides, in times of tempest ; the * bright, 
 warm sunshine," the " cooling showers," the * pale, cold 
 
58 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 moon," — for such was already her poetical phraseology. A 
 bright starlight night, also, would seem to awaken a mysteri- 
 ous rapture in her infant bosom ; and one of her early ex- 
 pressions, in speaking of the stars, was, that they " shone like 
 the eyes of angels." 
 
 One of the most beautiful parts of the maternal instruction 
 which she received, was the guiding of these kindling per- 
 ceptions from nature up to nature's God. 
 
 " I cannot say," observes her mother, " at what age her re- 
 ligious impressions were imbibed. They seemed to be inter- 
 woven with her existence. From the very first exercise of 
 reason, she evinced strong devotional feelings ; and although 
 she loved play, she would, at any time, prefer seating herself 
 beside me, and, with every faculty absorbed in the subject, 
 listen while I attempted to recount the wonders of Providence, 
 and point out the wisdom and benevolence of God, as mani- 
 fested in the works of creation. Her young heart would 
 swell with rapture, and the tear would tremble in her eye, 
 when I explained to her, that He who clothed the trees with 
 verdure, and gave the rose its bloom, had also created her 
 with capacities to enjoy their beauties ; — that the same 
 Power which clothed the mountains with sublimity, made her 
 happiness His daily care. Thus a sentiment of gratitude and 
 affection towards the Creator, entered into all her emotions 
 of delight at the wonders and beauties of the creation." 
 
 EXERCISE VII. 
 
 TO MY SISTER LUCRETIA. Margaret Davidson. 
 
 [Admiration and joy, blended with tenderness and solemnity, are the 
 chief elements in the style of the following piece. The voice is 
 soft but vivid, throughout, and sustained by a gentle warmth of 
 feeling.] 
 
 My sister ! With that thrilling word 
 
 What thoughts unnumbered wildly spring ! 
 
 W T hat echoes in my heart are stirred, 
 
 While thus I touch the trembling string ! 
 
 Thy glance of pure seraphic light 
 
 Sheds o'er my heart its softening ray ; 
 
59 
 
 Thy pinions guard my couch by night, 
 And hover o'er my path by day. 
 
 I cannot weep that thou art fled, — 
 For ever blends my soul with thine ; 
 
 Each thought, by purer impulse led, 
 Is soaring on to realms divine. 
 
 Thy glance unfolds my heart of hearts, 
 
 And lays its inmost recess * bare ; 
 Thy voice a heavenly calm imparts, 
 
 And soothes each wilder passion there. 
 
 I hear thee in the summer breeze, 
 
 See thee in all that's pure or fair ; 
 Thy whisper in the murmuring trees, 
 
 Thy breath, thy spirit everywhere. 
 
 Thine eyes, which watch when mortals sleep, 
 Cast o'er my dreams a radiant hue ; 
 
 Thy tears, — " such tears as angels weep," — 
 Fall nightly with the glistening dew. 
 
 Thou wert unfit to dwell with clay, 
 For sin too pure, for earth too bright ! 
 
 And Death, who cailed thee hence away, 
 Placed on his brow a gem of light ! 
 
 A gem, whose brilliant glow is shed 
 
 Beyond the ocean's swelling wave, 
 Which gilds the memory of the dead, 
 
 And pours its radiance on thy grave. 
 
 When Day hath left his glowing car, 
 And Evening spreads her robe of love ; 
 
 When worlds, like travellers from afar, 
 Meet in the azure fields above ; 
 
 When all is still, and fancy's realm 
 
 Is opening to the eager view, 
 Mine eye full oft, in search of thee, 
 
 Roams o'er that vast expanse of blue. 
 
 * Accented ricess, — not, in general, appropriately, — but, m this 
 case, forming an example of " poetic license." 
 
60 
 
 I know that here thy harp is mute, 
 And quenched the bright poetic fire ; 
 
 Yet still I bend my ear, to catch 
 The hymnings of thy seraph lyre 
 
 Teach me to fill thy place below, 
 That I may dwell with thee above ; 
 
 To soothe, like thee, a mother's woe, 
 And prove, like thine, a sister's love ! 
 
 EXERCISE VIII. 
 
 VOICES OF ENGLISH BIRDS. Jardine. 
 
 [An example of "pure tone" in the form of "animated" utterance.) 
 
 Rural sounds, the voices, the language of the wild crea- 
 tures, as heard and recognized by the naturalist, are in con- 
 cord with the country only. Our sight, our smell may 
 perhaps be deceived, for an interval, by conservatories, horti- 
 cultural arts, and bowers of sweets ; but our hearing can in 
 no way be beguiled by any semblance of what is heard in the 
 grove or the field. The hum, the murmur, the medley of the 
 mead, is peculiarly its own, admits of no imitation ; and the 
 voices of our birds convey particular intimations, and distinct- 
 ly notify the various periods of the year, with an accuracy as 
 certain as they are detailed in our calendars. 
 
 The season of spring is always announced as approaching 
 by the notes of the rookery, by the jangle or wooing accents 
 of the dark frequenters of its trees ; and that time having 
 passed away, these contentions and cadences are no longer 
 heard. The cuckoo then comes, and informs us that spring 
 has arrived ; that he has journeyed to us, borne by gentle 
 gales, in sunny days ; that fragrant flowers are in the copse 
 and the mead, and all things telling of gratulation and of 
 joy : the children mark this well-known sound, spring out, 
 and " cuckoo ! cuckoo ! " as they gambol down the lane : the 
 very ploughboy bids him welcome in the early morn. It is 
 hardly spring without the cuckoo's song ; and having told 
 his tale, he has voice for no more, — is silent or away. 
 
 Then comes the dark, swift-winged marten, glancing 
 
61 
 
 through the air, that seems afraid to visit our uncertain 
 clime : he comes, though late, and hurries through his busi- 
 ness here, eager again to depart, all day long in agitation and 
 precipitate flight. The bland zephyrs of the spring have 
 no charms with these birds; but basking and careering in 
 the sultry gleams of June and July, they associate in throngs, 
 and screaming dash round the steeple or the ruined tower, 
 to serenade their nesting mates ; and glare and heat are in 
 their train. When the fervour of summer ceases, this bird 
 of the sun will depart. 
 
 The evening robin from the summit of some leafless bough, 
 or projecting point, tells us that autumn is come, and brings 
 matured fruits, chilly airs, and sober hours ; and he, the 
 lonely minstrel now that sings, is understood by all. These 
 four birds thus indicate a separate season, have no interfer- 
 ence with the intelligence of each other, nor could they be 
 transposed, without the loss of all the meaning they convey, 
 which no contrivance of art could supply ; and, by long 
 association, they have become identified with the period, and 
 in peculiar accordance with the time. 
 
 Those sweet sounds, called the song of birds, proceed only 
 from the male ; and, with a few exceptions, only during the 
 season of incubation. Hence the comparative quietness of 
 our summer months, when this care is over, except from acci- 
 dental causes, where a second nest is formed ; few of our 
 birds bringing up more than one brood in the season. 
 
 The red-breast, blackbird, and thrush, in mild winters will 
 continually be heard, and form exceptions to the general pro- 
 cedure of our British birds ; and we have one little bird, the 
 wood-lark, that, in the early part of the autumnal months, 
 delights us with its harmony ; and its carols may be heard in 
 the air, commonly, during the calm sunny mornings of "this 
 season. They have a softness and quietness perfectly in unison 
 with the sober, almost melancholy, stillness of the hour. 
 
 The sky-lark also sings now ; and its song is very sweet, 
 full of harmony, cheerful as the blue sky and gladdening 
 beam in which it circles and sports, and known and admired 
 by all ; but the voice of the wood-lark is local, not so generally 
 heard, and from its softness must almost be listened for, to 
 be distinguished, and has not any pretensions to the hilaritv 
 of the former. This little bird sings likewise in the spring ; 
 but at that season, the contending songsters of the grove, 
 and the variety of sound proceeding from every thing that 
 has utterance, confuse and almost render inaudible the placid 
 6 
 
62 YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 
 
 voice of the wood-lark. It delights to fix its residence near 
 little groves and copses, or quiet pastures, and is a very un- 
 obtrusive bird, not uniting in companies, but associating in 
 its own little family parties only, feeding in the woodlands 
 on seeds and insects. Upon the approach of man, it crouches 
 close to the ground, then suddenly darts away, as if for a 
 distant flight, but settles again almost immediately. 
 
 The sky-lark will often continue its song, circle in the air, 
 a scarcely visible speck, by the hour together ; and the vast 
 distance from which its voice reaches us in a calm day, is 
 almost incredible. In the scale of comparison, it stands im- 
 mediately below the nightingale in melody and plaintiveness ; 
 but greater compass of voice is given to the linnet, a bird of 
 very inferior powers. 
 
 The strength of the larynx, and of the muscles of the 
 throat, in birds, is infinitely greater than in the human race. 
 The loudest shout of the peasant, is but a feeble cry, com- 
 pared with that of the golden-eyed duck, the wild goose, or 
 even this lark. The sweet song of this poor little bird, — 
 with a fate like that of the nightingale, — renders it an object 
 of capture and confinement, which few of them comparatively 
 survive. 
 
 EXERCISE IX. 
 
 MY MOTHER'S SIGH. Mrs. Osgood. 
 
 [An example of serious and grave style, mingling with pathos. The 
 mode of voice in the reading, is that of " pure tone," — " subdued " 
 and " moderate " force, — " pitch " inclining to low, — " movement" 
 slow, with gentle " median stress," and prevailing " semitone" A 
 tender but earnest and vivid expression of feeling, should character- 
 ize the whole reading.] 
 
 I've felt it oft in childhood's hour, — 
 
 The magic of a mother's sigh : 
 I've yielded to its gentle power, 
 
 With heart subdued, and drooping eye. 
 
 When full of glee, — a wayward child, — 
 I've stolen from my task away, 
 
 
63 
 
 That sound, amid the frolic wild, 
 
 Would check and quell my careless play. 
 
 I've read, with rapt and earnest look, 
 O'er pages filled with wild romance, — 
 
 My mother sighed! — I closed the book, 
 And broke, at once, the idle trance. 
 
 If passion flushed my youthful cheek, 
 And pride and gloom were on my brow, 
 
 When others' frowns were vain and weak, 
 Her sigh could bid my spirit bow. 
 
 If, checked in folly's wayward whim, 
 I've turned away with laughing eyes, — 
 
 My mother's sigh that smile could dim, 
 And tears, repentant tears, would rise. — 
 
 My dream has fled ; — and wearying care 
 Has silenced folly's childish strain : 
 
 The thoughtless mirth that revelled there, 
 May never, never come again ! 
 
 But still I feel that holy power ; 
 
 It thrills my heart, and fills my eye 
 With tears, as when, in " childhood's hour,' : 
 
 I yielded to my mother's sigh ! 
 
 EXERCISE X. 
 
 ACCOMPLISHMENTS. Jane Taylor. 
 
 [An example of 11 gay and humorous " style, requiring moderate loudness, 
 high pitch, and brisk " movement ; " the whole effect resembling that 
 of the liveliest conversation, in the mood of raillery and burlesque. 
 The common faults in the reading of such pieces, are dulness and 
 monotony.] 
 
 How is it that masters, and science, and art, 
 One spark of intelligence fail to impart ; 
 Unless in that chemical union combined, 
 Of which the result, — in one word, — is a mind ? 
 
64 YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 
 
 A youth may have studied, and travelled abroad, 
 May sing like Apollo, and paint like a Claude, 
 And speak all the languages under the pole, 
 And have every gift in the world, — but a soul. 
 
 That drapery wrought by the leisurely fair, 
 
 Called patchwor k, may well to such genius compare, 
 
 Wherein every tint of the rainbow appears, 
 
 And stars, to adorn it, are forced from their spheres 
 
 There, glows a bright pattern, (a sprig, or a spot,) 
 'Twixt clusters of roses full-blown and red hot ; 
 Here, magnified tulips divided in three, 
 Alternately shaded with sections of tree. 
 
 But when all is finished, this labour of years, 
 A mass unharmonious, unmeaning appears ; 
 'Tis showy, but void of intelligent grace; 
 It is not a landscape, — it is not a face. 
 
 'Tis thus Education, (so called in our schools,) 
 With costly materials, and capital tools, 
 Sits down to her work, if you duly reward her, 
 And sends it home finished " according to order." 
 
 See French and Italian spread out on her lap ; 
 Then Dancing springs up, and skips into a gap ; 
 Next Drawing and all its varieties come, 
 Sewed down in their place by her finger and thumb. 
 
 And then, for completing her fanciful robes, 
 
 Geography, Music, the use of the Globes, 
 
 &c. &c, which, — match as they will, — 
 
 Are sewed into shape, and " set down in the bill." 
 
 Thus Science, distorted, and torn into bits, 
 
 Art, tortured, and frightened half out of her wits ; 
 
 In portions and patches, — some light and some shady, — 
 
 Are stitched up together, and make — " a young lady." 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 65 
 
 EXERCISE XI. 
 
 Mrs. Hofland. 
 
 [An example of serious conversational manner, requiring attentioi 
 chiefly to distinct and spirited utterance.] 
 
 Agnes was the eldest of five children, as the two children 
 who succeeded her were both taken off by diseases incident to 
 infancy. This circumstance was an advantage to her; as 
 by rendering her, for some time, the object of her father's 
 attention, it secured for her all the instruction such a com- 
 panion could bestow ; so that before she was called to parti- 
 cipate her mother's duties in the household department, she 
 had gained as much knowledge of the rudiments of education, 
 as was necessary to give her a taste for improvement, — a 
 taste which never fails to lead youth into such a disposition 
 of their time, as to enable them to seize every precious 
 moment circumstances allow, for mental cultivation. The 
 little thus acquired, is too dear, too valuable, to be wasted 
 and misapplied. 
 
 Thus, amidst incessant occupation, and various petty cares, 
 Agnes became mistress of much estimable knowledge, not- 
 withstanding the obscurity in which she lived, and the 
 necessity of attending to all the common cares of life insepa- 
 rable from narrow circumstances. — She was well read in 
 the Bible. She thoroughly understood the prayers and the 
 doctrines of her own church, and had a sufficient knowledge 
 of the various modes in which others professed the Christian 
 faith, to feel charity for all, and respect for many. She had 
 likewise read the history of the Jews, that of her own country, 
 and as much of the Greek and Roman, as enabled her to 
 converse with her father, on the subjects to which he occa- 
 sionally referred, relative to the power and influence of those 
 remarkable nations. She was likewise conversant in Thom- 
 son's Seasons, Goldsmith's Deserted Village, and Gray's 
 Poems ; had read three volumes of the Spectator, one of the 
 Rambler, and all Tillotson's Sermons. 
 
 This stock of erudition, — however humble it may ap- 
 pear to those more highly favoured, — had left a mind of 
 native strength and energy by no means poorly endowed 
 She added to it a knowledge of her needle, above the com- 
 6* 
 
66 YOUNG ladies' reader. 
 
 mon standard ; she had an excellent ear, and sang, and read, 
 with singular sweetness and fluency ; she wrote a neat hand, 
 and understood her own language, and was. not ignorant of 
 Latin ; to which it may be added that she understood miner- 
 alogy, botany, and natural philosophy, sufficiently to render 
 her entertaining to her father, and useful to her mother. 
 But as these were endowments received in the way of chit- 
 chat, it never entered the mind of Agnes to class them 
 amongst her attainments. Within the limits of her own 
 parish, there were a few young women similarly instructed 
 by her father, or other friends ; so that her mind was neither 
 left to the dangerous contemplation of its own superiority, 
 which is often the case in secluded situations ; nor, as she 
 saw no one superior to her, was she led to repine at their 
 advantages, or sink under the consciousness of humiliating 
 inferiority. Hence arose a proper estimation of herself, a 
 solidity of character, a temperance, propriety, and self-posses- 
 sion, which, combined with deep and fervent piety, unaffected 
 sensibility, and true modesty, rendered her not less estimable 
 than engaging, and promised that the virtuous woman would 
 succeed to the duteous and tender daughter. 
 
 EXERCISE XII. 
 
 TO A DEPARTED FRIEND. 0. W.B.Peabody. 
 
 [Deep but gentle pathos, as exemplified in the " subdued " form of 
 " pure tone," is the predominating form of utterance, in the reading 
 of this piece. Sloivness, long pauses, and full feeling, should char 
 acterize the whole.] 
 
 Too lovely and too early lost ! 
 
 My memory clings to thee ; 
 For thou wast once my guiding-star 
 
 Amid the treacherous sea ; — 
 But doubly cold and cheerless now, 
 
 The wave too dark before, 
 Since every beacon-light is quenched 
 
 Along the midnight shore. 
 
67 
 
 I saw thee first, when hope arose 
 
 On youth's triumphant wing, 
 And thou wast lovelier than the light 
 
 Of early dawning spring. 
 Who then could dream, that health and joy 
 
 Would e'er desert the brow, 
 So bright with varying lustre once, — 
 
 So chill and changeless now ? 
 
 That brow ! how proudly o'er it then, 
 
 Thy kingly beauty hung, 
 When wit, or eloquence, or mirth, 
 
 Came burning from the tongue ; 
 Or when upon that glowing cheek 
 
 The kindling smile was spread, 
 Or tears, to thine own woes denied, 
 
 For others' griefs were shed. 
 
 Thy mind ! it ever was the home 
 
 Of high and holy thought; 
 Thy life, an emblem of the truths 
 
 Thy pure example taught ; 
 When blended in thine eye of light, 
 
 As from a royal throne, 
 Kindness, and peace, and virtue, there, 
 
 In mingled radiance shone. 
 
 One evening, when the autumn dew 
 
 Upon the hills was shed, 
 And Hesperus far down the west 
 
 His starry host had led, 
 Thou said'st how sadly and how oft 
 
 To that prophetic eye, 
 Visions of darkness and decline, 
 
 And early death were nigh. 
 
 It was a voice from other worlds, 
 
 Which none beside might hear ; — 
 Like the night breeze's plaintive lyre, 
 
 Breathed faintly on the ear ; 
 It was the warning kindly given, 
 
 When blessed spirits come, 
 From their bright paradise above, 
 
 To call a sister home. 
 
How sadly on my spirit then, 
 
 That fatal warning fell ! 
 But oh ! the dark reality 
 
 Another voice may tell ; 
 The quick decline, — the parting sigh, — 
 
 The slowly moving bier, — 
 The lifted sod, — the sculptured stone, — 
 
 The unavailing tear ! — 
 
 The amaranth flowers that bloom in heaven, 
 
 Entwine thy temples now ; 
 The crown that shines immortally, 
 
 Is beaming on thy brow ; 
 The seraphs round the burning throne 
 
 Have borne thee to thy rest, 
 To dwell among the saints on high, 
 
 Companion of the blest. 
 
 The sun hath set in folded clouds, — 
 
 Its twilight rays are gone ; 
 And, gathered in the shades of night, 
 
 The storm is rolling on. 
 Alas ! how ill that bursting storm 
 
 The fainting spirit braves, 
 When they, — the lovely and the lost, — 
 
 Are gone to early graves ! 
 
 EXERCISE XIII. 
 
 THE OLD ELM OF NEWBURY. //. F. Gould. 
 
 [This piece forms an example of lively style requiring spirited utter- 
 ance, free, flowing "expression" biisk "movement" and all the other 
 natural characteristics of animated and gay conversation. In the 
 reading of such pieces, it is important to guard the style of enun- 
 ciation against colloquial negligence.'] 
 
 Did ever it come in your way to pass 
 The silvery pond with its fringe of grass, 
 And, threading the lane hard by, to see 
 The veteran " Elm of Newbury 1 " 
 
YOUNG LADIES READER. 
 
 You saw how its roots had grasped the ground, 
 As if it had felt the earth went round, 
 And fastened them down, with determined will 
 To keep it steady, and hold it still. — 
 Its aged trunk, so stately and strong, 
 Has braved the blasts as they've rushed along, 
 Its head has towered, and its arms have spread, 
 While more than a hundred years have fled ! 
 
 Well, that old elm, that is now so grand, 
 Was once a twig in the rustic hand 
 Of a youthful peasant, who went, one night, 
 To visit his love, by the tender light 
 Of the modest moon and her twinkling host, — 
 While the star that lighted his bosom most, 
 And gave to his lonely feet their speed, 
 Abode in a cottage beyond the mead ! 
 
 'Twas the peaceful close of a summer's day ; 
 Its glorious orb had passed away ; 
 The toil of the field, till the morn, had ceased, 
 For a season of rest to man and beast. 
 The mother had silenced her humming wheel , 
 The father returned, for the evening meal, 
 The thanks of one who had chosen the part 
 Of the poor in spirit, the rich in heart, — 
 The good old man in his chair reclined, 
 At an humble door, with a peaceful mind, 
 While the drops from his sunburnt brow were dried 
 By the cool, sweet air of the eventide. 
 
 The son from the yoke had unlocked the bow, 
 Dismissing the faithful ox to go 
 And graze in the close. He had called the kine 
 For their oblation at day's decline. 
 He'd gathered and numbered the lambs and sheep, 
 And fastened them up in their nightly keep. 
 He'd stood by the coop till the hen could bring 
 Her huddling brood safe under her wing ; 
 And made them secure from the hooting owl, 
 Whose midnight prey was the shrieking fowl. 
 When all was finished, he sped to the well 
 Where the old gray bucket hastily fell, 
 
70 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 And the clear cold water came up to chase 
 The dust of the field from his neck and face, 
 And hands and feet, till the youth began 
 To look renewed in the outward man ; 
 And soon arrayed in his Sunday's best, 
 The stiff new suit had done the rest ; 
 And the hale, young lover was on his way, 
 Where, through the fen and the field it lay, 
 And over the bramble, the brake, and the grass, 
 As the shortest cut to the house of his lass. 
 
 It is not recorded how long he staid 
 In the cheerful home of the smiling maid ; 
 But when he came out, it was late and dark, 
 And silent, — not even a dog would bark, 
 To take from his feeling of loneliness, 
 And make the length of his way seem less : 
 He thought it was strange, that the treacherous moon 
 Should have given the world the slip so soon ; 
 And, whether the eyes of the girl had made 
 The stars of the sky in his own to fade, 
 Or not, it certainly seemed to him, 
 That each grew distant, and small, and dim; 
 And he shuddered to think he now was about 
 To take a long and a lonely route ; , 
 
 For he did not know what fearful sight 
 Might come to him through the shadows of night ! 
 
 An Elm grew close by the cottage eaves; 
 So he plucked him a twig well clothed with leaves, 
 And sallying forth with the supple arm, — 
 To serve as a talisman parrying harm, — 
 He felt that, though his heart was so big, 
 'Twas even the stouter for having the twig 
 For this, he thought, would answer to switch 
 The horrors away, as he crossed the ditch, 
 The meadow and copse, wherein, perchance, 
 Will-o'-the-wisp might wickedly dance ; 
 And wielding it, keep him from feeling a chill 
 At the menacing sound of " Whip-poor-will ! " 
 And his flesh from creeping, beside the bog, 
 At the harsh, bass voice of the viewless frog : — 
 In short, he felt that the switch would be 
 Guard, plaything, business, and company ! 
 
 
READER. 71 
 
 When he got safe home, and joyfully found 
 He still was himself, and living, and sound, — 
 He planted the twig by his family cot, 
 To stand as a monument marking the spot 
 It helped him to reach ; and, — what was still more, — 
 Because it had grown by his fair one's door. 
 
 The twig took root ; and as time flew by, 
 Its boughs spread wide, and its head grew high ; 
 While the priest's good service had long been done, 
 Which made the youth and the maiden one ; 
 And their young scions arose and played 
 Around the tree, in its leafy shade. 
 
 But many and many a year has fled 
 Since they were gathered among the dead. 
 And now their names, with the moss o'ergrown, 
 Are veiled from sight on the churchyard stone, 
 That leans away, in a lingering fall, 
 And owns the power that shall level all 
 The works that the hand of man hath wrought, 
 Bring him to dust, and his name to nought ; 
 While, near in view, and just beyond 
 The grassy skirts of the silver pond, 
 In its " green old age," stands the noble tree, 
 The veteran " Elm of Newbury." 
 
 EXERCISE XIV. 
 
 THE FARMER. Anonymous. 
 
 [An example of animated conversational style, requiring attention, 
 principally, to easy, lively, and fluent utterance.] 
 
 Of all the conditions of men, — and I have mingled with 
 every variety, — I believe that none is so independent as that 
 of an industrious, frugal, and sober farmer. None affords 
 more the means of contentment and substantial enjoyment ; 
 none, — where early education has not been neglected, — 
 presents better opportunities for moral and intellectual im- 
 provement ; none calls more loudly for religious gratitude; 
 none is suited to give a more lively and deeper impression 
 of the goodness of God. 
 
72 YOUNG LADIES READER. 
 
 Some years since, I was travelling on horseback, in the 
 most rugged parts of New Hampshire, among its craggy cliffs 
 and rude and bold mountains, when I came suddenly upon a 
 plain and moss-covered cottage, in the very bosom of a valley, 
 where the brave settler had planted himself on a few acres 
 of land, which alone seemed capable of cultivation. Every 
 thing about the residence bespoke industry and care. Being 
 fatigued, I stopped to ask refreshments for my horse. 
 
 A hale young girl, of about fifteen, bareheaded and bare- 
 footed, but perfectly modest and courteous, with all the rud- 
 diness of Hebe, and all the nimbleness and vigour of Diana, 
 went immediately for an armful of hay and a measure-full of 
 oats, for my horse, and then kindly spread a table with a cloth 
 as white as the snow-drift, and a bowl of pure milk and brown 
 bread, for his rider. I never enjoyed a meal more. I offered 
 the family pay for their hospitality ; but they steadily refused, 
 saying that I was welcome. 
 
 I was not willing thus to tax their kindness, and therefore 
 took out a piece of money, to give to one of their children 
 that stood near. " No," said one of the parents, " he must 
 not take it; we have no use for money." "Heaven be 
 praised," said I, '" that I have found people without avarice ! 
 I will not corrupt you ; " and, giving them a hearty thank- 
 offering, wished them God's blessing, and took my leave. 
 
 Now here were these humble people, with a home which, 
 if it were burned down to-day, their neighbours would re- 
 build for them to-morrow, — with clothing made, from tljeir 
 own flocks by their own hands ; with bread enough, and 
 beef, pork, butter, cheese, milk, poultry, eggs, &c, in 
 abundance ; a good school for six months in the year, where 
 their children probably learned more, because they knew the 
 value of time, than those who were driven to school every 
 day in the week and every week in the year ; with a plain 
 religious meeting on Sunday, where, without ostentation or 
 parade, they meet their neighbours to exchange friendly salu- 
 tations, to hear words of good moral counsel, and to worship 
 God in the most simple,' but not in the iess acceptable, form ; 
 and, above all, here were hearts at peace with the world and 
 with each other, full of hospitality to the passing stranger, 
 uncankered by avarice, and undisturbed by ambition. Where 
 upon earth, in an humble condition, or in any condition, 
 shall we look for a more beautiful example of true inde- 
 pendence, — for a brighter picture of the true philosophy of 
 life? 
 
73 
 
 EXERCISE XV. 
 
 THE IRON MINE OF DANNAMOURA, Anon. 
 
 [The following piece has the same general characteristics with the 
 preceding, but rises, occasionally, to more vividness of style.] 
 
 The following description of this celebrated mine, is given 
 in the letter of an American lady : 
 
 " The very curious and justly celebrated iron mine of 
 Dannamoura, is situated about thirty miles from *Upsala, or 
 about seventy-five north of Stockholm. You must not 
 suppose that our curiosity led us ladies so far in order to see 
 an iron mine; but as the gentlemen were so desirous of 
 visiting it, we, not wishing to remain at Upsala without them, 
 went to the great ' black hole ' of Sweden. Nor have I now to 
 regret that fatiguing day's ride of sixty miles, or the perils 
 and alarms of the descent into those nether regions. 
 
 " This mine is the oldest in Sweden, and produces by far 
 the best iron in Europe. It has been regularly worked for 
 more than four hundred years ! and many millions of tons of 
 its precious ore, have been drawn up from its deep caverns, 
 I say precious ore, because so eagerly sought after by the 
 shrewd manufacturers of England. We were told that a 
 company in Hull made a contract with the proprietors of the 
 mine, for its whole produce, for one hundred years, which 
 contract expired a short time since. A new one, for another 
 century in prospective, has just been concluded with the 
 same company. 
 
 " Formerly, this mine was worked in the usual manner, by 
 sinking perpendicular shafts to a certain depth, and then ex- 
 cavating horizontally, leaving huge pillars of the ore to sup- 
 port the superincumbent stratum of rock. In the process of 
 time, the immense depth of the mine made it more profitable 
 to take off the whole roof of rock, and cut the vast col- 
 umns down for other uses. Therefore, the mine which was 
 once an immense subterranean arcade, with arches and pil- 
 lars three hundred feet high, is now a yawning gulf^fve hun- 
 dred feet deep, by seven hundred long. Having long since 
 extracted ail the materials of the original pillars, they have 
 again already worked their horizontal way far beneath the 
 upper rocks, presenting a portico of jetty columns, hundreds 
 of feet high, along the now lighted facade of the gulf. 
 
 * Pronounced, Oop f $a{a. 
 
74 
 
 " The refracted rays of daylight penetrate but a short way 
 into the black corridors of this region of * Erebus. In the 
 distant perspective were seen, by the lurid glare of a hundred 
 torches, the Vulcan-like deities of the place, plying their 
 huge hammers ; the ring and clank of which, reverberating 
 through the vaulted labyrinth, echoed louder than a thousand 
 anvils, forging arms for a host of Titans. 
 
 " The mode of descent into these dominions of Chaos and 
 Nox, is as singular as it is appalling, to one so unaccustomed 
 as myself to such masculine enterprises. 
 
 " Curiosity ! they say thy name is Woman ; — and never 
 shall I forget into what madcap scrapes thou hast often led 
 me ! Imbued with a full share of the weakness of my sex, I 
 could not refrain from accompanying the gentlemen in their 
 explorations. From the verge of an overhanging cliff of 
 rock, a platform is projected, on which is erected a horse 
 power machine, to which are attached two buckets, of about 
 three feet diameter, into one of which two persons enter, and 
 descend, while the other elevates ore. A miner stands on 
 the rim of the bucket, in order to keep it from striking the 
 rock. 
 
 " You can very readily imagine the difference between a 
 descent down a dark shaft, where, when once one has dared 
 to make the first step into the bucket, nothing is to be seen 
 of the depths below, or of the dangers around, and that of 
 being suspended over the brink of such an abyss, open to the 
 daylight, where all the reality can be seen at a glance. 
 
 " After descending about one hundred feet along the per- 
 pendicular side of the upper crust of rock, one suddenly 
 glides past its under surface, and in a minute is suspended in 
 mid air ; having no terra jirma within hundreds of feet, — ■ 
 there, swinging about, like Montgolfier in the little basket of 
 his first balloon. 
 
 " The sensation produced by this descending process, I 
 should think is more like that felt by Monsieur Guille, when 
 he cut loose in the first parachute that ever floated between 
 earth and sky. 
 
 " We descended thus about five hundred feet, and then 
 touched the pure ore at the bottom of the mine. Here we 
 walked under the stupendous arches, and visited the extremi- 
 ty of the mine by torch-light. At the bottom, and exposed to 
 the light, we saw a quantity of ice, which had lain there all 
 the summer, and which never melts. 
 
 * Pronounced, Blr'<.hus. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 75 
 
 " Before I entered the dark caverns in front of me, I turned 
 to look up, with a sort of regret for the pleasant world I had 
 been so suddenly torn from, when, instead of being converted 
 for my frailty, like her of old, into a pillar of salt, or iron, I 
 was transfixed with surprise by the singular and unique scene 
 I beheld. — When I was in the upper world, the sun shining 
 brightly, the sky had its usual midday brilliancy. — From 
 where I now stood, it assumed the dark azure of the early 
 dawn ; and I almost fancied I could see the faint twinkling of 
 the stars. The blue canopy over my head was not like the 
 light and concave firmament, seen from the surface of our 
 sphere, with its extended horizon, either perfectly unbroken, 
 or indented with the wavy lines of the distant hills. On the 
 contrary, it seemed a dense, opaque, and flat cover to my 
 black prison, shutting me out forever from the rest of crea- 
 tion ; the steep, black walls, with their jagged skylines, 
 resembling a wild cloud driven before the hurricane. 
 
 " The projecting points of rock above, with the persons 
 moving on them, as seen through this hazy and uncertain 
 medium, seemed to me like watchtowers and sentinels placed 
 over the condemned. The torches, and the din below and 
 around, with the swarthy forms of the genii of the place flit- 
 ting across my path, saluting each other in their unknown 
 jargon, — and, every now and then, the explosion of a blast, 
 echoing from the yet unexplored depths, caused me almost to 
 realize, in imagination, the Inferno of * Dante" 
 
 EXERCISE XVI. 
 
 TO A FLOWER. Procter. 
 
 (This piece is an example of " pure tone," in the subdued forms of 
 tenderness and pathos : the utterance is gentle, loiv, and slow ; the 
 articulation delicate, but distinct] - 
 
 Dawn, gentle flower, 
 
 From the morning earth ! 
 We will gaze and wonder 
 
 At thy wondrous birth ! 
 
 * Pronounced, Ddntay. 
 
76 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Bloom, gentle flower ! 
 
 Lover of the light, 
 Sought by wind and shower, 
 
 Fondled by the night ! 
 
 Fade, gentle flower ! 
 
 All thy white leaves close; 
 Having shown thy beauty, 
 
 Time 'tis for repose. 
 
 Die, gentle flower, 
 
 In the silent sun ! 
 So, — all pangs are over, 
 
 All thy tasks are done \ 
 
 Day hath no more glory, 
 Though he soars so high ; 
 
 Thine is all man's story, 
 
 Live, — and love, — and die i 
 
 EXERCISE XVII. 
 
 THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND THE SENSITIVE PLANT 
 
 Cowper. 
 [An example of gay and humorous style, requiring "pure tone"fut& 
 force, middle pitch, and " brisk movement" with " vanishing stress" 
 in the dialogue part.] 
 
 An oyster, east upon the shore, 
 Was heard, though never heard before, 
 Complaining in a speech well worded, 
 And worthy thus to be recorded, — 
 " Ah ! hapless wretch ! — condemned to dwell 
 Forever in my native shell ; 
 Ordained to move when others please, — 
 Not for my own content or ease; 
 But tossed and buffeted about, — - 
 Now in the water and now out. — 
 'Twere better to be born a stone, 
 Of ruder shape, and feeling none, 
 Than with a tenderness like mine 3 
 And sensibilities so fine I 
 
77 
 
 I envy that unfeeling shrub, 
 
 Fast-rooted against every rub." — 
 
 The plant he meant grew not far off, 
 
 And felt the sneer with scorn enough ; 
 
 Was hurt, disgusted, mortified, 
 
 And with asperity replied. — 
 
 ("When," cry the botanists, and stare, 
 
 " Did plants called sensitive grow there 1" 
 
 " No matter when : — a poet's muse is . 
 
 To make them grow just where she chooses.") 
 
 " You shapeless nothing in a dish, 
 
 You that are but almost, a fish, 
 
 I scorn your coarse insinuation, 
 
 And have most plentiful occasion 
 
 To wish myself the rock I view, 
 
 Or such another dolt as you ; 
 
 For many a grave and learned clerk, 
 
 And many a gay unlettered spark, 
 
 With curious touch examines me, 
 
 If I can feel as well as he ; 
 
 And when I bend, retire, and shrink, 
 
 Says, — ' Well, 'tis more than one would think ! ' — 
 
 Thus life is spent, (oh ! fie upon't !) 
 
 In being touched, and crying — Don't!" 
 
 A poet, in his evening walk, 
 O'erheard and checked this idle talk. 
 "And your fine sense," he said, " and yours, — 
 Whatever evil it endures, — 
 Deserves not, if so soon offended, 
 Much to be pitied or commended. 
 Disputes, though short, are far too long, 
 Where both alike are in the wrong-: 
 Your feelings, in their full amount, 
 Are all upon your own account. 
 You, in your grotto-work enclosed, 
 Complain of being thus exposed ; 
 Yet nothing feel in that rough coat, 
 Save when the knife is at your throat, 
 Wherever driven by wind or tide, 
 Exempt from every ill beside. 
 And as for you, my Lady Squeamish, — 
 Who reckon every touch a blemish, — 
 If all the plants that can be found 
 Embellishing the scene around, 
 7* . 
 
78 YOUNG LADIES ? READER. 
 
 Should droop and wither where they grow, 
 You would not feel at all, — not you. 
 The noblest minds their virtue prove 
 By pity, sympathy, and love : 
 These, these are feelings truly fine, 
 And prove their owner half divine." 
 
 His censure reached them as he dealt it, 
 And each, by shrinking, showed he felt it. 
 
 
 EXERCISE XVIII. 
 
 FATA MORGANA. Anon. 
 
 [The following extract forms an example of animated description, im 
 plying "pure tone" moderate force, and rate, with distinct pauses.'] 
 
 The singular aerial phenomenon, to which the name of 
 *Fata Morgana has been given, is observed in the Straits of 
 Messina. This atmospherical refraction is not, however, 
 altogether confined to that locality, it having occasionally 
 been seen on our own coasts. But we will describe it as it 
 there appears. 
 
 When the rising sun shines from that point whence its in- 
 cident ray forms an angle of about 45° on the Sea of f Reggio, 
 and the bright surface of the water in the bay is not disturbed 
 either by the wind or current, — when the tide is at its height, 
 and the waters are pressed up, by currents, to a great eleva- 
 tion in the middle of the channel, — the spectator being 
 placed on an eminence, with his back to the sun, and his 
 face to the sea, — the mountains of Messina rising like a wall 
 behind it, and forming the background of the picture, — on 
 a sudden, there appear on the water, as in a catoptric theatre, 
 various multiplied objects, — numberless series of pilasters, 
 arches, castles, well-delineated regular columns, lofty towers, 
 superb palaces, with balconies and windows, extended alleys 
 of trees, delightful plains, with herds and flocks, armies of 
 men on foot, and on horseback, and many other things, in 
 their natural colours and proper actions, passing rapidly in 
 succession along the surface of the sea, during the whole of 
 
 * A, in these words, sounds as in arm. t Pronounced, Raidjo. 
 
?9 
 
 the short period of time while the above-mentioned causes 
 remain. 
 
 All these figures, which are exhibited in the Fata Morga- 
 na, are proved by the accurate observations of the coast and 
 town of Reggio, by * Minasi, to be derived from the reflec- 
 tion of objects on shore. 
 
 If, in addition to the circumstances we before described, 
 the atmosphere be highly impregnated with vapour and dense 
 exhalations, not previously dispersed by the action of the 
 wind and waves, or rarefied by the sun, it then happens, that 
 in this vapour, as in a curtain extended along the channel to 
 the height of above forty palms, and nearly down to the sea, 
 the observer will behold the scene of the same objects not 
 only reflected from the surface of the sea, but likewise in the 
 air, though not so distinctly or well defined as the former 
 objects of the sea. Lastly, if the air be slightly hazy and 
 opaque, and at the same time dewy, and adapted to form the 
 iris, then the above-mentioned objects will appear only at the 
 surface of the sea, as in the first case ; but all vividly coloured 
 or fringed with red, green, blue, and other prismatic colours 
 
 EXERCISE XIX. 
 
 THE INSTRUCTIONS OF JESUS. Hannah Adams. 
 
 [An example of " serious and grave expression," in didactic style. 
 Didactic compositions require, usually, a very distinct enunciation, a 
 firm and regular style of utterance, rising, in dignity and expression, 
 above the character of mere conversation.] 
 
 Our Lord cautions his hearers against extreme anxiety 
 respecting their earthly subsistence, and gives a striking 
 exhortation to trust in the providential care of our heavenly 
 Father. It added a peculiar force, to our Saviour's words, 
 that they were delivered in view of the surrounding beauties 
 of nature. He could point to the fowls of the air, and the 
 flowers of the field, and show his auditors, that the whole 
 creation attested the truth of his instructions. " Behold the 
 fowls of the air : for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor 
 
 * Pronounced, Mcenaxee. 
 
80 YOUNG LADIES READER. 
 
 gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feedeth 
 them ; are ye not much better than they 1 " The ravens, in 
 particular, are mentioned in Luke's Gospel, and our Lord, in 
 directing his disciples to trust in God for their subsistence, 
 bids them consider the ravens. 
 
 It may appear to some surprising, that so abject a creature 
 should be so frequently recognized in Scripture, as an object 
 of care to the Maker and Preserver of all things. When the 
 Most High challenged Job out of the whirlwind, he demanded, 
 " Who provided for the raven his food 1 When his young ones 
 cry unto God, they wander for lack of meat." The Psalmist 
 uses it as an argument for praising God. " The Lord giveth 
 food to the young ravens which cry." 
 
 The ravens are sometimes driven rather prematurely from 
 their nest, before they are all able to subsist by their own in- 
 dustry. In this case, pinched with hunger, and abandoned by 
 their parents, they fill the air with their cries ; as it were com- 
 plaining to God concerning their destitute and helpless con- 
 dition. Nor do they cry in vain ; the almighty Benefactor 
 supplies all their wants. But the care of Providence is not 
 confined to the young. It extends also to their parents, (who 
 " neither sow nor reap, have neither storehouse nor barn,") 
 and provides food for them from His inexhaustible stores. 
 
 Even the meanness of the character of this bird, may serve 
 the more strongly, in a considerate mind, to excite and establish 
 a firm reliance on the wise and bountiful arrangements of 
 Providence. The argument of our Lord is exceedingly 
 strong and pointed. If the Almighty hear not in vain the 
 croaking of a young raven, he surely will not turn a deaf ear 
 to the supplications of his people. 
 
 Our divine Instructor again turns our attention to the 
 beauties of nature, to demonstrate the providential care of 
 our heavenly Father. " Consider," says he, " 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." " It is," says Sir J. E, 
 Smith, " natural to presume that our Saviour, according to 
 his usual custom, called the attention of his hearers to some 
 object at hand ; and as the fields of the Levant were overrun 
 with the amaryllis lutea, whose golden liliaceous flowers, in 
 autumn, afford one of the most brilliant and gorgeous objects 
 in nature, the expression of, 'Solomon, in all his glory, was 
 twt arrayed like one of these,' is peculiarly appropriate." 
 
 A description of probably the same species of flower, is 
 
READER. 81 
 
 given by Mr. Salt, in his Voyage to Abyssinia. "At a few 
 miles from Adowa," says he, " we discovered a new and 
 beautiful species of amaryllis, which bore from ten to twelve 
 spikes of bloom on each stem, springing from the common 
 receptacle. The general colour of the corolla was white ; and 
 every petal was marked with a single streak of bright purple 
 in the middle. The flower was sweet-scented ; and its smell, 
 though more powerful, resembled that of the lily of the valley." 
 Our Saviour's words, " Consider the lilies," &c. acquire 
 additional force and beauty, when we call to mind, that they 
 were suggested by the sight of the splendid species of lily 
 which abounds in Palestine. We may imagine our Lord, 
 when delivering his divine Sermon on the Mount, pointing to 
 those superb flowers, which decked the surrounding plain, 
 and deducing from their beauty lessons of contentment, and 
 reliance on the bounty of our heavenly Father. 
 
 EXERCISE XX. 
 
 EVENING HYMN OF MIRIAM, IN THE "FALL OF 
 JERUSALEM." Milman. 
 
 [This piece furnishes an example of the union of solemnity and sub- 
 limity. Its tone of utterance is " orotund " in the " effusive " form. 
 The reading requires a full-toned sioell of voice, and, at the same 
 time, the most delicate attention to the form of metre, so as to ren- 
 der it distinctly perceptible to the ear, and yet not to obtrude it, or 
 mark it mechanically. .] 
 
 For thou wert born of woman ! Thou didst come, 
 O Holiest ! to this world of sin and gloom, 
 Not in thy dread omnipotent array ; 
 And not by thunders strewed 
 Was thy tempestuous road ; 
 Nor indignation burned before thee- on thy way. 
 But thee, a soft and naked child, 
 
 Thy mother undefiled, 
 In the rude manger laid to rest 
 From off her virgin breast. 
 
 The heavens were not commanded to prepare 
 A gorgeous canopy of golden air ; 
 
82 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Nor stooped their lamps the enthroned fires on high: 
 A single silent star 
 Came wandering from afar, 
 Gliding unchecked and calm along the liquid sky; 
 The eastern sages leading on, 
 
 As at a kingly throne, 
 To lay their gold and odours sweet 
 Before thy infant feet. 
 
 The earth and ocean were not hushed to hear 
 Bright harmony from every starry sphere ; 
 Nor at thy presence brake the voice of song 
 From all the cherub quires, 
 And seraphs' burning lyres, 
 Poured through the host of heaven the charmed clouds along. 
 One angel troop the strain began, — 
 
 Of all the race of man 
 By simple shepherds heard alone 
 That soft hosanna's tone. 
 
 And when thou didst depart, no car of flame 
 To bear thee hence in lambent radiance came; 
 Nor visible angels mourned with drooping plumes : 
 Nor didst thou mount on high, 
 From fatal Calvary, 
 With all thine own redeemed outbursting from their tombs. 
 For thou didst bear away from earth 
 
 But one of human birth ; 
 The dying felon by thy side, to be 
 In paradise with thee. 
 
 Nor o'er thy cross the clouds of vengeance brake : 
 A little while the conscious earth did shake 
 At that foul deed by her fierce children done ; 
 A few dim hours of day 
 The world in darkness lay, 
 Then basked in bright repose, beneath the cloudless sun 
 While thou didst sleep beneath the tomb, 
 
 Consenting to thy doom ; 
 Ere yet the white-robed angel shone 
 Upon the sealed stone. 
 
 And when thou didst arise, thou didst not stand 
 With devastation in thy red right hand, 
 
S3 
 
 Plaguing the guilty city's murtherous crew ; 
 But thou didst haste to meet 
 Thy mother's coming feet, 
 And bear the words of peace unto the faithful few. 
 Then calmly, slowly, didst thou rise 
 
 Into thy native skies, 
 Thy human form dissolved on high 
 In its own radiancy. 
 
 EXERCISE XXI. 
 
 A HYMN OF THE SEA. Bryant. 
 
 [This example of blank verse requires attention to the full, slow, and 
 stately utterance, which is its appropriate characteristic. The style 
 of the piece, throughout* is that of sublimity, mingled with solemnity. 
 Deep notes, prolonged " quantity," and full " median stress," sus- 
 tained by perfectly distinct articulation, are the main elements of 
 expressive effect, in the reading of this piece. The "quality" is 
 "effusive orotund." 
 
 The sea is mighty ; but a Mightier sways 
 His restless billows. — Thou, whose hands have scooped 
 His boundless gulfs and built his shore, Thy breath, 
 That moved in the beffinnino- o'er his face, 
 Moves o'er it evermore. The obedient waves, 
 To its strong motion roll, and rise, and fall. 
 Still from that realm of rain Thy cloud goes up, 
 As at the first, to water the great earth, 
 And keep her valleys green. A hundred realms 
 Watch its broad shadow warping on the wind, 
 And, in the dropping shower, with gladness hear 
 Thy promise of the harvest. I look forth 
 Over the boundless blue, where, joyously, 
 The bright crests of innumerable waves 
 Glance to the sun, at once, as when the hands 
 Of a great multitude are upward flung 
 In acclamation. I behold the ships 
 Gliding from cape to cape, from isle to isle, 
 Or stemming toward far lands, or hastening home 
 From the old world. It is Thy friendly breeze 
 That bears them, with the riches of the land, 
 
84 
 
 And treasure of dear lives, till, in the port, 
 The shouting seaman climbs, and furls the sail. 
 
 But who shall bide Thy tempest, who shall face 
 The blast that wakes the fury of the sea ? 
 O God ! Thy justice makes the world turn pale, 
 When on the armed fleet, that royally 
 Bears down the surges, carrying war, to smite 
 Some city, or invade some thoughtless realm, 
 Descends the fierce tornado. The vast hulks 
 Are whirled like chaff upon the waves ; the sails 
 Fly, rent like waves of gossamer ; the masts 
 Are snapped asunder ; downward from the decks, 
 Downward are slung, into the fathomless gulf, 
 Their cruel engines ; and their hosts, arrayed 
 In trappings of the battle-field, are whelmed 
 By whirlpools, or dashed dead upon the rocks. 
 Then stand the nations still with awe, and pause, 
 A moment, from the bloody work of war. 
 
 These restless surges eat away the shores 
 Of earth's old continents ; the fertile plain 
 Welters in shallows ; headlands crumble down ; 
 And the tide drifts the sea-sand in the streets 
 Of the drowned city. Thou, meanwhile, afar 
 In the green chambers of the middle sea, 
 Where broadest spread the waters, and the line 
 Sinks deepest, — where no eye beholds thy work, — 
 Creator ! Thou dost teach the coral worm" 
 To lay his mighty reefs. From age to age, 
 He builds beneath the waters, till, at last, 
 The bulwarks overtop the brine, and check 
 The long wave rolling from the southern pole 
 To break upon Japan. Thou bidd'st the fires, 
 That smoulder under ocean, heave on high 
 The new-made mountains, and uplift their peaks, 
 A place of refuge for the storm-driven bird. 
 The birds and wafting willows plant the rifts 
 With herb and tree ; sweet fountains gush ; sweet airs 
 Ripple the living lakes, that, fringed with flowers, 
 Are gathered in the hollows. Thou dost look 
 On Thy creation, and pronounce it good. 
 Its valleys, glorious with their summer green, 
 Praise Thee, in silent beauty ; and its woods, 
 Swept by the murmuring winds of ocean, join 
 The murmuring shores in a perpetual hymn. 
 
85 
 
 EXERCISE XXII. 
 
 EVENING. Margaret Davidson. 
 
 [An example of perfect tranquillity and "pure tone? in its " subdued " 
 form. A soft, but clear and distinct utterance prevails, throughout 
 the reading. The "movement" is "slow;" and the pauses are 
 long.] 
 
 O'er the broad vault of heaven, so calmly bright, 
 Twilight has gently drawn her veil of gray, 
 And tinged with sombre hue the golden clouds, 
 Fast fading into nothing. 
 
 Fair empress of the sky ! while viewing thee, 
 A sweet and pensive calm o'erspreads my soul ; — 
 Unerring Memory hastens to my aid : 
 With her, I view again my own dear home, — 
 My native village, 'neath thy cloudless sky 
 Serenely sleeping : 
 
 Thy rays are dancing on the gentle river, 
 In one unbroken stream of molten silver, 
 And marking, in the glassy Saranac, 
 Thy graceful outline ; while the fairy isles 
 Which on its bosom rest, are slumbering 
 In thy light, and the fair branches, bending 
 O'er the wave, turn their green leaves above, 
 And bathe in one celestial flood of glory. 
 
 There, on its banks, I view the dear old home, 
 That ever loved and blooming theatre, 
 Where those I most revered have borne their parts, 
 Amid its changing scenes. Before the threshold 
 Tower the lofty trees ; and each high branch 
 Is gently rocking in the summer breeze, 
 And sending forth a low, sweet murmur, 
 Like the soft breathings of a seraph's harp. 
 Around its humble porch entwines the vine ; 
 While the sweetbrier and the blushing rose 
 Now hang their heads in slumber, and the grass 
 And fragrant clover scent the loaded air. 
 O my loved home ! how gladly would I rove 
 Amid thy soft retreats, and from decay 
 Protect thy mouldering mansion, tend thy flowers, 
 Prune the wild boughs, and there in solitude 
 8 
 
86 
 
 Listless remain, unknowing and unknown ! — 
 
 Oh ! no, not quite alone, for memory, 
 
 And hope, and fond delight, shall mingle there 
 
 EXERCISE XXIII. 
 
 THE RHINE. Anon. 
 
 [The following extract is an example of lively and beautiful descrip- 
 tion : it requires the " animated " utterance of " pure tone" in its 
 moderate force. The " movement " is varied with the character of 
 the scene, — slow, where it is majestic, — rapid, where it is abrupt] 
 
 My second day upon the Rhine was more interesting than 
 my first. The scenery was wilder ; the castles were gloom- 
 ier. The rush of water was more rapid, and in a narrower 
 bed, through narrower defiles. 
 
 An excellent road runs all along the banks of the river, at 
 the foot of the mountains. The Englishman's coach was often 
 seen upon it. The bugle of the Prussian postilion would 
 sound now and then, and echo from hill to hill. Here and 
 there was a cross, with some woman kneeling at its foot. 
 The church bell would strike at times; the drum of the 
 soldier was often rolled. Here, a chateau ; there, the thickly 
 clustering vineyards. Here, peeping over the cliffs on the 
 plains above, the rich golden harvests waving in the breeze ; 
 — and there, the hills feathered with little trees. Now the 
 Rhine would branch off into the broad lake in quiet beauty, 
 and, pent up among the mountains, hiding its ingress and 
 egress too, quite deceive you ; — and anon it would foam, and 
 fret, and chafe, in anger as it were, that it was passing in 
 such a wild defile. 
 
 Glorious river ! — glorious in fact, and in fancy, too. Of 
 all the things around, thou art alone unchanged. Castle has 
 fallen ; nations have thrown their flags upon thy cliffs ; war 
 has often vexed thy bosom ; — but thou art the same as ever, 
 in perpetual youth and beauty; and one dees not marvel why 
 feudal lord and fiery chief should seek thy sweet repose. 
 
 All now is ruins, ruins, on the peak of almost every lofty 
 cliff, — prettier, lighter, more classic, than the Gothic ruins 
 of English castles. What dens for robbery on the far-reach- 
 ing Rhine, its petty lords threw up ! What, a state of society, 
 
87 
 
 too, that must have been, when man was only safe within thick 
 wall and moated ditch ! These petty castles ever put me in 
 mind of the Indian warfare, and the little block-houses to 
 which our fathers rushed for safety from the tomahawk. 
 Barbarian man here was but little better than the savage. If 
 it had not been for Christianity, with its voice of peace, to 
 soften the ferocity of the times, would man have ever ad- 
 vanced, and would the college and the scholar have ever 
 divided sway with the axe and blunderbuss 1 
 
 The ancient fort of * Rheinfelz is now in view. The best 
 comment I can make upon -it, is — none at all ; for silence 
 often speaks what words cannot. Wilder and wilder the 
 country is. An enormous rock, called Lurleyberg, is on our 
 left. A curious echo is here. Some workmen on the road 
 blew a blast on the bugle to astonish us. Our captain fired 
 off a small piece of cannon; the boatmen of the Rhine here 
 crying, " Lureley," " Lureley ! " invoking the water-spirit that 
 has dominion here; — and "Lureley" responds from her 
 rocky mouths. 
 
 I love these little superstitions. They make us think of 
 others than ourselves. They show that we are not all of 
 earth. 
 
 And yet wilder and wilder the scenery is. The early 
 messengers of Heaven made tieir first lodgments here among 
 these rocks, and spread Christianity among the fishermen of 
 the Rhine. 
 
 The Rhine narrows, and the whirlpools form. Our steamer 
 staggered in the current. The boatmen ran their rafts 
 through this wild pass in safety, by attaching a large trunk 
 of a tree to the left side of one ; which trunk is loosened 
 when the whirlpool is approached, so as to be only connected 
 with the prow. The whirlpool swallows this up ; and thus the 
 raft is attracted to the left bank, and kept in the proper 
 stream. The river here opens into a lake enclosed in rocks. 
 Oberwessel is in sight, with its Gothic church and chapel. 
 
 The castle of f Pfalz is situated in the centre of the river. 
 Pfalz was probably built on this island as a toll-house of the 
 Rhine, to stop the boats that would not pay the tolls. It is 
 a queer place, — with a curious staircase to the door of the 
 castle, which is high up, — to be free from the river floods. 
 Here J Blucher crossed the Rhine, when on his way to make 
 an end, at Waterloo, of the robber of a world. 
 
 * Rinefailts \ Pfdlts, — a, as in arm. X Blooher, — k guttural. 
 
88 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Just as I began to be weary of being pent up among the 
 hills, with only vineyards on the rocks in my eye, and I 
 might say I had seen enough of castles, as we passed a clus- 
 ter of them at * Asmannhausen, and as six horses took our 
 steamer in tow over a ridge of rocks which cross the river at 
 the f Bingerloch, — the open, broad-spread vale of the $ Rhein- 
 gau, was in sight, stretching as far onward as I could see, 
 — towns and chateaux on the right and left, — vineyards as 
 famous as any in the world, — and the rich mellow cornfields, 
 now thoroughly ripened by the long summer sun. 
 
 The Rhine seems to have been formed for the purpose of 
 charming the eye, in exhibiting delightful contrasts. As you 
 begin your voyage towards its source, all is dull ; and your 
 expectations are sadly damped. All at once, comes the 
 Drachenfelz, and ruin and ragged cliff. Then the wild 
 passes of which I have written, with their whirlpools and 
 wilderness of rocks ; and then, as you have had enough of 
 this, the Rheingau opens with the panorama of every thing 
 you have seen before, specimens of each, all grouped for one 
 glance of the eye. Wealth, taste, power, rank, in all times 
 have sought a home within the Rheingau, or near about it 
 
 EXERCISE XXIV. 
 
 T. C. Grattan. 
 
 [The following narrative is designed as an exercise in vivid and varied 
 " expression." It commences with the tones of repose and tranquil- 
 lity, proceeds to those of awe, fear, and intense agitation. The 
 force varies from "subdued" " pure tone" to "shouting" — the 
 "pitch," from "middle" or "high" to "ve?y loiv," — the "move- 
 ment" from " slow " to " rapid : " the " stress " shifts from " median '' 
 to " radical " and " vanishing." The latter part of the piece demands 
 the most powerful effect of every " expressive " element of voice.] 
 
 It is a pleasant arrangement among the peasantry of all 
 countries, that the " daily bread " for which the fathers work 
 so hard, is brought to them by cne of their children. This 
 may appear a small matter ; but time and circumstances 
 
 * Asmanhousen. t ng, as in singer ; ch, as a guttural h. t Rinegow. 
 
89 
 
 often give great importance to small matters. The precision 
 with which the German labourers rest from their toil, at ten 
 o'clock in the morning, would of itself make one attach an 
 exclusive value to that chosen hour. The thought that so 
 many thousands of rural workmen are at that given moment 
 reposing on the broad lap of nature, picturesquely served by 
 their sons or daughters, and taking their simple refreshment, 
 with wholesome appetites and thankful hearts, is a pleasant 
 thought. It is pleasanter still to look closely on some group 
 in your field or your garden, so employed ; and the prepara- 
 tory hand-washing in the nearest fountain or stream, might 
 prepare you to expect a ceremony more elaborate than that 
 of sitting down to eat a section of dry brown bread, — poeti- 
 cally called black; — for the national motto of Germany, — 
 "Black-bread and Freedom," — is as much an exaggeration 
 of fancy with regard to the food as to the freedom. 
 
 This is the morning lunch of Germany; and the afternoon 
 lunch is at four o'clock, — a connecting link between dinner 
 and supper. Now happy is the man whose wife can afford to 
 send him a jug of coffee, at these middle meals ; and happy 
 was * Johan Reisacher. Not that he had a wife, at the time 
 I knew him, but just a maiden sister, who made his bed, his 
 soup, and his coffee, with due attention and regularity. He 
 had, however, a daughter, — the child of his old age, the 
 consolation of the widower, his every-day companion out of 
 school-hours, the knitter and mender of his stockings, and 
 the Hebe of his afternoon repast. 
 
 Susannah Reisacher was one of those hardy, straight-for- 
 ward, strong-built, and sober-minded children that we meet 
 with now and then; and, at the first glance, we assure our- 
 selves that, be their condition what it may, they will inevitably 
 make the best of it, and thrive progressively through life, 
 without any other distinction than that of always doing their 
 duty. Susannah fully bore out the promise of her counte- 
 nance. She was one of the most diligent and orderly scholars 
 of Sasbach school, the most attentive to the duties of house- 
 hold affairs, and steady, beyond comparison, in those she 
 owed to her old father and her elderly aunt. She was twelve 
 years old, when she first attracted my notice ; and her father 
 had been ferryman of Sasbach, in the district or parish of 
 Breisach, for more than double that number of years. And it 
 must be confessed that old Reisacher had the appearance of 
 
 * Pronounced, Yohdn Risacher y — ch sounding like a very harsh h. 
 
 8* 
 
1)0 
 
 one who had been blown about by the east winds of life. He 
 looked more worn than his thread-bare gray jacket; and yet. 
 there was an air of precaution and economy about him, that 
 promised an unusual length of days, both to himself and to 
 his wardrobe. He was the oracle of his village, and a re- 
 markable man in his way. He could ascertain when a dog 
 or a cow had been looked at by an evil eye, and, if invoked, 
 would counteract this spell, by burning certain withered leaves 
 at midnight, in presence of the afflicted quadruped. He 
 could, moreover, stop the gaping mouths ■ of insignificant 
 wounds by the mysterious utterance of two or three sentences, 
 (which no one ever heard;) and these, (when assisted by 
 cobwebs, or certain chewed leaves,) have been known to 
 produce miraculous results. 
 
 But I must not trust myself with the precise detail of his 
 many superfluous accomplishments. Let those already men- 
 tioned suffice ; and let him stand out in my picture as a part 
 and parcel of a group in which he does not form the principal 
 figure, — an adjunct of that deep-rolling river on which my 
 scene is laid, in which he enthusiastically gloried, from a con- 
 viction that he somehow, — he knew not how, — belonged to 
 it, or it to him. . He often used to say, as he looked on it in its 
 angry moods, that it was "horribly beautiful;" and such it 
 certainly was on the day that forms the epoch of my sketch. 
 
 It was, within a few minutes more or less, just four o'clock, 
 on the 15th of September, 1831, when I resolved to cross by 
 the Sasbach ferry, and resume my evening walk on the 
 other side of the river ; for the midday meal had been long 
 over, and like all eaten bread, soon forgotten. But, on ap- 
 proaching the well-known boat, I paused to observe the 
 innocent appropriation of the hour, on the part of my old 
 acquaintance and his young attendant. There stood Susan- 
 nah in the middle of the boat, — her feet and legs uncon- 
 scious of shoes and stockings ; and there sat old Johan, at 
 one end of it, indulging in all the garrulous greetings com- 
 mon to the proprietors of wrinkles and gray hairs. The 
 coffee-jug, which he at times applied to his lips, seemed to 
 liquidize his imagination ; and from his smiles and gestures, 
 I could fancy him in a diluted state of feeling altogether 
 amiable. The black bread remained beside him for graver 
 discussion. But, just at this moment, I was unfortunately 
 perceived, and the meal came to an untimely end. 
 
 With all the ready bustle of one who wisely and habitually 
 considers his business as of more importance than his ease, 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 91 
 
 friend Reisacher rose from his seat, laid his hand on the 
 oar, declared himself ready, with his usual obstinate activity; 
 and, on my stepping into the boat, he proceeded to make his 
 angular transit, first against the current, and then with it, 
 with geometrical precision ; and, in five minutes, we were at 
 the opposite side of the river, which moved on in a sullen 
 swell, reflecting the dark and heavy autumn clouds that rolled 
 slowly above. During those five minutes, I had succeeded in 
 tempting the venerable connoisseur to accompany me to a 
 village not quite half a league from the ferry, for the purpose 
 of looking at a wood-ranger's horse, which, making liberal 
 allowance for the errors of its education, and its potato diet, 
 was very much the sort of an animal that I had a mind to 
 purchase. 
 
 To ask the opinion of Johan Reisacher, on such a matter, 
 was to bind him to you forever. 
 
 " Susannah, child," said the old man, " keep the boat here, 
 and wait for me. I shall be back in three little half-hours. 
 Let no one persuade you to cross ; for the wind is rising, and 
 the current is very strong ; and the weather seems upon the 
 change : I feel that we shall have a squally evening. But I 
 shall be with you in time to take you home, and excuse you 
 from your good aunt Lena's scolding for staying out so long." 
 And so saying, he drew up, coiled the rope round a tree hard 
 by ; and away we went, the weather-seer carefully avoiding 
 to look up at the sky, (which could have told any fool that 
 bad weather was coming,) lest his atmospheric sagacity 
 might appear less profound than he meant me to believe it. 
 
 Susannah took out her blue worsted stocking, and multi- 
 plied its parallelograms, comfortably indifferent to the cold 
 gusts that swept across the valley. 
 
 But after a time, the heavy cloud which old Reisacher 
 preferred not seeing, and the chilling wind which his daugh- 
 ter seemed determined not to feel, began to burst and hiss ; 
 and a sudden stop was put to one of my companion's vainglo- 
 rious panegyrics on his own infallibility of judgment in mat- 
 ters of horse-flesh, by a loud crash of thunder. 
 
 " There will be a storm," said I. 
 
 " Ay, indeed there will ; but I scarcely thought it would 
 be so bad as what is coming," replied Johan, thoughtfully, 
 and staring full in the face of the lowering sky. " Yet the 
 child need not get wet for all that, unless she likes it ; for is 
 not there the old tarpauling and the oars, whereof she may 
 make a covering? " 
 
92 
 
 I saw clearly that old Reisacher was appealing to himself, 
 rather than to me ; so I waited until his inclination prompted 
 him to step out faster on our way to the wood-ranger's house, 
 which we at last reached, as nearly wet through as it was 
 possible to be. The wood-ranger was at home, but the horse 
 was not ; and the storm increased, and so, at last, did the 
 father's anxiety about his only child. 
 
 * " I must go back," said he, gazing from the eminence we 
 stood on, back towards the Rhine ; " Susannah will be fright- 
 ened. Pray look at the river, sir ; I never saw it more furi- 
 ous, and never so suddenly aroused." 
 
 " It is a fine sight to look at, from this safe distance," said 
 I; "but it has few charms for the poor fellows in that boat, 
 that is tossed about so roughly." 
 
 " 'Tis true, sir ; I doubt if it be not in great danger," ob- 
 served Johan, eying keenly the wave-buffeted little craft to 
 which I called his attention. It was heavily laden with a 
 large freight of firewood, so heavily that even in the smooth- 
 est weather, the gunwale would have touched the water's 
 edge. It was in the middle of the river, endeavouring to 
 force its way up against the stream, by the aid of a square 
 and tattered-looking sail ; but every effort of the men who 
 managed it was baffled by the extreme violence of the waves, 
 which we could plainly see washing clean over it from stem 
 to stern. 
 
 " I'll just wish you good evening, sir, and hurry on to the 
 ferry : and I hope the boat may have succeeded in passing it 
 before I arrive ; for that ledge of rock, just above the station, 
 is hard to steer past in such a dreadful squall," said my com- 
 panion, with benevolent anxiety. But I was not disposed 
 to part with him thus. The danger to which the unhappy 
 boatmen were exposed, was attraction sufficient to lead me 
 closer to the scene; and old Johan and I proceeded rapidly 
 together on our way back, hurried silently forward by the 
 force of mere excitement, and never losing sight of the 
 struggling vessel, which, though it made scarcely any way, 
 was nevertheless gaining on us, as we approached the ferry 
 in a now nearly parallel line with the river. 
 
 Every moment that led us nearer, showed us the increas- 
 ing peril of the frail craft ; and I thought I could distinguish 
 at times a despairing cry for aid, from the two men who were 
 
 * If the arangement of lessons in a school, should not allow time 
 to read the whole of this piece, at once, it may be divided here. 
 
imperfectly managing her, and whose gestures, as she was 
 heavily tossed to and fro by the angry swell, spoke a plain 
 story of terrified helplessness. — A hollow in the road made 
 us lose sight of her, for a few minutes ; and as we as- 
 cended again, in breathless impatience, we caught a new 
 view, which confirmed our worst forebodings. The boat, 
 either from the rudder being unshipped, or the man at the 
 helm being washed down by a wave, had turned completely 
 round, and was swept across to almost the other side of the 
 river, by the strong side wind, and the violent eddy. Every 
 wave threatened to swamp it altogether ; and it was drifting fast 
 into the ledge of rocks alluded to by Reisacher, and over 
 which there was now a foam of breakers scarcely to be be- 
 lieved by any one who has not seen the Rhine in one of its 
 angriest moods. We were now within a few hundred yards 
 of the ferry. 
 
 The cries for help were less frequent ; for there was, to all 
 appearance, no help at hand. — Four or five peasants, men 
 and women, stood at different points on the banks, throwing 
 up their hands, and screaming unavailing advice or consola- 
 tion to the poor boatmen ; and, now and then, the dismal echo 
 of their shouts was felt rather than heard, as I and my old 
 companion ran along the slippery road. 
 
 In a few minutes more, the boat drifted into an eddy most 
 particularly dreaded by the old ferryman. 
 
 "It's all over with her now; and there she goes, sure 
 enough ! " exclaimed Reisacher, as a powerful wave caught 
 the boat under the side, and turned it keel upwards. 
 
 " They must be lost before we can reach the river," added 
 he, catching at the railing by the roadside, overcome by agita- 
 tion and exertion, while I stopped to recover my breath, and 
 stared down into the river from the precipitate bank. The 
 rain now swept in sheets up the stream, and almost hid every 
 object upon it ; but I fancied I distinguished, like a phantom 
 boat in the mist, old Johan's little skiff, striving to plunge 
 through the waves, and rocked like a cradle by the opposing 
 influence of wind and tide. 
 
 ' k No, it cannot be ! Yet — yes, it is, it is Susannah, striv- 
 ing to steer towards the wreck ! " exclaimed I, involuntarily. 
 The old man's eyes, dim from age, but their vision quick- 
 ened by affection, were fixed, like mine, in straining scrutiny; 
 and when his gaze was sure of its object, he cried out in a 
 tone of bitterest anguish, — - 
 
 " Oh ! my child ! my Susannah ! — It is she, — it is the boat. 
 
94 
 
 She will perish. Oh ! save her ! save her ! great God ! " And, 
 with incredible speed, he darted away from our resting-place. 
 I soon overtook him, and supported him on my arm, as he 
 tottered, panting and exhausted, to the tree against which his 
 little skiff had been erewhile coiled. We now saw it within 
 fifty yards of us, on the boiling surf, and the heroic child, — 
 her young heart buoyant with pity's life-blood, — working her 
 helm-like oar with all her strength, and looking pale and 
 stern at the rain and the waves, which drenched her through 
 and through, — at the furious wind, which had loosened her 
 long hair, and sent it streaming around her, — and at the 
 broad lightning, which gave, at intervals, a supernatural hue 
 to her whole person. She was, in a minute or two more, in 
 the power of the formidable current, in which the half- 
 drowned men now clung to their boat; and she was in 
 nearly as much danger as they were. It was a moment of 
 actual distraction for her father, and of indescribable awe to 
 me. I never shall forget the sensation of that fearful inter- 
 val of suspense. 
 
 The gray-headed old man now gasped convulsively ; and, 
 wildly stretching forth his arms, he flung himself on the earth, 
 as if to shut out the scene of almost inevitable death. The 
 despairing men were, with hoarse, faint voices, hailing and 
 cheering on the intrepid girl, and giving what snatches of in- 
 struction they could utter, as to the means of approaching 
 them. But, alas ! the utmost strength of a child, fortified, 
 as it must have been, by a powerful feeling of religious confi- 
 dence and a noble courage, was insufficient for so severe a 
 struggle ; and I had the deep anguish of seeing the wreck, 
 and the forlorn brothers who hung upon it with a fierce yet 
 enfeebled grasp, sweep by, within a dozen yards of the ferry- 
 boat. 
 
 At this moment old Reisacher started up, and he would 
 have plunged into the merciless river, had I not forcibly held 
 him back ; but, screaming louder than the storm, his voice 
 now reached Susannah ; and it seemed at once to paralyze all 
 her power and skill. She cast her looks by turns on the 
 wretched objects she would have saved, and on the half- 
 maddened parent who seemed rushing in a frantic effort to 
 assist her. 
 
 At this crisis, Martin * Buckholz, one of the brothers, per- 
 "oJvinp- that their combined hope of safety depended entirely 
 
 * Pronounced, Bookholts. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 95 
 
 on the possibility of his gaining the ferry-boat, — for his com- 
 panion could not swim, — resolved to trust himself, inexpert, 
 exhausted, and encumbered as he was, to the chances of the 
 torrent. He slipped down into the water, struck out his new- 
 nerved arms, to buffet every wave ; and rolling and plunging 
 with the fierce energy of despair, he, little by little, ap- 
 proached the skiff. Susannah regained her presence of mind; 
 and she laboured at her oar with renewed strength and re- 
 doubled efforts. She soon met the bold swimmer : he grasped 
 the prow, — heaved himself up the side, — caught the oar 
 from his preserver's hands, — and though now a considerable 
 distance from the heavy-rolling wreck, he came up with it 
 just as his brother was fainting from exhaustion and terror, 
 and lifted him safely into the skiff. 
 
 And how to describe old Reisacher's delight, quick follow- 
 ing his despair, as he saw the ferry-boat bounding trium- 
 phantly across the waves, with its miraculously-rescued 
 freight ! — the tears, the blessings, the thanksgivings, — the 
 love, the pride, the gratitude, — all fell down in plenteous 
 showers upon the head of his child, or rose up to Heaven in 
 fervent but silent thought. 
 
 Susannah, — calm, modest, and apparently unconscious in 
 the midst of all our united praise and admiration, — was 
 destined to the conviction that she had done a virtuous and 
 heroic action without knowing, at the time, its uncommon 
 merit. 
 
 The Grand Duke of Baden, on hearing the circumstance, 
 was pleased to bestow a gratuity of two hundred florins on 
 our little heroine, together with a medal, as a special mark of 
 distinction, bearing the inscription, " She trusted in God." 
 She was, when I last saw her, a year after the adventure, receiv- 
 ing the full benefit of an excellent education ; for some volun- 
 tary subscriptions procured her many additional advantages ; 
 and she walked at the head of her village schoolfellows, in their 
 daily promenades, with a step as composed, and a look as 
 unassuming, as before the event which has given her name 
 its local immortality. 
 
 Since the year 1831, my friend Reisacher has lost his old 
 sister, and given up the ferry. But the gratitude of Martin 
 and George Buckholz does not allow him to want the com- 
 forts of a house in his old age ; and I should not be at all 
 surprised to hear at any day, — for Susannah is now seven- 
 teen, — that the gratitude of Martin, who is still unmarried, 
 
96 
 
 was about to give a still more permanent expression of his 
 attachment to the younger remaining member of the female 
 branch of the Reisacher family. 
 
 EXERCISE XXV. 
 
 STANZAS. K. H. Wilde. 
 
 [An example ofpatkos, requiring the " subdued " force of " pure tone" 
 "semitonic" "slides" and "minor" cadences, throughout. The 
 " movement " is " slow" — the " stress" prolonged and gentle " me- 
 dian."] 
 
 My life is like the summer rose 
 
 That opens to the morning sky, 
 But ere the shades of evening close, 
 
 Is scattered on the ground — to die ! 
 Yet on the rose's humble bed 
 The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
 As if she wept the waste to see ; — 
 But none shall weep a tear for me ! 
 
 My life is like the autumn leaf 
 
 That trembles in the moon's pale ray ; 
 Its hold is frail, — its date is brief, — 
 Restless, — and soon to pass away ! 
 Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, 
 The parent tree will mourn its shade, 
 The winds bewail the leafless tree ; — 
 But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 
 
 My life is like the prints which feet 
 
 Have left on Tampa's desert strand : 
 Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 
 
 All trace will vanish from the sand ; 
 Yet, as if grieving to efface 
 All vestige of the human race, 
 On that lone shore loud moans the sea ; — 
 But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 
 
 
READER. 97 
 
 EXERCISE XXVI. 
 
 THE CHILD ANGEL. A DREAM. Charles Lamb. 
 
 [The gentle tone of tranquillity and poetic beauty, of tenderness and 
 admiration, prevail throughout this piece. The "movement" is 
 moderately slow, — the "stress" a very delicate "median." "Pure" 
 " oral " tone characterizes the " quality " of voice.] 
 
 I chanced upon the prettiest, oddest, fantastical thing of a 
 dream, the other night, that you shall hear of. — I had been 
 reading the " Loves of the Angels," and went to bed with my 
 head full of speculations, suggested by that extraordinary le- 
 gend. It had given birth to innumerable conjectures ; and, I 
 remember, the last waking thought which I gave expression 
 to, on my pillow, was a sort of wonder, ** what would come 
 of it ! " 
 
 I was suddenly transported, how or whither I could scarce- 
 ly make out, — but to some celestial region. It was not the 
 real heavens neither, — but a kind of fairy-land heaven, about 
 which a poor human fancy may have leave to sport and air 
 Itself, I will hope, without presumption. 
 
 Methought — what wild things dreams are] — I was pres- 
 ent, — at what would you imagine 1 — at an angel's " gos- 
 sipping! " 
 
 Whence it came, or how it came, or who bid it come, or 
 whether it came purely out of its own head, neither you nor 
 I know ; — but there' lay, sure enough, wrapped in its little 
 cloudy swaddling-bands, — a child angel. 
 
 Sun-threads, — filmy beams, — ran through the celestial 
 -napery of what seemed its princely cradle. All the Avinged 
 •orders hovered round, watching when the new-born should 
 ■open its yet closed eyes; which, when it did, first one, and 
 then the other, — with a solicitude and apprehension, yet not 
 such as, stained with fear, dim the expanding eyelids of mor- 
 tal infants, but as if to explore its path, in those its unhered- 
 itary palaces, — what an inextinguishable titter, that time, 
 spared not celestial visages ! Nor wanted there to my seem- 
 ing, — oh! the inexplicable simpleness of dreams! — bowls 
 of that cheering nectar, 
 
 ■" Which mortals caudle call below." 
 
 Nor were wanting faces of female ministrants, — stricken in 
 
years, as it might seem, — so dexterous were those heavenly 
 attendants to counterfeit kindly similitudes of earth, to greet 
 with terrestrial child-rites the young present which earth had 
 made to heaven. 
 
 Then were celestial harpings heard, not in full symphony, 
 as those by which the spheres are tutored, but, as loudest 
 instruments on earth speak oftentimes, muffled ; so to accom- 
 modate their sound the better to the weak ears of the imper- 
 fect-born. And, with the noise of those subdued soundings, 
 the angelet sprang forth, fluttering its rudiment of pinions, — 
 but forthwith flagged, and was recovered into the arms of 
 those full-winged angels. And a wonder it was to see how, 
 as years went round in heaven, — a year in dreams is as a day, 
 
 — continually its white shoulders put forth buds of wings ; but, 
 
 — wanting the perfect angelic nutriment, — anon it was shorn 
 of its aspiring, and fell fluttering, — still caught by angel 
 hands, — forever to put forth shoots, and to fall fluttering, be- 
 cause its birth was not of the unmixed vigor of heaven. 
 
 And a name was given to the babe angel, and it was to be 
 called Ge- Urania, because its production was of earth and 
 heaven. 
 
 And it could not taste of death, by reason of its adoption 
 into immortal palaces : but it was to know weakness and re- 
 liance, and the shadow of human imbecility ; and it went with 
 a lame gait ; but in its goings it exceeded all mortal children 
 in grace and swiftness. Then pity first sprang up in angelic 
 bosoms j and yearnings, (like the human,) touched them, at 
 the sight of the immortal lame one. 
 
 And with pain did then first those intuitive essences, — 
 with pain and strife to their natures, (not grief,) put back 
 their bright intelligences, and reduce their ethereal minds, 
 schooling them to degrees and slower processes, so to adapt 
 their lessons to the gradual illumination, (as must needs be,) 
 ©f the half-earth-born ; and what intuitive notices they could 
 not repel, (by reason that their nature is, to know all things 
 at once,) the half-heavenly novice, by the better part of its 
 nature, aspired to receive into its understanding ; so that hu- 
 mility and aspiration went on even-paced, in the instruction 
 of the glorious amphibium. 
 
 But, by reason that mature humanity is too gross to breathe 
 the air of that super-subtile region, its portion was, and is, to 
 be a child forever. 
 
 And because the human part of it might not press into the 
 heart and inwards of the palace of its adoption, those full- 
 
99 
 
 matured angels tended it by turns, in the purlieus of the pal- 
 ace, where were shady groves and rivulets, like this green 
 earth from which it came. So Love, with voluntary humility, 
 waited upon the entertainment of the new-adopted. 
 
 And myriads of years rolled round, — in dreams time is 
 nothing, — and still it kept, and is to keep, perpetual child- 
 hood, and is the tutelar genius of childhood upon earth, and 
 still goes lame and lovely. , 
 
 By the banks of the river Pison is seen, lone-sitting by the 
 grave of the terrestrial Adah, whom the angel Nadir loved, a 
 child ; but not the same which I saw in heaven. A mourn- 
 ful hue overcast its lineaments ; nevertheless, a correspond- 
 ence is between the child by the grave and that celestial 
 orphan whom I saw above ; and the dimness of the grief up- 
 on the heavenly, is a shadow or emblem of that which stains 
 the beauty of the terrestrial. And this correspondence is not 
 to be understood but by dreams. 
 
 And in the archives of heaven I had grace to read, how 
 that once the angel Nadir, being exiled from his place for 
 mortal passion, upspringing on the wings of parental love, — 
 such power had parental love, for a moment to suspend the 
 else irrevocable law, — appeared, for a brief instant, in his 
 station ; and, depositing a wondrous birth, straightway disap- 
 peared ; and the palaces knew him no more. And this charge 
 was the self-same babe, who goeth lame and loyely; — but 
 Adah sleepeth by the river Pison. 
 
 EXERCISE XXVII. 
 CHARACTER OF LUCRETIA DAVIDSON. Miss Sedgwick. 
 
 [An example of " serious " style, requiring the " moderate " force of 
 "pure tone," — "pitch" moderately " low" — " movement" deliberate. 
 The style of enunciation should be gentle, but perfectly clear and 
 distinct] 
 
 We copy the subjoined paragraph from the biographical 
 sketch of Lucretia, prefixed to her poem, " Amir Khan." 
 " Her poetical writings, which have been collected, amount 
 in all to two hundred and seventy-eight pieces of various 
 lengths. When it is considered that there are among these 
 
100 YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 
 
 at least five regular poems, of several cantos each,, some esti- 
 mate may be formed of her poetical labors. Besides these 
 were twenty-four school exercises, three unfinished romances,, 
 a complete tragedy, written at thirteen years of age, and 
 about forty letters, in a few months,, to her mother alone." 
 This statement does not comprise the large proportion, — at 
 least one third of the whole, — which she destroyed. 
 
 The genius of Lucretia Davidson has had the meed of far 
 more authoritative praise than ours. The following tribute 
 is from the " London Quarterly Review," — a source whence 
 praise of American productions is as rare as springs in the 
 desert. The notice is by Mr. Southey, and is written with 
 the earnest feeling that characterizes that author, as generous as 
 he is discriminating. " In these poems/' (" Amir Khan," &c.) 
 " there is enough of originality, enough of aspiration, enough 
 of conscious energy,, enough of growing power, to warrant 
 any expectations, however sanguine, which the patrons, and 
 the friends and parents, of the deceased, could have formed." 
 
 But, prodigious as the genius of this young creature was,, 
 still marvellous, — after all the abatements that may be made 
 for precociousness and morbid development, — there is some- 
 thing yet more captivating in her moral loveliness. Her mod- 
 esty was not the infusion of another mind, not the result of 
 cultivation, not the effect of good taste; nor was it a veil 
 cautiously assumed and gracefully worn ; but an innate qual- 
 ity, that made her shrink from incense, even though the cen- 
 ser were sanctified by love. Her mind was like the exquisite 
 mirror, that cannot be stained by human breath. 
 
 Few may have been gifted with her genius, but all cans 
 imitate her virtues. There is a universality in the holy sense 
 of duty, that regulated her life. Few young ladies will be 
 called on to renounce the muses for domestic duties; but 
 many may imitate Lucretia Davidson's meek self-sacrifice,, by 
 relinquishing some favourite pursuit, some darling object, for 
 the sake of an humble and unpraised duty ; and, if few can 
 attain her excellence, all may imitate her in gentleness, hu- 
 mility, industry, and fidelity to her domestic affections. We 
 may apply to her the beautiful lines, in which she describes 
 one of those 
 
 " forms, that,, wore in fancy's loom, 
 
 Float in light visions round the poet's head'. 
 
 "■ She was a being formed to love and bless„ 
 With lavish nature's richest Loveliness j 
 
¥OUNG LADIES' READER. iOi 
 
 Such I have offen seen in fancy's eye, 
 Beings too bright for dull mortality. 
 I've seen them in the visions of the night, 
 I've faintly seen them, when enough of light 
 And dim distinctness, gave them to my gaze, 
 As forms of other worlds, or brighter days," 
 
 EXERCISE XXVIIL 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. Lueretia Davidson. 
 
 [This extract exemplifies the emotions of pathos and tenderness, ex- 
 pressed in the "subdued" form of "pure tone" The "force" of 
 utterance, in the reading of the following lines, is gentle, — the 
 "pitch" high, — the "movement" slow. "Median stress," with a 
 prolonged and delicate swell, prevails throughout] 
 
 O thou whose care sustained my infant years, 
 And taught my prattling lip each note of love; 
 
 Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears, 
 And round my brow hope's brightest garland wove; — 
 
 To thee my lay is due, — the simple song, 
 Which Nature gave me at life's opening day; 
 
 To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong, 
 Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay. 
 
 Ob ! say, amid this wilderness of life, 
 
 What bosom would have throbbed, like thine, for me? 
 Who would have smiled responsive 1 — who, in grief, 
 
 Would e'er have felt, and, feeling, grieved like thee? 
 
 Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye, 
 Each trembling footstep, or each sport of fear? 
 
 Who would have marked my bosom bounding high, 
 And clasped me to her heart, with love's bright tear? 
 
 Who would have hung around my sleepless couch, 
 And fanned, with anxious hand, my burning brow? 
 
 Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip, 
 In all the agony of love and woe ? 
 9* 
 
102 YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 
 
 None bait a mother, — none but one like tnee r 
 Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watery 
 
 Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery, 
 Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch. 
 
 Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life,. 
 By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom, — 
 
 Yes, thou hast wept so oft o'er every grief, 
 
 That woe hath traced thy brow with marks of gloonx 
 
 Oh! then, to thee, this rude ami simple song ? 
 
 Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee,, 
 To thee, my mother,, shall this lay belong, 
 
 Whose life is spent in toil and care for ra«. 
 
 EXERCISE XXIX. 
 THE PLANET JUPITER. Anon. 
 
 \Descriptive style, of serious' and sublime character, as in the following 
 passage, requires a firm and distinct utterance, "grave" tone, slow 
 " movement," and long pauses. The closing part is in " orotund 
 quality," owing to the increased force and depth of feeling.'] 
 
 Jupiter is the largest of all the planets of our system ;: it 
 surpasses the Earth in superficies more than 1*20 times. This; 
 immense body revolves about its axis in the short period of 
 not quite ten hours ; and this rapid rotation, common to the 
 three greater planets, Jupiter, Saturn, and U'ranus, seems to 
 be one of the means by which nature calls forth in their at- 
 mospheres, processes conducive to the generation of light 
 and heat by the solar rays, which operate in these planets ; 
 with less force, owing to the increased distance. The day of 
 •tjhese three planets, is, accordingly, far shorter than our day ; 
 £or instance, Jupiter's day is not half so long as ours; but 
 the splendid illumination of Jupiter's nights by four moons, 
 to which subject I shall advert presently, seems to do away, to 
 a certain degree, with the difference between day and night. 
 
 The plane of the equator of this planet, forms with the 
 plane of its orbit an angle which the most careful observa- 
 tions have determined to be only three degrees^ and the trop- 
 
READER. 103 
 
 ics are nearly coincident with the equator. Hence it follows 
 that the state of the atmosphere, in Jupiter, must constantly 
 resemble that which takes place on the Earth, at the time of 
 the equinox, when the sun enters the equator. The climate, 
 therefore, must be uniformly mild, as with us in spring or au- 
 tumn. On our Earth, the torrid zone extends twenty-three 
 degrees on each side of the equator ; and the two frigid zones 
 occupy the like number of degrees ; whereas, in Jupiter, ac- 
 cording to the above data, the torrid zone comprehends alto- 
 gether only six degrees ; and the two frigid zones embrace, 
 between them, but the same space ; so that nearly the whole 
 of the surface of this remarkable planet belongs to the tem- 
 perate zones. Its vegetation consequently enjoys uninter- 
 ruptedly that equinoctial temperature which authorizes us to 
 attribute to it the equally uninterrupted production of flowers 
 and fruit. In short, this planet must be covered with ever- 
 lasting verdure, and enjoy a mild climate, all the year round. 
 
 This invariable state of the atmosphere, at least in an as- 
 tronomical sense, combined with the almost constant equality 
 of day and night, must impart a similar character of equality 
 to the affairs of life ; and it thus announces something more 
 constant, more permanent, and more nearly perfect. We 
 must likewise take into account the length of Jupiter's year, 
 which is nearly twelve times as long as ours; from which 
 circumstance Schubert draws the conclusion, that life in 
 Jupiter must be very different from life upon the Earth. 
 "There/' says he, " a girl of sixteen has the experience of 
 nearly two centuries ; and whoever has seen eighty revolutions 
 of the sun, has attained the age of Methuselah." 
 
 If Jupiter appears to us, from what has been already stated, 
 in a very agreeable light, the four moons attached to this 
 planet, contribute greatly to its further embellishment; and 
 there are arrangements connected with them, which leave no 
 room for doubt respecting the beneficent intentions of Provi- 
 dence for the uninterrupted illumination of Jupiter's nights. 
 By the most sublime analysis, Laplace has incontestably de- 
 monstrated that these moons can never be dark, or new, at 
 one and the same time, and that, consequently, the inhab- 
 itants of Jupiter are always sure of the light of at least one 
 of these luminaries. 
 
 This provision of Supreme Intelligence furnishes an addi- 
 tional ground for our conjecture of an % increased perfection , 
 of things in Jupiter ; and, as far as we can form any concep- 
 tion of the physical constitution of this planet, and the econ- 
 
104 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 omy of life resulting from it, "\ve are forced to admit that at 
 least many of its arrangements are on a larger and grander 
 scale. Jupiter, as we have already intimated, forms the com- 
 mencement of a totally different planetary existence ; and 
 science cannot forbear deploring those barriers which oppose 
 its progress, and confine it to conjecture, when, urged by 
 awakened curiosity, it would fain penetrate, with all its attri- 
 butes of sense, into the magic scenes, into the delicious 
 plains, of this vast and beautiful planet, lighted by four moons, 
 and shaded by a luxuriant and ever-flourishing vegetation. 
 
 EXERCISE XXX. 
 
 FATE OF MISSOLONGHI. Fabre. 
 
 [In historical narration, and, particularly, in the description of scenes 
 of military achievement, or of warlike character, the style of reading 
 demands an utterance varying from the "grave" and "serious" to 
 the " animated " and the powerfully expressive, as the natural lan- 
 guage of intense excitement] 
 
 In the revolutionary struggle which terminated in the 
 independence of modern Greece, the garrison of *Misso- 
 Ionghi, — after having been disappointed in all their hopes of 
 aid, feeling their ramparts crumbling under their feet, seeing 
 their fathers, their wives, and their children perishing by 
 famine, — sent a communication to the only corps able to 
 give them any succour, that of f Kairaskaki, requesting it to 
 attack the rear of the enemy, on a certain day, and to an- 
 nounce its arrival by a general discharge of musketry; at 
 which moment the garrison would make a sortie, and en- 
 deavour to cut their way through the besieging army. On 
 the appointed day, the population of Missolonghi was assem- 
 bled. There remained three thousand soldiers, including 
 those who, although sick or wounded, were capable of march- 
 ing with the assistance of their comrades, a thousand artificers, 
 or other men unused to fighting, and about five thousand 
 women and children. 
 
 The Grecian women, who fancied themselves strong 
 enough to brave the fatigue and danger of the sortie, dressed 
 themselves in men's clothes, in order that if they were unable 
 
 * Pronounced, Missolonglice, t Pronounced, Kiras'kalcee. 
 
READER. 105 
 
 to escape the enemy, they might be mistaken for soldiers, and 
 put to death instantly. Many of them hung round their necks, 
 and round the necks of their children, as a protecting talis- 
 man, the revered relics of their ancestors ; and wore con- 
 cealed daggers, with which either to strike the enemy, or to 
 secure their not being taken alive. — Those whose weakness 
 forbade them to follow the troops, joined the desperately 
 wounded, the sick, the aged, and the infants, and resolved to 
 bury themselves in the ruins of the town. — It was a terrible 
 moment. 
 
 Almost all the families of Missolonghi were divided into 
 two parts ; — those who remained in expectation of death, and 
 those who were on the point of rushing forth to vengeance and 
 to new dangers. The hardiest warriors were subdued to 
 tears ; and the bravest hearts quailed at the approaching 
 separation. All these preparations were, however, rendered 
 abortive by the infamous treachery of a Bulgarian soldier, 
 who had deserted to Ibrahim, the Turkish commander, and 
 disclosed the whole plan. The Turks suddenly attacked the 
 town, and bathed themselves in Christian blood. The scene 
 that followed was hideous. " But one voice was heard among 
 the despairing women," says an eye-witness : — " To the sea! 
 to the sea ! " Many precipitated themselves into the wells, 
 into which they first threw their children. But the wells at 
 length became full ; and it was a long way from the ramparts 
 to that part of the harbour which was sufficiently deep for the 
 purpose of death. The conquerors, anxious for slaves, fol- 
 lowed close on their victims. Several women, and even sev- 
 eral children, had the address and the good fortune to free 
 themselves by throwing themselves on the naked swords of the 
 Arabs; others plunged into the flames of the burning houses; 
 twelve thousand, who could discover no way of destroying 
 themselves, fell into the hands of the enemy. 
 
 The attention of the conquerors was soon drawn to the 
 powder magazine. The size and the solidity of the building 
 induced them to believe that the wealth of the inhabitants 
 had been there deposited. It contained, however, only 
 women and children, and * Capsalis, one of the primates of 
 the town, who, having obstinately refused to accompany the 
 garrison in their projected sortie, conducted to the powder 
 magazine a crowd of women and children, saying, " Come, 
 and be still; I will myself set fire to it." They wept not: 
 
 * Pronounced, Cap'salis. 
 
106 
 
 they had no parting to apprehend ; the grave was about to 
 unite them forever. The mothers tranquilly pressed their 
 infants to their breasts, relying on Capsalis. In the mean- 
 time, the enemy crowded round their asylum; some attempted 
 to break open the doors ; some to enter by the windows ; 
 — some climb to the roof, and endeavour to demolish it. 
 At length, Capsalis, perceiving that a number had assembled, 
 uttered a brief prayer, familiar to the Greeks, — " Lord, re- 
 member me! " — and applied the match. — The explosion was 
 so violent, that the neighbouring houses were thrown down ; 
 large chasms were produced in the earth ; and the sea, moved 
 from its bed, inundated one part of the town. Two thou- 
 sand barbarians were blown up with Capsalis. Such was the 
 catastrophe of this terrible drama. 
 
 EXERCISE XXXI. 
 
 THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. Southey. 
 
 [The style of familiar dialogue requires attention, principally, to easy, 
 natural change of voice, accommodated to the appropriate style of 
 each speaker. In the following instance, the tone of the male 
 speaker is "grave" and "tranquil" — that of the female, feeble and 
 plaintive. The prevalent error in the reading of dialogue, is mo- 
 notony ; while the great use of such exercises, is, to aid the reader 
 in complying with the primary condition of good reading, — that of 
 throwing one's self into the situation of the supposed speaker, — and 
 thus to insure natural and appropiate " expression"] 
 
 Woman. 
 
 Sir ! for the love of God, some small relief 
 To a poor woman ! 
 
 Traveller. 
 
 Whither are you bound ? 
 'Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs; — 
 No house for miles around us, and the way 
 Dreary and wild. The evening wind already 
 Makes one's teeth chatter ; and the very sun, 
 Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds, 
 Looks cold. 'Twill be a bitter night! 
 
READER. 107 
 
 Woman. 
 
 Ay, sir, 
 'Tis cutting keen ! 1 smart at every breath : — 
 Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end ; 
 For the way is long before me, and my feet, — 
 God help me ! — sore with travelling : I would gladly, 
 If it pleased God, at once lie down and die. 
 
 Traveller. 
 
 Nay, nay, cheer up ! a little food and rest 
 Will comfort you ; and then your journey's end 
 May make amends for all. You shake your head, 
 And weep. Is it some mournful business, then, 
 That leads you from your home ? 
 
 Woman. 
 
 Sir, I am going 
 To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt 
 In the late action, and in the hospital 
 Dying, I fear me, now. 
 
 Traveller. 
 Was he your only child ? 
 
 Woman. 
 
 My only one, 
 The stay and comfort of my widowhood, 
 A dear, good boy ! — When first he went to sea, 
 I felt what it would come to : — something told me 
 I should be childless soon. But tell me, sir, 
 If it be true that for a hurt like his 
 There is no cure. Please God to spare his life, 
 Though he be blind, yet I should, be so thankful ! 
 I can remember there was a blind man 
 Lived in our village, — one, from his youth up, 
 Quite dark ; — and yet he was a merry man ; 
 And he had none to tend him half so well 
 As I would tend my boy ! 
 
 Traveller. 
 
 Of this be sure, — 
 His hurts are looked to well ; and the best help 
 The land affords, — as rightly is his due, — 
 
108 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Ever at hand. How happened it he left you? 
 Was a seafaring life his early choice 1 
 
 No, sir ! poor fellow, — he was wise enough 
 
 To be content at home; and 'twas a home 
 
 As comfortable, sir ! — even though I say it, — 
 
 As any in the country. He was left 
 
 A little boy, when his poor father died, — 
 
 Just old enough to totter by himself, 
 
 And call his mother's name. We two were all , 
 
 And as we were not left quite destitute, 
 
 We bore up well. We had kind neighbours too, 
 
 And never felt distress. So he grew up 
 
 A comely lad, and wondrous well disposed. 
 
 I taught him well : there was not in the parish 
 
 A child who said his prayers more regular, 
 
 Or answered readier through his Catechism. — ■ 
 
 If I had foreseen this ! — but 'tis a blessing 
 
 We don't know what we're born to ! 
 
 Traveller. 
 
 But how came it 
 He chose to be a sailor ? 
 
 Woman. 
 
 You shall hear, sir. 
 As he grew up, he used to watch the birds 
 In the corn, — child's work, you know, and easily done. 
 'Tis an idle sort of task : so he built up 
 A little hut of wicker work and clay, 
 Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain ; 
 And then he took, for very idleness, 
 To making traps to catch the plunderers, — 
 All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make, — 
 Propping a stone, to fall, and shut them in, 
 Or crush them with its weight, or else a spring 
 Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly ; — 
 And I, poor foolish woman ! I was pleased 
 To see the boy so handy. You may guess 
 What followed, sir, from this unlucky skill. 
 He did what he should not, when he was older : — 
 I warned him oft ; but he was caught 
 In wiring hares at last, and had his choice, — 
 The prison or the ship. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 109 
 
 Traveller. 
 
 The choice at least 
 Was kindly left him ; and for broken laws 
 This was, methinks, no heavy punishment. 
 
 Woman. 
 So I was told, sir. And I tried to think so ; 
 But 'twas a sad blow to me. I was used 
 To sleep at nights, as sweetly as a child : — 
 Now, if the wind blew rough, it made me start, 
 And think of my poor boy, tossing about 
 Upon the roaring seas. And then I seemed 
 To feel that it was hard to take him from me 
 For such a little fault. But he was wrong, 
 Oh ! -very wrong, — a murrain on his traps ! 
 See what they've brought him to ! 
 
 Traveller. 
 
 Well ! well ! take comfort. 
 He will be taken care of, if he lives ; 
 And should you lose your child, this is a country 
 Where the brave sailor never leaves a parent 
 To weep for him in want. 
 
 Woman. 
 
 Sir, I shall want 
 No succour long. In the common course of years, 
 I soon must be at rest ; and 'tis a comfort, 
 When grief is hard upon me, to reflect 
 It only leads me to that rest the sooner. 
 
 EXERCISE XXXII. 
 
 FAIR SUFFERERS. Anon. 
 
 [Humorous style, requires a playful freedom and flow of utterance, 
 wnich indulges every trait of " expression " to the utmost extent. 
 Raillery borders often on laughter itself, and has usually a degree 
 of that quality of voice.] 
 
 The following satirical sketch may be thought not inap- 
 plicable to the victims of fashion in other places than London. 
 10 
 
110 
 
 It is drawn from the papers of a plain-spoken but cordial 
 friend to the sex, who takes a fancy to the diminutive name 
 of Punch. 
 
 " By fair sufferers we mean about ninety-nine out of every 
 hundred of those poor dear young ladies, condemned, through 
 the accident of their birth, to languish, in silk and satin, be- 
 neath the load of a fashionable existence. 
 
 " ' Ah ! little think the gay licentious ' paupers, who have no 
 plays, operas, and evening parties to be forced to go to, and 
 no carriages to be obliged to ride about in, of the miseries 
 which are endured by the daughters of affluence ! 
 
 " It is a well-known fact, that scarcely one of those tender 
 creatures can be in a theatre or a concert-room ten minutes 
 without being seized with a violent headache, which, more 
 frequently than not, obliges her to leave before the perform- 
 ance is over, and drag a brother, husband, lover or attentive 
 young man, away with her. If spared the headache, how often 
 is she threatened with a fainting fit, — nay, now and then 
 seized with it, — to the alarm and disturbance of her com- 
 pany ! Not happening to feel faint exactly, still there is a 
 sensation, ' a something,' as she describes it, ' she doesn't 
 know what,' which she is almost sure to be troubled with. 
 Unvisited by these afflictions, nevertheless, either the cold, or 
 the heat, or the glare of the gas, or some other source of 
 pain, oppresses or excruciates her susceptible nerves. And 
 when we take one such young lady, and put together all the 
 public amusements which she must either go to, — or die, — 
 in the course of a London season ; and when we add up all 
 the headaches, and swoons, and the ' somethings-she-does-n't- 
 know-what ' ; the shiverings, burnings, and other agonizing 
 sensations which she has undergone by the end of it ; the 
 result is an aggregate of torture truly frightful to contemplate. 
 
 " Suppose she is obliged to walk, — this is sometimes actu- 
 ally the case : — happy is she if she can go twenty yards 
 without some pain or other, in the side, the back, the shoul- 
 der, the great toe. Thus the pleasure of shopping, prome- 
 nading, or a pic-nic, is imbittered. 
 
 " If she reads a chapter in a novel, the chances are that 
 her temples throb for it. She tries to embroider a corsair : — 
 doing more than an arm of him at a time, strains her eyes. 
 Employ herself in what way she will, she feels fatigued after- 
 wards, and may think herself well off if she is not worse. 
 
 " Without a care to vex her, save, perhaps, some slight 
 misgivings respecting 'the captain,' she is unable to rest, 
 
Ill 
 
 though on a couch of down. Exercise would procure her 
 slumber ; but oh ! she cannot take it. 
 
 " Whether a little less confinement of the waist, earliei 
 hours, plainer luncheons, more frequent airings in the green 
 fields, and mental and bodily exertion, generally, than what, 
 in these respects, is the fashionable usage, would in any way 
 alleviate the miseries of our c fair sufferers/ may be questioned. 
 It may also be inquired how far such miseries are imaginary, 
 and to what extent a trifling exercise of resolution would 
 tend to mitigate them. Otherwise supposing them to be ills 
 that woman is necessarily heiress to, — unavoidable, irre- 
 mediable, — what torments, what anguish, must fishwomen, 
 washerwomen, charwomen, and hay-makers, — to say nothing 
 of servants of all work, — and even ladies' maids, endure 
 every day of their lives ! " 
 
 EXERCISE XXXIII. 
 
 THE DESERT. Translated from Countess Han- Han. 
 
 [An example of "grave" tone, sinking to melancholy. The "pitch" 
 of the voice, in such passages, is " low," — the "force" " moderate" 
 — the "movement" slow. A degree of "monotone" pervades all 
 the sentences which express the deeper feelings of the soul, called 
 forth by solitude and desolation.] 
 
 Never did the pilgrim tarry willingly upon this waste of 
 sand. The great caravans of devotees on their pilgrimage- 
 to Mecca, and others of a trading character, leave behind 
 them here no traces, save graves and scattered bones. Dead 
 camels, in all the stages of decay, from those lately fallen to 
 those of which the white skeletons are alone remaining, mark 
 out the way. The graves of pilgrims who have died in the 
 desert, from want, disease, or exhaustion, are marked out by 
 little heaps of sand, with the bones of animals stuck around 
 them, and are common objects. 
 
 In the air, large birds of prey sail slowly round and round: 
 crows, with wild, harsh croakings, and heavy, flapping wings, 
 are seen in great numbers; and cat-like beasts of prey lurk 
 among the low shrubs, — all seeking for corpses ! The 
 desert is a r/aveyard in its most disconsolate form. 
 
 The sea, the mountains, are solitary, and sometimes seem 
 melancholy in their lone dreariness ; but if there is no life in 
 
112 
 
 them, there are no memorials of death. On the granite peaks, 
 and on the foaming billows, there are no marks of human 
 decay. The rocks and waves are undefiled with the dust of 
 mouldering bones, and present to us, in their vastness, infini- 
 tude, and unbroken calmness, a symbol of eternity, in con- 
 trast with which this short earthly life seems but like a 
 morning dream. There is something more than a mere 
 pleasure for the eye in such solitudes. The heart beats 
 more peacefully there. But here, in the desert, death keeps 
 house; and all around are the remains of a once restless and 
 miserable life. 
 
 Death is sublime, when we consider him as the conqueror, 
 and at the same time, the supporter of a life which he only 
 overcomes that it may arise again. But here it is " dust to 
 dust : " — that is all. 
 
 I tried to find a source of brighter thoughts in recurring 
 to history ; but here what a contrast between the sea and the 
 desert ! On the waves, how manifold the crossing tracks of 
 gay fleets, armadas, and naval heroes! what a crowd of great 
 thoughts and undertakings, colossal speculations, and adven- 
 turous enterprises ! No passion, good or bad, is there that 
 has not urged men over the waves. Gold, happiness, domin- 
 ion, love, freedom, — all have been pursued on the sea; ava- 
 rice, love of glory, thirst for discovery, philanthropy, science, 
 misery, restlessness, — all have played their part and sought 
 to be carried to their desired objects on the waves. Of all 
 these there is no trace left in the desert. Great armies have 
 crossed the sands, it is true; — Cambyses with his Persians, 
 Alexander, Zenobia, the proud woman, who degraded her 
 husband, just as the oriental men now degrade their women, — 
 and other conquerors, have passed through the desert; but 
 they have left only desolation behind them. 
 
 EXERCISE XXXIV. 
 
 FALSEHOOD. Mrs. Opie. 
 
 [Didactic style, requiring " serious " and " grave " utteran'"", — firm, and 
 moderately " low " and " slow ; " — the enunciation perfectly distinct.] 
 
 The tolerated sin, denominated " white lying " is a sin 
 vhich I believe that some persons commit, not only without 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 113 
 
 being conscious that it is a sin, but, frequently, with a belief 
 that, to do it readily, and without confusion, is often a merit, 
 and always a proof of ability. Still more frequently, they do 
 it unconsciously perhaps, from the force of habit ; and, like 
 * Monsieur Jourdain, the " Bourgeois gentil-homme," who 
 found out that he had talked prose all his life without know- 
 ing it, these persons utter lie upon lie, without knowing that 
 what they utter deserves to be considered as falsehood. 
 
 I am myself convinced, that a passive lie is equally as ir- 
 reconcilable to moral principles as an active one ; but I am 
 well aware that most persons are of a different opinion. Yet, 
 I would say to those who thus differ from me, " If you allow 
 yourselves to violate truth, — that is, to deceive, for any pur- 
 pose whatever, — who can say where this sort of self-indul- 
 gence will submit to be bounded 1 Can you be sure that you 
 will not, when strongly tempted, utter what is equally false, 
 in order to benefit yourself at the expense of a fellow- 
 creature 1 " 
 
 All mortals are, at times, accessible to temptation; but, 
 when we are not exposed to it, we dwell with complacency on 
 our means of resisting it, on our principles, and our tried 
 and experienced self-denial : but, as the life-boat, and the 
 safety-gun, which succeeded in all that they were made to 
 do, while the sea was calm, and the winds still, have been 
 known to fail, when the vessel was tossed on a tempestuous 
 ocean; so those who may successfully oppose principle to 
 temptation, when the tempest of the passions is not awakened 
 within their bosoms, may sometimes be overwhelmed by its 
 power, when it meets them in all its awful energy and unex- 
 pected violence. 
 
 But in every warfare against human corruption, habitual 
 resistance to little temptations, is, next to prayer, the most 
 efficacious aid. He who is to be trained for public exhibi- 
 tions of feats of strength, is made to carry small weights at 
 first, which are daily increased in heaviness, till, at last, he 
 is almost unconsciously able to bear, with ease, the greatest 
 weight possible to be borne by man. In like manner, those 
 who resist the daily temptation to tell what are apparently 
 trivial and innocent lies, will be better able to withstand 
 
 * It is impossible to present, in any English combination of letters, 
 the sounds of some French words. The reader's best resort, if she 
 cannot direct herself, is to obtain the exact pronunciation of such 
 words from a native of France. Accuracy can seldom be attained 
 otherwise. 
 
 10* 
 
114 YOUNG LADIES READER. 
 
 allurements to serious and important deviations from truth, 
 and be more fortified, in the hour of more severe temptation, 
 against every species of dereliction of integrity. 
 
 EXERCISE XXXV. 
 
 THE WAKEFIELD FAMILY. Goldsmith. 
 
 [Quiet humour is expressed, as in the following example, by the 
 gentle tone of " tranquillity." The utterance in such pieces, is 
 "moderate" in "force" and "movement :" the pitch, is that of 
 " serious " conversation. The easy negligence of the style, leads 
 to partially prolonged " quantities." 
 
 The common faults, in the reading of such passages, are monotony, 
 and dulness.] 
 
 I had scarce taken orders a year, before I began to think 
 seriously of matrimony, and chose my wife as she did her 
 wedding gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but such qualities 
 as would wear well. To do her justice, she was a good- 
 natured, notable woman ; and as for breeding, there were few 
 country ladies who showed more. She could read any Eng- 
 lish book without much spelling ; but for pickling, preserv- 
 ing, and cookery, none could excel her. She prided herself 
 also upon being an excellent contriver in housekeeping; 
 though I could never find that we grew richer, with all her 
 contrivances. 
 
 However, we loved each other tenderly ; and our fondness 
 increased as we grew old. There was, in fact, nothing that 
 could make us angry with the world, or each other. We 
 had an elegant house, situated in a fine country and a good 
 neighbourhood. The year was spent in moral or rural amuse- 
 ment; in visiting our rich neighbours, and relieving such as 
 were poor. We had no revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to 
 undergo ; all our adventures were by the fireside, and all our 
 migrations from the blue bed to the brown. 
 
 As we lived near the road, we often had the traveller or 
 stranger visit us, to taste our gooseberry-wine, for which we 
 had great reputation ; and I profess, with the veracity of an 
 historian, that I never knew one of them find fault with it. 
 Our cousins, too, even to the fortieth remove, all remembered 
 their affinity, without any help from the herald's office, and 
 
READER. H5 
 
 came very frequently to see us. Some of them did us no 
 great honour by these claims of kindred ; as we had the blind, 
 the maimed, and the halt, amongst the number. However, 
 my wife always insisted that, as they were the same Jlesh and 
 blood, they should sit with us at the same table : so that if we 
 had not very rich, we generally had very happy friends about 
 us ; for this remark will hold good through life, that the 
 poorer the guest, the better pleased he ever is with being 
 treated ; and as some men gaze with admiration at the col- 
 ours of a tulip, or the wing of a butterfly, so I was by nature 
 an admirer of happy human faces. However, when any one 
 of our relations was found to be a person of a very bad char- 
 acter, a troublesome guest, or one we desired to get rid of, — 
 upon his leaving my house, I ever took care to lend him a 
 riding-coat, or a pair of boots, or sometimes a horse of small 
 value; and I always had the satisfaction to find he never came 
 back to return them. By this the house was cleared of such 
 as we did not like ; but never was the family of Wakefield 
 known to turn the traveller or the poor dependent out of 
 doors. 
 
 Thus we lived several years in a state of much happiness ; 
 not but that we sometimes had those little rubs which Provi- 
 dence sends to enhance the value of its favours. My orchard 
 was often robbed by schoolboys, and my wife's custards plun- 
 dered by the cats or the children. The squire would some- 
 times fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my sermon, or 
 his lady return my wife's civilities at church with a mutilated 
 courtesy. But we soon got over the uneasiness caused by 
 such accidents, and usually, in three or four days, began to 
 wonder how they vexed us. 
 
 My children, — the offspring of temperance, — as they 
 were educated without softness, so they were at once well- 
 formed and healthy : my sons, hardy and active ; my daugh- 
 ters, beautiful and blooming. When I stood in the midst of 
 the little circle, which promised to be the supports of my 
 declining age, 1 could not avoid repeating the famous story 
 of Count Abensberg, who, in Henry the Second's progress 
 through Germany, while other courtiers came with their 
 treasures, brought his thirty-two children, and presented 
 them to his sovereign, as the most valuable offering he had 
 to bestow. In this manner, though I had but six, I consid- 
 ered them as a very valuable present made to my country, 
 and consequently looked upon it as my debtor. 
 
 Our eldest son was named George, after his uncle who left 
 
116 YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 
 
 us ten thousand pounds. Our second child, a girl, I intended 
 to call after her aunt Grizzel ; but my wife, who had been 
 reading romances, insisted upon her being called Olivia. 
 When we had another daughter, I was determined that 
 Grizzel should be her name ; but a rich relation taking a 
 fancy to stand godmother, the girl was by her directions 
 called Sophia; so that we had two romantic names in the 
 family ; but I solemnly protest I had no hand in it. Moses 
 was our next; and, after an interval of twelve years, we had 
 two sons more. 
 
 It would be fruitless to deny my exultation when I saw my 
 little ones about me ; but the vanity and the satisfaction of 
 my wife, were even greater than mine. When our visitors 
 would say, " Well, upon my word, Mrs. Primrose, you have 
 the finest children in the whole country," — "Ay, neigh- 
 bour," she would answer, " they are as Heaven made them, — 
 handsome enough, if they be good enough ; for handsome is, 
 that handsome does." And then she would bid the girls 
 hold up their heads ; who, to conceal nothing, were certainly 
 very handsome. Mere outside is so very trifling a circum- 
 stance with me, that I should scarce have remembered to 
 mention it, had it not been a general topic of conversation 
 in the country. Olivia, now about eighteen, had the luxu- 
 riancy of beauty with which painters generally draw Hebe ; 
 open, sprightly, and commanding.^ Sophia's features were 
 not so striking at first, but often did more certain execution ; 
 for they were soft, modest, and alluring. The one vanquished 
 by a single blow, the other by efforts successively repeated. 
 
 The temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn 
 of her features ; at least it was so with my daughters. Olivia 
 wished for many lovers ; Sophia, to secure one. Olivia was 
 often affected, from too great a desire to please; Sophia even 
 repressed excellence, from her fear to offend. The one en- 
 tertained me with her vivacity, when I was gay ; the other, 
 with sense, when I was serious. But these qualities were 
 never carried to excess in either ; and I have often seen them 
 exchange characters for a whole day together. A suit of 
 mourning has transformed my coquette into a prude ; and a 
 new set of ribands has given her younger sister more than 
 natural vivacity. My eldest son, George, was bred at Ox- 
 ford, as I intended him for one of the learned professions. 
 My second boy, Moses, whom I designed for business, re- 
 ceived a sort of miscellaneous education at home. But it is 
 needless to attempt describing the particular characters of 
 
11? 
 
 young people that had seen but very little of the world. In 
 short, a family likeness prevailed through all ; and, — prop- 
 erly speaking, — they had but one character, — that of being 
 all equally generous, credulous, simple, and inoffensive. 
 
 
 EXERCISE XXXVI. 
 
 ALPINE SCENERY. Reade. 
 
 [The prevailing characteristic of the following extract, is sublimity : the 
 prevailing emotion is awe, which requires partially " aspirated 
 quality" "low note" « suppressed force" and " slow movement." 
 The "falling inflection" predominates, where, otherwise, the 
 " rising " would exist] 
 
 To throw the more prominent features of landscape before 
 the eye, by a few bold strokes of the pen or pencil, is easy ; — 
 but how to describe objects which hold nothing in com- 
 mon with the lower world ? How can we impress the mind 
 of the hearer with the feelings of awe and of wonder, which 
 are inspired by those immense masses of ice, girded in and 
 over-crested by rocky pyramids still more enormous, — by the 
 contrast of the snow's dazzling whiteness with their sombre 
 colours, — by the purity of the air, and the clearness of the 
 sunlight, which makes every object to stand out to the 
 eye, — by the profound silence of the solitude, broken, 
 perhaps, at intervals, by the distant reverberation of falling 
 granite or avalanches, — and even by the very barrenness of 
 the rocks themselves, which support not animal, tree, nor 
 verdure 1 
 
 I stood looking on this scene of savage desolation until I 
 felt almost startled, as I recalled the green and lovely field 
 which lay but a few hours' walk behind : I almost thought I 
 was forgotten by Nature, in a chaos where she had never 
 smiled ! — that I was " the last man," looking on the skeleton 
 of a world. — Yet this was said too hastily ; for before my eyes 
 was a rock, whose tabular summit rose like an island among 
 the sea of snows. The frosts which cover all else, seem 
 scarcely to linger there ; it is crowned with the verdure of 
 delicious green, and with the prettiest Alpine flowers ; and 
 hence the Savoyards have called it the Garden. Indeed, it 
 
118 YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 
 
 has the exact form ; for the glacier has fenced it round with 
 enclosing walls ; — and there it rises, like some bright re- 
 membrance, smiling amidst the frosts of old age. 
 
 How delighted I was that I had descended on the * Mer de 
 Glace ! for when first standing on Montanvert, I felt kittle 
 inclined to the descent, — partly from fatigue, partly from the 
 effect of the air. I have said how impossible it is to judge 
 of its wonders at a distance : — the eye, as ever, deceives us ; 
 and, as we look down, its inequalities appear but like the 
 undulating ridges of the sea, after a storm. Descend into 
 it, and how wonderfully the scene is changed ! Those waves 
 are magnified into hills, and the hollows between them into 
 valleys. How astonished was I, when I found myself stand- 
 ing amidst a sea of petrified waves, — icy and motionless ! — 
 when I found myself sunk and buried among them ; when I 
 looked along them, rising everywhere around me, like a 
 tumbling ridge of hills, — half hiding from me the rocky and 
 precipitous shores around them ! 
 
 I stood, and observed everywhere the beautiful accidents 
 of nature ; — how thickly they gathered around me ! I saw 
 profound chinks, vast caverns, and little narrow lakes of 
 palest blue water, enclosed among crystal or azure walls ; 
 rivulets of sparkling green, rolling along icy canals, and pre- 
 cipitating themselves, (mocking the greater streams of earth,) 
 into abysses below. I drank a little from my hand ; it was 
 indeed " clear, — but oh ! how cold !'" 
 
 I felt exhausted ; and I reposed on what I saw around me. 
 I was standing by the shore of the Mer de Glace, which was 
 covered with heaps of debris, lying under precipitous rocks, 
 which rocks again were but the bases of the peaks above 
 them; they forming the footstool to Mont Blanc. As I 
 stood, I placed one hand on the ice of ages ; the other, on 
 the flowers of yesterday ! I plucked one of them, for I felt 
 how much they resembled ourselves ; — they were blooming, 
 while round them gigantic pines were lying in every state of 
 ruin and decay ; like empires, they had had their centuries, 
 and were gone, as these will have their hours. 
 
 Nature is here one eternal metamorphosis. One sees the 
 efforts of all times and of all seasons, met together : — the 
 snows and the frost of Lapland, the flowery vegetation, and 
 the brightest suns of Italy, — mosses and ice, — waters frozen 
 
 * For pronunciation, see remark formerly made with regard to French 
 words. 
 
 
119 
 
 into glaciers, forming glorious rainbow-arches of rivers, which 
 one afterwards beholds bounding like youth exultingly along 
 happier plains, and " rejoicing to run their course." The 
 harshness of winter, — the softness of summer, — the glowing 
 hues of autumn, — all are manifested here ! One looks down, 
 with an expanding heart, on a very paradise of a hundred 
 leagues of plains covered with spire-crowned villages, and 
 with joyous vintages : — one turns round, — chilled and 
 shuddering, — to twenty thousand feet of ice, which form 
 their line of horizon. 
 
 I left the beaten track, and struck up immediately against 
 the side of the mountains, in a part where I think few 
 or none might have been before me. I clambered inces- 
 santly, for one hour, up a ridge nearly inaccessible, I should 
 think, to any, excepting to him whose head turns not on the 
 edge of precipices. I threw myself, at last, on a sort of 
 platform, under a lofty peak, which I know not by name ; but, 
 what a moment to me was that when I saw what my vision 
 had gained by the ascent ! I was there, among the ruins of 
 nature, — or rather, I seemed to look upon the world ere the 
 Almighty had called it into order. I stood above all : around 
 me was a broken sea of mountains ; and the clouds were break- 
 ing around their highest tops. The glorious sun was above ; 
 and the voices of the thousand torrents were heard below, 
 breaking the almighty silence ! What a thrill of exultation, 
 of joy, of wonder, of love, and of gratitude, ran through me! 
 I looked along it all, with a" sidelong glance, and half recli- 
 ning myself, — you know not the pleasure of this ; but Cole- 
 ridge knew it well, and he has described it, — thought I really 
 was looking on another world. I felt alone as the Arab in 
 his desert, on a spot perhaps untrodden by the' foot of man. 
 
 I sprang up, and caught firm hold of one solitary pine, 
 which overhung a dizzy precipice. One arm of it was hang- 
 ing broken, over a depth which I would not have hung over 
 for all beneath the sun ; and yet, — there was a butterfly 
 sporting ! I trusted to the trunk of the tree, and I swung 
 myself forward. — 
 
 I saw mountains behind, around, and beneath me : fronting 
 me, across the abyss, where lay the Vale of Chamounix, rose 
 the range of the Breven, and a host of mountains ; close at 
 my right, across the Mer de Glace, were the red pinnacles 
 of the Dru ; and behind me, the Blanc in his clouds. A sea 
 of clouds also, beneath me, was silently opening, and discios- 
 
120 
 
 ing lovely spots of landscape, and then softly veiling them 
 over, as the breeze fitfully entered into the veil of silvery mist, 
 and shook its dewy folds. Then suddenly, and as it were, in 
 the midst of the sky, a bold craggy peak, like a spear, would 
 reveal itself, apparently based on nothing, and then become 
 filmy and dim, and vanish away : all was motion ; — all was 
 life ; — all was progression ; — which is life — even here. 
 The winds were abroad ; and the birds of prey flew screaming 
 past me ; — the waters were calling to each other ; and flow- 
 ers were bursting into life. Over this face of chaos, Life and 
 Death were met, — production and devastation, — beauty and 
 decay ! All the energies and powers of nature were here in 
 their first strength ; all warring on each other, and living on 
 devastation ; the life of each was the other's death ; and that 
 death, or change, was the cause of renewed and beautified 
 existence ! And here I stood above it all : my only visible 
 companions were the Col du Geant and Mont Blanc ; and 
 nothing to interrupt the feeling which was opened between 
 me and the pervading Infinite ! 
 
 EXERCISE XXXVII. 
 
 MORNING HYMN TO MONT BLANC. Coleridge. 
 
 [The following piece opens with the tones of sublimity and awe, 
 slightly aspirated " pectoral quality" " low notes," and " very sloiv 
 movement" The tone of tranquillity and admiration, succeeds, at 
 " Yet like some sweet beguiling melody." At " Awake my soul," 
 &c. the " expression " changes to increasing loudness and energy. 
 At " Thou first and chief," &c. the tone of awe returns : at " Wake 
 oh ! wake," &c. the full tones of majesty and grandeur, are resumed. 
 In the invocations which follow, the style of utterance varies with the 
 feelings naturally connected with each class of objects in the apos- 
 trophes. The close of the piece is in the " sustained" style of a pro- 
 but solemn shout.] 
 
 Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star 
 In his steep course ? — so long he seems to pause 
 On thy bald awful head, O sovereign Blanc ! 
 The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
 
121 
 
 Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form ! 
 Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
 How silently! around thee and above 
 Deep is the air and dark, — substantial black, — 
 An ebon mass ; methinks thou piercest it 
 As with a wedge! But when I look again, 
 It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
 Thy habitation from eternity ! 
 
 dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
 Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 
 
 Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer 
 
 1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 
 
 Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
 So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 
 Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thoughts, 
 Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy : 
 Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, 
 Into the mighty vision passing, — there, 
 As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven! 
 
 Awake, my soul! not only passive praise 
 Thou owest ! — not alone these swelling tears, 
 Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
 Voice of sweet song ! awake, my heart, awake ! 
 Green vales and icy cliffs all join my hymn ! 
 
 Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale ! 
 Oh ! struggling with the darkness all the night, 
 And visited all night by troops of stars, 
 Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink J 
 Companion of the morning star at dawn, 
 Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
 Co-herald ! wake, oh ! wake, and utter praise. 
 Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
 Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
 Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? 
 
 And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
 Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
 From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
 Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
 Forever shattered and the same forever ? 
 Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
 Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 
 11 
 
122 YOUNG LABI&S 7 READER, 
 
 Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? 
 
 And who commanded, — and the silence came, — 
 
 " Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest I '* 
 
 Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
 Adown enormous ravines slope amain, — 
 Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice. 
 And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge F 
 Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
 Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
 Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sura 
 Clothe you with rainbows 1 Who with living flowers 
 Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet X — 
 God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
 Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God I 
 God ! sing, ye meadow streams, with gladsome voice ! 
 Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 
 And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
 And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 
 
 Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
 Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest I 
 Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm ! 
 Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds I 
 Ye signs and wonders of the elements 1 
 Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise t 
 
 Once more, hoar mount \ with thy sky-poinstirjg^ pea&s^ 
 Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard 
 Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, 
 Into the depths of clouds that veil thy breast, — 
 Thou too again, stupendous mountain ! thou 
 That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
 In adoration, upward from thy base 
 Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
 Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, 
 To rise before me. — rise, oh! ever rise, 
 Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth !' 
 Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, 
 Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 
 Great hierarch I tell thou the silent sky, 
 And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
 Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God ? 
 
READER. 123 
 
 EXERCISE XXXVIIL 
 
 CONTEMPLATION OF THE STARRY HEAVENS. Young. 
 
 [Sublimity, solemnity, and awe, are the predominating emotions in the 
 following' passage : these require the slightly " aspirated " " pecto- 
 ral quality " of voice, " very low pitch" " suppressed force" and ex- 
 tremely " s/ow movement" with correspondent pauses of unusual 
 length.] 
 
 Stars teach, as well as shine. — 
 This prospect vast, — what is it 1 — Weighed aright, 
 5 Tis Nature's system of divinity, 
 And every student of the night inspires : 
 *Tis elder Scripture, writ by God's own hand. 
 
 Why from yon arch, — that infinite of space, 
 With infinite of lucid orbs replete, 
 Which set the living firmament on fire, — 
 At the first glance, in such an overwhelm 
 Of wonderful, on man's astonished sight 
 Rushes Omnipotence ? — To curb our pride, 
 Our reason rouse, and lead it to that Power 
 Whose love lets down these silver chains of light, 
 To draw up man's ambition to Himself, 
 And bind our chaste affections to His throne. 
 
 And see! Day's amiable sister sends 
 Her invitation, in the softest rays 
 Of mitigated lustre ; — courts thy sight, 
 Which suffers from her tyrant brother's blaze. 
 Night grants thee the full freedom of the skies, 
 Nor rudely reprimands thy lifted eye : 
 With gain and joy, she bribes thee to be wise. 
 Night opes the noblest scenes, and sheds an awe 
 Which gives those venerable scenes full weight, 
 And deep reception in the entendered heart 
 
 This theatre ! — what eye can take it in 1 
 By what divine enchantment was it raised, 
 For minds of the first magnitude to launch 
 In endless speculation, and adore? 
 One sun by day, by night ten thousand shine, 
 And light us deep into the Deity ; 
 How boundless in magnificence and might ! 
 Oh 1 what a confluence of ethereal fires, 
 
124 
 
 From urns unnumbered, down the steep of heaven, 
 
 Streams to a point, and centres in my sight \ 
 
 Nor tarries there ; I feel it at my heart : 
 
 My heart, at once, it humbles and exalts ; 
 
 Lays it in dust, and calls it to the skies \ 
 
 Who sees it unexalted, or unawed ? 
 
 Who sees it, and can stop at what is seen? 
 
 Material offspring of omnipotence f 
 
 Inanimate, all animating birth ! 
 
 Work worthy Kim who made it I — worthy praise f — 
 
 All praise \ — praise more than human \ nor denied 
 
 Thy praise divine ! 
 
 But though man, drowned in sleeps 
 Withholds his homage, not alone I wake ; 
 Bright legions swarm unseen,, and sing unheard 
 By mortal ear, the glorious Architect,. 
 In this His universal temple, hung 
 With lustres, — with innumerable lights, 
 That shed religion on the soul ; at once 
 The temple and the preacher ! Oh ! how loud- 
 It calls Devotion ! — genuine growth of Night I 
 
 EXERCISE XXXIX. 
 
 MISS MITFORD. Miss Sedgvsick^ 
 
 fAn example cf " animated" conversational style, requiring lively but dus*- 
 Unci articulation, " middle pitch," u moderate force," gentle emphasis-? 
 and spirited " expression"'} 
 
 I had written to Miss Mitford my intention of passing the 
 evening with her ; and as we approached her residence,, which 
 is in a small village near Reading, I began to feel a little 
 tremulous about meeting my "unknown friend.' 7 Captain 
 Hall had made us all merry with anticipating the usual de- 
 nouement of a mere epistolary acquaintance. 
 
 Our coachman, — who, after learning that we were Ameri- 
 cans, had complimented us on our speaking English, and M very 
 good English too," — professed an acquaintance of some 
 twenty years' standing with Miss M., and assured us that she- 
 was one of the " cleverest women in England," and " the do&~ 
 
 
YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 125 
 
 tor, (her father,) an 'earty old boy." And when he reined 
 his horses up at her door, and she appeared to receive us, he 
 said, " Now you would not take that little body there for the 
 great author, would you ? " — and certainly we should have 
 taken her for nothing but a kincjly gentlewoman, who had 
 never gone beyond the narrow sphere of the most refined so- 
 cial life. My foolish misgivings were forgotten in her cordial 
 welcome. 
 
 Miss Mitford is truly a " little body," and dressed a little 
 quaintly, and quite unlike the faces we have seen of her 
 in the magazines, which all have a broad humour, bordering 
 on coarseness. She has a pale gray, soul-lit eye, and hair as 
 white as snow : a wintry sign, that has come prematurely up- 
 on her, as like signs come upon us, while the year is yet fresh 
 and undecayed. Her voice has a sweet, low tone, and her 
 ,manner a naturalness, frankness, and affection ateness, that we 
 have been so long familiar with in their other modes of man- 
 ifestation, that it would have been indeed a disappointment 
 not to have found them. 
 
 She led us directly through her house into her garden, a 
 perfect bouquet of flowers. " I must show you my geraniums 
 while it is light," she said, " for I love them next to my father." 
 And they were indeed treated like petted children, guarded 
 hy a very ingenious contrivance from the rough visitation o" 
 the elements. They are all, I believe, seedlings. She raises 
 two crops in a year, and may well pride herself on the vari- 
 ety and beauty of her collection. Geraniums are her favour- 
 ites ; but she does not love others less, that she loves these 
 more. The garden is filled, — matted with flowering shrubs 
 and vines ; the trees are wreathed with honeysuckles and 
 roses ; and the girls have brought away the most splendid 
 specimens of " heart's ease," to press in their journals. 
 
 Oh ! that I could give some of my countrywomen a vision 
 of this little paradise of flowers, that they might learn how 
 taste and industry, and an earnest love and study of the art 
 of garden-culture, might triumph over small space and small 
 means. 
 
 Miss Mitford's house is, with the exception of certainly not 
 more than two or three, as small and humble as the smallest 
 and humblest in our village of S. — ; and such is the differ- 
 ence, in some respects, in the modes of expense in this 
 country from ours ; she keeps two men-servants, (one a gar- 
 dener,) two or three maid-servants, and two horses. In this 
 11* 
 
|26 YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 
 
 very humble home,, which she illustrates as much by her on- 
 sparing filial devotion as by her genius, she receives, on 
 equal terms, the best in the land. Her literary reputation 
 might have gained for her this elevation j but she started en 
 vantage ground ; being allied by blood to the Duke of Bed- 
 ford's family. We passed a delightful evening, parting with 
 the hope of meeting again, and with a most comfortable feel- 
 ing, that the ideal was converted into the real. — So mucE 
 for our misgivings. Faith is a safer principle than some peo- 
 ple hold it to be. 
 
 I have not dared to draw aside the curtain of domestic life 7 
 and give the particulars of Miss Mitford's touching devotion 
 to her father. " He is all to me; and I am all to him," she 
 said. God help them, in this parting world 1 
 
 EXERCISE XL. 
 
 AUTUMN SCENERY OF ENGLAND. Mias Mitford. 
 
 [The following piece forms an example of scenic description, which 
 usually requires the utterance of " tranquillity" and is characterized 
 by "pure tone" softened voice, and deliberate enunciation.] 
 
 The weather is as peaceful to-day, as calm, and as mild, as 
 in eariy April : and, perhaps, an autumn afternoon and a spring 
 morning do resemble each other more in feeling, and even in 
 appearance, than any two periods of the year. There is in 
 both the same freshness and dewiness of the herbage ; the 
 same balmy softness in the air ; and the same pure and love- 
 ly blue sky, with white fleecy clouds floating across it. The 
 chief difference lies in the absence of flowers, and the pres- 
 ence of leaves. But then the foliage of November is so rich, 
 and glowing, and varied, that it may well supply the place of 
 the gay blossoms of the spring, whilst all the flowers of the 
 field or the garden could never make amends for the want of 
 leaves, — that beautiful and graceful attire in which nature 
 has clothed the rugged forms of trees, — the verdant drapery 
 to which the landscape owes its loveliness, and the forests 
 their glory. 
 
 If choice must be between two seasons, each so full of 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 127 
 
 charm, it is at least no bad philosophy to prefer the present 
 good, even whilst looking gratefully back and hopefully for- 
 ward to the past and the future. And, of a surety, no fairer 
 specimen of a November day could well be found than this, 
 - — a day made to wander 
 
 " By yellow commons and birch-shaded hollows, 
 And hedgerows bordering- unfrequented lanes." 
 
 Nor could a prettier country be found for our walk than this 
 shady and yet sunny Berkshire, where the scenery, without 
 rising into grandeur or breaking into wildness, is so peace- 
 ful, so cheerful, so varied, and so thoroughly English. 
 
 We must bend our steps towards the water-side, for I have 
 a message to leave at Farmer Riley's; and sooth to say, it is 
 no unpleasant necessity ; for the road thither is smooth and 
 dry, retired, as one likes a country walk to be, but not too 
 lonely, which women never like ; leading past the Loddon, — 
 the bright, brimming, transparent Loddon, — a fitting mirror 
 for the bright blue sky, and terminating at one of the prettiest 
 and most comfortable farm-houses in the neighbourhood. 
 
 How beautiful the lane is to-day, decorated with a thousand 
 colours ! The brown road, and the rich verdure that borders 
 it, strewed with the pale yellow leaves of the elm, just begin- 
 ning to fall ; hedgerows glowing with long wreaths of the 
 bramble, in every variety of purplish red ; and, overhead, the 
 unchanged green of the fir, contrasting with the spotted syca- 
 more, the tawny beech, and the dry sere leaves of the oak, 
 which rustle as the light wind passes through them :' a few 
 common hardy flowers, (for yellow is the common colour of 
 flowers, whether wild or cultivated, as blue is the rare one,) 
 flowers of many sorts, but almost of one tint, still blooming 
 in spite of the season, and ruddy berries glowing through all. 
 — How very beautiful is the lane! 
 
 And how pleasant is this hill where the road widens, with 
 the group of cattle by the way-side, and George Hearn, the 
 little post-boy, trundling his hoop at full speed, making all 
 the better haste in his work, because he cheats himself into 
 thinking it play ! And how beautiful, again, is this patch of 
 common at the hill-top, with the clear pool, where Martha 
 Pither's children, — elves of three, and four, and five years 
 old, — without any distinction of sex in their sun-burnt faces 
 and tattered drapery, are dipping up water in their little 
 homely cups shining with cleanliness, and a small brown 
 
128 
 
 pitcher with the lip broken, to fill that great kettle, which, 
 when it is filled, their united strength will never be able to 
 lift ! They are quite a group for a painter, with their rosy- 
 cheeks, and chubby hands, and round merry faces ; and the 
 low cottage in the background, peeping out of its vine leaves 
 and China roses, — with Martha at the door, tidy, and comely, 
 and smiling, preparing the potatoes for the pot, and watching 
 the progress of dipping and filling that useful utensil, — com- 
 pletes the picture. 
 
 The Loddon at last ! the beautiful Loddon ! and the bridge 
 where every one stops, as by instinct, to lean over the rails, 
 and gaze a moment on a landscape of surpassing loveliness, 
 — the fine grounds of the " great house," with their magnif- 
 icent groups of limes, and firs, and poplars, grander than ever 
 poplars were ; the green meadows opposite, studded with oaks 
 and elms ; the clear winding river ; the mill with its pictu- 
 resque old buildings, bounding the scene ; all glowing with the 
 rich colouring of autumn, and harmonized by the soft beauty 
 of the clear blue sky, and the delicious calmness of the hour. 
 The very peasant whose daily path it is, cannot cross that 
 bridge without a pause. 
 
 But the day is wearing fast, and it grows colder and colder. 
 I really think there will be a frost. After all, spring is the 
 pleasantest season, beautiful as this scenery is. We must get 
 on. Down that broad yet shadowy lane, between the park, 
 dark with evergreens and dappled with deer, and the mead- 
 ows where sheep, and cows, and horses, are grazing undei 
 the tall elms, — that lane, where the wild bank, clothed with 
 fern, and tufted with furze, and crowned by rich berried 
 thorn, and thick shining holly, on the one side, seems to vie 
 in beauty with the picturesque old paling, the bright laurels, 
 and the plumy cedars, on the other : — down that shady lane, 
 until the sudden turn brings us to an opening where four 
 roads meet, where a noble avenue turns down to the " great 
 house ; " where the village church rears its modest spire from 
 amidst its venerable yew trees ; and where, — embosomed in 
 orchards and gardens, and backed by barns and ricks, and all 
 the wealth of the farm-yard, — stands the spacious and com- 
 fortable abode of good Farmer Riley, — the end and object 
 of our walk. 
 
129 
 EXERCISE XLI. 
 
 This piece forms an example in change of " expression ; " — the first 
 part of each stanza being in the bold, joyous, and swelling tones of 
 triumph ; the second, in the grave tone of aversion, regret, and dis- 
 appointment, with " low notes," " aspirated quality," " suppressed 
 force," and "slow movement." The close of the last stanza forms an 
 exception, and is read with the tone of triumph.] 
 
 A crown for the victor, — a crown of light ! — 
 From the land where the flowers ne'er feel a blight 
 Was gathered the wreath that around it blows ; 
 And he, who o'ercometh his treacherous foes, 
 
 That fadeless crown shall gain. — 
 A king went forth on the rebel array, 
 Intrenched where a lovely hamlet lay ; 
 He frowned, — and there's nought save ashes and blood, 
 And blackened bones, where that hamlet stood, 
 
 Yet his treacherous foes he hath not slain. 
 
 A crown for the victor, — a crown of light ! — 
 Encircled with jewels so pure and bright, 
 Night never hath gloomed where its lustre flows ; 
 And he, who can conquer his proudest foes, 
 
 That glorious crown shall gain. — 
 A hero came from the gory field, 
 And low at his feet the pale captives kneeled ; 
 In his might he hath trodden a nation down, 
 But he may not challenge that glorious crown, 
 
 For his proudest foes he hath not slain. 
 
 A crown for the victor, — a crown of light ! - 
 Like the morning sun, to the dazzled sight, 
 From the night of a dungeon raised, it glows 
 And he, who can slay his deadliest foes, 
 
 That shining crown shall gain. — 
 With searching eye, and stealthy tread, 
 . The man of wrath sought his enemy's bed : 
 Like festering wounds are the wrongs he hath borne. 
 And he takes the revenge his soul had sworn, 
 
 But his deadliest foe he hath not slain. 
 
130 
 
 A crown for the victor, — a crown of light! — 
 To be worn with a robe whose spotless white 
 Makes darkness seem resting on Alpine snows ; 
 And he, who o'ercometh his mightiest foes, 
 
 That robe and crown shall gain. — 
 With eye upraised, and forehead bare, 
 A pilgrim knelt down in holy prayer : 
 He hath wrestled with self, and with passion striven ; 
 And to him hath the Sword of the Spirit been given ; — 
 
 Oh! crown him, for his foes, — his sins, — are slain 
 
 EXERCISE XLIT. 
 
 FORTITUDE OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS OF NEW 
 ENGLAND. Choate. 
 
 [The full tone of public address, belongs properly to the following pas- 
 sage. The style of utterance is " declamatory orotund," but varies 
 to "pathos" and "subdued expression," in the description of suffer- 
 ing and death.] 
 
 In a late undesigned visit to Plymouth, I sought the spot 
 where the earlier dead of the Pilgrims were buried. It was 
 on a bank, you remember, somewhat elevated, below the town 
 and between it and the water, near and looking forth upon 
 the waves, symbol of what life had been to them ; ascending 
 inland behind and above the rock, a symbol of that " rock 
 of ages," on which the dying had rested in the final hour. 
 As the pilgrim found these localities, you might stand on that 
 bank and hear the restless waters chafe and melt against its 
 steadfast base : the unquiet of the world composed itself at 
 the portals of the grave. On that spot were laid to rest to- 
 gether, — the earth carefully smoothed down, that the Indians 
 might not count the number, — the true, the pious, the beau- 
 tiful, and the brave, — till the heavens be no more. There 
 certainly was buried the 'first governor ; and there was buried 
 Rose, the wife of Miles Standish. " You will go to them," 
 wrote Robinson, " but they shall not return to you." 
 
 When this sharp calamity had abated, came famine. " I 
 have seen," said Edward Winslow, quoted by Mr. Bancroft, 
 *' strong men staggering through faintness for want of food ; " 
 
131 
 
 and after this, and during all this, and for years, there brooded 
 in every mind not a weak fear, but an intelligent apprehen- 
 sion that at any instant, — at midnight, at noonday, at the mar- 
 riage, the baptism, or the burial of the dead, a foe more cruel 
 than the grave, might blast, in an hour, that which disease 
 and want had so hardly spared. 
 
 How they endured all this you have also heard. Let one 
 fact suffice. — When, in April, the May Flower sailed for 
 England, not one pilgrim returned in her ! 
 
 The peculiarity which has seemed to me to distinguish 
 these trials of the pilgrim age, from the chief of those 
 which the general voice of literature has concurred to glorify, 
 as the trials of heroism ; the peculiarity, which gives to these 
 and such as these, the attributes of a truer heroism, is this ; 
 that they had to meet them on what was then an humble, ob- 
 scure, and distant stage ; with no numerous audience to look 
 on and applaud, and cast its wreaths on the fainting brow of 
 him, whose life was rushing with his blood ; and unsustained 
 by one of those stormier, and more stimulating, impulses, and 
 aims, and sentiments, which carry a soldier to his grave of 
 honour, as joyfully as to the bridal bed. 
 
 Where were the pilgrims, while in this furnace of affliction ? 
 And who saw and took thought for them 1 They were alone 
 on the earth ! Directly and solely " in their great Taskmas- 
 ter's eye." If every one of them had died, the first winter, 
 of lung fever, or been starved to death, or crushed by the 
 tomahawk, who was there to mourn for them ? A few hearts 
 in Leyden would have broken ; and that had been all. Un- 
 like the martyr, even, around whose ascended chariot wheels 
 and horses of fire, a congregation might come to sympathize 
 and be exalted, blasphemers to he defied, and struck with 
 unwonted admiration, — they were alone on the earth. Pri- 
 meval forests, a winter's sea, a winter's sky, circled them about, 
 and excluded every sympathizing human eye. 
 
 To play the part of heroism on its high places, and its 
 theatre, is not, perhaps, so very difficult. — To do it alone, as 
 seeing Him who is invisible, was the stupendous trial of the 
 pilgrim heroism. 
 
 I have said too, that a peculiarity in their trials, was, that 
 they were unsustained altogether by every one of the passions, 
 aims, stimulants, and excitations : the anger, the revenge, the 
 hate, the pride, the awakened, the dreadful thirst of blood, 
 the consuming love of glory, the feverish rapture of battle, 
 that burn, as on volcanic isles, in the heart of mere secular- 
 
132 
 
 ized heroism. — Not one of all these aids did or could come 
 in use for them. Their character and their situation both 
 excluded them. Their enemies were disease walking in 
 darkness, and destroying at noonday ; famine which, more 
 than all other calamities, bows the spirit of a man, presses 
 his radiant form to the dust, and teaches him what he is ; the 
 wilderness ; spiritual foes on the high places of the unseen 
 •vorld. Even when the first Indian was killed, the exclama- 
 /ion of Robinson was, " Oh ! that you had converted some, 
 before you had slain any." 
 
 Now, I say, the heroism which can look, in a great cause, 
 all the more terrible ills that flesh is heir to, calmly in the 
 face, and can tread them under its feet, as sparks, without 
 these aids, — is at least as lofty a quality as that which can- 
 not. To my eye, as I look back, it looms on the shores of 
 the past with a more towering and attractive grandeur. It 
 seems to me to speak from our far ancestral life, a higher 
 lesson to a nobler nature. 
 
 EXERCISE XLIII. 
 
 CHORUS IN THE "FALL OF JERUSALEM." Milman. 
 
 
 [An example of sublimity and grandeur of " expression" demanding 
 full " orotund quality? through the greater part of it, but commen- 
 cing in the "pure tone " of "pathos? with deep utterance and " pecto- 
 ral quality." In the description of the fate of the Egyptians, the 
 " movement " becomes " rapid? from intensity of emotion, and again 
 sinks to the low note and slow utterance of aive. The concluding 
 stanza returns to the bold style of exultation.'] 
 
 King of kings ! and Lord of lords ! 
 Thus we move, our sad steps timing 
 To our cymbal's feeblest chiming, 
 
 Where thy house its rest accords. 
 
 Chased and wounded birds are we, 
 
 Through the dark air fled to Thee ; 
 
 To the shadow of Thy wings, 
 
 Lord of lords ! and King of kings ! 
 
 Behold, O Lord ! the Heathen treads 
 The branches of thy fruitful vine, 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 133 
 
 That its luxurious tendrils spreads 
 
 O'er all the hills of Palestine. 
 And now the wild boar comes to waste 
 Even us, the greenest boughs and last, 
 That drinking of thy choicest dew, 
 On Zion's hill in beauty grew. 
 
 No ! by the marvels of thine hand, 
 Thou still wilt save thy chosen land ! 
 By all thine ancient mercies shown, 
 By all our fathers' foes o'erthrown; 
 By the Egyptian's car-borne host, 
 Scattered on the Red Sea coast, 
 By that wide and bloodless slaughter 
 Underneath the drowning water ! 
 
 Like us in utter helplessness, 
 In their last and worst distress, — 
 On the sand and seaweed lying, 
 Israel poured her doleful sighing ; 
 While, before, the deep sea flowed, 
 And behind, fierce Egypt rode : — 
 To their fathers' God they prayed. 
 To the Lord of Hosts, for aid. 
 
 On the margin of the flood, 
 
 With lifted rod, the Prophet stood ; 
 
 And the summoned east wind blew : 
 
 And aside it sternly threw 
 
 The gathered waves, that took their dtdnd, 
 
 Like crystal rocks, on either hand, 
 
 Or walls of sea-green marble piled 
 
 Round some irregular city wild. 
 
 Then the light of morning lay 
 On the wonder-paved way, 
 Where the treasures of the deep 
 In their caves of coral sleep. 
 The profound abysses, where 
 Was never sound from upper air, 
 Rang with Israel's chanted words, 
 King of kings ! and Lord of lords ! 
 
 Then with bow and banner glancing, 
 On exulting Egypt came, 
 12 
 
134 YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 
 
 With her chosen horsemen prancing, 
 
 And her cars on wheels of flame, 
 In a rich and boastful ring 
 All around her furious king. 
 But the Lord, from out his cloud, 
 The Lord looked down upon the proud ; 
 And the host drave heavily 
 Down the deep bosom of the sea. 
 
 With a quick and sudden swell 
 
 Prone the liquid ramparts fell ; 
 
 Over horse and over car, 
 
 Over every man of war, 
 
 Over Pharaoh's crown of gold, 
 
 The loud thundering billows rolled. 
 
 As the level waters spread, 
 
 Down they sank, they sank as lead, 
 
 Down without a cry or groan. 
 
 And the morning sun that shone 
 
 On myriads of bright-armed men, 
 
 Its meridian radiance then 
 Cast on a wide sea, heaving, as of yore, 
 Against a silent solitary shore ! 
 
 Then did Israel's maidens sing, 
 
 Then did Israel's timbrels ring, 
 To Him, the King of kings, that in the sea, 
 The Lord of Hosts, had triumphed gloriously 
 
 Shall they not attuned be 
 
 Once again to victory 1 
 
 Lo ! a glorious triumph now ! 
 
 Lo ! against thy people come 
 A mightier Pharaoh ! — Wilt not Thou 
 
 Craze the chariot wheels of Rome ? 
 Will not, like the Red Sea wave, 
 
 Thy stern anger overthrow ? 
 And from worse than bondage save, 
 
 From sadder than Egyptian woe, 
 Those whose silver cymbals glance, 
 Those who lead the suppliant dance, — 
 
 Thy race, — the only race that sings 
 
 " Lord of lords ! and King of kings ! " 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 135 
 
 EXERCISE XLIV. 
 
 MEMORIES. John G. Whittier. 
 
 [The following piece is an example of tenderness and repose, requiring" 
 "pure tone" in its " subdued " form, a gentle " median stress" " mid- 
 dle pitch" " slow movement" and long pauses.] 
 
 A beautiful and happy girl, 
 
 With step as soft as summer air, 
 And fresh young lip, and brow of pearl, 
 Shadowed by many a careless curl 
 
 Of unconfined and flowing hair : 
 A seeming child in every thing 
 
 Save thoughtful brow, and ripening charms, — 
 As Nature wears the smile of Spring, 
 
 When sinking into Summer's arms. 
 
 A mind rejoicing in the light 
 
 Which melted through its graceful bower, — 
 Leaf after leaf, serenely bright, 
 And stainless in its holy white, 
 
 Unfolding like a morning flower : 
 A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute, 
 
 With every breath of feeling woke, 
 And, even when the tongue was mute, 
 
 From eye and lip in music spoke. 
 
 How thrills, once more, the lengthening chain 
 
 Of memory, at the thought of thee ! — 
 Old hopes, which long in dust have lain, 
 Old dreams, come thronging back again ; 
 
 And boyhood lives again in me : 
 I feel its glow upon my cheek; 
 
 Its fulness of the heart is mine, 
 As when I leaned to hear thee speak, 
 
 Or raised my doubtful eye to thine. 
 
 I hear again thy low replies ; 
 
 I feel thy arm within my own ; 
 And timidly again uprise 
 The fringed lids of hazel eyes, 
 
 With soft brown tresses overblown. — 
 
136 
 
 Ah ! memories of sweet summer eves, 
 Of moonlit wave and willowy way, 
 
 Of stars, and flowers, and dewy leaves, 
 
 And smiles and tones more dear than they ! 
 
 Ere this thy quiet eye hath smiled, 
 
 My picture of thy youth to see, 
 When half a woman, half a child, 
 Thy very artlessness beguiled, 
 
 And folly's self seemed wise in thee 
 I too can smile, when o'er that hour 
 
 The lights of memory backward stream, 
 Yet feel, the while, that manhood's power 
 
 Is vainer than my boyhood's dream. 
 
 Years have passed on, and left their trace 
 
 Of graver care and deeper thought ; 
 And unto me, the calm, cold face 
 Of manhood, and to thee the grace 
 
 Of woman's pensive beauty brought. 
 On life's rough blast, for blame or praise 
 
 The schoolboy's name has widely flown ; — 
 Thine, in the green and quiet ways 
 
 Of unobtrusive goodness known. 
 
 And wider yet, in thought and deed, 
 
 Our still diverging paths incline ; — 
 Thine the Genevan's sternest creed, 
 While answers to my spirit's need, 
 
 The Yorkshire peasant's simple line. 
 For thee the priestly rite and prayer, 
 
 And holy day and solemn psalm ; — 
 For me the silent reverence where 
 
 My brethren gather, slow and calm. 
 
 Yet hath thy spirit left on me, 
 
 An impress Time has worn not out; 
 And something of myself in thee, — 
 A shadow from the past, — I see 
 
 Lingering, even yet, thy way about : 
 Not wholly can the heart unlearn 
 
 That lesson of its better hours, 
 Not yet has Time's dull footstep worn 
 
 To common dust that path of flowers. 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 137 
 
 Thus, — while at times, before our eye, 
 
 The clouds about the present part, 
 And smiling through them, round us lie 
 Soft hues of memory's morning sky, — 
 
 The Indian summer of the heart, — 
 In secret sympathies of mind, 
 
 In founts of feeling which retain 
 Their pure, fresh flow, — we yet may find 
 
 Our early dreams not wholly vain ! 
 
 EXERCISE XLV. 
 
 CONVERSATION AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS. 
 
 George B. Emerson. 
 
 [The following extract forms an example of didactic style. The voice 
 should, in the reading of such pieces, be marked by the same traits 
 as in elevated conversation, on topics of sentiment. The utterance 
 should be " serious" but "animated" and distinct. The " middle 
 pitch" " moderate force and rate" prevail throughout.] 
 
 The peculiar facility with which educated females learn to 
 excel in the art of conversation, has often been remarked. 
 The hilarity, ready sympathy, and desire of pleasing, which 
 are natural to woman, are intimations not to be mistaken of 
 her Creator's intentions. 
 
 The charm of easy, various, cheerful, refined conversation, is 
 too universally felt to need to be described. Whatever of excel- 
 lent or curious can occupy the mind of man, may naturally 
 be made the subject of conversation. A woman often has it 
 in her power, — without departing from the modesty which is 
 her greatest charm, — to lead conversation to the most ele- 
 vated and interesting subjects. She might always have, 
 among persons of the slightest civility, that of turning it 
 away from whatever is impure, disagreeable, or unprofitable. 
 When gracefully and skilfully used, it might be not only the 
 means of present gratification, but the vehicle of instruction 
 of the most permanent and ennobling kind. Is it unreasona- 
 ble to say that special preparations should be made for the 
 acquisition and exercise of this delightful art? 
 12 * 
 
138 
 
 The accomplishments are sometimes regarded, — as the 
 name intimates, — as giving the last touch and finish, and to 
 which almost any thing else in a female's education may be 
 sacrificed. Sometimes, on the contrary, they are looked upon 
 as trifling and valueless, wholly unworthy of the attention of 
 an immortal creature. Truth, as usual, lies between. They 
 may be misused ; but they also may be sources of innocent 
 and elevating pleasure to the possessor and to others. God 
 has bestowed on woman an ear and a voice which enable her 
 to utter sounds of exquisite music. He has constituted the 
 air an elastic medium adapted to wafting these sounds, soft- 
 ened but unimpaired, to a distance, and nicely adapted to the 
 vibrations of sonorous bodies, which He has formed, and 
 which He has given man intelligence to shape into various 
 instruments. Shall it be considered a perversion of the 
 Maker's purposes, for woman to perfect herself in an innocent 
 art, by which she can worthily praise God, and gladden the 
 heart of man ? 
 
 So with drawing. The eye may be trained to a quicker 
 perception, and the mind to a more perfect taste and compre- 
 hension of the beautiful and grand in nature, by a course of 
 instruction. The hand may be made a fit and ready minister 
 to record or execute the conceptions or observations of the 
 mind. Shall an art which thus opens to its possessor new 
 sources of gratification, and enables her to transmit to an ab- 
 sent friend a conception of a fine scene, and to enrich her 
 home with the beauties of the mountains and waters of dis- 
 tant lands, be condemned as trivial and frivolous ? 
 
 Accomplishments are too apt to be cultivated for the pur- 
 pose of rendering their possessor an object of attention for a 
 brief period ; and, when they have served this purpose, they 
 are too frequently thrown aside, as of no farther use. Wh) 
 should it be so? When a woman has found a home possess- 
 ing too many attractions to leave her the wish to wander 
 from it, why should she not add to them permanently those of 
 her early accomplishments 1 They are not less pleasing to 
 tried friends than to transient admirers. They may be re- 
 tained to cheer her own solitude, to enliven and compose the 
 spirits of her husband and children, and to gratify her friends. 
 And when friends shall have departed, and life is wearing 
 away, and the senses are beginning to fail, the accomplish- 
 ments of her youth may be the solace of her age. 
 
 i 
 
READER. 139 
 
 EXERCISE XLVI. 
 
 FASHION. Mrs. Barbuuld. 
 
 [An example of lively narrative and humorous description, requiring 
 attention to forcible and animated utterance, " brisk movement" and 
 varied tone.] 
 
 To break the shackles of oppression, and assert the native 
 rights of man, is esteemed by many among the noblest efforts 
 of heroic virtue. But vain is the possession of political lib- 
 erty, if there exists a tyrant of our own creation, who, with- 
 out lav/ or reason, or even external force, exercises over us 
 the most despotic authority ; whose jurisdiction is extended 
 over every part of private and domestic life, controls our 
 pleasures, fashions our garb, cramps our motions, fills our 
 lives with vain cares and restless anxiety. The worst slavery 
 is that which we voluntarily impose upon ourselves ; and no 
 chains are so cumbrous and galling as those which we are 
 pleased to wear, by way of grace and ornament. Musing 
 upon this idea, gave rise to the following dream or vision. 
 
 Methought I was in a country of the strangest and most 
 singular appearance I had ever beheld : the rivers were forced 
 into jct-cVeaus, and wasted in artificial waterworks; the lakes 
 were fashioned by the hand of art ; the roads were sanded 
 with spar and gold dust ; the trees all bore the marks of the 
 shears, — they were bent and twisted into the most whim- 
 sical forms, and connected together by festoons of riband and 
 silk fringe ; the wild flowers were transplanted into vases of 
 fine china, and painted with artificial white and red. 
 
 The disposition of the ground was full of fancy, but gro- 
 tesque and unnatural, in the highest degree : it was all high- 
 ly cultivated, and bore the marks of wonderful industry. But, 
 among its various productions I could hardly discern one 
 that was of any use. 
 
 My attention, however, was soon called off from the scenes 
 of inanimate life, by the view of the inhabitants, whose form 
 and appearance were so very preposterous, and, indeed, so 
 unlike any thing human, that I fancied myself transported to 
 the country of 
 
 " The anthropophagi and men whose heads 
 Do grow beneath their shoulders ; " 
 
140 
 
 for the heads of many of these people were swelled to an as- 
 tonishing size, and seemed to be placed in the middle of 
 their bodies. Of some, the ears were distended till they hung 
 upon the shoulders ; and of others, the shoulders were raised 
 till they met the ears. There was not one free from some de- 
 formity, or monstrous swelling, in one part or other : — some 
 had no necks ; others had necks that reached almost to their 
 waists ; the bodies of some were bloated up to such a size 
 that they could scarcely enter a pair of folding doors ; and 
 others had suddenly sprouted up to such a disproportionate 
 height, that they could not sit upright in their loftiest carriages. 
 
 Many shocked me with the appearance of being nearly cut 
 in two, like a wasp ; and I was alarmed at the sight of a few, 
 in whose faces, otherwise very fair and healthy, I discovered 
 an eruption of black spots, which I feared was the fatal sign 
 of some pestilential disorder. 
 
 The sight of these various and uncouth deformities, inspired 
 me with much pity, which, however, was soon changed into 
 disgust, when I perceived, with great surprise, that every one 
 of these unfortunate men and women was exceedingly proud 
 of his or her own peculiar deformity, and endeavoured to at- 
 tract my notice to it as much as possible. A lady, in partic- 
 ular, who had a huge swelling under her throat, and which, 
 I am sure, by its enormous projection, prevented her from 
 seeing the path she walked in, brushed by me with an air of 
 the greatest self-complacency, and asked me if she was not a 
 charming creature. 
 
 But, by this time, I found myself surrounded by an im- 
 mense crowd, who were all pressing along in one direction ; 
 and I perceived that I was drawn along with them by an 
 irresistible impulse, which grew stronger every moment. I 
 asked whither we were hurrying with so eager steps 1 and 
 was told that we were going to the court of dueen Fashion, 
 the great Diana whom all the world worshippeth. I would 
 have retired, but felt myself impelled to go on, though with- 
 out being sensible of any outward force. 
 
 When I came to the royal presence, I was astonished at 
 the magnificence I saw around me. The queen was sitting 
 on a throne, elegantly fashioned in the form of a shell, and 
 inlaid with gems and mother-of-pearl. It was supported by a 
 chameleon, formed of a single emerald. 
 
 She was dressed in a light robe of changeable silk, which 
 fluttered about her in a profusion of fantastic folds, that imi- 
 tated the form of clouds, and like them were continually 
 
141 
 
 changing their appearance. In one hand, she held a rouge- 
 box; and, in the other, one of those optical glasses which 
 distort figures in length or in breadth, according to the posi- 
 tion in which they are held. 
 
 At the foot of the throne, was displayed a profusion of the 
 richest productions of every quarter of the globe, tributes 
 from land and sea, from every animal and plant ; perfumes, 
 sparkling stones, drops of pearl, chains of gold, webs of the 
 finest linen ; wreaths of flowers, the produce of art, which 
 vied with the most delicate productions of nature ; forests of 
 feathers, waving their brilliant colours in the air and canopy- 
 ing the throne ; glossy silks, network of lace, silvery ermine, 
 soft folds of vegetable wool, rustling paper, and shining 
 spangles ; — the whole intermixed with pendants and stream- 
 ers of the gayest tinctured riband. 
 
 All these together made so brilliant an appearance, that 
 my eyes were, at first, dazzled ; and it was some time before 
 I recovered myself enough to observe the ceremonial of the 
 court. Near the throne, and its chief supports, stood the 
 queen's two prime ministers, — Caprice on one side, and 
 Vanity on the other. 
 
 Two officers seemed chiefly busy among the attendants. 
 One of them was a man with a pair of shears in his hand, 
 and a goose by his side, — a mysterious emblem, of which I 
 could not fathom the meaning : he sat cross-legged, like the 
 great Lama of the Tartars. He was busily employed in cut- 
 ting out coats and garments, — not, however, like Dorcas, 
 for the poor ; — nor, indeed, did they seem intended for any 
 mortal whatever, — so ill were they adapted to the shape of 
 the human body. Some of the garments were extravagantly 
 large, others as preposterously small : of others, it was diffi- 
 cult to guess to what part of the person they were meant to 
 be applied. Here were coverings, which did not cover ; or- 
 naments, which disfigured ; and defences against the weather, 
 more slight and delicate than what they were meant to de- 
 fend ; but all were eagerly caught up, without distinction, by 
 the crowd of votaries who were waiting to receive them. 
 
 The other officer was dressed in a white succinct linen 
 garment, like a priest of the lower order. He moved in a 
 cloud of incense more highly scented than the breezes of 
 Arabia ; he carried a tuft of the whitest down of the swan in 
 one hand, and, in the other, a small iron instrument, heated 
 redhot, which he brandished in the air. It was with infinite 
 
142 
 
 concern I beheld the Graces bound at the foot of the throne, 
 and obliged to officiate, as handmaids, ander the direction 
 of these two officers. 
 
 EXERCISE XLVII. 
 SAME SUBJECT CONCLUDED. 
 
 I now began to inquire by what laws this queen governed 
 her subjects, but soon found her administration was that of 
 the most arbitrary tyrant ever known. Her laws are exactly 
 the reverse of those of the Medes and Persians ; for they are 
 changed every day, and every hour : and what makes the 
 matter still more perplexing, they are in no written code, nor 
 even made public by proclamation : they are only promul- 
 gated by whispers, an obscure sign, or turn of the eye, which 
 those only who have the happiness to stand near the queen, 
 can catch with any degree of precision : yet the smallest 
 transgression of the laws is severely punished ; not indeed by 
 fines or imprisonment, but by a sort of interdict similar to 
 that which, in superstitious times, was laid by the Pope on 
 disobedient princes, and which operated in such a manner 
 that no one would eat, drink, or associate with the forlorn 
 culprit; and he was almost deprived of the use of fire and 
 water. 
 
 This difficulty of discovering the will of the goddess, oc- 
 casioned so much crowding to be near the throne, — such 
 jostling and elbowing of one another, — that 1 was glad to 
 retire and observe what I could among the scattered crowd : 
 and the first thing I took notice of, was various instruments 
 of torture which everywhere met my eyes. Torture has, in 
 most other governments of Europe, been abolished by the 
 mild spirit of the times ; but it reigns here in full force and 
 terror. I saw officers of this cruel court employed in boring 
 holes with redhot wires, in the ears, nose, and various parts 
 of the body, and then distending them with the weight of 
 metal chains, or stones, cut into a variety of shapes : some 
 had invented a contrivance for cramping the feet in such a 
 manner that many are lamed by it for their whole lives. 
 Others I saw, slender and delicate in their form, and nat- 
 urally nimble as the young antelope, who were obliged to 
 

 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 143 
 
 carry constantly about with them a cumbrous unwieldy ma 
 chine, of a pyramidal form, several ells in circumference. 
 
 But the most common and one of the worst instruments of 
 torture, was a small machine armed with fishbone and ribs of 
 steel, wide at top but extremely small at bottom. In this 
 detestable invention the queen orders the bodies of her female 
 subjects to be enclosed ; it is then, by means of silk cords, 
 drawn closer and closer at intervals, until the unhappy vic- 
 tims can scarcely breathe, and have found the exact point 
 that can be borne without fainting, — which, however, not 
 unfrequently happens. The flesh is often excoriated, and 
 the very ribs bent, by this cruel process. Yet, — what 
 astonished me more than all the rest, — these sufferings are 
 borne with a degree of fortitude which, in a better cause, 
 would immortalize a hero, or canonize a saint. The Spartan 
 who suffered the fox to eat into his vitals, did not bear pain 
 with greater resolution ; and as the Spartan mothers brought 
 their children to be scourged at the altar of Diana, so do the 
 mothers here bring their children, — and chiefly those whose 
 tender sex, one would suppose, excused them from such exer- 
 tions, — and early inure them to this cruel discipline. But 
 neither Spartan, nor Dervise, nor Bonze, nor Carthusian 
 monk, ever exercised more unrelenting severities over their 
 bodies, than these young zealots : indeed, the first lesson they 
 are taught, is a surrender of their own inclinations, and an 
 implicit obedience to the commands of the Goddess. 
 
 But they have, besides, a more solemn kind of dedication, 
 something similar to the rite of confirmation. When a young 
 woman approaches the marriageable age, she is led to the 
 altar : her hair, which before fell loosely about her shoulders, 
 is tied up in a tress ; sweet oils drawn from roses and spices 
 are poured upon it ; she- is involved in a cloud of scented 
 dust, and invested with ornaments under which she can 
 scarcely move. After this solemn ceremony, which is 
 generally concluded by a dance round the altar, the damsel 
 is obliged to a still stricter conformity than before to the laws 
 and customs of the court ; and any deviation from them is 
 severely punished. 
 
 The courtiers of Alexander, it is said, flattered him by 
 carrying their heads on one side, because he had the mis- 
 fortune to have a wry neck ; but all adulation is poor, com- 
 pared to what is practised in this court. Sometimes the 
 queen will lisp and stammer ; — and then none of her attend 
 
144 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 ants can " speak plain : " sometimes she chooses to totter as 
 she walks ; t— and then they are seized with sudden lameness. 
 According as she appears half-undressed, or veiled from head 
 to foot, her subjects become a procession of nuns, or a troop 
 of Bacchanalian nymphs. I could not help observing, how- 
 ever, that those who stood at the greatest distance from the 
 throne, were the most extravagant in their imitation. 
 
 EXERCISE XLVIII. 
 USE OF AN INTERJECTION. Miss Mitford. 
 
 [An example of graphic humour. This piece should be read with all 
 the vivid effect of expressive tone and playful manner. The voice, in 
 this case, should be indulged in full scope in graphic and dramatic 
 style, in which it is always natural to indulge, when we are excited 
 by humorous expression, and risible situations or deportment. The 
 tone then partakes of the spoHive character of the scene, and un- 
 consciously paints the whole by vivid and dramatic variations.] 
 
 Wandering about the meadows, one morning in May, — 
 absorbed in the pastoral beauty of the season and the scenery, 
 
 — I was overtaken by a heavy shower, just as I passed old 
 Mrs. Matthews's great farm-house, and forced to run for shel- 
 ter to her hospitable porch. 
 
 The sort of bustle which my reception had caused, having 
 subsided, I found great amusement in watching my hospitable 
 hostess, and listening to a dialogue, — if so it may be called, 
 
 — between her pretty granddaughter and herself, which at 
 once let me into a little love-secret, and gave me an oppor- 
 tunity of observing one, of whose occasional oddities I had, 
 all my life, heard a great dead. 
 
 Mrs. Matthews was one of the most remarkable persons in 
 these parts ; a capital farmer, a most intelligent parish-officer, 
 and in her domestic government not a little resembling the 
 widow Goe, one of the finest sketches which Mr. Crabbe's 
 graphical pen ever produced. Great power of body and 
 mind was visible in her robust person and massive counte- 
 nance ; and there was both humour and intelligence in her 
 
145 
 
 acute smile, and in the keen gray eye that glanced from under 
 her spectacles. All that she said bore the stamp of sense ; but, 
 at this time, she was in no talking mood, and, on my beg- 
 ging that I might cause no interruption, resumed her seat and 
 ker labours, in silent composure. 
 
 She sat at a little table, mending a fustian jacket belonging 
 to one of her sons, — a sort of masculine job, which suited 
 her much better than a more delicate piece of seamstress-ship 
 would have done. Indeed, the tailor's needle, which she 
 brandished with great skill, the whity-brown thread, tied round 
 her neck, and the huge dull-looking shears, (one can 7 t make 
 up one's mind to call such a huge masculine thing scissors,) 
 which, in company with an enormous pin-cushion, dangled 
 from her apron-string, figuring as the pendant to a most 
 formidable bunch of keys, formed altogether such a working 
 apparatus as shall hardly be matched in these days of polished 
 cutlery and cobwebby cotton thread. 
 
 On the other side of a little table, sat her pretty grand- 
 daughter Patty, — a black-eyed young woman, with a bright 
 complexion, a neat, trim figure, and a general air of gentili- 
 ty, considerably above her station. She was trimming a very 
 smart straw-hat with pink ribands; — trimming and untrim- 
 ming ; for the bows were tied and untied, taken off and put 
 on, and taken off again, with a look of impatience and dis- 
 content, not common to a damsel of seventeen, when con- 
 templating a new piece of finery. The poor little lass was 
 evidently out of sorts. She sighed, and quirked, and fidget- 
 ted, and seemed ready to cry ; whilst her grandmother just 
 glanced at her from under her spectacles, pursed up her 
 mouth, and contrived with some difficulty not to laugh. 
 
 Patty. Now, grandmother, you will let me go to Chapel- 
 row revel this afternoon, won't you? 
 
 Mrs. Matthews. Humph ! 
 
 Patty. It hardly rains at all, grandmother! 
 
 Mrs. 31. Humph ! [opening the prodigious shears with 
 which she was amputating, so to say, a button, and directing 
 the rounded end significantly towards my wet shawl, whilst 
 the sharp point was reverted towards the dripping honey- 
 suckle.] Humph! 
 
 Patty. There's no dirt to signify! 
 
 Mrs. M. Humph ! [pointing to the draggled skirt of my 
 white gown.] 
 
 Patty. At all events, it's going to clear. 
 13 
 
146 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Mrs. M. Humph ! Humph ! [points to the clouds, and 
 to the barometer.] 
 
 Patty. It's only seven miles; and if the horses are 
 wanted, I can walk. 
 
 Mrs. M. Humph ! 
 
 Patty. My aunt Ellis will be there, and my cousin Mary 
 
 Mrs. 31. Humph ! 
 
 Patty. And if a person is coming here on business, what 
 can I be wanted for, if you are at home, grandmother ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Humph ! 
 
 Patty. What business can any one have with me 1 
 
 3Irs. M. Humph I 
 
 Patty. My cousin Mary will be so disappointed I 
 
 Mrs. M. Humph ! 
 
 Patty. And I half promised my cousin William — poor 
 William I 
 
 Mrs. M. Humph ! 
 
 Patty. Poor William ! Oh ! grandmother, do let me go ! 
 And I've got my new hat and all, — just such a hat as Wil- 
 liam likes ! Poor William I You will let me go, grand- 
 mother 1 
 
 Mrs. M. Humph ! 
 
 Susan , (Patty's younger sister.) Who is this riding up 
 the meadow, — all through the rain ? Look ! — see ! — I do 
 think, — no, it can't be, — yes, it is — it is certainly, my 
 cousin William Ellis ! Look grandmother ! 
 
 Mrs. M. Humph I 
 
 Susan. What can cousin William be coming for ? 
 
 Mrs. M. Humph ! 
 
 Susan. Oh! I know I — I know J [clapping her hands,] 
 I know I I know I 
 
 Mrs. M. Humph !' 
 
 Patty. For shame, Susan ! Pray don't, grandmother I 
 
 Susan. For shame ! Why, I did not say he was coming 
 to court sister Patty ! Did I, grandmother ? 
 
 Mrs. M. And I take this good lady to witness, that I 
 have said nothing of any sort. Get along with you, Patty ! 
 you have spoiled your pink trimming. But I think you are 
 likely to want white ribands next ; and, if you put me in 
 mind, I'll buy them for you ! 
 
READER. 147 
 
 EXERCISE XLIX. 
 
 DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Robert Hall. 
 
 [The predominating characteristics of this extract, are solemnity, sublim- 
 ity, an&pathos. The union of these qualities requires " orotund " utter- 
 ance, with perfectly "pure tone " and " median stress" — the latter 
 strongly marked, in exclamatory and strong expressions. The pre- 
 vailing note of the voice is low ; — the force varies with the emotion, 
 as sublime and forcible, or soft, solemn, antipathetic ; the "movement" 
 throughout, is slow, — sometimes very slow ; and the pauses are, in 
 the latter case, unusually long.] 
 
 Born to inherit the most illustrious monarchy in the world, 
 and united at an early period to the object of her choice, 
 whose virtues amply justified her preference, the princess en- 
 joyed the highest connubial felicity, and had the prospect of 
 combining all the tranquil enjoyments of private life, with the 
 splendour of a royal station. Placed on the summit of society, 
 to her every eye was turned ; in her every hope was centred ; 
 and nothing was wanting to complete her felicity, — except 
 perpetuity. 
 
 To a grandeur of mind suited to her illustrious birth, and 
 lofty destination, she joined an exquisite taste for the beau- 
 ties of nature, and the charms of retirement ; where, far from 
 the gaze of the multitude, and the frivolous agitations of fash- 
 ionable life, she employed her hours in visiting, with her illus- 
 trious consort, the cottages of the poor, in improving her vir- 
 tues, in perfecting her reason, and acquiring the knowledge 
 best adapted to qualify her for the possession of power, and 
 the cares of empire. 
 
 It is no reflection on this amiable princess to suppose, that 
 in her early dawn of life, with the " dew of her youth " so fresh 
 sipon her, she anticipated a long series of years, and expected 
 to be led through successive scenes of enchantment, rising 
 above each other in fascination and beauty. It is natural to 
 suppose that she identified herself with this great nation, 
 which she was born to govern ; and that, while she contem- 
 plated its preeminent lustre in arts and in arms, its commerce 
 encircling the globe, its colonies diffused through both hem- 
 ispheres, and the beneficial effects of its institutions, extend- 
 
148 
 
 ing to the whole earth ; she considered them as so many com- 
 ponent parts of her own grandeur. 
 
 Her heart, we may well conceive, would often be ruffled 
 with emo ions of trembling ecstasy, when she reflected, that 
 it was her province to live entirely for others ; to compose the 
 felicity of a great people ; to move in a sphere which would 
 afford scope for the exercise of philanthropy, the most en- 
 larged, — of wisdom, the most enlightened ; and that, while 
 others are doomed to pass through the world in obscurity, she 
 was to supply the materials of history, and to impart that 
 impulse to society, which was to decide the destiny of future 
 generations. Fired with the ambition of equalling, or sur- 
 passing, the most distinguished of her predecessors, she prob- 
 ably did not despair of reviving the remembrance of the 
 brightest parts of their story, and of once more attaching the 
 epoch of British glory to the annals of a female reign. 
 
 It is needless to add that the nation went with her, and 
 probably outstripped her in these delightful anticipations* 
 We fondly hoped that a life so inestimable, would be pro- 
 tracted to a distant period, and that, after diffusing the bless- 
 ings of a just and enlightened administration, and being 
 surrounded by a numerous progeny, she would gradually,, in a 
 good old age, sink under the horizon, amidst the embraces of 
 her family, and the benedictions of her country. 
 
 But, alas ! these delightful visions are fled ; and what do 
 we behold in their room, but the funeral pall and shroud, a 
 palace in mourning, a nation in tears, and the shadow of death 
 settled over both like a cloud? Oh 1 the unspeakable vanity 
 of human hopes ! the incurable blindness of man to futurity ! 
 
 — ever doomed to grasp at shadows, to seize with avidity 
 what turns to dust and ashes in his hand, " to sow the wind, 
 and reap the whirlwind 1 " 
 
 Without the slightest warning, without the opportunity of a 
 moment's immediate preparation, — in the midst of the deep 
 est tranquillity, — at midnight, a voice was heard in the pal- 
 ace, — 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 tidings of her infant's death, almost immediately r 
 
 — as if summoned by his spirit, — follows him into eternity I 
 " 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 approach, which, when it arrived, 
 mocked the efforts of human skill,, as much by their incapaci- 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER, 149 
 
 ty to prevent, as their inability to foresee it? Unmoved by 
 the tears of conjugal affection, unawcd 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 
 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 amia- 
 ble young 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 re- 
 ligion prepared her, she is far from looking back with linger- 
 ing regret on what she has quitted ; and, so far as memory 
 may be supposed to contribute to her happiness, by associat- 
 ing the present with the past, it is not by the recollection of 
 her illustrious birth and elevated prospects, — but that she 
 visited the abodes of the poor, and learned to weep with those 
 who weep ; — that, surrounded with the fascinations of pleas- 
 ure, 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 inspirations of piety, and 
 walked humbly with her God. 
 
 EXERCISE L. 
 
 SAME SUBJECT. Thomas Chalmers. 
 
 Oh ! how it tends to quiet the agitations of every earthly 
 interest and earthly passion, when Death steps forward, and 
 demonstrates the littleness of them all, — when he stamps a 
 character of such affecting insignificance on all that we are 
 contending for, — when, as if to make known the greatness 
 of his power, in the sight of a whole country, he stalks in 
 13* 
 
150 YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 
 
 ghastly triumph over the might and the grandeur of its most 
 august family^ and singling out that member of it on whom 
 the dearest hopes and the gayest visions of the people were 
 suspended, he, by one fatal and resistless blow, sends abroad 
 the fame of his victory and his strength, throughout the wide 
 extent of an afflicted nation ! He has indeed put a cruel and 
 impressive mockery on all the glories of mortality. 
 
 A few days ago, all looked so full of life, and promise, and 
 security, — when we were told that the expectant metropolis 
 of our empire, on tiptoe for the announcement of her future 
 monarch, had her winged couriers of despatch to speed the 
 welcome message to the ears of her citizens, and that from 
 her an embassy of gladness was to travel over all the prov- 
 inces of the land ; and the country ^ forgetful of all that she 
 had suffered, was at length to offer the spectacle of one wide 
 and rejoicing jubilee. 
 
 O Death ! thou hast indeed chosen the time and the victim, 
 for demonstrating the grim ascendency of thy power over all 
 the hopes and fortunes of our species S — Our blooming prin- 
 eess, — whom fancy had decked with the crown of these 
 realms, and under whose sway all bade so fair for the good 
 and the peace of the nation, — has he placed upon her bier 1 
 And, — as if to fill up the measure of his triumph, — has he 
 laid by her side, that babe, who, but for him, might have 
 been the monarch of a future generation ; and he has done 
 that, which by no single achievement he could otherwise have 
 accomplished ; — he has sent forth over the whole of our land, 
 the gloom of such a bereavement as cannot be replaced by any 
 living descendant of royalty ; — he has broken the direct suc- 
 cession of the monarchy of England ; — by one and the same 
 disaster, has he awakened the public anxieties of the country, 
 and sent a pang, as acute as that of the most woful visita- 
 tion, into the heart of each of its families. 
 
 The sons and the daughters of royalty, appear to the pub- 
 lic eye as stalking on a platform so highly elevated above the 
 general level of society, that it removes them, as it were, from 
 all the ordinary sympathies of our nature. And though we 
 read at times of their galas, and their birthdays, and their 
 drawing-rooms, there is nothing in all this to attach us to 
 their interests and their feelings, as the inhabitants of a 
 familiar home, — as the members of an affectionate family. 
 Surrounded as they are with the glare of a splendid notoriety, 
 we scarcely recognize them as men and as women, who can 
 rejoice, and weep, and pine with disease, and taste the suffer- 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 151 
 
 ings of mortality, and be oppressed with anguish, and love 
 with tenderness, and experience in their bosoms the same 
 movements of grief or of affection that we do ourselves. 
 
 But, if, through an accidental opening, the public should 
 be favoured with a domestic exhibition, — if, by some over- 
 powering visitation of Providence upon an illustrious family, 
 the members of it should come to be recognized as the par- 
 takers of one common humanity with ourselves, — if, instead 
 of beholding them in their gorgeousness as princes, we look 
 to them in the natural evolution of their sensibilities as men, 
 — if the stately palace should be turned into a house of mourn- 
 ing ; — in one word, if Death should do what he has already 
 done ; — he has met the princess of England in the prime and 
 promise of her days, and, as she was moving onward on her 
 march to an hereditary throne, he has laid her at his feet : — 
 ah ! when the imagination dwells on that bed where the re- 
 mains of departed youth and departed infancy are lying, — when, 
 instead of contemplating crowns and canopies of grandeur, it 
 looks to the forlorn husband, and the weeping father, and the 
 human feelings which agitate their bosoms, and the human 
 tears which flow down their cheeks, — what is the feeling of 
 the whole country, at so sad an exhibition? — All is soft and 
 tender as womanhood. Nor is there a peasant in our land, 
 who is not touched to the very heart, when he thinks of the 
 unhappy stranger, who is now spending his days in grief, and 
 his nights in sleeplessness, — as he mourns alone in his dark- 
 ened chamber, and refuses to be comforted. 
 
 EXERCISE LI. 
 
 "PASSING AWAY." John Pierpont. 
 
 [Vhe following piece is an example of exquisite poetic beauty, in sub- 
 ject and style. It requires the earnest tone of ardent admiration, 
 softened by tenderness and pathos into the gentlest expression, arising* 
 from the most delicate and " subdued" fonns of (i pure tone" and 
 " median stress." In this and all other poetry of a light, dreamy, 
 and ethereal cast, the pitch inclines high ; — the force is " subdued," 
 — corresponding to " piano" and "pianissimo," in music; — the 
 " movement " is " slow." The rhythm of the metre should, in all such 
 cases, be distinctly but delicately preserved to the ear.] 
 
152 
 
 Was it the chime of a tiny bell, 
 
 That came so sweet to my dreaming ear, — 
 Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell 
 
 That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear, 
 When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, 
 And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep,— 
 She dispensing her silvery light, 
 And he, his notes as silvery quite, 
 While the boatman listens, and ships his oar, 
 To catch the music that comes from the shore ? — 
 
 Hark ! the notes, on my ear that play, 
 
 Are set to words : — as they float, they say, 
 " Passing away ! passing away ! " 
 
 But no ; it was not a fairy's shell, 
 
 Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear ; 
 Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell, 
 
 Striking the hour, that filled my ear, 
 As I lay in my dream ; yet was it a chime 
 That told of the flow of the stream of time. 
 For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung, 
 And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, swung ; 
 (As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring 
 That hangs in his cage, a Canary bird swing ;) 
 And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet, 
 And, as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say, 
 " Passing away ! passing away ! " 
 
 Oh ! how bright were the wheels, that told 
 
 Of the lapse of time, as they moved around slow! 
 And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold, 
 
 Seemed to point to the girl below. 
 And lo ! she had changed : — in a few short hours 
 Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers, 
 That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung 
 This way and that, as she, dancing, swung 
 In the fulness of grace and womanly pride, 
 That told me she soon was to be a bride ; — 
 Yet then, when expecting her happiest day, 
 In the same sweet voice I heard her say, 
 " Passing away ! passing away ! " 
 
 While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade 
 Of thought^ or care, stole softly over, 
 
153 
 
 Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made, 
 Looking down on a field of blossoming clover. 
 
 The rose yet lay on her cheek ; but its flush 
 
 Had something lost of its brilliant blush ; 
 
 And the light in her eye, and the light en the wheels, 
 That marched so calmly around above her, 
 
 Was a little dimmed, — as when evening steals 
 
 Upon noon's hot face : — yet one couldn't but love her, 
 
 For she looked like a mother, whose first babe lay 
 Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day ; — 
 And she seemed in the same silver tone to say, 
 " Passing away ! passing away ! " 
 
 While yet I looked, what a change there came ! 
 
 Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan : 
 Stooping and staffed was her withered frame, 
 
 Yet, just as busily, swung she on ; 
 The garland beneath her had fallen to dust ; 
 The wheels above her were eaten with rust ; 
 The hands, that over the dial swept, 
 Grew crooked and tarnished, but on they kept ; 
 And still there came that silver tone 
 From the shrivelled lips of the toothless crone, 
 
 (Let me never forget till my dying day 
 
 The tone or the burden of her lay,) 
 " Passing away ! passing away ! " 
 
 EXERCISE LII. 
 
 SEASONS OF PRAYER. Henry Ware, Jr. 
 
 [Solemnity, beauty, sublimity, joy, and pathos, are the predominating 
 emotions in this piece. The " qualities " of voice required in read- 
 ing it, vary, — with the force or delicacy of the " expression,''' — from 
 " expulsive orotund " to " subdued " " pure tone." The pitch inclines 
 low, in the solemn, and high, in the joyous strains ; the force is soft, 
 in pathetic, and full, in sublime passages ; the " movement " is " lively," 
 in the expression of joy, and " slow " in that of solemnity. The 
 pauses vary in length, in a correspondent manner. Care must be 
 taken not to overdo the effect of the metre into a chanting style.] 
 
154 
 
 To prayer, to prayer ! — for the morning breaks ; 
 And earth in her Maker's smile awakes. 
 His light is on all below and above, 
 The light of gladness, and life, and love. 
 Oh! then, on the breath of this early air, 
 Send upward the incense of grateful prayer. 
 
 To prayer ! — for the glorious sun is gone, 
 And the gathering darkness of night comes on. 
 Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows, 
 To shade the couch where his children repose. 
 Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright, 
 And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of night. 
 
 To prayer ! — for the day that God has blessed 
 Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest. 
 It speaks of creation's early bloom; 
 It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb. 
 Then summon the spirit's exalted powers, 
 And devote to heaven the hallowed hours. 
 
 There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes, 
 
 For her new-born infant beside her lies. 
 
 Oh ! hour of bliss ! when the heart o'er flows 
 
 With rapture a mother only knows. 
 
 Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer ; 
 
 Let it swell up to heaven for her precious care. 
 
 There are smiles and tears in that gathering band, 
 Where the heart is pledged with the trembling hand 
 What trying thoughts in her bosom swell, 
 As the bride bids parents and home farewell ! 
 Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair, 
 And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer. 
 
 Kneel down by the dying sinner's side, 
 
 And pray for his soul, through Him who died. 
 
 Large drops of anguish are thick on his brow. — 
 
 Oh ! what are earth and its pleasures now ? 
 
 And what shall assuage his dark despair, 
 
 But the penitent cry of humble prayer"? 
 
 Kneel down at the couch of departing faith, 
 And hear the last words the believer saith. 
 
READER. 155 
 
 He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends ; 
 
 There is peace in his eye that upward bends ; 
 
 There is peace in his calm, confiding air ; 
 
 For his last thoughts are God's, his last words prayer. 
 
 The voice of prayer at the sable bier ! 
 
 A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer. 
 
 It commends the spirit to God who gave ; 
 
 It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave ; 
 
 It points to the glory where He shall reign 
 
 Who whispered, " Thy brother shall rise .again." 
 
 The voice of prayer in the world of bliss ! 
 But gladder, purer, than rose from this. 
 The ransomed shout to their glorious King, 
 Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing ; 
 But a sinless and joyous song they raise ; 
 And their voice of prayer is eternal praise. 
 
 Awake, awake, and gird up thy strength 
 
 To join that holy band at length. 
 
 To Him who unceasing love displays, 
 
 Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise, 
 
 To Him thy heart and thy hours be given ; 
 
 For a life of prayer is the life of heaven. 
 
 EXERCISE LIII. 
 
 THE FALL OF NIAGARA. J. G. C. Brainard. 
 
 [Sublimity, extending to awe, is the chief characteristic of this piece. 
 The reading is marked by deep " orotund" suppressed by the slightly 
 " aspirated " effect of awe, bordering on fear. The " movement " is 
 " extremely slow ; " and the pauses correspond in length. 
 
 The full, sonorous effect of the blank verse, should be freely given, i o 
 the utterance.] 
 
 The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, 
 While I look upward to thee. — It would seem 
 As if God poured thee from his "hollow hand," 
 And hung his bow upon thine awful front ; 
 And spake in that loud voice, which seemed to him 
 
156 
 
 Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake, 
 " The sound of many waters ; " and had bid 
 Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, 
 And notch His centuries in the eternal rock ! 
 
 Deep calleth unto deep ! — And what are we, 
 That hear the question of that voice sublime ? 
 Oh ! what are all the notes that ever rang 
 From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side ? 
 Yea, what is all the riot man can make, 
 In his short life, to thy unceasing roar 1 
 And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him 
 Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far 
 Above its loftiest mountains? — a light wave, 
 That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might ! 
 
 EXERCISE LIV. 
 
 FERDINAND AND ISABELLA. Washington Irving. 
 
 [This extract forms an example of easy, fluent, and graceful nairation, 
 intermingled with description and sentiment It requires, in reading, 
 " pure tone" in the " moderate " form which belongs to " serious " and 
 "animated" style. The utterance is on the "middle pitch," — the 
 " movement" " moderate"] 
 
 It has been well observed of Ferdinand and Isabella, that 
 they lived together, not like man and wife, whose estates are 
 in common, under the orders of the husband, but like two 
 monarchs, strictly allied. They had separate claims to 
 sovereignty, in virtue of their separate kingdoms, and held 
 separate councils. Yet they were so happily united by com- 
 mon views, common interests, and a great deference for each 
 other, that this double administration never prevented a unity 
 of purpose and action. All acts of sovereignty were executed 
 in both their names ; all public writings subscribed with both 
 their signatures ; their likenesses were stamped together on 
 the public coin ; and the royal seal displayed the united arms 
 of Castile and Arragon. 
 
 Ferdinand possessed a clear and comprehensive genius, 
 and great penetration. He was equable in temper, indefati- 
 
157 
 
 gable in business, a great observer of men, and is extolled by 
 Spanish writers as unparalleled in the science of the cabinet. 
 It has been maintained by writers of other nations, however, 
 and apparently with reason, that he was bigoted in religion, 
 and craving rather than magnanimous in his ambition ; that 
 he made war less like a paladin than a prince, less for glory 
 than for mere dominion ; and that his policy was cold, selfish, 
 and artful. He was called the wise and prudent in Spain ; 
 in Italy, the pious ; in France and England, the ambitious 
 and perfidious. 
 
 Contemporary writers have been enthusiastic in their de- 
 scriptions of Isabella; but timejias sanctioned their eulogies. 
 She was of the middle size, and well formed ; with a fair 
 complexion, auburn hair, and clear blue eyes. There was a 
 mingled gravity and sweetness in her countenance, and a 
 singular modesty in her mien, gracing, as it did, great firm- 
 ness of purpose and earnestness of spirit. Though strongly 
 attached to her husband, and studious of his fame, yet she 
 always maintained her distinct rights as an allied prince. She 
 exceeded him in beauty, personal dignity, acuteness of genius, 
 and grandeur of soul. Combining the active, the resolute 
 qualities of man, with the softer charities of woman, she 
 mingled in the warlike councils of her husband, and being 
 inspired with a truer idea of glory, infused a more lofty 
 and generous temper into his subtle and calculating policy. 
 
 It is in the civil history of their reign, however, that the 
 character of Isabella shines most illustrious. Her fostering 
 and maternal care was continually directed to reform the laws, 
 and heal the ills engendered by a long course of civil wars. 
 She assembled round her the ablest men in literature and 
 science, and directed herself by their counsels in encoura- 
 ging literature and the arts. She promoted the distribution of 
 honours and rewards for the promulgation of knowledge, 
 fostered the recently invented art of printing ; and, through 
 her patronage, Salamanca rose to that eminence which it 
 assumed among the learned institutions of the age. Such 
 was the noble woman who was destined to acquire immortal 
 renown by her spirited patronage of the discovery of the 
 new world. 
 
 14 
 
158 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 EXERCISE LV. 
 
 Miss Leslie. 
 
 [The style of this piece requires the manner of" lively" and "gay n 
 conversation, interspersed with occasional "serious" expression, 
 and, sometimes, with graphic " humour" To give these changes 
 of feeling with full natural effect, is the chief object to be kept in 
 view, in reading. When the description borders on the satirical 
 style, a peculiar pungency is required in the emphasis; and the 
 " slide" or " simple inflection" passes into the " wave" or " double 
 inflection." A pompous " median " swell, also, is sometimes thrown 
 in, to give efficacy to descriptive tone, in burlesque passages.] 
 
 Mr. Milstead, who, to the most sincere piety united a 
 cultivated mind, a benevolent heart, and a cheerful and lib- 
 eral disposition, had been recently appointed to a church in 
 one of the small towns of a certain Atlantic section of the 
 Union, that shall be nameless. His wife was a young and 
 beautiful woman, whose character harmonized in every re- 
 spect with his own. 
 
 As they had no children, and were good managers, Mr. 
 Milstead soon found that his salary would not only afford 
 them all they wanted, but that it would leave them something 
 to give away. They became very popular with the congrega- 
 tion ; for Mr. Milstead, though indefatigable in administering 
 to the spiritual wants of his flock, was never unmindful of 
 their temporal happiness ; and his judicious and amiable wife 
 went hand in hand with him, in every thing. 
 
 They had not been long established in Tamerton, when 
 they observed with regret, that, though the inhabitants 
 showed the best possible disposition to be on intimate terms 
 with the minister and his lady, there was little sociability 
 or familiarity among themselves. The society of Tamerton 
 had gradually divided into numerous circles ; some of these 
 circles being so small as to comprise but one or two families. 
 Mrs. Gutheridge, for instance, the most wealthy woman of 
 the place, revolved entirely in her own orbit. She was the 
 childless widow of Zephaniah Pelatiah Gutheridge, who had, 
 for several successive sessions, filled the office of speaker, in 
 the senate of the state legislature, — an office that suited him 
 exactly, as he had never been known to speak in the house, 
 and very rarely out of it. 
 
159 
 
 Mr. Gutheridge had long been the chief man of Tamerton ; 
 and his widow now reigned in his stead, — alone in her 
 glory, and occupant of the broadest, the longest, and the 
 tallest white frame domicile in the village. She was origi- 
 nally from the city, and of a very genteel family : her grand- 
 father, having made his fortune, had quitted bricklaying, and 
 turned gentleman, long before he was superannuated. Her 
 father had not contaminated his hands by putting them to any 
 trade whatever ; having, after he left college, attended to no 
 other business than the care of preserving his life, by study- 
 ing to guard himself from all possible maladies and accidents. 
 Therefore he died, — of no particular disease, — at the age of 
 thirt3'-four. 
 
 Mrs. Gutheridge was a large woman, with a majestic 
 figure. She had an aquiline nose, immense black eyes, and 
 a prominent mouth, with very good teeth. After she became 
 a widow, she preferred remaining at Tamerton, to removing 
 to the city ; for, like Caesar, she thought it better to be first 
 in a village, than second at Rome. She had, however, a 
 sovereign contempt for every man, woman, and child in the 
 neighbourhood, with the exception of the clergyman and his 
 wife, whom she tolerated, because she heard that, in England, 
 the aristocracy make a point of upholding the church ; and 
 she professed to be aristocratic in all her ways. 
 
 With the assistance of her maid, she spent an hour every 
 day in attiring herself for her solitary dinner ; and she sat 
 down alone to her sumptuous table, " all dressed up in ncn 
 array." This she called self-respect. Her abigail reported 
 that Mrs. Gutheridge had a set of night curls for sleeping in ; 
 and that her nightcaps were far superior to any daycaps that 
 had ever appeared in Tamerton. 
 
 Mrs. Gutheridge rarely walked beyond her own grounds ; 
 but she rode out in her carriage every afternoon. She was 
 seldom seen at full length, except on Sunday morning, when 
 she proceeded up the middle aisle of the church, swinging a 
 magnificent reticule, and followed by her black man, carry- 
 ing two magnificent books. Her pew was richly lined and 
 carpeted ; and it was surrounded by curtains through which 
 she could peep, without being exposed to the gaze of the 
 vulgar; for of that class she considered the whole congrega- 
 tion. She reminded Mr. Milstead of the sovereign of one of 
 the Asiatic islands, who always kept his own name a pro- 
 found secret, lest it should be profaned by the utterance of 
 his subjects. 
 
160 
 
 Mrs. Gutheridge, being unquestionably at the head, (01 
 rather over the head,) of Tamerton society, the next position 
 was occupied by the families of two lawyers, and the third 
 circle consisted of three physicians ; for, except in Philadel- 
 phia, lawyers are generally supposed to take rank of doctors ; 
 but, in the city of brotherly love, that point is still contested. 
 With regard to the medical fraternity of Tamerton, it might 
 be said in the words of Shelty, that " every man shook his 
 own hand : " for they never met in amity, and were seldom 
 on speaking terms. Dr. Drainblood referred every disease to 
 the head ; Dr. Famishem deduced " all the ills that flesh is 
 heir to," from the state of the stomach ; and Dr. Juste Mi- 
 lieu, (who was a Frenchman,) maintained a strict neutrality; 
 keeping half way between the two theories, doing neither 
 good nor harm to his patients, and incurring the contempt and 
 reprobation of both his fellow-practitioners. He was, how- 
 ever, in high favour with the young ladies and the mothers : 
 the grandmothers did not like him quite so well. 
 
 In the fourth circle, were the store-keepers; and they 
 found it convenient to be tolerably friendly. Next came the 
 tavern-keepers, who were rivals and foemen. The mechan- 
 ics all took precedence of each other ; there being no reason 
 why a carpenter should vail his bonnet to a wheelwright, why a 
 shoemaker should do reverence to a tailor, or why a butcher 
 should succumb to a baker. As to the clerks, milliners, and 
 mantua-makers, they got in where they could. The teachers 
 got in nowhere ; except one lady, who, under the signature 
 of Polyhymnia, supplied the weekly newspaper with odes, 
 " after the manner of Pindar," (not Peter,) and was therefore 
 generally invited to meet strangers, and to show them that 
 the town of Tamerton possessed a live author. 
 
 Let it, however, be understood that the integrity of the 
 circles was chiefly preserved by the ladies. The gentlemen, 
 when their wives were not by, frequently gave way to their 
 natural dislike of restraint, and talked to each other familiarly 
 enough, particularly on politics ; for when that subject is 
 started, no American can possibly keep silent. 
 
 Such was the state of society in the village of Tamerton, 
 when Mr. and Mrs. Milstead first removed thither. They 
 soon discovered the position of affairs by visiting round 
 among the congregation ; and when the pastor and his lady 
 invited company to their own house, they always perceived 
 that they had given some dissatisfaction by not assorting the 
 guests according to rank. 
 
161 
 
 Mrs. Gutheridge kept herself entirely aloof, and showed no 
 other civility to Mr. and Mrs. Milstead, than that of coming 
 in her carriage to leave at their door two cards printed in 
 gold. 
 
 Mr. Milstead took occasion, in one of his sermons, to dep- 
 recate the sin of pride and arrogance, which he justly repre- 
 sented as being especially absurd and inconvenient in a small 
 community, every member of which was a citizen of a repub- 
 lic. His discourse was eloquent and impressive ; and it was 
 heard with due attention. Yet the only effect it produced, 
 was, that none of the congregation took his admonitions to 
 themselves, but all hoped that their neighbours would. 
 
 EXERCISE LVI. 
 
 TWILIGHT. Fitz-Green Halleck. . 
 
 [This beautiful example of pensive " repose" passes from the " sub- 
 dued" form of '■'■pure tone" in the utterance of tranquillity and 
 pathos, which prevail through the first stanza, to that of solemnity 
 and awe, at the close of the last stanza. In the second and third 
 stanzas, the " orotund " tone of jo y is delicately blended with the 
 pensive expression of regret, in that peculiar suavity of voice which 
 belongs to those moods of memory which are "pleasant but 
 mournful to the soul." Such passages require a nice attention to the 
 full yet gentle effect of the melodious utterance appropriate to poetry, 
 — the prolonged and lingering swell, slowly vanishing on the ear, 
 and imparting to metre and cadence something of the effect of a 
 closing strain of distant music] 
 
 There is an evening twilight of the heart, 
 
 When its wild passion waves are lulled to rest, 
 And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart, 
 
 As fades the day-beam in the rosy west. 
 'Tis with a nameless feeling of regret 
 
 We gaze upon them as they melt away, 
 And fondly would we bid them linger yet ; 
 
 But hope is round us with her angel lay, 
 Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour : 
 Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power. 
 14* 
 
162 YOUNG LADIES 9 READER, 
 
 In youth, the cheek was crimsoned with her glow ; 
 
 Her smile was loveliest then, her matin song 
 Was heaven's own music ; and the note of woe 
 
 Was all unheard her sunny bowers among. 
 Life's li/tle world of bliss was newly born : 
 
 We knew not, cared not, it was born to die. 
 Flushed with the cool breeze and the dews of morn, 
 
 With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky, 
 And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its blue, 
 Like our own sorrows then, — as fleeting and as few. 
 
 And manhood felt her sway too : — on the eye, 
 
 Half realized, her early dreams burst bright; 
 Her promised bower of happiness seemed nigh, — 
 
 Its days of joy, its vigils of delight ; 
 And though, at times, might lower the thunder-storm, 
 
 And the red lightnings threaten, still the air 
 Was balmy with her breath; and her loved form, — 
 
 The rainbow of the heart, — was hovering there. 
 "Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen, — 
 Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer green 
 
 But though less dazzling in her twilight dress, 
 
 There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now : 
 That angel smile of tranquil loveliness, 
 
 Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow, 
 That smile shall brighten the dim evening star 
 
 That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart 
 Till the faint light of life is fled afar, 
 
 And hushed the last deep beating of the heart ; 
 The meteor-bearer of our parting breath, — 
 A moonbeam in the midnight cloud of death. 
 
 EXERCISE LVII. 
 
 THE SPECTATOR'S RETURN TO TOWN. Steele. 
 
 [The greater part of the following piece is in the style of animated 
 conversation. In the narrative and descriptive parts, the tone is 
 "lively? — in the language of the captain, it becomes "gay" and 
 " humorous" — in that of the Quaker, it is " serious" but bland and 
 
Y )UNG LADIES' READER. 163 
 
 good-humoured. The " quality " of voice, throughout, is "pure tone" 
 modified according to the above technical designations, as explained 
 in the preliminary rules. Natural ease, and vivacity of expression, 
 — simplicity, without feebleness, should be the prevailing style in 
 the reading of such pieces : insipidity and affectation are the ex- 
 tremes to be avoided.] 
 
 Having notified to my good friend Sir Roger, that I should 
 set out for London the next day, his horses were ready at the 
 appointed hour in the evening ; and, attended by one of his 
 grooms, I arrived at the county town at twilight, in order to 
 be ready for the stage-coach the day following. 
 
 As soon as we arrived at the inn, the servant who waited 
 upon me, inquired of the chamberlain, in my hearing, what 
 company he had for the coach? The fellow answered, " Mrs. 
 Betty Arable, the great fortune, and the widow her mother ; a 
 recruiting officer, (who took a place because they were to 
 go;) young Squire Quickset, her cousin, (that her mother 
 wished her to be married to ;) Ephraim, the Quaker, her guar- 
 dian; and a gentleman that had studied himself dumb, from 
 Sir Roger de Coverly's." 
 
 I observed, by what he said of myself, that, according to 
 his office, he dealt much in intelligence, and doubted not 
 but there was some foundation for his reports of the rest of 
 the company, as well as for the whimsical account he gave 
 of me. 
 
 The next morning, at daybreak, we were all called ; and 
 I, who know my own natural shyness, and endeavour to be as 
 little liable to be disputed with as possible, dressed immediate- 
 ly, that I might make no one wait. The first preparation for 
 our setting out, was, that the captain's half pike was placed 
 near the coachman, and a drum behind the coach. In the 
 meantime, the drummer, the captain's equipage, was very 
 loud, " that none of the captain's things should be placed so 
 as to be spoiled ; " upon which his cloak-bag was fixed in the 
 seat of the coach ; and the captain himself, according to a 
 frequent though invidious behaviour of military men, ordered 
 his man to look sharp, that none but one of the ladies should 
 have the place he had taken fronting to the coach-box. 
 
 We were, in some little time, fixed in our seats, and sat 
 with that dislike which people, not too good-natured, usually 
 conceive of each other, at first sight. The coach jumbled us 
 insensibly into some sort of familiarity ; and we had not 
 moved above two miles, when the widow asked the captain 
 
164 
 
 what success he had in his recruiting ? The officer, with a 
 frankness he believed very graceful, told her that indeed he 
 had had but very little luck, and had suffered much by deser- 
 tion, therefore should be glad to end his warfare in the ser- 
 vice of her or her fair daughter. " In a word," continued 
 he, "lama soldier, and to be plain is my character : you see 
 me, madam, young, sound, and impudent ; take me yourself, 
 widow, or give me to her, — I will be wholly at your disposal. 
 I am a soldier of fortune, ha ! ha ! " — This was followed by 
 a vain laugh of his own, and a deep silence of all the rest of 
 the company. I had nothing left for it but to seem to fall fast 
 asleep, which I did with all speed. 
 
 " Come," said he, " resolve upon it, we will make a wed- 
 ding at the next town : we will wake this pleasant companion, 
 who is fallen asleep, to be the brideman ; and," giving the 
 Quaker a clap on the knee, he concluded, " This sly saint, who, 
 I'll warrant, understands what's what, as well as you or I, wid- 
 ow, shall give the bride as father." 
 
 The Quaker, who happened to be a man of smartness, an- 
 swered, " Friend, I take it in good part that thou hast given 
 me the authority of a father over this comely and virtuous 
 child ; and I must assure thee, that if I have the giving of 
 her, I shall not bestow her on thee. Thy mirth, friend, sa- 
 voureth of folly : thou art a person of a light mind ; thy drum 
 is the type of thee, it soundeth because it is empty. Verily 
 it is not from thy fulness, but thy emptiness, that thou hast 
 spoken this day. Friend, friend ! we have hired this coach 
 in partnership with thee, to carry us to the great city : we 
 cannot go any other way. This worthy mother must hear 
 thee, if thou wilt needs utter thy follies : — we cannot help it, 
 friend, I say. If thcu wilt, we must hear thee ; but if thou 
 wert a man of understanding, thou wouldst not take advan- 
 tage of thy courageous countenance to abash us children of 
 peace. Thou art, thou sayest, a soldier : give quarter to us 
 who cannot resist thee. Why didst thou fleer at our friend 
 who feigned himself asleep ? He said nothing ; but how dost 
 thou know what he containeth? If thou speakest improper 
 things in the hearing of this virtuous young woman, consider 
 it is an outrage against a distressed person that cannot get 
 from thee : to speak indiscreetly what we are obliged to hear, 
 by being hasped up with thee in this public vehicle, is in some 
 degree assaulting on the high road." 
 
 Here Ephraim paused, and the captain with a happy and 
 uncommon impudence, (which can be convicted and support 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 165 
 
 itself at the same time,) cries, " Faith, friend, I thank thee : 
 I should have been a little impertinent, if thou hadst nol 
 reprimanded me. Come, thou art, I see, a smoky old fellow ;■ 
 and I will be very orderly the ensuing part of the journey. 1 
 was going to give myself airs, but, ladies, I beg pardon." 
 
 The captain was so little out of humour, and our company 
 was so far from being soured by this little ruffle, that Ephraim 
 and he took a particular delight in being agreeable to each 
 other for the future, and assumed their different provinces in 
 the conduct of the company. Our reckonings, apartments, . 
 and accommodation, fell under Ephraim ; and the captain 
 looked to all disputes on the road, to the good behaviour of our 
 coachman, and the right we had of taking place, — as going 
 to London, — of all vehicles coming from thence. 
 
 The occurrences xve met with were ordinary ; and very 
 little happened which could entertain by the relation of it ; 
 but when I considered the company we were in, I took it for 
 no small good fortune, that the whole journey was not spent 
 in impertinences, which to one part of us might be an enter- 
 tainment, to the other a suffering. What therefore Ephraim 
 said when we were almost arrived at London, had to me an 
 air not only of good understanding, but good breeding. Up- 
 on the young lady's expressing her satisfaction in the journey, 
 and declaring how delightful it had been to her, Ephraim de- 
 livered himself as follows : — 
 
 " There is no ordinary part of human life, which express- 
 eth so much a good mind, and a right inward man, as his 
 behaviour upon meeting with strangers, especially such as may 
 seem the most unsuitable companions to him : such a man, 
 when he falleth in the way with persons of simplicity and in- 
 nocence, however knowing he may be in the ways of men, 
 will not vaunt himself thereof, but will the rather hide his 
 superiority to them, that he may not be painful unto them." 
 
 "My good friend," continued he, turning to the officer, 
 " thee and I are to part by and by ; and peradventure we may 
 never meet again : but be advised by a plain man. — Modes 
 and apparels are but trifles to the real man, therefore do not 
 think such a man as thyself terrible for thy garb, nor such a 
 one as me contemptible for mine. When two such as thee 
 and I meet, with afFections as Ave ought to have towards each 
 other, thou shouldst rejoice to see my peaceable demeanour, 
 and I should be glad to see thy strength and ability to protect 
 me in it." 
 
166 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 EXERCISE LVIII. 
 
 THE RICH AND THE POOR. A DIALOGUE. 
 
 Mrs. Barhauld. 
 
 Mrs. Beechwood, Harriet Beechwood. 
 
 [Conversational dialogues are among the most effective means of 
 breaking up monotonous and mechanical tones, and are of great 
 service in facilitating the acquisition of an appropriate style of 
 reading. The point to be aimed at in practice, is, that the reader 
 should imagine herself, for the moment, to be the person who speaks, 
 and read as if every sentiment were her own, and uttered by herself, in 
 lively conversation, with all the earnestness of familiar talk and true 
 feeling. The first step in practice, is to learn to read one part well, 
 — then to read both ; changing the voice, as the reading proceeds, 
 from the lively tone of the girl, — in the present case, — to the grave 
 tone of the mother.] 
 
 Harriet. Mamma ! I have just heard such a proud speech 
 of a poor man ! you would wonder if you heard it. 
 
 Mrs. B. Not much, Harriet ; for pride and poverty can 
 very well agree together : — but what was it 1 
 
 Harriet. Why, mamma, you know the charity-school 
 Lady Mary has set up, and how neat the girls look in their 
 brown stuff gowns and little straw bonnets. 
 
 Mrs. B. Yes, I think it a very good institution : the poor 
 girls are taught to read and spell and sew, and what is better 
 still, to be good. 
 
 Harriet. Well, mamma, Lady Mary's gardener, a poor 
 man who lives in a cottage just by the great house, has a 
 little girl ; and so, because she was a pretty little girl, Lady 
 Mary offered to put her into this school ; — and do you know 
 he would not let her go ! 
 
 Mrs. B. Indeed ! 
 
 Harriet. Yes : he thanked her, and said, " I have only 
 one little girl, and I love her dearly : and though I am a poor 
 man, I had rather work my fingers to the bone than she 
 should wear a charity dress." 
 
 Mrs. B. I do not doubt, my dear Harriet, that a great 
 many people will have the same idea of this poor man's be- 
 haviour which you have ; but, for my own part, I am inclined 
 lo think it indicates something of a noble and generous spirit. 
 
167 
 
 Harriet. Was it not proud to say she should not wear a 
 cnarity dress? 
 
 Mrs. B. Why should she? — would you wear a charity 
 dress ? 
 
 Harriet. Oh ! mamma, but this is a poor man ! 
 
 Mrs. B. He is able to pay for her learning, I suppose ; 
 otherwise, he would certainly do wrong to refuse his child 
 the advantage of instruction because his feelings were hurt 
 by it. 
 
 Harriet. Yes, he is going to put her to Dame Primmer's 
 across the Green : she will have half a mile to walk. 
 
 Mrs. B. That will do her no hurt. 
 
 Harriet. But he is throwing his money away ; for he 
 might have his little girl taught for nothing ; and, as he is a 
 poor man, he ought to be thankful for it. 
 
 Mrs. B. Pray, what do you mean by a poor man ? 
 
 Harriet. Oh! — a man — those men that live in poor 
 houses, and work all day, and are hired for it. 
 
 Mrs. B. I cannot tell exactly how you define a poor 
 house : but as to working, your papa is in a public office, and 
 works all day long, and more hours certainly than the labourer 
 does ; and he is hired to it, for he would not do the work, 
 but for the salary they give him. 
 
 Harriet. But you do not live like those poor people ; and 
 you do not wear a check apron, like the gardener's wife. 
 
 Mrs. B. Neither am I covered with lace and jewels like 
 a duchess : there is as much difference between our manner 
 of living and that of many people above us in fortune, as be- 
 tween ours and this gardener's whom you call poor. 
 
 Harriet. What is being poor then ? — is there no such 
 thing ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Indeed, I hardly know how to answer your ques- 
 tion : rich and poor are comparative terms ; and provided a 
 man is in no want of the necessaries of life, and is not in debt, 
 he can only be said to be poor comparatively with others, of 
 whom the same might be affirmed by those who are still rich- 
 er. But to whatever degree of indigence you apply the term, 
 you must take care not to confound a poor man with a 
 pauper. 
 
 Harriet. What is a pauper ? I thought they were the same 
 Jiing. 
 
 Mrs. B. A pauper is one who cannot maintain himself, 
 and who is maintained by the charity of the community. 
 Your gardener was not a pauper : he worked for what he had, 
 
 
]68 YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 
 
 and he paid for what he had ; and therefore he had a right to 
 expect that his child should not be confounded with the children 
 of paupers. If the gardener's daughter were to wear a kind of 
 charity-badge, the little girls she plays with, would consider 
 her as having lost her rank in society. You would not like 
 to lose your rank, and to be thrust down lower than your 
 proper place in society. There are several things it would 
 not at all hurt you to do, which you would not choose to do, 
 on this account ; — for instance, to carry a bandbox through 
 the street; yet it would not hurt you to carry a bandbox; you 
 would carry a greater weight in your garden for pleasure. 
 
 Harriet. But I thought gardeners and such sort of people 
 had no rank? 
 
 Mrs. B. That is a very great mistake. Every one has his 
 rank, his place in society ; and so far as rank is a source of 
 honourable pride, there is less difference in rank between you 
 and the gardener, than between the gardener and a pauper. 
 Between the greater part of those we call different classes, 
 there is only the difference of less and more ; the spending a 
 hundred, or five hundred, or five thousand a year ; the eating 
 off earthenware, or china, or plate : but there is a real and 
 essential difference between the man who provides for his 
 family by his own exertions, and him who is supported by 
 charity. The gardener has a right to stretch out his nervous 
 arm, and say, " This right hand, under Providence, provides 
 for myself and my family ; I earn what I eat, I am a burden 
 to no one ; and therefore if I have any superfluity I have a 
 right to spend it as I please, and to dress my little girl to my 
 own fancy." 
 
 Harriet. But do you not think, mamma, that a brown gown 
 and a straw bonnet would be a more proper dress for the 
 lower sort of people, than any thing gaudy ? If they are 
 much dressed, you know, we always laugh at their vulgar 
 finery. 
 
 Mrs. B. They care very little for your laughing at them ; 
 they do not dress to please you. They have a natural love cf 
 ornament as well as we have. It is true they can do cur 
 work as well in a plainer dress; but when the work is done, 
 and the time of enjoyment comes, — in the dance on the 
 green, or the tea-party among their friends, — who shall hin- 
 der them from indulging their taste and fancy, and laying out 
 the money they have so fairly earned, in what best pleases 
 them? 
 
 Harriet. But they are not content without following our 
 
YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 169 
 
 fashions; and they are so ridiculous in their imitations of 
 them. I was quite diverted to see Molly, the pastry-cook's 
 girl, tossing her head about in a hat and riband which I dare 
 say she thought very fashionable ; but such a caricature of 
 the mode ! — I was so diverted ! 
 
 Mrs. B. You may be diverted with a safer conscience 
 when I assure you that the laugh goes round. London laughs 
 at the country ; the court laughs at the city ; and I dare say 
 your pastry-cook's girl laughs at somebody who is distanced 
 by herself in the race of fashion. 
 
 Harriet. But every body says, and I have heard you say, 
 mamma, that the kind of people I mean, and servants particu- 
 larly, are very extravagant in dress. 
 
 Mrs. B. That unfortunately is true : they very often are 
 so ; and when they marry they suffer for it severely ; but do 
 not you think many young ladies are equally so? Did you 
 not see, at your last dancing-school ball, many a girl whose 
 father cannot give her a thousand pounds, covered with lace 
 and ornaments ? 
 
 Harriet. It is very true. 
 
 Mrs. B. Are not duchesses driven by extravagance to 
 pawn their plate and jewels? 
 
 Harriet. I have heard so. 
 
 Mrs. B. The only security against improper expense, is 
 dignity of mind, and moderation : these are not common in 
 any rank ; and I do not know why we should expect them to 
 be more common among the lower and uneducated classes 
 than among the higher. — To return to your gardener. — He 
 has certainly a right to dress his girl as he pleases, without 
 asking you or me : but I shall think he does not make a wise 
 use of that right, if he lays out his money in finery, instead 
 of providing the more substantial comforts and enjoyments of 
 life. And I should think exactly the same of my neighbour in 
 the great house in the park. The feelings of vanity are exact- 
 ly the same in a countess's daughter dancing at court, and a 
 milkwoman figuring at a country hop. 
 
 Harriet. But surely, mamma, the countess's daughter will 
 be more really elegant ? 
 
 Mrs. B- That will depend very much upon individual 
 taste. However, the higher ranks have so many advantages 
 for cultivating taste, so much money to lay out in decoration, 
 and are so early taught the graces of air and manner, to set 
 off those decorations, that it would be absurd to deny their 
 15 
 
170 
 
 superiority in this particular. But taste has one great enemy 
 to contend with. 
 
 Harriet. What is that ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Fashion, — an arbitrary and capricious tyrant, 
 who reigns with the most despotic sway over that department 
 which taste alone ought to regulate. It is fashion that im- 
 prisons the slender nymph in the vast rotunda of the hoop, 
 and loads her with heavy ornaments, when she is conscious, 
 if she dared rebel, she should dance lighter, and look better, 
 in a dress of one tenth part of the price. Fashion sometimes 
 orders her to cut off her beautiful tresses, and present the- 
 appearance of a cropped schoolboy; and though this is a 
 sacrifice which a nun going to be professed, looks upon as one 
 of the severest she is to make, she obeys without a murmur. 
 The winter arrives, and she is cold ; but fashion orders her to 
 leave off half her clothes, and be abroad half the night. She 
 complies, though at the risk of her life. A great deal more 
 might be said about this tyrant; but as we have had enough 
 of grave conversation for the present, we will here drop the 
 subject. 
 
 EXERCISE LIX. 
 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. W. C. Bryant. 
 
 [The tone of pensive melancholy which pervades this piece, requires 
 the "subdued" form of "pure tone," with a deeper note than the 
 " expression " of pathos, merely ; as the element of regret is added. 
 Prolonged " quantities" in the prosodial effect, with slow " median '" 
 swell and decreasing "vanish" long pauses and prevailing semi- 
 tones, and the " minor third " in the cadence of the stanza, are, in 
 all such cases, the vocal accompaniments of true feeling. 
 
 Nothing can be farther from nature and truth, than the mechanical, 
 automaton-like utterance which is sometimes exemplified in the 
 school style of reading such pieces.] 
 
 The melancholy days are come, 
 
 The saddest of the year, 
 Of wailing winds, and naked woods ? 
 
 And meadows brown and sear. 
 Heaped in the hollows of the grove^ 
 
 The withered leaves lie dead ; 
 
 
READER. 171 
 
 They rustle to the eddying gust, 
 
 And to the rabbit's tread. 
 The robin and the wren are flown, 
 
 And from the shrubs the jay, 
 And from the wood-top calls the crow, 
 
 Through all the gloomy day. 
 
 Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, 
 
 That lately sprang and stood 
 In brighter light and softer airs, 
 
 A beauteous sisterhood ? 
 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 wind-flower and the violet, 
 
 They perished long ago, 
 And the brier-rose and the orchis died, 
 
 Amid the summer glow ; t 
 But on the hill the golden-rod, 
 
 And the aster in the wood, 
 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. 
 
172 
 
 And thijn I think of one who in 
 
 Her youthful beauty died, 
 The fair, meek blossom that grew up 
 
 And faded by my side ; 
 In 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 hrief : 
 Yet not unmeet it was that one, 
 
 Like that young friend of ourSj, 
 So gentle and so beautiful, 
 
 Should perish with the flowers. 
 
 EXERCISE LX. 
 
 Anon^ 
 
 fThis extract, as a combination of the narrative and didactic 
 needs attention, in reading, to the appropriate change of ■voice de- 
 manded by the transition from the one to the other. The least 
 attentive listener is aware that, in conversation, the voice of the* 
 speaker becomes much more firm, regular, and measured, in style^ 
 when he passes from anecdote to sentiment. A similar change takes: 
 place in reading, as. mentioned above. To make such changes 
 effectively but easily, is, at once, indispensable to natural effect, and) 
 graceful, as an accomplishment of voice. A style equally removed 
 from lifelessness and display, is the object of true culture, in this 
 department cf elocution. The narrative should, in the present in- 
 stance, be entirely free from formality, and the sentiment from 
 parade ; while the former is not left deficient in dignity, nor the 
 latter in impressiveness.] 
 
 Anne Louise Germaine Nbcker, the celebrated daugh- 
 ter of a celebrated father, was born at Paris, April 22, 1766. 
 In her earliest years, she manifested uncommon vivacity of 
 perception and depth of feeling; and, at the age of eleven „ 
 her sprightliness, her self-possession, and the eager and intel- 
 ligent interest which she took in all subjects of conversations, 
 rendered her the- pet and the wonder of the brilliant circle 
 which frequented her father's house. 
 
 * Pronounced, Std'cL. 
 
 
YOUNG LADIES^ READER. 173 
 
 * Mademoiselle Necker paid the usual price of mental 
 precocity, in its debilitating effects upon her bodily constitu- 
 tion. At the age of fourteen, serious apprehensions were 
 entertained for her life ; and she was sent to St. Ouen, in the 
 neighbourhood of Paris, for the benefit of country air, with 
 orders to abstain from every species of severe study. Thither 
 her father repaired, at every interval of leisure ; and, being 
 withdrawn from the strict line of behaviour prescribed by 
 her mother, who, having done much herself by dint of study, 
 thought that no accomplishments or graces could be worth 
 possessing which were not the fruit of study, she passed her 
 time in the unrestrained enjoyment of tM. Necker's society, 
 in the indulgence of her brilliant imagination, and the spon- 
 taneous cultivation of her powerful mind. 
 
 This course of life was more favourable to the develop- 
 ment of that poetical, ardent, and enthusiastic temper, which 
 was the source of so much enjoyment, and so much distinc- 
 tion, than to the habits of self-control, without which, such a 
 temper is almost too dangerous to be called a blessing. Her 
 character at this period of life is thus described by her rela- 
 tion and biographer, Madame Necker de Saussure : " We 
 may figure to ourselves Madame de Stael, in her early youth, 
 entering with confidence upon a life which, to her, promised 
 nothing but happiness. Too benevolent to expect hatred 
 from others, too fond of talent in o'thers, to anticipate the 
 envy of her own, she loved to exalt genius, enthusiasm, and 
 inspiration, and was herself an example of their power. The 
 love of glory, and of liberty, the inherent beauty of virtue, 
 the pleasures of affection, — each, in turn,. afforded subjects 
 for her eloquence. Not that she was always in the clouds : 
 she never lost presence of mind, nor was she run away with 
 by enthusiasm." In later life, her good taste led her to ab- 
 stain from this lofty vein of conversation, especially when the 
 attempt was made to force it upon her. " I tramp in the mire 
 with wooden shoes, whenever they would force me to live 
 always in the clouds." 
 
 * The pronunciation of this, as of many other French words, must 
 be acquired of a competent French teacher. 
 
 t The French word, Monsieur, which this initial letter represents, 
 cannot be intelligibly represented by any English combination of 
 letters. It is a word more commonly and confessedly mispronounced, 
 even in France itself, than almost any other of the French language. 
 Its true pronunciation ought always, if possible, to be obtained frora 
 a well-educated native of France. 
 15* 
 
174 
 
 The leading feature of Madame de Stael's private cftarao 
 ter, was her inexhaustible kindness of temper : it cost her nc 
 trouble to forgive injuries. There seems not to have been a 
 creature on earth whom she hated r except Napoleon. " Hei 
 friendships were ardent and remarkably constant ; and yet 
 she had a habit of analyzing the characters, even of those to 
 whom she was most attached,, with the most unsparing saga- 
 city, and of drawing out the detail and theory of their faults 
 and peculiarities, with the most searching and unrelenting- 
 rigour ; and this she did to their faces, and in spite of their 
 most earnest remonstrances, ' It is impossible for me to do 
 otherwise,' she would say : ' if I were on my way to the 1 
 scaffold, I should be dissecting the characters of the friends 
 who were to suffer with me upon it,' " 
 
 Though the excitement of mixed society was necessary to 
 her happiness, her conversation, in a tete-a-tete with her in- 
 timate friends, is said to have been more delightful than her 
 most brilliant efforts in public. She was proud of her pow- 
 ers, and loved to display and talk of them. But her vanity 
 was divested of ofFensiveness by her candour and ever-present 
 consideration of others. Of her errors we would speak with 
 forbearance; but it is due to truth, to say, that there were 
 passages in her life, which exposed her to serious and well- 
 founded censure. 
 
 As a daughter and mother she displayed sedulous devotion, 
 and the warmest affection. Though never destitute of devo- 
 tional feeling, her notions of religion, in youth, seem to have 
 been very vague and inefficient. But misfortune drove her 
 sensitive and affectionate temper to seek some stay, which 
 she found nothing on earth could furnish ; and, in later years, 
 her religion, if not deeply learned, was deeply felt. Of this, 
 the latter portion of Mad. Necker de Saussure's work, will 
 satisfy the candid reader. And though her testimony to the 
 truth and value of religion, was, for the most part, indirect, 
 we may reasonably believe that it was not ineffective. 
 
 "Placed, in many respects, in the highest situation to 
 which humanity could aspire, possessed unquestionably of 
 the highest powers of reasoning, emancipated in a singu- 
 lar degree from prejudices, and entering, with the keenest 
 relish, into all the feelings that seemed to suffice for the 
 happiness and occupation of philosophers, patriots, and lov- 
 ers, she has still testified, that, without religion, there is 
 nothing stable, sublime, or satisfying ; and that it alone 
 completes and consummates all to which reason and afTec- 
 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 175 
 
 tion can aspire." A genius like hers, and so directed, is, 
 as her biographer has well remarked, the only missionary 
 that, in modern times, can work any permanent effect upon 
 the upper classes of society, or upon the vain, the learned, 
 the scornful and argumentative, " who stone the prophets, 
 while they affect to offer incense to the muses." 
 
 EXERCISE LXI. 
 
 TO THE URSA MAJOR. H. Ware, Jr. 
 
 [The following piece furnishes a nobie example of solemnity and sub 
 limity. Nothing can more strikingly display the injury to mind and 
 taste, which is done in our prevalent modes of female education, 
 — by neglecting the elevating effects of nature and art upon the 
 sensibility of youth, — than the tame, trite, and heartless manner in 
 which this and similar passages are usually read in our schools for 
 young ladies. The utmost depth and fulness of feeling are required 
 m the utterance of thoughts at once so profound and so exalted, as 
 those which this poem imbodies. The management of the voice, 
 in such cases, requires a deep and resonant " orotund quality? — 
 the fidl, majestic effect of blank verse, — " median stress? in ita 
 amplest form, — a "slow" and stately "movement? and long, im- 
 pressive pauses.] 
 
 With what a stately and majestic step 
 That glorious constellation of the north 
 Treads its eternal circle, — going forth 
 Its princely way among the stars, in slow 
 And silent brightness ! Mighty one, all hail ! 
 I joy to see thee, on thy glowing path, 
 Walk, like some stout and girded giant, — stern, 
 Unwearied, resolute, whose toiling foot 
 Disdains to loiter on its destined way. 
 The other tribes forsake their midnight track, 
 And rest their weary orbs beneath the wave ; 
 But thou dost never close thy burning eye, 
 Nor stay thy steadfast step. Bat on, — still on, — 
 While systems change, and suns retire, and worlds 
 Slumber and wake, thy ceaseless march proceeds. 
 The near horizon tempts to rest in vain. 
 
176 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Thou, faithful sentinel ! dost never quit 
 Thy long-appointed watch ; but, sleepless still. 
 Dost guard the fixed light of the universe, 
 And bid the north forever know its place. 
 
 Ages have witnessed thy devoted trust, 
 Unchanged, unchanging. When the sons of God 
 Sent forth that shout of joy which rang through heaven, 
 And echoed from the outer spheres that bound 
 The illimitable universe, thy voice 
 Joined the high chorus ; from thy radiant orbs 
 The glad cry sounded, swelling to His praise, 
 Who thus had cast another sparkling gem, 
 Little, but beautiful, amid the crowd 
 Of splendours that enrich His firmament. 
 As thou art now, so wast thou then, the same. 
 
 Ages have rolled their course, and time grown gray ; 
 . The earth has gathered to her womb again, 
 And yet again, the myriads, that were born 
 Of her, uncounted, unremembered tribes. 
 The seas have changed their beds ; the eternal hills 
 Have stooped with age ; the solid continents 
 Have left their banks ; and man's imperial works, — 
 The toil, pride, strength of kingdoms, which had flung 
 Their haughty honours in the face of heaven, 
 As if immortal, — have been swept away, — 
 Shattered and mouldering, buried and forgot. 
 But time has shed no dimness on thy front, 
 Nor touched the firmness of thy tread : youth, strength, 
 And beauty still are thine, — as clear, as bright, 
 As when the almighty Former sent thee forth, 
 Beautiful offspring of his curious skill, 
 To watch earth's northern beacon, and proclaim 
 The eternal chorus of eternal love. 
 
 I wonder as I gaze. — That stream of light, 
 Undimmed, unquenched, — just as I see it now, — 
 Has issued from those dazzling points, through years 
 That go back far into eternity. 
 Exhaustless flood ! forever spent, renewed 
 Forever ! — Yea, — and those refulgent drops, 
 Which now descend upon my lifted eye, 
 Left their far fountain twice three years ago. 
 While those winged particles, whose speed outstrips 
 The flight of thought, were on their way, the earth 
 Compassed its tedious circuit round and round, 
 
 
 
177 
 
 And, in the extremes of annual change, beheld 
 Six autumns fade, six springs renew their bloom. 
 
 Yea, glorious lamps of God ! He may have quenched 
 Your ancient flames, and bid eternal night 
 Rest on your spheres ; and yet no tidings reach 
 This distant planet. Messengers still come 
 Laden with your - far fire; and we may seem 
 To see your lights still burning; while their blaze 
 But hides the black wreck of extinguished realms, 
 Where anarchy and darkness long have reigned. 
 
 Yet what is this, which to the astonished mind 
 Seems measureless, and which the baffled thought 
 Confounds 1 — a span, a point, in those domains 
 Which the keen eye can traverse. Seven stars 
 Dwell in that brilliant cluster ; and the sight 
 Embraces all at once ; — yet each from each 
 Recedes as far as each of them from earth. 
 And every star from every other burns 
 No less remote. From the profound of heaven, — 
 Untravelled even in thought, — keen, piercing rays 
 Dart through the void, revealing to the sense 
 Systems and worlds unnumbered. Take the glass 
 And search the skies. The opening skies pour down 
 Upon your gaze thick showers of sparkling fire, — 
 Stars, crowded, thronged, in regions so remote, 
 That their swift beams, — the swiftest things that be, — 
 Have travelled centuries on their flight to earth. — 
 Earth, sun, and nearer constellations, what 
 Are ye, amid this infinite extent 
 And multitude of God's most infinite works? 
 
 And these are suns ! — vast, central, living fires, 
 Lords of dependent systems, kings of worlds 
 That wait as satellites upon their power, 
 And flourish in their smile. Awake, my soul, 
 And meditate the wonder ! Countless suns 
 
 Blaze round thee, leading forth their countless worlds ! 
 
 Worlds, in whose bosoms living things rejoice, 
 And drink the bliss of being from the fount 
 Of all-pervading love ! What mind can know, 
 What tongue can utter, all their multitudes, — 
 Thus numberless in numberless abodes ? 
 Known but to thee, blessed Father ! Thine they are, 
 Thy children and thy care ;_ and none o'erlooked 
 Of thee! — no, not the humblest soul that dwells 
 
178 YOUNG LADIES' 
 
 Upon the humblest globe, which wheels its course 
 Amid the giant glories of the sky, 
 Like the mean mote that dances in the beam 
 Amongst the mirrored lamps, which fling 
 Their wasteful splendour from the palace wall. 
 None, — none escape the kindness of thy care ; 
 All compassed underneath thy spacious wing, — 
 Each fed and guided by thy powerful hand. 
 
 Tell me, ye splendid orbs, as, from your throne, 
 Ye mark the rolling provinces that own 
 Your sway, — what beings fill those bright abodes? 
 How formed, how gifted? what their powers, their state, 
 Their happiness, their wisdom ? Do they bear 
 The stamp of human nature? Or has God 
 Peopled those purer realms with lovelier forms 
 And more celestial minds? Does Innocence 
 Still wear her native and untainted bloom ? 
 Or has Sin breathed his deadly blight abroad, 
 And sowed corruption in those fairy bowers ? 
 Has War trod o'er them with his foot of fire? 
 And Slavery forged his chains ? And Wrath and Hate, 
 And sordid Selfishness, and cruel Lust, 
 Leagued their base bands to tread out light and truth, 
 And scattered woe where Heaven had planted joy ? 
 Or are they yet all paradise, unfallen 
 And uncorrupt ? — existence one long joy, 
 Without disease upon the frame, or sin 
 Upon the heart, or weariness of life — 
 Hope never quenched, and age unknown, 
 And death unfeared ; while fresh and fadeless youth 
 Glows in the light from God's near throne of love ? 
 Open your lips, ye wonderful and fair ! 
 Speak, speak ! the mysteries of those living worlds 
 Unfold ! — No language ? Everlasting light, 
 And everlasting silence ? — Yet the eye 
 May read and understand. The hand of God 
 Has written legibly what man may know, — 
 The glory of the Maker. — There it shines, 
 Ineffable, unchangeable ; and man, 
 Bound to the surface of this pygmy globe, 
 May know and ask no more. In other days, 
 When death shall give the encumbered spirit wings, 
 Its range shall be extended : it shall roam, 
 
 
179 
 
 Perchance, among those vast, mysterious spheres, 
 
 Shall pass from orb to orb, and dwell in each, 
 
 Familiar with its children, - — learn their laws, 
 
 And share their state, and study and adore 
 
 The infinite varieties of bliss 
 
 And beauty, by the hand of Power divine 
 
 Lavished on all its works. Eternity 
 
 Shall thus roll on, with ever fresh delight ; — 
 
 No pause of pleasure or improvement; world 
 
 On world still opening to the instructed mind 
 
 An unexhausted universe, and time 
 
 But adding to its glories ; while the soul, 
 
 Advancing ever to the Source of light 
 
 And all perfection, lives, adores, and reigns 
 
 In cloudless knowledge, purity, and bliss. 
 
 EXERCISE LXII. 
 THE STUDY OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. Prof. Frisbie. 
 
 [Passages such as the following, exemplify the grave didactic style, 
 and require the " moderate force " of "pure tone? rising to " orotund 
 quality? — from the dignity and force of sentiment. This piece 
 needs attention, in reading, to a clear, distinct enunciation, firm em- 
 phasis, exact pausing, and the other characteristics of impressive 
 manner.'] 
 
 There is, in the study of moral philosophy, a direct tend- 
 ency not merely to enlighten the conscience, but to form 
 and cherish that moral sensibility, which is, at once, the 
 prompt inspirer and jealous guardian of virtue. The first in- 
 fluence of this kind of which we shall take notice, is upon 
 those who are engaged in such inquiries. Truths which are 
 frequently presented to the mind, can hardly fail, impercepti- 
 bly perhaps, to produce some effect upon it. But when these 
 truths are the subjects of personal speculation, when their 
 character, relations, and practical consequences, are the con- 
 stant topics of study and interest, this effect must be greatly 
 increased. 
 
 A disposition to consider our own pursuits and discoveries 
 as all-important to society, and sometimes to make the most 
 
180 
 
 incongruous application of them, has often given just occa- 
 sion to the wit of the satirist. " The poem is well enough," 
 said the mathematician ; " but I do not see, that it proves 
 any thing." 
 
 The chemist and physical philosopher are deeply interested 
 in the application of their principles to the arts ; and will not 
 the same law of our nature operate in moral speculations? 
 Can he rest at ease, whose conduct is constantly at variance 
 with the principles he is labouring to establish, and the rulf s 
 he is forming for others 1 Will he not rather, if he cannot 
 suit his life to his theory, accommodate his theory to his life ? 
 Thus Rousseau substituted sentiment for virtue ; and the 
 profligacy of his manners was, at once, the cause and the 
 effect of the profligacy of his writings. 
 
 I am unwilling to think that one can have the beauty of 
 moral order, and the indications of moral design, constantly 
 in view, without having his feelings touched and his heart 
 made better. Can you breathe the pure mountain air, and 
 not be refreshed ? Can you walk forth amidst the beautiful 
 and grand of the works of God, and feel no kindling of de- 
 votion 1 
 
 EXERCISE LXIIL 
 
 EARLY PIETY. Mrs. Ellis. 
 
 [The following extract is an eloquent example of didactic and horta- 
 tory style : pathos and earnestness are the prevailing traits of feeling 
 which it imbodies. The management of the voice needs, in this and 
 si mil ar passages, the softened utterance of tender and sympatlietic 
 emotion, producing the "subdued" form of "pure tone" and, where 
 the language is warm and forcible, the energy and ardour of sincere 
 excitement of feeling, rising to the effect of " orotund," but in chast- 
 ened style, tempering earnestness with solemnity. A gentle " median 
 stress " prevails in the mode of utterance ; — the " movement " is 
 " slow ; " and the pauses are long. The " pitch " is comparatively 
 « high" in the pathetic, and « low " in the solemn strains.] 
 
 Happy youth ! — Thou art ever happy, in the view of age ; 
 and yet thou hast thy tears. Thou hast thy trials, too ; and 
 perhaps their acuteness renders them less bearable than the 
 dull burden of accumulated sorrow, which hangs upon ma- 
 
181 
 
 turer years. Thou hast thy sorrows : and when the mother's 
 eye is closed, that used to watch thy infant steps so fondly ; 
 and the father's hand is cold, that used to rest upon thy head, 
 with gentle and impressive admonition ; — whom hast thou — 
 whom wilt thou ever have, — to supply thy parents' place on 
 earth? Whom hast thou? The world is poor to thee; for 
 none will ever love thee with a love like theirs. 
 
 Thou hast thy golden and exuberant youth, thy joyous step, 
 thy rosy smile ; — and we call thee happy. But thou hast 
 also thy hours of loneliness, thy disappointments, thy chills, 
 thy blights, when the hopes on which thy young spirit has 
 soared, begin, for the first time, to droop ; when the love in 
 which thou hast so fondly trusted, begins to cool ; when the 
 flowers thou hast cherished, begin to fade ; when the bird 
 thou hast fed through the winter, in the summer flies away ; 
 when the lamb thou hast nursed in thy bosom, prefers the 
 stranger to thee. 
 
 Thou hast thy tears ; but the bitterest of thy sorrows, how 
 soon are they assuaged ! It is this, then, which constitutes 
 thy happiness ; for we all have griefs ; but, long before old age, 
 they have worn themselves channels which cannot be effaced. 
 It is therefore that we look back to youth with envy; because 
 the tablet of the heart is then fresh, and unimpressed ; and we 
 long to begin again with that fair surface, and to write upon 
 it no characters but those of truth. 
 
 And will not youth accept the invitation of experience, and 
 come before it is too late ? — and come with all its health, 
 and its bloom, and its first fruits untainted, and lay them 
 upon the altar, — an offering which age cannot make ? Let 
 us count the different items in the riches which belong to 
 youth, and ask, if it is not a holy and a glorious privilege to 
 dedicate them to the service of the Most High? 
 
 First, then, there is the freshness of unwearied nature, for 
 which so many millions pine in vain ; the glow of health, that 
 life-spring of all the energies of thought and action ; the con- 
 fidence of unbroken trust, — the power to believe, as well as 
 hope, — a power which the might of human intellect could 
 never yet restore ; the purity of undivided affection ; the earn- 
 estness of zeal unchilled by disappointment ; the first awa- 
 kening of joy that has never been depressed ; high aspirations 
 that have never stooped to earth ; the clear perception of a 
 mind unbiased in its search of truth ; with the fervour of 
 an untroubled soul. 
 
 All these, and more than pen could write, or tongue could 
 16 
 
182 
 
 utter, has youth the power to dedicate to the noblest cause 
 which ever yet engaged the attention of an intellectual and 
 immortal being. What, then, I would ask again, is that 
 which hinders the surrender of your heart to God, your con- 
 duct to the requirements of the religion of Christ 1 
 
 With this solemn inquiry, I would leave the young reader 
 to pursue the train of her own reflections. All that has been 
 proposed to her consideration, as desirable in character and 
 habit, — ■ in heart and conduct, — will be without consistency, 
 and without foundation, unless grounded upon Christian prin- 
 ciple, and supported by Christian faith. All that has been 
 proposed to her as most lovely, and most admirable, may be 
 rendered more — infinitely more so, — by the refinement of 
 feeling, the elevation of sentiment, and the purity of purpose, 
 which those principles and that faith are calculated to impart. 
 
 EXERCISE LX1V. 
 
 VISIT TO MONT BLANC. Hubbard Winslow. 
 
 [The following extract furnishes an interesting and instructive ex- 
 ample of description rising from the style of ordinary scenes, to the 
 highest sublimity and beauty. The vocal " expression " in reading, 
 corresponds to this progressive effect of the language of the piece. 
 It commences with the " moderate force" of "pure tone," in the 
 form adapted to " animated " conversation, and passes gradually into 
 the "orotund" of mingling grandeur and beauty. At the close oi 
 the second paragraph, the " expression " changes suddenly to the 
 familiar style of conversation ; after which it returns to sublimity 
 and solemnity, in a style of increasing effect, to the close. The 
 "force," "pitch," " movement," and " stress," together with the pauses, 
 vary as intimated in defining the " expression."} 
 
 We were making a long and arduous ascent towards 
 Chamouny, when I left the horses and company resting be- 
 hind, and soon found myself alone, on foot, in the most solemn 
 and sublime circumstances imaginable. On each side of me 
 the mountains rose abruptly to an enormous height ; at my 
 feet rolled the rapid waters of the Arveiron ; and, directly 
 before, seen through an opening vista, the bald, hoary head 
 of Mont Blanc towered upward to the very vault of heaven. 
 
183 
 
 Where I was, the sun had long sinee gone down, leaving 
 me in almost pitchy darkness, while his brilliant beams still 
 lingered and played fantastically upon the white pinnacle of 
 the mountain. It seemed like a huge, shining dome, sus- 
 pended from the upper world. During our stay at Chamou- 
 ny, the sky was perfectly clear, — a favour not often enjoyed. 
 But upon the grand summit, while not a speck of cloud ap- 
 peared elsewhere, a thin, gauze-like veil almost continually 
 hovered, reflecting the delicate tints of vermilion, yellow, and 
 amethyst ; giving the appearance of some mysterious fairy 
 chamber of the skies, on which nature had hung her richest 
 drapery. I gazed and gazed on the glorious object, forget- 
 ful of my way, and almost in doubt whether I was in this 
 world or some other, till the sharp crack of the postilion's 
 whip, and the sound of human voices, broke the enchant- 
 ment. 
 
 We walked out to enjoy an evening view of 
 
 the scenery. Not a cloud darkened a hand-breadth of the 
 sky; — the moon was walking up the zenith, in full-orbed 
 lustre ; and every star, save those eclipsed by the moon, 
 seemed ambitious to put forth its most brilliant rays. Beneath 
 our feet, and directly around us, Summer had spread her 
 green mantle, and the fields were then waving with ripe 
 harvest ; while, within a fourth of a mile from us, lay massive 
 banks of ice and snow, projected from the mountains, which 
 rose on each side to enormous heights. 
 
 It was strange indeed, to be walking on the verdant car- 
 pet, and through the luxuriant foliage of midsummer, sur- 
 rounded by the scenery, and enveloped by the atmosphere of 
 midwinter. When one feels the piercing chills of the night 
 air, and beholds the wintry aspect of these regions, by moon- 
 light, he is puzzled to conceive how the grass and grain con- 
 trive to grow. Far, far up, in the deep, clear, and, — 
 contrasted with the snowy cliffs, — dark sky, rose the " bald, 
 awful head" of Mont Blanc, looking down on all Europe. 
 There it seemed to sit, silent, calm, majestic, wearing the 
 shining and changeless crown of everlasting winter. It re- 
 quired little effort of imagination to conceive, with Coleridge, 
 that it held lordly intercourse with the orbs of heaven, and 
 had power to arrest them in their courses. Indeed, the poet's 
 entire description came fresh to our thoughts, with all the 
 quickening power of perceived and felt reality. 
 
 The Mer de Glace is a solid mass of ice, two 
 
 or three miles broad, extending from the source of the Ar- 
 
184 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 veiron up the winding valley of the mountains, some twenty 
 or thirty miles ; — and how many hundreds or thousands of 
 feet deep, no mortal knows. It is by far the greatest inland 
 body of ice in all Europe. Those who do not choose to enter 
 upon it, should at least visit the source of the Arveiroh, at its 
 foot. The stream issues from beneath a magnificent canopy 
 of ice. The arch opens from fifty to a hundred feet, and is 
 of immeasurable depth. Visitors sometimes enter it; but 
 the experiment is dangerous ; as masses of ice suddenly disen- 
 gage themselves, and fall. Several persons have thus been 
 killed. 
 
 We did not enter the arch ; but a full impression of the 
 grand and beautiful, is realized without. Above you, the 
 translucent canopy of ice, with its brilliant azure gradually 
 softening into deeper shades, and the interminable depths of 
 darkness, with the tumult of hidden waters, far up the 
 awful, bellowing cavern; beneath you, stupendous piles of 
 enormous rocks, launched from the mountain summits, and 
 projected over the glaciers into the bed of the Arve, over- 
 laid and surrounded with heaps on heaps of shivered timber ; 
 together with a literal sea of ice, and jagged mountains all 
 white with winter, stretching beyond the limits of vision, on 
 the one side ; and forests of waving pines, green meadows, 
 and the gentle flow of their meandering streams, on the other, 
 — conspire to awaken the deepest, strongest, most reverential 
 emotions of which the human soul is susceptible. 
 
 EXERCISE LXV. 
 
 LAKE LEMAN AND THE ALPS. Byron. 
 
 [Sublimity, beauty, solemnity, and av)e, are the predominating emotions 
 expressed in the following stanzas. " Pure tone " is the prevalent 
 quality of voice, required in reading them ; but it gives place to 
 " orotund" in passages characterized by majesty and grandeur, — 
 and to " suppressed " and slightly " aspirated " utterance, where the 
 expression is that of profound stillness and awe. " Median stress " 
 prevails, wherever it is not sunk in " suppression" The "pitch " of 
 the voice is " low," throughout, and sometimes " very low," — accord- 
 ing to the depth of the emotion ; the " movement " varies from 
 " slow " to " very slow ; " and the pauses are extremely long. 
 

 YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 185 
 
 The full-sounding swell of the Spenserian stanza, and its magnificent 
 and piotracted cadence, should be clearly distinguishable, through- 
 out, by appropriate musical utterance,, prolonged " quantities" and 
 well-marked " rhythm," — all guarded, however, from the bad effects 
 of excess or of mechanical execution. 
 
 In this and similar pieces, appropriate reading demands that the soul 
 of the reader be wholly given up to the scene, that the imagination 
 be in vivid and impressive action, that the feelings be kindled to 
 poetic fervour, and that the voice become a true^full, and deep ex- 
 pression of the heart. — One of the intended effects of poetry and of 
 elocution, as instruments of education, is that they should inspire, 
 elevate, expand, and deepen the nobler capacities of the soul, so as 
 to produce a quick and genuine susceptibility to such effects as the 
 poet has here imbodied. The familiar tones of ordinary description, 
 are no standard for the reading of such passages. Young readers, 
 from the influence of a false habit of mechanical school-reading, are 
 apt to shrink from the full expression of genuine emotion, as some- 
 thing exaggerated. Pieces such as the following, if rightly employed, 
 become the most effectual means of doing away these erroneous im- 
 pressions. A natural and true style of reading, is that which varies 
 with every subject, and passes, with full effect, from the lightest 
 style of gay conversation, to the profoundest emotions of sublimity 
 and awe.] 
 
 Above me are the Alps, 
 
 The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls 
 Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
 
 And throned Eternity in icy halls 
 
 Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
 The avalanche, — the thunderbolt of snow! 
 
 All that expands the spirit, yet appals, 
 Gathers around these summits, as to show 
 How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below. 
 
 Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake 
 
 With the wide world I've dwelt in, is a thing 
 Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
 Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
 This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing - 
 To waft me from distraction : once I loved 
 Torn ocean's roar ; but thy soft murmuring 
 • Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, 
 That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. 
 16* 
 
186 YOUNG LADIES 5 READER* 
 
 It is the hush of night ; and all between 
 
 Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
 
 Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
 
 Save darkened Jura, whose capped heights appear 
 Precipitously steep; and drawing nearj 
 
 There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
 Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
 
 Drops the light drip of the suspended oar^ 
 Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more. 
 
 He is an evening reveller, who makes 
 
 His life an infancy, and sings his fill : 
 At intervals, some bird from out the brakes, 
 
 Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
 
 There seems a floating whisper on the hill : — ■ 
 But that is fancy ; for the starlight dews 
 
 All silently their tears of love distil, 
 Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
 Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 
 
 Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven, 
 
 If in your bright leaves, we would read the fate 
 
 Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, 
 That, in our aspirations to be great, 
 Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
 
 And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are 
 A beauty and a mystery, and create 
 
 In us such love and reverence from afar, 
 That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star 
 
 All heaven and earth are still, — though not in sleep, 
 But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ; 
 
 And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep : — 
 All heaven and earth are still : from the high host 
 Of stars to the lulled lake, and mountain coast, 
 
 All is concentred in a life intense, 
 
 Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
 
 But hath a part of being, and a sense 
 Of That which is of all Creator and Defence. 
 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 187 
 
 EXERCISE LXVI. 
 
 FLOWERS. Jardine. 
 
 [This extract exemplifies the union of description and sentiment. The 
 tone is that of "repose" and reflection: "subdued" "pure tone" 
 prevails in the gentle and tender passages ; — " moderate force " of 
 "pure tone" in the more " animated." The " middle pitch " predom- 
 inates throughout the piece. The " movement " is " moderate ; " and 
 the pauses correspond. An easy, lively, fluent, but delicate style of 
 reading, resembling agreeable conversation, as nearly as possible, 
 should be the prevailing manner. — A marked and formal style of 
 enunciation, prominent emphasis, and overdone inflections, are utterly 
 at variance with the effect of pieces like this.] 
 
 Flowers have, in all ages, been made the representatives 
 of innocence and purity. We decorate the bride, and strew 
 her path, with flowers : we present the undefiled blossoms, as 
 a similitude of her beauty and untainted mind ; trusting that 
 her destiny through life will be like theirs, grateful and pleas- 
 ing to all. We scatter them over the shell, the bier, and the 
 earth, when we consign our mortal blossoms to the dust, as 
 emblems of transient joy, fading pleasures, withered hopes ; 
 yet rest in sure and certain trust, that each, in due season, 
 will be renewed again. All the writers of antiquity make 
 mention of their uses and application in heathen and pagan 
 ceremonies, whether of the temple, the banquet, or the tomb, 
 — the rites, the pleasures, or the sorrows of man ; and in 
 concord with the usages of the period, the author of the 
 "Book of Wisdom," says, "Let us crown ourselves with 
 rose-buds and flowers, before they wither." 
 
 All orders of creation, " every form of creeping things and 
 abominable beasts," have been, perhaps, at one time or an- 
 other, by some nation or sect, either the objects of direct 
 worship, or emblems of an invisible sanctity ; but though 
 individuals of the vegetable world may have veiled the mys- 
 teries, and been rendered sacred to particular deities and pur- 
 poses, yet in very, few instances, we believe, were they made 
 the representatives of a deified object, or been bowed down to 
 with divine honours. The worship of the one true Being, 
 could never have been polluted by any symbol suggested by 
 the open flowers and lily-work of the Jewish temple. 
 
188 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 The love of flowers seems a naturally implanted passion, 
 without any alloy or debasing object, as a motive. The cot- 
 tage has its pink, its rose, its polyanthus ; the villa, its gera- 
 nium, its dahlia, and its clematis : * we cherish them in 
 youth, we admire them in declining days. But, perhaps, it 
 is the early flowers of spring, that always bring with them the 
 greatest degree of pleasure ; and our affections seem imme- 
 diately to expand at the sight of the first opening blossom 
 under the sunny wall, or sheltered bank, — however humble 
 its race may be. In the long and sombre months of winter, 
 our love of nature, like the buds of vegetation, seems closed 
 and torpid; but, like them, it unfolds and reanimates, with 
 the opening year ; and we welcome our long-lost associates, 
 with a cordiality that no other season can excite, — as friends 
 in a foreign clime. 
 
 There is not a prettier emblem of spring, than an infant 
 sporting in the sunny field, with its osier basket wreathed 
 with butter-cups, orchises, and daisies. With summer flow- 
 ers we seem to live as with our neighbours, in harmony 
 and good-will ; but spring flowers are cherished as private 
 friendships. 
 
 The amusements and fancies of children, when connected 
 with flowers, are always pleasing, being generally the concep- 
 tions of innocent minds, unbiased by artifice or pretence ; 
 and their love of them seems to spring from a genuine feel- 
 ing and admiration, — a kind of sympathy with objects as 
 fair as their own untainted mind ; and I think that it is ear- 
 ly flowers which constitute their first natural playthings. 
 Though summer presents a greater number and variety, they 
 are not so fondly selected. We have our daisies strung and 
 wreathed about our dress ; our coronals of orchises and prim- 
 roses, and our cowslip balls. 
 
 No portion of creation has been resorted to by mankind 
 with more success, for the ornament and decoration of their 
 labours, than the vegetable world. The rites, emblems, and 
 mysteries of religion ; national achievements, eccentric masks, 
 and the capricious visions of fancy, have all been wrought by 
 the hand of the sculptor, on the temple, the altar, or the 
 tomb. But plants, their foliage, flowers, or fruits, as the 
 most graceful, varied, and pleasing objects that meet our 
 view, have been more universally the object of design, and 
 have supplied the most beautiful, and perhaps the earliest em- 
 
 * Pronounced, clem'-d-tis. 
 
189 
 
 bellishments of art. The pomegranate, the almond, and flow* 
 eis, were selected, even in the wilderness, by Divine appoint- 
 ment, to give form to the sacred utensils ; the reward of merit, 
 the wreath of the victor, were arboraceous ; in later periods, 
 the acanthus, the ivy, the lotus, the vine, the palm, and the 
 oak, flourished under the chisel, or in the room of the artist; 
 and in modern days, the vegetable world affords the almost 
 exclusive decorations of ingenuity and art. 
 
 The cultivation of flowers, is, of all the amusements of 
 mankind, the one to be selected and approved, as the most 
 innocent in itself, and perfectly devoid of injury or annoyance 
 to others. The employment is not only conducive to health 
 and peace of mind ; but probably more good-will has arisen, 
 and more friendships have been founded on the intercourse 
 and communication connected with this pursuit, than from 
 any other. The pleasures, the ecstasies of a horticulturist, 
 are harmless and pure: a streak, — a tint, — a shade, — be- 
 comes his triumph, which, though often obtained by chance, 
 is secured alone by morning eyre, by evening caution, and 
 the vigilance of days : — an employment, which, in its various 
 grades, excludes neither the opulent nor the indigent, and, 
 teeming with boundless variety, affords an unceasing ex- 
 citement to emulation, without contempt or ill-will. 
 
 EXERCISE LXVIL 
 
 FLOWERS, THE GIFT OF DIVINE BENIGNITY. 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 [Joy, gratitude, and reverence, are che emotions to be expressed in the 
 reading of this genuine effusion of the heart The prevailing tone 
 is that of fervent emotion, subdued by solemnity. The "quality" 
 of voice passes from "orotund? in the energetic and elevated, to 
 "pure tone? in the softened and tender strains. The "pitch " varies 
 to " high " notes, for the joyous emotions, and to " middle " and " low," 
 for grateful and reverential feeling. The "force" shifts from the 
 full utterance of joy to the " moderate " and the " subdued," in 
 gratitude and reverence. The " movement " corresponds, by changes 
 from " lively " to " moderate " and " slow." The pauses are propor- 
 tioned in length to each class of emotions, — from animation to 
 devotion. 
 
190 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 When the "Reader" is used in classes, the teacher will render a val- 
 uable assistance to the pupils, by questioning them on the nature 
 of the emotion which characterizes every sentence, successively. 
 The emotion is, universally, the key to the reading, in every partic- 
 ular ; and, to become fully aware of the emotion, is the first step 
 towards true style in elocution. Young readers, generally, are 
 prone to commence their exercise without previous reflection, and, 
 consequently, without the preparation and adaptation of feeling, 
 which alone can produce appropriate expression in the voice.] 
 
 Yes, there shall still be joy, 
 Where God hath poured forth beauty ; and the voice 
 Of human love shall still be heard in praise 
 Over His glorious gifts ! — O Father, Lord ! 
 The All-Beneficent ! I bless Thy name, 
 That Thou hast mantled the green earth with flowers, 
 Linking our hearts to nature ! By the love 
 Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first 
 Into her deep recesses are beguiled, — 
 Her minster cells, — dark glen and forest bower : — 
 Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of Thee, 
 Amidst the low religious whisperings, 
 And shivery leaf-sounds of the solitude, 
 The spirit wakes to worship, and is made 
 Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers, 
 Thou callest us from city throngs and cares, 
 Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain streams, 
 That sing of Thee ! — back to free childhood's heart, 
 Fresh with the dews of tenderness ! — Thou bidd'st 
 The lilies of the field with placid smile 
 Reprove man's feverish heart-strings, and infuse 
 Through his worn soul a more unworldly life, 
 With their soft holy breath. Thou hast not left 
 His purer nature, with its fine desires, 
 Uncared for in this universe of Thine*! — 
 The glowing rose attests it, the beloved 
 Of poet hearts, — touched by their fervent dreams 
 With spiritual light, and made a source 
 Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E'en to faint age 
 Thou lend'st the vernal bliss : — The old man's eye 
 Falls on the kindling blossoms ; and his soul 
 Remembers youth and love, and hopefully 
 Turns unto Thee, who calPst earth's buried germs 
 From dust to splendour ; as the mortal seed 
 
READER. 191 
 
 Shall, at Thy summons, from the grave spring up 
 
 To put on glory, — to be girt with power, 
 
 And filled with immortality. Receive 
 
 Thanks, blessing, love, for these, Thy lavish boons, 
 
 And, most of all, their heavenward influences, — 
 
 O Thou that gav'st us flowers ! 
 
 EXERCISE LXVIII. 
 
 FLOWERS SENT ME DURING ILLNESS. 
 
 Richard H. Dana. 
 
 [The change from pensive to joyous " expression" and its reverse, and 
 the transition to the firm tone of " serious " and grateful sentiment, 
 are the chief objects of attention, in the reading of tins chaste and 
 touching production. The modifications of voice required in the 
 predominating emotions of this piece, have been pointed out in the 
 introductory remarks prefixed to other exercises.] 
 
 I loved you ever, gentle Flowers, 
 And made you playmates of my youth ; 
 The while your spirit stole 
 In secret to my soul, 
 To shed a softness through my ripening powers, 
 And lead the thoughtful mind to deepest truth. 
 
 . And now, when weariness and pain 
 Had cast you almost from my breast, 
 With each a smiling face, 
 In all your simple grace, 
 You come once more to take me back again, 
 From pain to ease, from weariness to rest. 
 
 Kind visitants ! through my sick room 
 
 You seem to breathe an air of health, 
 
 And with your looks of joy 
 
 To wake again the boy, 
 
 And to the pallid cheek restore its bloom, 
 
 And o'er the desert mind pour boundless wealth. 
 
 And whence ye came, by brimming stream, 
 'Neath rustling leaves, with birds within, 
 
192 YOUNG ladies' reader. 
 
 Again I musing tread, — 
 
 Forgot my restless bed 
 And long sick hours. — Too short the blessed dream ! 
 I wake to pain ! — to hear the city's din ! 
 
 But time nor pain shall ever steal 
 Or youth, or beauty from my mind. 
 And blessings on ye, Flowers ! 
 Though few with me your hours, 
 The youth and beauty, and the heart to feel, 
 In her who sent you, ye will leave behind ! 
 
 EXERCISE LXIX. 
 
 HINTS TO MOTHERS, ON EARLY HABITS. Anon. 
 
 [An example of" serious" didactic style, sustained by energy and " ani- 
 mation." Didactic " expression " differs from that of earnest conver- 
 sation, on topics of opinion, or sentiment, chiefly in a more distinct 
 aHiculation, more marked " inflection" more energetic emphasis, and 
 more deliberate pauses, than are usually heard in talking. The 
 "movement" also, is slower ; and a firmer "radical stress" prevails, 
 throughout. Every didactic piece, when read in a hall, or large 
 school-room, necessarily assumes a " moderate " degree of the " ex- 
 pulsive " " orotund" utterance, which belongs to all exercises in the 
 form of public reading. To this style of utterance all young per- 
 sons should be trained, for its invigorating effect on the voice and 
 on the health of the readers, as well as for the facility which it im- 
 parts, in the command of the voice for private reading in the 
 parlour.] 
 
 Let your first care be to give your girls a good physical 
 education. Let their early years be passed, if possible, in 
 the country, gathering flowers in the fields, and partaking of 
 all the free exercises in which they delight. When they grow 
 older, do not condemn them to sit eight listless hours of the 
 day over their books, their work, their maps, and their music. 
 Be assured that half the number of hours passed in real at- 
 tention to well-ordered studies, will make them more accom- 
 plished and more agreeable companions, than those commonly 
 
READER. 193 
 
 are, who have been most elaborately " finished," in the 
 modern acceptation of the term. 
 
 The systems by which young ladies are taught to move 
 their limbs according to the rules of art, — to come into a 
 room with studied diffidence, and to step into a carriage with 
 measured action and premeditated grace, — are only calcu- 
 lated to keep the degrading idea perpetually present, that 
 they are preparing for the great market of the world. Real 
 elegance of demeanour springs from the mind : fashionable 
 schools do but teach its imitation, whilst, their rules forbid to 
 foe ingenuous. 
 
 Philosophers never conceived the idea of so perfect a 
 vacuum as is found to exist in the minds of young women 
 supposed to have finished their education in such establish- 
 ments. If they marry husbands as uninformed as themselves, 
 they fall into habits of insignificance, without much pain : if 
 they marry persons more accomplished, they can retain no 
 hold of their affections. Hence many matrimonial miseries, 
 in the midst of which the wife finds it a consolation to be 
 always complaining of her health and ruined nerves. 
 
 In the education of young women, — we would say, — let 
 them be secured from all the trappings and manacles of such 
 a system; let them partake of every active exercise not abso- 
 lutely unfeminine, and trust to their being able to get into or 
 out of a carriage with a light and graceful step, which no 
 drilling can accomplish. Let them rise early and retire early 
 to rest, and trust that their beauty will not need to be coined 
 into artificial smiles in order to secure a welcome, whatever 
 room they enter. Let them ride, walk, run, dance, in the 
 open air. Encourage the merry and innocent diversions in 
 which the young delight : let them, under proper guidance, 
 explore every hill and valley : let them plant and cultivate 
 the garden, and make hay when the summer sun shines, 
 and surmount all dread of a shower of rain or the boisterous 
 wind. 
 
 The demons of hysteria and melancholy might hover over a 
 group of young ladies so brought up : but they would not 
 find one of them upon whom they could exercise any power, 
 
 17 
 
194 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 EXERCISE LXX. 
 
 THE CARD-FLAYER. Lamb. 
 
 [An example of "gay" and "humorous n "expression? in description. 
 The "quality' 1 '' of voice, required in the reading, is "pure tone" 
 modified as mentioned. 
 
 The " expression? in all cases of description for effect, should be very 
 much indulged, — even to the extent of playful excess, and exagger- 
 ated mock gravity of manner : every emphasis? " inflection? and form 
 of " stress? should be given with the utmost graphic breadth ; the 
 author's design obviously being a sly caricature of habit, in the 
 form of a pretended eulogy of character. The whole manner, how- 
 ever, should be so skilfully managed, that an ambiguous air of 
 sincerity, corresponding to that of the language of the piece, should 
 be maintained throughout.] 
 
 " A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the 
 game." This was the celebrated wish of old Sarah Battle,, 
 (now no more,) who, next to her devotions, loved a good game 
 at whist. She was none of your lukewarm gamesters, — - 
 your half and half players, who have no objection to take a 
 hand, if you want one to make up a rubber; who affirm that 
 they have no pleasure in winning ; that they like to win one 
 game, and lose another ; that they can wile away an hour 
 very agreeably at a card-table, but are indifferent whether 
 they play or not, and will desire an adversary who has slipped 
 a wrong card, to take it up and play another. These insuf- 
 ferable triflers are the curse of a table. One of these flies 
 will spoil a whole pot. Of such it may be said, that they do 
 not play at cards, but only play at playing at them. 
 
 Sarah Battle was none of that breed. She detested them, 
 
 — as I do, — from her heart and soul ; and would not, — 
 save upon a striking emergency, — willingly seat herself at the 
 same table with them. She loved a thorough-paced partner, 
 
 — a determined enemy. She took, and gave, no concessions. 
 She hated favours. She never made a revoke, nor ever 
 passed it over in her adversary, without exacting the utmost 
 forfeiture. She fought a good fight, cut and thrust. She 
 held not her good sword, (her cards,) " like a dancer." 
 She sat bolt upright ; and neither showed you her cards, nor 
 desired to see yours. All people have their blind side, — 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 195 
 
 their superstitions ; and I have heard her declare, under the 
 rose, that hearts was her favourite suit. 
 
 I never in ipy life, — and I knew Sarah Battle many of 
 the best years of it, — saw her take out her snuffbox when it 
 was her turn to play ; or snuff a candle in the middle of a 
 game; or ring for a servant, till it was fairly over. She 
 never introduced, or connived at, miscellaneous conversation 
 during its process. As she emphatically observed, cards 
 were cards ; and if I ever saw unmingled distaste in her fine 
 last-century countenance, it was at the airs of a young 
 gentleman, of a literary turn, who had been with difficulty 
 persuaded to take a hand ; and who, in his excess of candour, 
 declared, that he thought there was no harm in unbending 
 the mind, now and then, after serious studies, in recreations 
 of that kind ! She could not bear to have her noble occupa- 
 tion, to which she wound up her faculties, considered in that 
 iight. It was her business, her duty, the thing she came into 
 the world to do, — and she did it. She unbent her mind 
 afterward, — over a book. 
 
 Pope was her favourite author : his Rape of the Lock, her 
 favourite work. She once did me the favour to play over 
 with me, (with the cards,) his celebrated game of " ombre " in 
 that poem ; and to explain to me how far it agreed with, and 
 in what points it would be found to differ from, " tradrille." 
 Her illustrations were apposite and poignant ; and I had the 
 pleasure of sending the substance of them to Mr. Bowles : 
 but I suppose they came too late to be inserted among his 
 ingenious notes upon that author. 
 
 EXERCISE LXXL 
 
 UNEDUCATED WOMAN. Dr. Johnson, 
 
 [This exercise forms an example of " serious " and " animated " conver- 
 sation. The " quality " of voice, in the reading, is "pure tone" in 
 its " moderate " form. The "pitch " is on " middle " notes, descend- 
 ing occasionally to " grave" ©r moderately low key ; the "force " is 
 " moderate" increasing, sometimes, to a degree of energy, when the 
 sentiment becomes impressive ; the " movement " is generally 
 " moderxde" — sometimes, in descriptive passages, it is " lively" 
 
196 
 
 The " inflections n and the emphasis, are slight in the lively, and weU 
 marked in the grave passages. The " movement " and the pauses 
 correspond, in " time," to the character of the emphasis-. A moderate 
 " radical stress" prevails throughout the piece.} 
 
 When Pekuah returned from her captivity in the palace of 
 the Arab chief, she complained to the Princess Nekayah of 
 the misery of the situation she had endured. 
 
 " There were women in your Arab's fortress/'' said the 
 princess. " Why did you not make them companions, enjoy 
 their conversation,, and partake their diversions ? In a place 
 where they found business or amusement, why should yon 
 alone sit corroded with idle melancholy 1 or why could yon 
 not bear, for a few months, that condition to which they were 
 condemned for life ? " 
 
 " The diversions of the women," answered Pekuah, " were 
 only childish play, by which the mind accustomed to stronger 
 operations, could not be kept busy. I could do all which 
 they delighted in doing, by powers merely sensitive, while my 
 intellectual faculties were flown to Cairo. They ran from 
 room to room, as a bird hops from wire to wire in his cage. 
 They danced for the sake of motion, as lambs frisk in a 
 meadow. One sometimes pretended to be hurt, that the rest 
 might be alarmed ; or hid herself, that another might seek 
 her. Part of their time passed in watching the progress of 
 light bodies that floated on the river, and part in marking the 
 various forms into which clouds broke in the sky. 
 
 " Their business was only needlework, in which I and my 
 maids sometimes helped them ; but you know that the mind 
 will easily straggle from the fingers ; nor will yon suspect 
 that captivity and absence from Nekayah could receive solace 
 from silken flowers. 
 
 " Nor was much satisfaction to be hoped from their con- 
 versation ; for of what could they be expected to talk 1 They 
 had seen nothing ;. for they had lived, from early youth, in 
 that narrow spot : of what they had not seen they could have 
 no knowledge ; for they could not read. They had no ideas 
 but of the few things that were within their view,, and had 
 hardly names for any thing but their clothes and their food. 
 As I bore a superior character, I was often called to termi- 
 nate their quarrels, which I decided as equitably as I could. 
 If it could have amused me to hear the complaints of each 
 against the rest. I might have been often detained by long 
 
197 
 
 stories ; but the motives of their animosity were so small, 
 that I could not listen without interrupting the tale." 
 
 " How," said Rasselas, " can the Arab, whom you repre- 
 sented as a man of more than common accomplishments, 
 take any pleasure in his palace, when it is filled only with 
 women like these? — Are they exquisitely beautiful? " 
 
 " They do not," said Pekuah, " want that unarTecting and 
 ignoble beauty which may subsist without sprightliness or 
 sublimity, without energy of thought or dignity of virtue. 
 But, to a man like the Arab, such beauty was only a flower 
 casually plucked and carelessly thrown away. Whatever 
 pleasures he might find among them, they were not those of 
 friendship or society. When they were playing about him,' 
 he looked on them with inattentive superiority; when they 
 vied for his regard, he sometimes turned away disgusted. As 
 they had no knowledge, their talk could take nothing from 
 the tediousness of life; as they had no choice, their fondness, 
 or appearance of fondness, excited in him neither pride nor 
 gratitude ; he was not exalted in his own esteem by the 
 smiles of a woman who saw no other man, nor was much 
 obliged by that regard of which he could never know the 
 sincerity, and which he might often perceive to be exerted, 
 not so much to delight him as to pain a rival. That which he 
 gave, and they received, as love, was only a careless distribu- 
 tion of superfluous time ; such love as man can bestow upon 
 that which he despises, such as has neither hope nor fear, 
 neither joy nor sorrow." 
 
 EXERCISE LXXII. 
 
 NATURE. Gillespie. 
 
 [This piece exemplifies, in reading, the tones of " repose " and beauty , 
 terminating in a strain of " solemnity." " Pure tone " is the " qual- 
 ity" of voice, throughout. The "force" is "subdued," first, by 
 "tranquillity" afterwards, by "reverence" The "pitch" is on the 
 low note of musing " expression ; " and the " movement " is generally 
 
 vails. The unity and continuous effect of the description, which 
 purposely blend the whole scene into one harmonious whole, make 
 the pauses shorter than they would otherwise be in a piece so traiv 
 17* 
 
198 YOUNG LADIES 7 READETSV 
 
 quil in- its expression. The perfect "purity'' 7 of the " tone " and the 
 ceaseless -flow of the voice, are among the chief means of appropriate 
 effect, in passages of this description. A gentle suavity pervades 
 the " repose " which forms the main element of this piece. The 
 great fault to be shunned, in the reading, is a dry^ prosaic, matter- 1 
 &f-facf style, which enumerates mechanically?, what should be ; de- 
 scribed poetically and imaginatively.'] 
 
 How sweet at summer's noon, to sit and muse 
 
 Beneath the shadow of some ancient elm, 
 
 While at my feet the mazy streamlet flows 
 
 In tuneful lapse,, laving the flowers that bend 
 
 To kiss its tide ; while sport the finny throng 
 
 On the smooth surface of the crystal depth, 
 
 In silvery circles,, or in shallows leap, 
 
 That sparkle to the sunbeam's trembling glare I 
 
 Around the tiny jets, where humid bells 
 
 Break as they form, the water-spiders weave, 
 
 Brisk on the eddying pools, their ceaseless dance- 
 
 The wild bee winds her horn, lost in the cups 
 
 Of honeyed flowers,., or sweeps with ample curve j; 
 
 While o'er the summer's lap is heard the hum 
 
 Of countless insects sporting on the wing, 
 
 Inviting sleep. And from the leafy woods 
 
 One various song of bursting Joy ascends, 
 
 While echo wafts the notes from grove to hill ; 
 
 From hill to grove the grateful concert spreads,. 
 
 As borne on fluttering plumes' encircling maze, 
 
 The happy birds flit through the balmy airy. 
 
 Where plays the gossamer ; and, — - as they felt 
 
 The general joy, — bright exhalations dance ; 
 
 And shepherd's pipe, and song of blooming maid, 
 
 Quick as she turns the odour-breathing swaths 
 
 Of new-mown hay, and children playing round 
 
 The ivy-clustered cot, and low of herds, 
 
 And bleat of lambs, that crop the verdant sward 
 
 With daisies spread, — while smiles the heaven serene,— 
 
 All wake to ecstasy, or melt to love, 
 
 And to the Source of goodness raise the soul,— 
 
 Raise it to Him, exhaustless Source of bliss ! 
 
 That like the sun, — best emblem of Himself, — 
 
 Forever flowing, yet forever full, 
 
 Diffuses life and happiness to all. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 199 
 
 EXERCISE LXXIII. 
 THE UNIVERSAL HYMN OF NATURE. Thomson. 
 
 [The following passage forms an example of apostrophe and adoration, 
 in the loftiest mood of poetry. Solemnity, sublimity, and ardour oj 
 devotional feeling, are all blended in the " expression? and produce 
 one of the noblest examples of sustained " orotund " in its " effu- 
 sive" and "expulsive" forms, varying from the one degree to the 
 other, according to the softened or the energetic character of the 
 emotion uttered in each apostrophe. "Median stress" prevails 
 throughout the piece, imparting a full sonorous swell to the utter- 
 ance, in conjunction with the majestic "rhythm" and "prolonged 
 quantities" of the blank verse. The "movement" is "sloiv" and 
 Stately throughout ; and the pauses, at each apostrophe, remarkably 
 long. 
 
 The faults to be shunned in the reading of this and similar exercises, 
 are those of a slight, feeble, hurried, and inexpressive utterance. The 
 voice should always, in such cases, indicate the grandeur of the 
 theme, although it should never fall into that mouthing and chanting 
 swell, which is sometimes indulged through false taste.] 
 
 Nature, attend ! join every living soul, 
 Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, 
 In adoration join; and, ardent, raise 
 One general song ! To Him, ye vocal gales, 
 Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes : 
 Oh ! talk of Him in solitary glooms, 
 Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine 
 Fills the brown shade with a religious awe ! 
 And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, 
 Who shake the astonished world, lift high to heaven 
 The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. 
 His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills ; 
 And let me catch it, as I muse along. 
 Ye headlong torrents, rapid, and profound ; 
 Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze 
 Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, 
 A secret world of wonders in thyself, 
 Sound His stupendous praise ; whose greater voice 
 Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall ! 
 
§00 YOUNG LADIES^ READER. 
 
 Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, 
 
 In mingled clouds to Him, whose sun exalts, 
 
 Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints ! 
 
 Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to Him ! 
 
 Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, 
 
 As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. 
 
 Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth, asleep, 
 
 Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, 
 
 Ye constellations, while your angels strike, 
 
 Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre ! 
 
 Great source of day ! best image here below 
 
 Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, 
 
 From world to world, the vital ocean round, 
 
 On Nature write with every beam His praise. 
 
 The thunder rolls : be hushed the prostrate world ; 
 
 While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn ! 
 
 Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks, 
 
 Retain the sound : the broad responsive low, 
 
 Ye valleys, raise ! for the Great Shepherd reigns ; 
 
 And His unsuffering kingdom yet shall come. 
 
 Ye woodlands all, awake ! a boundless song 
 
 Burst from the groves ! and when the restless day, 
 
 Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, 
 
 Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm 
 
 The listening shades, and teach the night His praise ! 
 
 Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, 
 
 At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, 
 
 Crown the great hymn ! In swarming ciiies vast, 
 
 Assembled men ! to the deep organ join 
 
 The long-resounding voice, oft-breaking clear, 
 
 At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass ; 
 
 And, as each mingling flame increases each, 
 
 In one united ardour rise to heaven ! 
 
 Or if you rather choose the rural shade, 
 
 And find a fane in every sacred grove ; 
 
 There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, 
 
 The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, 
 
 Still sing the God of seasons, as they roll ! 
 
 
201 
 
 EXERCISE LXXIV. 
 
 CHARACTER OF PRIMITIVE POETRY. Hillard. 
 
 [Critical disquisitions on themes of a poetic nature, while they necessa- 
 rily adopt the staid and regular form of utterance which belongs to 
 didactic style, retain, — so to express it, — the tinge which they natu- 
 rally derive from the tone of their subject. Hence we find that 
 pieces such as the following, allow much more scope to " expres- 
 sion" in reading, than those which are restricted to topics of science 
 merely. The basis of elocution, in passages like this, is a clear, dis- 
 tinct enunciation, exact inflections, and discriminating emphasis. 
 But, from the nature of the subject, there is implied the addition 
 of " expressive " effect in a style approaching to that of poetry. A 
 " slower " " movement " therefore prevails, than in ordinary prose, and 
 is accompanied by perfectly '■'•pure tone," slight " median stress" 
 and a comparatively delicate " vanish " in the sounds of the voice, 
 yet without losing the animation which accompanies the contem- 
 plation and expression of beauty.] 
 
 Poetry is the oldest birth of the human mind. The first 
 unravellings of that veil of light which God has woven into 
 the frame of man, are in the form of verse. A poet of our 
 own times, has supposed that the first poet sang when the 
 rainbow first shone upon the " green, undeluged earth," as a 
 covenant between God and man. But surely sixteen hundred 
 years had not rolled by, without some musical utterance, 
 however rude and uncouth, of those sensations and emotions 
 which are felt in the blood and in the soul of man. Suns 
 had set, and moons had risen ; and the sweet influences of 
 the stars had dropped from the midnight sky ; the spinning 
 earth had known its alternations of day and night, seed-time 
 and harvest; lovers had wooed, and maidens had been won; 
 the child had been born, and the eld man had been carried 
 to his grave ; joy and sorrow, hope and fear, smiles and tears, 
 had brightened and darkened man's life ; and it cannot be that 
 the minstrel had not sung, — that the harp of Jubal had not 
 trembled to the poet's touch. 
 
 As children resemble each other more than men, so are 
 nations more alike in their infancy than in their mature age. 
 All early poetry is marked, more or less strongly, by the same 
 general characteristics. It has the unstudied movement, and 
 
202 
 
 the unconscious charm, of childhood. It fills the mind with 
 a sense of the golden light and dewy freshness of morning. 
 It flows from an age which acknowledges a vivid satisfaction 
 in the mere possession of life. That pleasure in the simple 
 exercise of the faculties, without reference to the end or ob- 
 ject of pursuit, which is common to the young of all animals, 
 and in which the benevolent observation of Paley saw the 
 most striking proof of the goodness of God, is then the her- 
 itage of the race. It is a privilege to be alive : to enjoy the 
 pleasurable sensations which accompany a healthful organi- 
 zation; to hear the bird sing, to drink the red wine, to gaze 
 on the cheek of beauty. 
 
 The natural pleasures which lie upon the lap of the .com- 
 mon earth, content the child-like man. The feeling of satie- 
 ty, of weariness and unrest, of longing after some ideal and 
 unattainable good, is as yet unknown. The morning star of 
 hope is in the ascendant, and not the evening star of mem- 
 ory. The poles of nature are not yet reversed. The appe- 
 tites are not yet perverted from their legitimate function of 
 means, and made to become ends. That unhappy system of 
 anticipation, which brings the meal before the hunger, the 
 bed before the weariness, has not begun. It is no disparage- 
 ment to a brave man to express that honest fear of death 
 which results naturally from an honest love of life. If we 
 imagine grown-up men carrying into the common business 
 of the world, that heartiness, that irrepressible vivacity, that 
 fulness of animal life, which children put into their play, we 
 shall have a notion of that unwithered world which surrounds 
 the early poet, and which he reproduces in his epic, his saga, 
 or his ballad. The heroes of Homer feel their life in every 
 limb : they recoil from the unfathomable gulf of death, as chil- 
 dren from a dark room. That same sense of the value of mere 
 existence, beats, like a strong pulse, through the early poetry 
 of Spain, England, and Germany. The sorrow which is 
 breathed over the dead body of Arcite, in the Knight's Tale 
 of Chaucer, flows chiefly from the feeling of what he had lost 
 in losing life. 
 
 " Why woldest thou be ded ? this women crie, 
 And haddest gold ynough, and Emelie ! " 
 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 203 
 
 EXERCISE LXXV„ 
 
 FAMILY SYMPATHIES. Washington Irving. 
 
 [An example of "lively" and "humorous" conversational style. 
 Graphic effect in tone, which is the main element in the reading of 
 such passages, consists in carrying " expression " to its full extent. In 
 other words, the elocution of pieces of this class, requires the full 
 'ringing effect of humorous and jocular utterance, bordering, some- 
 times, on laughing tone. The emphasis should be strongly given, 
 the " inflections " ivell marked, and the " stress " fully indulged. To 
 entef heartily into the spirit of the scene, in feeling and in tone, is 
 the great thing to be aimed at, and all feebleness and frigidness of 
 style, are the faults to be avoided.] 
 
 Never, I firmly believe, did there exist a family that went 
 more by tangents than the Cocklofts. — Every thing, with 
 them, is governed by whim ; and if one member starts a new 
 freak, away all the rest follow, like wild geese in a string. 
 As the family, the servants, the horses, cats and dogs, have all 
 grown old together, they have accommodated themselves to 
 each other's habits completely ; and though every body of 
 them is full of odd points, angles, rhomboids, and ins and outs, 
 yet somehow or other, they harmonize together like so many 
 straight lines ; and it is truly a grateful and refreshing sight 
 to see them agree so well. Should one, however, get out of 
 tune, it is like a cracked fiddle, the whole concert is ajar ; 
 you perceive a cloud over every brow in the house, and even 
 the old chairs seem to creak " affettuoso." 
 
 If my cousin, — as he is rather apt to do, — betray any symp- 
 toms of vexation or uneasiness, — no matter about what, — 
 he is worried to death with inquiries, which answer no other 
 end than to demonstrate the good will of the inquirer, and put 
 'him in a passion ; for every body knows how provoking it is 
 to be cut short in a fit of the blues, by an impertinent ques- 
 tion about " what is the matter?" when a man can't tell 
 himself. 
 
 I remember, a few months ago, the old gentleman came 
 home in quite a squall ; kicked poor Caesar, the mastiff, out 
 of his way, as he came through the hall ; threw his hat on the 
 table with most violent emphasis, and pulling out his box, took 
 three huge pinches of snuff, and threw a fourth into the cat's 
 eyes, as he sat purring his astonishment by the fireside. 
 
This was enough to set the body politic going ; Mrs. Cock- 
 loft began " my-dearing " it, as' fast as tongue could move ; 
 the young ladies took each a stand at an elbow of his chair ; 
 Jeremy marshalled in the rear ; the servants came tumbling 
 in ; the mastiff put up an inquiring nose ; and even grimalkin, 
 after he had cleansed his whiskers and finished sneezing, dis- 
 covered indubitable signs of sympathy. 
 
 After the most affectionate inquiries on all sides, it turned 
 out that my cousin, in crossing the street, had got his 
 silk stockings bespattered with mud by a coach, which^it 
 seems, belonged to a dashing gentleman who had formerly 
 supplied the family with hot rolls and muffins ! Mrs. Cock- 
 loft thereupon turned up her eyes, and the young ladies theif* 
 noses ; and it would have edified a whole congregation to 
 hear the conversation which took place, concerning the inso- 
 lence of upstarts, and the vulgarity of would-be gentlemen 
 and ladies, who strive to emerge from low life, by dashing 
 about in carriages, to pay a visit two doors off; giving parties 
 to people who laugh at them, and cutting all their old friends. 
 
 EXERCISE LXXVI. 
 MARY DYRE, THE QUAKER MARTYR. Miss Sedgwick. 
 
 [The subject of this and the following exercise, exemplifies the style 
 of simple and touching narrative. The reading, throughout, is in a 
 quiet and " subdued " tone, — the " movement " " slow" — the pauses 
 well marked. Loud and rapid utterance would be great faults, in 
 this instance. The general softened tone of the piece, gives place, 
 in the occasional reflections, and particularly the concluding ones, to 
 a more expressive manner, as regards energy and effect. Still, th& 
 predominating pathos of the narrative, casts its shade over these* 
 passages, and reduces their force,] 
 
 MaryDyre belonged to the religious society of " Friends ; " 
 and was among those who, in 1657, sought, in Massachusetts, 
 an asylum from the oppression of the mother country. But 
 the persecuted had become persecutors ; and, instead of an 
 asylum, these harmless people found a prison, and were des- 
 tined, — for their glory and our shame, — to suffer as martyrs 
 in the cause of liberty of conscience. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 205 
 
 Sewel, the historian of " the people called Quakers," 
 speaking of Mary, says, " She was of a comely and grave 
 countenance, of a good family and estate, and the mother of 
 several children ; " but her husband, it seems, was of another 
 persuasion. 
 
 Mary Dyre, with many others, sought, in Rhode Island, a 
 - refuge from the storm of persecution in Massachusetts 
 . Christian liberty, in its most generous sense, was the noble 
 distiffc^ion of that province ; and there Mary might have en- 
 joyed her inoffensive faith, and all the temporal distinctions 
 i%permitted ; for her husband filled one of the highest offices 
 in the province. But she could not forget her suffering breth- 
 ren in^the Massachusetts colony. She meditated on their 
 wrongs till she " felt a call " to return to Boston. 
 
 Two persons, distinguished for zeal and integrity, accom- 
 panied her; William Robinson, and Marmaduke Stevenson. 
 Their intention and hope was, to obtain a repeal or mitiga- 
 tion of the laws against their sect. Their return was in the 
 autumn of 1659. On their appearance in Boston, they were 
 immediately seized, and committed to prison ; and a few days 
 subsequent, after a summary and informal examination before 
 ^^oveYncji; Endicot, and the associate magistrates, they were 
 '^sentenced to suffer the penalty of death, which had been al- 
 ready decreed to such as, after having been banished, should 
 • return. 
 
 Mary's pure and gentle spirit dwelt in eternal sunshine : 
 its elements were at peace. When the fearful words were 
 pronounced, " Mary Dyre, you shall go to the prison whence 
 you came, thence to the place of execution, and be hanged 
 there until you are dead," she folded her hands, and replied, 
 with a serene aspect, "The will of the Lord be done." 
 * Governor Endicot seems to have felt an irritation at her 
 ..•tranquillity, not more dignified than a child's, when he vents 
 his wrath in blows on an insensible and incorporeal substance. 
 
 " Take her away, marshal," he said, harshly. 
 
 "I return joyfully to my prison," she replied; and then 
 turning to the marshal, she added, " You may leave me, mar- 
 shal : I will return alone." 
 
 " I believe you, Mrs. Dyre," replied the marshal ; " but I 
 must do as I am commanded." 
 
 The prisoners were condemned on the twentieth of Oc- 
 tober. The twenty-seventh was the day appointed for the 
 Execution of the sentence. With a self-command and equanim- 
 ity of mind rare in such circumstances, Mary employed the 
 18 
 
206 
 
 interval in writing an " Appeal to the Rulers of Boston; " — 
 an appeal, not in her own behalf, not for pardon, nor life, but 
 for a redress of the wrongs of her persecuted brethren. "I 
 have no self-ends, the Lord knoweth," she says; "for if life 
 were freely granted by you, it would not avail me, so long as 
 I should daily see or hear of the sufferings of my people, my 
 dear brethren, and the seed with whom my life is bound up. 
 Let my counsel and request be accepted with you to repeal 
 all such laws, that the truth and servants of the Lord may 
 have free passage among you, and you be kept from«shedding 
 innocent blood, which I know there be many among you \^ho 
 would not do, if they knew it so to be." — " In love and in the 
 spirit of meekness, for I have no enmity to the pennons of 
 any, I again beseech you." 
 
 On the evening of the twenty-sixth, William Dyre, Mary's 
 eldest son, arrived in Boston, and was admitted tocher prison. 
 He came in the hope of persuading his mother to make sucn 
 concessions in regard to her faith, as to conciliate her judges, 
 and procure a reprieve. All night he remained with her. 
 The particulars of this interview have not been preserved. 
 But we know the temper of woman, the tenderness aild depth 
 of a mother's love. We may imagine the intense feelings «f 
 the son, on the eve of his mother's threatened execution, 
 pleading for the boon of her life; we may imagine the con- 
 flict between the yearnings of the mother, and the resistance 
 of the saint; and we may be sure that we cannot exaggerate 
 its violence, nor its suffering. The saint was triumphant ; 
 and on the following morning, Mary was led forth, between 
 her two friends, to the place of execution. Death could not 
 appal a mind so lofty and serene. Man could not disturb 
 a peace so profound. Her companions evinced a like com- 
 posure. 
 
 Mary was of a temper, like the intrepid Madame Roland, tor 
 nave inspired a faltering spirit by her example : far more dif- 
 ficult she must have found it, to behold the last quiverings 
 and strugglings of mortality, in the persons of her friends. 
 But even after this, she was steadfast, and ascended the scaf- 
 fold with an unblenching step. Her dress was scrupulously 
 adjusted about her feet, her face covered with a handkerchief, 
 and the halter put around her neck. 
 
 The deep silence of this awful moment, was broken by a 
 piercing cry. " Stop ! she is reprieved ! " was sent from 
 mouth to mouth, till one glad shout announced the feeling of 
 the gazing multitude. Was there one of all those gathered 
 
207 
 
 to this fearful spectacle, whose heart did not leap with joy ? 
 Yes — the sufferer and victim, — she, to whom the gates of 
 death had been opened. " Her mind," says her historian, 
 " was already in heaven ; and when they loosed her feet, and 
 bade her come down, she stood still, and said she was willing 
 to suffer as her brethren had, unless the magistrates would 
 annul their cruel law." 
 
 Her declaration was disregarded : she was forced from the 
 scaffold, and reconducted to prison. There she was received 
 in the arms of her son ; and she learned from him that she 
 owed her life, not to any soft relenting of her judge, but to 
 his prolonged intercession. 
 
 EXERCISE LXXVII. 
 SAME SUBJECT CONCLUDED. 
 
 On the morning after her reprieve, she despatched from her 
 prison a letter to her judges, beginning in the following bold, 
 and, if the circumstances are considered, sublime strain : — 
 
 " Once more to the General Court assembled in Boston, 
 speaks Mary Dyre, even as before. My life is not accepted, 
 neither availeth me, in comparison of the truth, and the 
 lives and liberty of the servants of the living God, for which, 
 in meekness and love I sought you." 
 
 No answer was returned to Mary's letters, and no conces- 
 sions made to her sect ; but it was thought prudent to com- 
 mute Mary's sentence into banishment, with penalty of death 
 in case of her return ; and she was accordingly sent, with a 
 guard, to Rhode Island. 
 
 Would the tragedy had ended here ! But the last and sad- 
 dest scene was yet to be enacted. We who believe that wo- 
 man's duty as well as happiness lies in the obscure, and safe, 
 and not very limited sphere of domestic life, may regret that 
 Mary did not forego the glory of the champion, and the mar- 
 tyr, for the meek honours of the wife and mother. Still we 
 must venerate the courage and energy of her soul, when, 
 as she said, "moved by the spirit of God so to do," she again 
 returned to finish, — in her own words, — " her sad and 
 heavy experience, in the bloody town of Boston." 
 
 She arrived there on the twenty-first of May, 1660, and 
 
208 
 
 appears to have remained unmolested, till the thirty-first, when 
 she was summoned before the General Court, which had 
 cognizance of all civil and criminal offences. 
 
 Mary Dyre's family was plunged into deep distress, by her 
 again putting her life in jeopardy. As her husband's reli- 
 gious faith did not accord with her own, he could not of course 
 perfectly sympathize with her zeal in behalf of her persecuted 
 sect ; but his letter, addressed to the Governor, bears ample 
 testimony, that his conjugal affection had borne the hard test 
 of religious disagreement. 
 
 It does not appear what answer, or that any answer was 
 vouchsafed to this touching appeal. It is enough to know 
 that it was unavailing, and that on the very next day after her 
 condemnation, the first of June, Mary Dyre was led forth to 
 execution. 
 
 The scaffold was erected on Boston Common. When she 
 had mounted it, she was reproached with having said she had 
 already been in paradise. 
 
 To this she replied, " I have been in paradise many days." 
 
 She spoke truly. Her mind was the paradise of God, 
 sanctified by His peace. The executioner did his office. He 
 could kill the body, demolish the temple ; but the pure and 
 glorious spirit of the martyr passed unharmed, untouched, 
 into the visible presence of its Creator. 
 
 The scene of this tragedy was Boston Common ; — that 
 spot, so affluent in beauty, so graced by the peace, and teem- 
 ing with the loveliness of nature, was desecrated by a scaf- 
 fold ! — stained with innocent blood ! We would not dishon- 
 our this magnificent scene by connecting with it, in a single 
 mind, one painful association. But let those send back one 
 thought to the Quaker martyr, who delight to watch the 
 morning light and the evening shadows stealing over it ; to 
 walk under the bountiful shadow of its elms ; to see the herds 
 of cattle * banqueting there ; the birds daintily gleaning their 
 food ; the boys driving their hoops, flying their kites, and 
 launching their mimic vessels on the mimic lake; whilst the 
 little faineants, perhaps the busiest in thought among them, 
 are idly stretched on the grass, seemingly satisfied with the 
 bare consciousness of existence. The Boston Common, as it 
 is, preserved -and embellished, but not spoiled by art, still re- 
 taining its natural and graceful undulations, shaded by trees 
 of a century's growth, with its ample extent of uncovered 
 
 * A customary sight at the time when this piece was written- 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 209 
 
 surface, affording in the heart of a populous city, that first of 
 luxuries, space ; trodden by herds of its natural and chartered 
 proprietors ; encompassed by magnificent edifices, the homes 
 of the gifted, cultivated, and liberal ; with its beautiful view 
 of water, and of the surrounding country ; crowned by Dor- 
 chester Heights, and the Blue Hills; — Boston Common, has 
 always appeared to us one of the choicest of nature's tem- 
 ples. The memory of the good is worthy such a temple ; and 
 we trust we shall be forgiven for having attempted to fix there 
 this slight monument to a noble sufferer in that great cause 
 which has stimulated the highest minds to the sublimest actions , 
 which calls its devotees from the gifted, its martyrs from the 
 moral heroes of mankind ; the best cause, the fountain of all 
 liberty, — liberty of conscience ! 
 
 EXERCISE LXXVIIL 
 
 CONVERSATION. Mrs. Farrar. 
 
 [Pieces such as the following serve a useful purpose in elocution, by 
 exemplifying the difference between the manner of random talk and 
 that of dignified conversation. The former admits the "gay" and 
 the " humorous " forms of tone : the latter requires the " serious" 
 and, sometimes, the " grave" though never implying the absence of 
 that " animation " which belongs to earnestness. 
 
 A distinct enunciation and a deliberate utterance, with moderate empha- 
 sis and pauses, are the main points of good elocution, in the reading 
 of all pieces which imbody sentiment in didactic style, but in con- 
 versational forms.] 
 
 Good conversation is one of the highest attainments of 
 civilized society. It is the readiest way in which gifted 
 minds exert their influence, and, as such, is worthy of all 
 consideration and cultivation. I remember hearing an 
 English traveller say, many years ago, on being asked how 
 the conversational powers of the Americans compared with 
 those of the English, " Your fluency rather exceeds that of 
 the old world. But conversation, here, is not cultivated as 
 an art." 
 
 The idea of its being so considered anywhere, was new to 
 the company ; and much discussion followed the departure 
 18* 
 
210 YOUNG LADIES* READER. 
 
 of the stranger, as to the desirableness of making conversa- 
 tion an art. Some thought the more natural and spontaneous 
 it was, the better ; some confounded art with artifice, and hoped 
 their countrymen would never leave their own plain honest 
 way of talking, to become adepts in hypocrisy and affectation. 
 At last, one, a little wiser than the rest, explained the differ- 
 ence between art and artifice ; asked the cavillers, if they had 
 never heard of the art of thinking, or the art of writing ; and 
 said, he presumed the art of conversing was of the same 
 nature. 
 
 And so it is. By this art persons are taught to arrange 
 their ideas methodically, and to express them with clearness 
 and force ; thus saving much precious time, and avoiding 
 those tedious narrations, which interest no one but the 
 speaker. It enforces the necessity of observing the effect of 
 what is said, and leads a talker to stop, when she finds that 
 she has ceased to fix the attention of her audience. 
 
 The art of conversing would enable a company, when a 
 good topic was once started, to keep it up, till it had elicited 
 the powers of the best speakers ; and it would prevent its 
 being cut short in the midst, by the introduction of something 
 entirely foreign to it. 
 
 Fluency of speech seems to me a natural gift, varying 
 much in different individuals, and capable of being rendered 
 either a delightful accomplishment, or a most wearisome trait 
 of character, according as it is combined with a well or ill dis- 
 ciplined mind. If, as a nation, we are fluent, it is especially 
 incumbent upon us to be correct and methodical thinkers ; 
 or we shall only weary those who are so, by our careless and 
 thoughtless volubility. 
 
 Some persons seem to forget that. mere talking is not con- 
 versing ; that it requires two to make a conversation, and that 
 each must be, in turn, a listener ; but no one can be an agree- 
 able companion, who is not as willing to listen as to talk. 
 
 Selfishness shows itself in this, as in a thousand other ways : 
 one who is always full of herself, and who thinks nothing so 
 important as what she thinks, and says, and does, will be apt 
 to engross more than her share of the talk, even when in the 
 company of those whom she loves. 
 
 There are situations, however, wherein it is a kindness to 
 be the chief talker, as when a young lady is the eldest of the 
 party, and has seen something, or been in some place, the 
 description of which is desired by all around her. If your 
 mind is alive to the wishes and claims of others, you will 
 
READER. 211 
 
 easily perceive when it is a virtue to talk, and when to be 
 silent. It is undue pre-occupation with self, that blinds 
 people, and prevents their seeing what the occasion requires. 
 Sometimes, the most kind and sympathizing person will 
 not do justice to her nature, but will appear to be cold and 
 inattentive, because she does not know that it is necessary to 
 give some sign, that she is attending to what is addressed to 
 her. She averts her eye from the speaker, and listens in 
 such profound silence, and with a countenance so immovable, 
 that no one could suppose her to be at all interested by what 
 she is hearing. This is very discouraging to the speaker, 
 and very impolite. Good manners require that you should 
 look at the person who speaks to you, and that you should 
 put in a word, or a look, from time to time, that will indicate 
 your interest in the narrative. A few interjections happily 
 thrown in by the hearer*, are a great comfort and stimulus to 
 the speaker ; and one who has always been accustomed to 
 this evidence of sympathy or comprehension, in her friends, 
 feels, when listened to without it, as if she were talking to a 
 dead wall. 
 
 
 EXERCISE LXXIX. 
 THE TEAR OF PENITENCE. Moore. 
 
 [The gentle tone of " repose " pervades the first part of the following 
 piece, — that of admiration and "tenderness" succeeds, in the de- 
 scription of the child. " Orotund quality" "aspirated" by the 
 effect of aversion and repugnance approaching to horror, occurs in 
 the description of the criminal. The tones of solemnity, reverence* 
 and awe, are introduced at the line beginning, " But hark ! " &c. 
 The " expression " of admiration and tenderness succeeds, commen- 
 cing at " And looking," &c. " Pathos" regret, and contrition, pre- 
 vail from " And how felt he" &c. to " Blest tears," &c, where 
 " tenderness," " tranquillity" and "joy," vary the expression once 
 more. The close is full, swelling, and rapturous in its effect. 
 
 These variations should all receive the full benefit of the shifting 
 rhythm of this plastic lyric. The metrical character of every stanza, 
 should tell distinctly on the ear, but in due subordination, in every 
 instance, to the key of the emotion. The musical effect of verse, 
 however, properly receives fuller scope in lyric compositions, than in 
 any other.] 
 
212 
 
 The Peri, — according to the fable, — is in quest of that which shall se- 
 cure her admission to heaven. After a long and wearisome search^ 
 and repeated failures, she finds it, at last, in the tear of penitence. 
 
 Now, upon Syria's land of roses, 
 Softly the light of eve reposes ; 
 And, — like a glory, — the broad sun 
 Hangs over sainted Lebanon ; 
 Whose head in wintry grandeur towers, 
 
 And whitens with eternal sleet, 
 While summer, in a vale of flowers, 
 
 Is sleeping rosy at his feet. 
 
 But naught can charm the luckless Peri ; 
 Her soul is sad, her wings are weary : — 
 Joyless she sees the sun lool^ down 
 On that great temple, once his own,* 
 Whose lonely columns stand sublime, 
 
 Flinging their shadows from on high, 
 Like dials, which the wizard, Time, 
 
 Had raised to count his ages by ! 
 
 Yet haply there may lie concealed, 
 Beneath those chambers of the sun, 
 
 Some amulet of gems, annealed 
 
 In upper fires, some tablet sealed 
 With the great name of Solomon, 
 
 Which, spelled by her illumined eyes, 
 May teach her where, beneath the moon, 
 In earth or ocean, lies the boon, 
 The charm, that can restore, so soon, 
 
 An erring spirit to the skies ! 
 
 Cheered by this hope, she bends her hither : 
 Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven, 
 Nor have the golden bowers of even, 
 
 In the rich west, begun to wither ; 
 
 When, o'er the vale of Balbec winging 
 Slowly, she sees a child at play, 
 
 Among the rosy wild-flowers singing, 
 As rosy and as wild as they ; 
 
 Chasing, with eager hands and eyes, 
 
 The beautiful blue damsel flies, 
 
 * The Temple of the Sun at Balbec 
 
213 
 
 That fluttered round the jasmine stems, 
 Like winged flowers or flying gems ; 
 And near the boy, who, tired with play, 
 Now, nestling 'mid the roses, lay, 
 She saw a wearied man dismount 
 
 From his hot steed, and, on the brink 
 Of a small imaret's rustic fount, 
 
 Impatient, fling him down to drink. 
 
 Then swift his haggard brow he turned 
 
 To the fair child, who fearless sat, 
 Though never yet hath daybeam burned 
 
 Upon a brow more fierce than that, — 
 Sullenly fierce, — a mixture dire, — 
 Like thunder-clouds, — of gloom and fire, 
 In which the Peri's eye could read 
 
 Dark tales of many a ruthless deed ; 
 
 Yet tranquil, now, that man of crime, — 
 As if the balmy evening time 
 Softened his spirit, — looked and lay, 
 Watching the rosy infant's play ; 
 Though still, whene'er his eye by chance 
 Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance 
 
 Met that unclouded, joyous gaze, 
 As torches that have burned all night, 
 Through some impure and godless rite, 
 
 Encounter morning's glorious rays. 
 
 But hark ! the vesper call to prayer, 
 
 As slow the orb of daylight sets, 
 Is rising sweetly on the air, 
 
 From Syria's thousand minarets ! 
 The boy has started from the bed 
 Of flowers, where he had laid his head, 
 And down upon the fragrant sod 
 
 Kneels, with his forehead to the south, 
 Lisping the eternal name of God 
 
 From Purity's own cherub mouth; 
 And looking, while his hands and eyes 
 Are lifted to the glowing skies, 
 Like a stray babe of paradise, 
 Just lighted on that flowery plain, 
 And seeking for its home again ! 
 
214 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Oh ! 'twas a sight, — that heaven, — that child, 
 A scene which might have well beguiled 
 Even haughty Eblis of a sigh 
 For glories lost, and peace gone by ! 
 
 And how felt he, the wretched man 
 Reclining there, — while memory ran 
 O'er many a year of guilt and strife, 
 Flew o'er the dark flood of his life, 
 Nor found one sunny resting-place, 
 Nor brought him back one branch of grace 1 
 " There was a time," he said, in mild, 
 Heart-humbled tones, " thou blessed child, 
 When young, and, haply, pure as thou, 
 
 I looked and prayed like thee ; but now " 
 
 He hung his head ; each nobler aim, 
 
 And hope, and feeling, which had slept 
 From boyhood's hour, that instant came 
 
 Fresh o'er him, and he wept, — he wept! 
 
 Blest tears of soul-felt penitence ! 
 
 In whose benign, redeeming flow 
 Is felt the first, the only sense 
 
 Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. 
 
 And now behold him kneeling there, 
 By the child's side, in humble prayer, 
 While the same sunbeam shines upon 
 The guilty and the guiltless one, 
 And hymns of joy proclaim through heaven 
 The triumph of a soul forgiven ! 
 
 EXERCISE LXXX. 
 
 DAWN. Anon. 
 
 [The style of this piece advances from " tranquillity" and " repose" to 
 " animation." The " quality " of voice is "pure tone" throughout ; 
 the last poetic quotation being in the mood of deep "pathos." The 
 prose portions of this extract are so much in the spirit of poetry, 
 
215 
 
 that they adopt its musical utterance, to a certain extent Still, the 
 transition to verse should be distinctly felt by the ear, the moment 
 a quotation commences. This effect is usually perceptible in a 
 deeper, softer, and slower utterance, than belongs to prose.] 
 
 It is the dawning hour of day. The air is calm as an 
 infant's breathing : the sky is clear, and grayly tinged with 
 the returning light. 
 
 " The early star shoots down ; and day is breaking, 
 Orient, as eyes of roses at their waking. 
 A gentle stir is heard among the bowers, 
 A rustling of the waking leaves and flowers." 
 
 The animal and insect world is now astir : the creatures 
 that delight in darkness and in night, have retired, in their 
 turn, to rest : the more cheerful creatures of the day, (for so 
 we are taught to consider them, yet, for any thing we know to 
 the contrary, the bat may be a merrier fellow than the swal- 
 low, and the owl as lively as the lark, though he affects an 
 imperturbable air of gravity,) those who delight in sun and 
 shower, — are already risen to enjoy their old pleasures, their 
 new loves, and bird-like friendships, and fresh hunting-places. 
 Some of these happy creatures are already providing for the 
 wants of the day only, thinking nothing of the morrow : 
 others, who are not summer-livers only, but mean to winter 
 here, are hoarding for their winter necessities ; and all are 
 pursuing that work of their lives whjch Nature appointed 
 them to do, and are doing it cheerfully and industriously. 
 
 " The bee has left his honeyed home, and humming 
 Drowsily a few short snatches of his song, 
 Winds in and out, — now drops the flowers among, 
 Finds where his business lies, — a moment sings, — 
 Then, nestling to his work, shuts-to his golden wings ! " 
 
 Man, only, sleeps and is slothful, and, when he wakes, re- 
 pines at the task assigned him, and murmurs much, and 
 sings not a single note of praise or pleasure. But behold 
 the dawning ! 
 
 " As some broad river's tide, (whose ebbing left, 
 Where silvery waters eloquently ran, 
 Banks black with ooze, and shoals of filthy slime,) 
 Comes gently flooding back its daily course, 
 So gradually the light breaks flowing in 
 From east to west, till all the sky is filled 
 
216 YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 
 
 With blaze and beauty, like a theatre, 
 Some vast arena of old Greece or Rome, 
 Where a great, many-millioned people thronged." 
 
 Twilight, — of which the happy poet Herrick says, — 
 
 " Twilight, no other thing is, poets say, 
 Than the last part of night, and first of day," — 
 
 twilight, with all its shadows and solemn glooms, is gone ; 
 and now it is perfect day. But, before that cheerful advent 
 of the light, 
 
 " What various scenes, and, oh ! what scenes of woe, 
 Were witnessed by that red and struggling beam ! 
 The fevered patient, from his pallet low, 
 
 Through crowded hospital beheld it stream ; 
 The ruined maiden trembled at its gleam ; 
 The debtor v/aked to thoughts of gyve and jail ; 
 
 The lovelorn wretch from love's tormenting dream ; 
 The wakeful mother, by the glimmering pale, 
 Trimmed her sick infant's couch, and soothed his feeble wail." 
 
 But " the universal blessing," light, has laid, as with the 
 rod of Moses, the serpent thoughts of darkness, fear, super- 
 stition, and despair ; and holier thoughts and aspirations, and 
 the voices of birds, if not of men, are heard filling the aisles, 
 and thrilling the high dome of Nature's temple, with their 
 "national hymn" of praise. 
 
 
 EXERCISE LXXXX. 
 
 VALUE OF CHRISTIAN FAITH. Buckminster. 
 
 [The hortatory parts of sermons, require, — from the manner of direct 
 address, — the full " orotund " voice of public speaking. Without 
 this quality, there can be no dignified or impressive effect, such as 
 belongs to all true eloquence. Earnestness, warmth and pathos, 
 are the principal traits of " expression," in the following extract. 
 The glowing and eloquent style demands the full effects of oratory 
 and of poetry, in the utterance of every sentiment The most 
 vivid and thrilling elocution is required, throughout] 
 
 Would you know the value of the principle of faith to the 
 bereaved? Go, and follow a corpse to the grave. See the 
 
217 
 
 body deposited there, and hear the earth thrown in upon all 
 that remains of your friend. Return now, if you will, and 
 brood over the lesson which your senses have given you, and 
 derive from it what consolation you can. You have learned 
 nothing but an unconsoling fact. No voice of comfort issues 
 from the tomb. Ail is still there, and blank, and lifeless, and 
 has been so for ages. 
 
 You see nothing but bodies dissolving and successively 
 mingling with the clods which cover them, the grass growing 
 over the spot, and the trees waving in sullen majesty over this 
 region of eternal silence. And what is there more'? Noth- 
 ing? — Come, Faith, and people these deserts! Come, and 
 reanimate these regions of forgetfulness ! Mothers ! take 
 again your children to your arms, for they are living. Sons ! 
 your aged parents are coming forth in the vigour of regen- 
 erated years. Friends 1 behold, your dearest connections are 
 waiting to embrace you. The tombs are burst.* Generations, 
 long since lost in slumbers, are awaking. They are coming 
 from the east and the west, from the north and from the south, 
 to constitute the community of the blessed. 
 
 But it is not in the loss of friends alone, that faith furnishes 
 consolations which are inestimable. With a man of faith, 
 not an affliction is lost, not a change is unimproved. He 
 studies even his own history with pleasure, and finds it full 
 of instruction. The dark passages of his life are illuminated 
 with hope ; and he sees, that, although he has passed through 
 many dreary defiles, yet they may have opened at last into 
 brighter regions of existence. He recalls, with a species of 
 wondering gratitude, periods of his life, when all its events 
 seemed to conspire against him. Hemmed in by straitened 
 circumstances, wearied with repeated blows of unexpected 
 misfortune, and exhausted with the painful anticipation of 
 more, he recollects years, when the ordinary love of life could 
 not have retained him in the world. Many a time he might 
 have wished to lay down his being in disgust, had not some- 
 thing, more than the senses provide us with, kept up the elas- 
 ticity of his mind. He yet lives, and has found that " light 
 is sown for the righteous, and gladness for the upright in 
 heart." 
 
 The man of faith discovers some gracious purpose in 
 every combination of circumstances. Wherever he finds 
 himself, he knows that he has a destination : — he has, there- 
 fore, a duty. Every event has, in his eye, a tendency and an 
 aim. Nothing is accidental, — nothing without a purpose, — 
 19 
 
218 
 
 nothing unattended with benevolent consequences. Every 
 thing on earth is probationary, — nothing ultimate. He is 
 poor; — perhaps his plans have been defeated; — he finds it 
 difficult to provide for the exigencies of life ; — sickness is 
 permitted to invade the quiet of his household ; — long con- 
 finement imprisons his activity, and cuts short the exertions 
 on which so many depend ; — something apparently unlucky 
 mars his best plans; — new failures and embarrassments 
 among his friends, present themselves, and throw additional 
 obstructions in his way : — the world look on, and say, " All 
 these things are against him." 
 
 Some wait coolly for the hour when he shall sink under the 
 complicated embarrassments of his cruel fortune. Others, 
 of a kinder spirit, regard him with compassion, and wonder 
 how he can sustain such a variety of woe. A few there are, 
 a very few, I fear, who can understand something of the se- 
 renity of his mind, and comprehend something of the nature 
 of his fortitude. There are those, whose sympathetic piety 
 can read and interpret the characters of unexpected worth by 
 unexpected misfortune, invigorating certain virtues by pecu- 
 liar probations, — thus breaking the fetters which bind us to 
 temporal things, and 
 
 " From seeming evil still educing good, 
 And better thence again, and better still, 
 In infinite progression." 
 
 When the sun of the believer's hopes, according to com- 
 mon calculations, is set, — to the eye of faith it is still visible. 
 When much of the rest of the world is in darkness, the high 
 ground of faith is illuminated with the brightness of religious 
 consolation. 
 
 Come, now, my incredulous friends, and follow me to the 
 bed of the dying believer. Would you see, in what peace a 
 Christian can die 1 Watch the last gleams of thought, which 
 stream from his dying eyes. Do you see any thing like ap- 
 prehension ? The world, it is true, begins to shut in. The 
 shadows of evening collect around his senses. A dark mist 
 thickens and rests upon the objects which have hitherto en- 
 gaged his observation. The countenances of his friends be- 
 come more and more indistinct. The sweet expressions of 
 love and friendship are no longer intelligible. His ear wakes 
 no more at the well-known voice of his children ; and the 
 soothing accents of tender affection die away, unheard, upon 
 his decaying senses. To him the spectacle of human life is 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 219 
 
 drawing to its close ; and the curtain is descending, which 
 shuts out this earth, its actors, and its scenes. He is no 
 longer interested in all that is done under the sun. 
 
 Oh ! that I could now open to you the recesses of his soul ; 
 that I could reveal to you the light, which darts into the 
 chambers of his understanding ! He approaches the world 
 which he has so long seen in faith. The imagination now 
 collects its diminished strength, and the eye of faith opens 
 wide. 
 
 Friends ! do not stand, thus fixed in sorrow, around this 
 bed of death. Why are you so still and silent ? Fear not 
 to move : — you cannot disturb the last visions, which en- 
 trance this holy spirit. Your lamentations break not in upon 
 the songs of seraphs, which enwrap his hearing in ecstasy. 
 Crowd, if you choose, around his couch ; — he heeds you 
 not, — already he sees the spirits of the just advancing to- 
 gether to receive a kindred soul. Press him not with impor- 
 tunities; urge him not with alleviations. Think you he wants 
 now these tones of mortal voices, — these material, these 
 gross consolations ? No ! He is going to add another to the 
 myriads of the just, that are every moment crowding into the 
 portals of heaven ! 
 
 He is entering on a nobler life. He leaves you, — he 
 leaves you, weeping children of mortality, to grope about a 
 little longer among the miseries and sensualities of a worldly 
 life. Already he cries to you from the regions of bliss. — 
 Will you not join him there! Will you not taste the sublime 
 joys of faith ? There are your predecessors in virtue ; there, 
 too, are places left for your contemporaries. There are seats 
 for you in the assembly of the just made perfect, in the in- 
 numerable company of angels, where is Jesus, " the mediator 
 of the new covenant, and God, the judge of all." 
 
 EXERCISE LXXXIL 
 
 TO A CHILD. Joanna Baillie. 
 
 f* Gayely? " animatien" and " tenderness" are the chief characteristics 
 in the elocution of this beautiful lyric. The great point to be aimed 
 at, is, to enter, without reserve, into the spirit of each emotion as it 
 
220 
 
 occurs, and utter it fully and impressively. The "pitch " is that of 
 talking rather than of canversation, — a free, unreserved utterance 
 of thought, in half-playful, half-sentimental mood : the notes, ac- 
 cordingly, are comparatively " high ; " the "force " is full and " ener- 
 getic;" and the "movement" "lively" and "brisk," — changing, 
 however, in the last stanza but one, to the " slow " style and " grave " 
 utterance of regi-et, and settling, in the closing one, into the firmef 
 and more " moderate " expression of resignation^ 
 
 Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheeky 
 
 And curly pate and merry eye, 
 And arm and shoulders round and sleek, 
 
 And soft and fair ? thou urchin sly \ 
 
 What boots it who, with sweet caresses, 
 
 First called thee his, — or squire or hind? — > 
 
 For thou in every wight that passes, 
 Dost now a friendly playmate find. 
 
 Thy downcast glances, grave but cunning. 
 
 As fringed eyelids rise and fail, 
 Thy shyness, swiftly from me running, — - 
 
 'Tis infantine coquetry all \ 
 
 But far afield thou hast not flown, 
 
 With mocks and threats half-lisped, half-spokes* 
 I feel thee pulling at my gown, 
 
 Of right good-will thy simple token. 
 
 And thou must laugh and wrestle too, 
 
 A mimic v/arfare with me waging, 
 To make, as wily lovers do r 
 
 Thy after kindness more engaging. 
 
 The wilding rose, sweet as thyself, 
 
 And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure t 
 
 I'd gladly part with worldly pelf, 
 
 To taste again thy youthful pleasure^ 
 
 But yet for all thy merry look, 
 
 Thy frisks and wiles, the time is comings 
 
 When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook, 
 The weary spell or horn book thumbing;,. 
 
YOUNG LADIES^ READER. 221 
 
 Well ; let it be ! through weal and woe, 
 Thou know'st not now thy future range : 
 
 Life is a motley, shifting show, 
 
 And thou, a thing of hope and change. 
 
 EXERCISE LXXXIII * 
 MATERNAL INSTRUCTION. George B. Emerson. 
 
 To a mother is committed the intellect of her child. On 
 her, more than on any other individual, it depends to awaken 
 the various faculties, at their right season, and in just and har- 
 monious proportion. The relation between the mind of man 
 and the universe in which he is placed by the Creator of both, 
 is established for wise purposes, which it becomes us to in- 
 quire into and reverence. They are laws of our existence. 
 The child opens his eyes to the light, in the midst of objects 
 on which he is to act, and which are to act on him during 
 life ; and there is enough in them to give full play to all his 
 powers. Is it to no purpose that he is so placed ; and are we 
 at liberty to disregard these indications of his destiny? 
 
 The discipline of the moral powers begins with the first 
 dawn of perception, and is never intermitted. Not a look nor 
 a tone is without its influence. Those who have observed 
 most attentively, have thought that the discipline of the men- 
 tal powers begins not much later. Curiosity is active, the 
 attention is excited, the memory is exerted, before the first 
 word can be pronounced. How soon after do eager looks 
 and questions show that mind is already busy ! Then it is 
 that the wary care of a mother is necessary to give a right 
 direction to the active powers, to gratify and stimulate the 
 curiosity, to direct the attention, and to guard against false 
 prejudices. 
 
 The innumerable questions which a sensible child asks, 
 demand an answer ; his mind turns with intense earnestness, 
 
 * The preliminary suggestions on the appropriate elocution of each ex- 
 ercise, having now been extended so far as to comprehend the principal 
 forms of narrative, descriptive, and didactic prose, and of epic and lyric 
 poetry, it is deemed unnecessary to continue them. The reader may 
 "now, it is thought, be left to her own application, aided, when necessary, 
 by the teacher, to trace the prevailing characteristics of style and ex- 
 pression, required in the subsequent exercises of this volume. 
 19* 
 
222 YOUNG LADIES 5 READER* 
 
 upon the objects spread about him upon the beautiful eartff, 
 A true and reasonable answer delights the little questioner, 
 and prompts farther inquiry. Imagination and reason spring 
 into action : and the child rises from the real world into the 
 ideal and possible. Then commences the great investigation 
 of causes, the instinct of which God has implanted in the 
 soul of his rational creature, to lead him up to the first cause. 
 Answer his questions aright, gratify this instinct of reason,, 
 indulge him in this luxury of inquiry, and you make him feel 
 the delights of rational existence; he becomes an intellectual 
 ©reature. Or, on the contrary, meet his ardent gaze with a 
 look of cold indifference or stupid ignorance, show him that 
 you know not or care not for the subjects of his inquiries - y 
 turn him away from the bright regions of reality and thought 
 which were opening upon him, with the pain of repulse and 
 disappointment, — you have quenched the divine spark per- 
 haps forever ; henceforth to him a veil, almost impenetrable, 
 is thrown over what is most beautiful and exciting in the 
 physical and the moral world. 
 
 " A primrose by the river's brim, 
 
 A yellow primrose is to him, 
 
 And it is nothing more/' 
 
 No one, who has lived with an inquisitive child, will say 
 that a small amount of knowledge and little thought are suf- 
 ficient to enable you to answer, satisfactorily to yourself and 
 to him, his innumerable questions as to the properties, uses, 
 and causes of all he sees. Will any one say that they are 
 not to be answered, and that slight preparation of study and 
 discipline need be made by the mother, to enable her to 
 watch the first dawnings of reason, to foster and train the 
 various powers, and to supply, at right times, and suitably, 
 the materials for their growth? 
 
 But a still higher office is committed to the mother. It is 
 for her to form the religious character of her child. It has 
 been observed by those who have had charge of deserted 
 orphan children, that upon one who has never felt the influ- 
 ence of parental care and affection, it is extremely difficult to 
 impress an idea of the paternal character of God. A moth- 
 er's love is necessary to prepare the affections ; and it is on a 
 heart subdued and softened by maternal kindness, that the 
 soft rain and gentle dew of religious instruction should distil, 
 and the seeds of a religious character be implanted. 
 
 I need not say how easily, on a heart so prepared, the idea 
 
YOUNG LADIES 9 READER. g«J3 
 
 of a kind, watchful, protecting earthly parent, may be ex- 
 panded into a conception of the infinite benevolence, watch- 
 fulness, and protection of a father in Heaven. The fear of 
 God may be impressed afterwards. But the perfect love 
 which casts out fear, grows naturally only in the bosom of a 
 child. Then may an idea of God be implanted which shall 
 be associated with whatever is grand and beautiful and hap- 
 py, — which shall not come as a spectre, to haunt the dreams 
 of night and sickness, but shall be an ever present spirit, 
 guiding in the paths of truth, sustaining in weakness and 
 temptation, and protecting from every form of evil. 
 
 A child may be taught to know himself, to understand 
 something of the spiritual nature of his soul, to examine his 
 motives, to feel his own weakness, to guard against sin from 
 within and from without, to subdue his passions, to respect 
 the superior authority of his conscience as of the image of 
 God within him, — in short, to distrust and yet reverence 
 himself. This may be done and ought to be done. Of how 
 little value is all the rest of education in comparison with it! 
 It can be done only by a mother who is sensible of her spirit- 
 ual nature, who feels the greatness of her charge and her re- 
 sponsibility. It is only such a mother, who will consider the 
 invitation to her child, — " come unto me early," — as a com- 
 mand upon herself to bring him. 
 
 EXERCISE LXXXIV. 
 
 FIDELITY TO DUTY. Mrs. Grant. 
 [Extract from a Letter.'} 
 
 My time is, at present, much occupied ; but I shall avail 
 myself of a short interval of leisure, to tell you what I am 
 sure you will be interested in hearing, — the particulars of 
 the final interview between the Prince of Wales and the late 
 Bishop of London, (Dr. Porteus,) which have been commu- 
 nicated to me, from a source which appears to me quite 
 authentic. Among other good people with whom my in- 
 formant is intimate, is Mr. Owen, minister of Fulham, who 
 was, in a manner, the bishop's parish clergyman, and long 
 his chaplain. He even gave my friend an account of this 
 interview, as the bishop gave it to him, two days before his 
 death. 
 
224 YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 
 
 His royal highness had sent out a summons for a great 
 military review, which was to take place on a Sunday. The 
 bishop had been long confined to his room, and did not hope, 
 nor, I suppose, wish, ever in this world to go out again. He 
 ordered his carriage, however, upon hearing this, proceeded 
 to Carlton House, and waited on the prince, who received 
 him very graciously. 
 
 " I am come, sir," said the bishop, " urged by my regard 
 for you, for your father, and for this great nation, which is 
 anxiously beholding every public action of yours. I am on 
 the verge of time : new prospects open to me : the favour of 
 human beings is as nothing to me now. I am come to warn 
 your royal highness of the awful consequences of your break- 
 ing down the very little that remains of distinction to the day 
 that the Author of all power has hallowed, and set apart for 
 himself." 
 
 He went on, in pathetic terms, to represent the awful 
 responsibility to which the prince exposed himself, and how 
 much benefit or injury might result to the immortal souls of 
 millions, by his consulting or neglecting the revealed will of 
 the King of kings ; and, after much tender and awful ex- 
 hortation, concluded with saying, " You see how your father, 
 — greatly your inferior in talent and capacity, — has been a 
 blessing to all around him, and to the nation at large, because 
 he made it the study and business of his life to exert all his 
 abilities for the good of his people, to study and to do the 
 will of God, and to give an example to the world of a life 
 regulated by the precepts of Christian morality. He has 
 been an object of respect and veneration to the whole world, 
 for so doing. If he has done much, you, with your excellent 
 abilities, and pleasing and popular manners, may do much 
 more. It is impossible for you to remain stationary in this 
 awful crisis ; you rise to true glory and renown, and lead 
 millions in the same path by the power of your example, or 
 sink to sudden and perpetual ruin, aggravated by the great 
 numbers whom your fall will draw with you to the same de- 
 struction : and now, were I able to rise, or were any one 
 here who would assist me, I should, with the awful feeling of 
 a dying man, give my last blessing to your royal highness." 
 
 The prince, upon this, burst into tears, and fell on his 
 knees before the bishop, who bestowed upon him, with 
 folded hands, his dying benediction : the prince then, in the 
 most gracious and affecting manner, assisted him himself, to 
 go down, and put him into his carriage. — The bishop went 
 
225 
 
 home, never came out again, and died the fifth day after. On 
 hearing of his death, the prince shut himself up, and was 
 heard by his attendants to sob as under deep affliction. 
 
 EXERCISE LXXXV. 
 THE STUDY OF THE ANIMAL WORLD. Mrs. Ellis. 
 
 I would recommend to the attention of youth, an intimate 
 acquaintance with the nature and habits of the animal world. 
 Here we may find a source of rational and delightful interest, 
 which can never fail us, so long as a bird is heard to sing 
 upon the trees, or a butterfly is seen to sport among the 
 flowers. 
 
 I will not go the length of recommending to my young 
 countrywomen to become collectors, either of animals or of 
 insects ; because, as in the case of translations from the best 
 of ancient writers, this has already been done for them, bet- 
 ter than they are likely to do it for themselves ; and because 
 I am not quite sure, that simply for our own amusement, and 
 without any reference to serving the purpose of science, we 
 have a right to make even a beetle struggle to death upon 
 the point of a pin, or to crowd together boxes full of living 
 creatures, which, in the agony of their pent-up sufferings, 
 devour and destroy one another. 
 
 Happily for us, there are ably written books on these sub- 
 jects, from which we can learn more than from our own ob- 
 servation ; and museums accessible to all, where different 
 specimens of insects and other animals, are so arranged as 
 materially to assist in understanding their nature and classifi- 
 cation ; and far more congenial it surely must be to the heart 
 and mind of woman, to read all which able and enlightened 
 men have told us of this world of wonder, and then to go 
 forth into the fields, and see the busy and beautiful creatures 
 by which it is inhabited, sporting in the joyous freedom of 
 nature, unharmed, and unsuspicious of harm. Yes, there is 
 an acquaintance with the animal creation, which might be 
 cultivated, so as to do good to the heart, both of the child 
 and the philosopher, — an acquaintance which seems to ab- 
 solve these helpless creatures from the curse of estrangement 
 from their sovereign man, — an acquaintance which brings 
 
226 YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 
 
 them near to us, in all their natural peculiarities, their 
 amazing instincts, and in the voiceless, and other unintelli- 
 gible secrets of their mysterious existence. 
 
 And it is good thus to be acquainted with that portion of 
 creation which acknowledges, in common with ourselves, the 
 great principle of animal life ; to know that enjoyment is en- 
 joyment, and that pain is pain, to myriads and myriads of 
 beings, in some respects more beautiful, in others more curi- 
 ous, and, in all, more innocent, than ourselves. It is good to 
 know, so far as men can know, for what purpose Almighty 
 power has created them. It is good to behold their beauty, 
 to understand their wonderful formation, and to examine the 
 fairy fancy-work of some of their sacred little honies. It is 
 good to be acquainted with the strength of the mother's love, 
 when she stoops her wing to the spoiler, and offers her own 
 life to save her tender brood. It is good to know that the 
 laws of nature, in their filial and parental influences, cannot 
 be violated without sorrow as intense, though not as lasting, 
 as that which tortures the human heart on the separation of 
 parent and child. It is good to know how these creatures, 
 placed by Divine wisdom under the power and dominion of 
 man, are made to suffer or to die, when he neglects or abuses 
 them. 
 
 The earth and the air, the woods and the streams, the gar- 
 dens and the fields, tell us of all this. When we sit under 
 the shade of a lofty tree, in the stillness of summer's balmy 
 noon, the note of the wood-pigeon salutes us from above. 
 We look up, and the happy couple are nestling on a bough, 
 as closely, side by side, as if the whole world to them was 
 nothing, so long as their faithful love was left. On a lower 
 branch of the same tree, or on a broken rail close by, the 
 little robin sits and sings, looking occasionally askance into 
 the face of that lordly creature whom instinct teaches him to 
 shun. Yet is it less a reproachful, than an inquiring glance, 
 as if he would ask, whether you could really" wish to frighten 
 him with all the terrors which agitate his little breast on your 
 approach. And then he sings to you again, a low, soft war- 
 ble ; though his voice is never quite so sweet as in the autumn, 
 when other birds are silent, and he still sings on amidst the 
 falling leaves and faded flowers. Next, the butterfly comes 
 wavering into sight, yet hastening on, to turn its golden wings 
 once more up to the sunshine. The bee then hurries past, 
 intent upon its labours, and attracted only for a moment by 
 the nosegay in your hand ; while the grasshopper, that mas- 
 
READER. 22? 
 
 ter of ventriloquism, invites your curiosity, — now here, now 
 there, but never to the spot where his real presence is to be 
 found. And, all this while, the faithful dog is at your feet. 
 If you rise, — at the same moment he rises too ; and if you 
 sit down, he also composes himself to rest. Ever ready to 
 go or stay, he watches your slightest movement ; and so close- 
 ly and mysteriously is his being absorbed in yours, that, 
 although a ramble in the fields affords him a perfect ecstasy 
 of delight, he never allows himself this indulgence, without 
 your countenance and companionship. 
 
 But it is impossible so much as to name one in a thousand 
 of the sweet and cheering influences of animal life, upon the 
 youthful heart. The very atmosphere we live in, teems with 
 it ; the woods are vocal, — the groves are filled with it ; while 
 around our doors, within our homes, and even at our social 
 hearth, the unfailing welcome, the transient glimpses of intel- 
 ligence, the instinct, the love of these creatures, are inter- 
 woven with the vast chain of sympathy, which, through the 
 whole of what may be a wandering and uncertain life, binds 
 us to that spot of earth where we first awoke to a feeling of 
 companionship with this portion of the creatures of our 
 heavenly Father's care. 
 
 EXERCISE LXXXVI. 
 
 SPRING. Addison. 
 
 Of all the seasons there is none that can vie with the 
 spring, for beauty and delightfulness. It bears the same 
 figure among the seasons of the year, that the morning does 
 among the divisions of the day, or youth among the stages 
 of life. The English summer is pleasanter than that of any 
 other country in Europe, on no other account but because it 
 has a greater mixture of spring in it. The mildness of our 
 climate, with those frequent refreshments of dews and rains 
 that fall among us, keeps up a perpetual cheerfulness in our 
 fields, and fills the hottest months of the year with a lively 
 verdure. 
 
 In the opening of the spring, when all nature begins to 
 recover herself, the same animal pleasure which makes the 
 birds sing, and the whole brute creation rejoice, rises very 
 sensibly in the heart of man. I know none of the poets who 
 
228 
 
 has observed so well as Milton, those secret overflowings of 
 gladness which diffuse themselves through the mind of the 
 beholder, upon surveying the gay scenes of nature : he has 
 touched upon it, twice or thrice, in his Paradise Lost, and 
 describes it very beautifully, under the name of " vernal 
 delight," in that passage where he represents the arch-fiend 
 himself as almost sensible of it : 
 
 " Blossoms and fruits, at once, of golden hue, 
 Appeared, with gay enamelled colours mixed : 
 On which the sun more glad impressed his beams 
 Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow, 
 When God hath showered the earth ; — so lovely seemed 
 That landscape : and of pure now purer air 
 Meets his approach ; and to the heart inspires 
 Vernal delight, and joy, able to drive 
 All sadness but despair." 
 
 The creation is a perpetual feast to the mind of a good 
 man : every thing he sees cheers and delights him. Provi- 
 dence has imprinted so many smiles on nature, that it is 
 impossible for a mind which is not sunk in mere gross and 
 sensual delights, to take a survey of them, without sensations 
 of pleasure. The Psalmist has, in several of his divine 
 poems, celebrated those beautiful and agreeable scenes which 
 make the heart glad, and produce in it that " vernal delight" 
 which I have before taken notice of. 
 
 Natural philosophy quickens this taste of the creation, and 
 renders it not only pleasing to the imagination, but to the 
 understanding. It does not rest in the murmur of brooks, 
 and the melody of birds, in the shade of groves and woods, 
 or in the embroidery of fields and meadows ; but considers 
 the several ends of Providence which are served by them, 
 and the wonders of Divine wisdom which appear in them. 
 It heightens the pleasures of the eye, and raises such a ra- 
 tional admiration in the soul, as is little inferior to devotion. 
 
 It is not in the power of every one to offer up this kind of 
 worship to the great Author of nature, and to indulge these 
 more refined meditations of heart, which are doubtless highly 
 acceptable in his sight ; I shall therefore conclude this short 
 essay on that pleasure which the mind naturally conceives 
 from the present season of the year, by recommending a 
 practice for which every one has sufficient abilities. 
 
 I would have my readers endeavour to moralize this natural 
 pleasure of the soul, and to improve this " vernal delight," 
 
READER. 229 
 
 as Milton calls it, into a Christian virtue. When we find 
 ourselves inspired with this pleasing instinct, this secret, 
 satisfaction and complacency, arising from the beauties of 
 the creation, let us consider to whom we stand indebted for 
 all these entertainments of sense, and who it is that thus 
 opens his hand, and fills the world with good. The apostle 
 instructs us to take advantage of our present temper of mind, 
 to graft upon it such a religious exercise as is particularly 
 conformable to it, by that precept which advises those who 
 are sad to pray, and those who are merry to sing psalms. The 
 cheerfulness of heart which springs up in us from the survey 
 of nature's works, is an admirable preparation for gratitude. 
 The mind has gone a great way towards praise and thanks- 
 giving, that is filled with such a secret gladness. A grateful 
 reflection on the supreme Cause who produces it, sanctifies 
 it in the soul, and gives it its proper value. Such an habit- 
 ual disposition of mind, consecrates every field and wood, 
 turns an ordinary walk into a morning or evening sacrifice, 
 and will improve those transient gleams of joy which natu- 
 rally brighten up and refresh the soul, on such occasions, 
 into an inviolable and perpetual state of bliss and happiness 
 
 EXERCISE LXXXVII. 
 
 MORNING HYMN OF ADAM AND EVE. Milton. 
 
 From under shady arborous roof 
 Soon as they forth were come to open sight 
 Of day-spring, and the sun, who, scarce uprisen, 
 With wheels yet hovering o'er the ocean-brim, 
 Shot parallel to the earth his dewy ray, 
 Discovering, in wide landscape, all the east 
 Of paradise and Eden's happy plains, 
 Lowly they bowed adoring, and began 
 Their orisons, — each morning duly paid, 
 In various style; for neither various style 
 Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise 
 Their Maker, in fit strains, pronounced or sung 
 Unmeditated ; such prompt eloquence 
 Flowed from their lips, in prose or numerous verse, 
 20 
 
230 
 
 More tunable than needed lute or harp 
 
 To add more sweetness ; and they thus began : 
 
 " These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, 
 Almighty ! Thine this universal frame, 
 Thus wondrous fair ; Thyself how wondrous then ; 
 Unspeakable, who sit'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 ! 
 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 
 Tn mystic dance, not without song, resound 
 His praise, who out of darkness called up light ! 
 Air, and ye elements, 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 honour to the world's great Author rise ; 
 Whether to deck with clouds the uncoloured 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, 
 
 
231 
 
 Melodious murmurs, warbling tune His praise ! 
 Join voices, all ye living souls ! ye birds, 
 That singing up to^heaven-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 ! " 
 
 EXERCISE LXXXVIII. 
 
 USES OF SUFFERING. William E. Charming. 
 
 [On the Occasion of the Burning of the Steamboat Lexington.'] 
 
 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. As long as we narrow our 
 view of benevolence, and see in it only a disposition to be- 
 stow pleasure, so long life will be a mystery ; for pleasure is 
 plainly not its great end. Earth is not a paradise, where 
 streams of joy gush out unbidden at our feet, and uncloying 
 fruits tempt us on every side to stretch out our hands and eat. 
 But this does not detract from God's love; because he has 
 something better for us than gushing streams or profuse 
 indulgence. 
 
 When we look into ourselves, we find something besides 
 capacities and desires of pleasure. Amidst the selfish and 
 animal principles of our nature, there is an awful power, a 
 sense of Right, a voice which speaks of Duty, an idea grander 
 than the largest personal interest, the idea of Excellence, — 
 of Perfection. Here is the seal of Divinity on us ; here the 
 sign of our descent from God. It is in this gift that we see 
 the benevolence of God. It is in writing this inward law on 
 the heart, it is in giving us the conception of Moral Good- 
 ness, and the power to strive after it, the power of self-conflict 
 and self-denial, of surrendering pleasure to duty, and of suf- 
 
232 
 
 fering for the right, the true, and the good; — it is in thus 
 enduing us, and not in giving us capacities of pleasure, that 
 God's goodness shines ; and, of consequence, whatever gives a 
 field, and excitement, and exercise, and strength, and dignity 
 to these principles of our nature, is the highest manifestation 
 of benevolence. 
 
 I trust I speak a language to which all who hear me in 
 some measure respond. You know, you feel, the difference 
 between excellence and indulgence, between conscience and 
 appetite, between right doing and prosperity, between striv- 
 ings to realize the idea of perfection, and strivings for gain. 
 No one can wholly overlook these different elements within 
 us ; and can any one question which is God's greatest gift, or 
 for what ends such warring principles are united in our souls? 
 
 The end of our being is to educate, bring out, and perfect, 
 the divine principles of our nature. We were made and are 
 upheld in life for this as our greaf end, that we may be true 
 to the principles of duty within us ; that we may put down 
 all desire and appetite beneath the inward law ; that we may 
 enthrone God, the infinitely perfect Father, in our souls ; 
 that we may count all things as dross, in comparison with 
 sanctity of heart and life ; that we may hunger and thirst for 
 righteousness, more than for daily food ; that we may reso- 
 lutely, and honestly seek for and communicate truth; that 
 disinterested love and impartial justice may triumph over ev- 
 ery motion of selfishness, and every tendency to wrong doing : 
 in a word, that our whole lives, labours, conversation, may 
 express and strengthen reverence for ourselves, for our fel- 
 low-creatures, and above all for God. Such is the good for 
 which we are made ; and, in order to this triumph of virtu- 
 ous and religious principles, we are exposed to temptation, 
 hardship, pain. Is suffering then inconsistent with God's 
 love ? 
 
 Had I time, I might show how suffering ministers to hu- 
 man excellence; how it calls forth the magnanimous and 
 sublime virtues, and, at the same time, nourishes the tender- 
 est, sweetest sympathies of our nature ; how it raises us to 
 energy and to the consciousness of our powers, and, at the 
 same time, infuses the meekest dependence on God ; how it 
 stimulates toil for the goods of this world, and, at the same 
 time, weans us from it, and lifts us above it. I might tell 
 you, how I have seen it admonishing the heedless, reproving 
 the presumptuous, humbling the proud, rousing the sluggish, 
 softening the insensible, awakening the slumbering con- 
 
READER. 233 
 
 science, speaking of God to the ungrateful, infusing courage, 
 and force, and faith, and unwavering hope of heaven. I 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 suf- 
 fering do not subdue my faith ; for all 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, amidst 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 1 
 And can I feel, as if God had ceased to love, as if man were 
 forsaken by his Creator, because his body is scattered into 
 ashes by the fire 1 
 
 It would seem as if God intended to disarm the most terri- 
 ble events of their power to disturb our faith, 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 most glorious spot on earth. — A friend rescued 
 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, in 
 to an energy otherwise unknown, the highest sentiments of 
 29* 
 
234 YOUNG ladies' reader. 
 
 the soul? I can shed tears over human griefs; but thus 
 viewed, they do not discourage me : they strengthen my faith 
 in God. 
 
 EXERCISE LXXXIX. 
 
 CATASTROPHE OF THE TOWN OF SC1LLA. Craven. 
 
 The shock which a great part of the Calabrian coast ex- 
 perienced from an earthquake, on the morning of the fifth of 
 February, 1783, had been highly detrimental to the town of 
 Scilla, and had levelled with the dust most of the houses 
 situated on the upper range. The castle had also suffered 
 considerable damage. It was the residence of the prince, 
 whose advanced age and infirmities had rendered him almost 
 indifferent to the fate which appeared to threaten his exist- 
 ence, in common with that of the whole population. He 
 had determined on awaiting the event before the crucifix in 
 his chapel, but was persuaded to leave the walls of a man- 
 sion which appeared scarcely able to resist farther concussion,, 
 and seek his safety in flight towards the mountains, where he 
 possessed a magnificent residence. 
 
 But the road that led out of the town, was so encumbered 
 with the ruins of the buildings which had been overthrown, 
 that it was resolved to defer his departure till the following 
 day ; and a temporary, and apparently secure, asylum, was 
 sought on the strand of one of the two small bays which are 
 separated by the castle, and form harbours for the fishing- 
 boats. To the largest of these, on the southern side of the 
 promontory, the nobleman retired, and prepared to pass the 
 night in a felucca which had been hauled upon the sand, with 
 all the other vessels belonging to the place ; serving as re- 
 ceptacles for the remains of property or household goods, 
 saved by their unfortunate owners, out of their fallen habita- 
 tions. 
 
 Here all the surviving individuals had assembled, and, 
 after a day of terror, hoped to pass a few hours of compara- 
 tive ease and tranquillity. The Ave Maria* had been said, in 
 which, the feudal despot, and his people, now reduced to one 
 common level of humiliation, by the visitations they appre- 
 
 * Pronounced, Ahvay Ma-rcea. 
 
READER. 235 
 
 bended, had joined with all the fervour of penitence and fear. 
 The cries of motherless babes, and the lamentations of child- 
 less parents, had subsided with the commotions of the earth ; 
 while grief, terror, and even despair, lost their power of excite- 
 ment, and all had sunk under the languor of bodily, as well 
 as mental exhaustion. Not a breath of air disturbed the still- 
 ness of the atmosphere, — not the slightest ripple was audible 
 on the surface of the sea. It seemed as if the elements, 
 mankind, and Nature herself, had wasted their energies, and 
 yielded to the necessity of repose. 
 
 At about half-past seven, a distant but loud crash proclaimed 
 some new disaster, and awakened to a fearful state of sus- 
 pense, all the silent sufferers. A powerful recurrence of the 
 morning's shocks had severed a large portion of Mount Bari, 
 — which forms the next promontory, towards the east, — and 
 dashed its sliivered mass into the sea. 
 
 The darkness precluded an immediate communication of 
 this event to the trembling population on the sands, and also 
 shrouded from their knowledge the anticipation of its conse- 
 quences. They were roused by the earthquake ; but, ex- 
 tended on the beach, and out of the reach of all buildings, 
 they thought themselves comparatively secure from real 
 danger. A low, rustling noise was heard, and gradually but 
 rapidly, increased to the roar of the most impetuous hurri- 
 cane. The waters of the whole channel, impelled by the 
 pressure of the fallen mountain, had rushed, in a single wave, 
 over the opposite point of the Faro, which it entirely inundated. 
 Thrown back towards the Calabrian coast, it passed with 
 impetuosity over the shore of Scilla, and, — in its retreat to 
 the bosom of the deep, — swept from its surface every indi- 
 vidual who had thought to find safety in the barrenness of its 
 sands ! — One abhorrent shriek, uttered by the united voices 
 of four thousand human beings, thus snatched to eternity, 
 reechoed from the mountains ; and the tremendous wave, 
 returning, a second and last time, rose to the elevation of the 
 highest houses that yet remained entire, and buried many of 
 them in masses of mud and sand ; leaving on their flat roofs, 
 and among the branches of the trees which grew out of the 
 impending rock, the mangled bodies of some of the victims it 
 had destroyed. But these last were not many : for the mass, 
 including the prince of Scilla, were never seen or heard of 
 more. 
 
236 
 
 EXERCISE XC. 
 
 MORNING. Anon. 
 
 "Look now around the heavens! The sun, 
 Like a monarch returning, both blessing and blest," 
 
 is now far on his glorious journey. And now turn your eyes, 
 blind with "excess of light," and behold again the refreshing 
 green of the pastoral earth. 
 
 " Straight your eye hath caught new pleasures, 
 As the landscape round it measures : 
 Russet lawns and fallows gray, 
 Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; 
 Meadows trim, and daisies pied, 
 Shallow brooks, and rivers wide." 
 
 The grass tapers up like myriads of spears, raised in some 
 fairy armament : here and there, the daisies show their silver- 
 crowned heads, as though they were tributary kings of the 
 lesser heptarchies, and smaller tribes of 
 
 " Elves, and fays, and fairies slim : " 
 
 kingcups are lifted up at every step you take, like golden 
 bowls rilled to the brim with dew ; primroses, cowslips, and 
 violets crowd about the hills, and cluster under the hawthorn- 
 sweetened hedges; and, "retired as the noontide dew," the 
 lovely lily of the valley droops her delicate head, and looks as 
 pale as passion in young human faces. Turn now to those 
 " mighty senators of the wood," those venerable oaks, overtop- 
 ping all their verdant neighbours. Behold the graceful labur- 
 num, dropping its yellow clusters about the face of morning, like 
 golden ringlets falling from the fair forehead of Beauty ! 
 The whole vernal world is now^, indeed, in its youth, and 
 pride, and glory ! 
 
 " No tree in all the grove but has its charms, 
 Though each its hue peculiar : paler some, 
 And of a wannish gray ; the willow such, 
 And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf; 
 And ash, far-stretching his umbrageous arm : 
 Of deeper green the elm ; and deeper still, 
 Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak. 
 Some glossy-leaved and shining in the sun ; 
 
READER. 237 
 
 The maple, and the beech, of oily nuts 
 
 Prolific ; and the lime, at dewy eve, 
 
 Diffusing odours : nor unnoted pass 
 
 The sycamore, capricious in attire, 
 
 Now green, now tawny, and ere autumn yet 
 
 Have changed the woods, in scarlet honours dressed." 
 
 The gardens, too, are full of the freshness and beauty of 
 morning. There the rose breathes her delicate fragrance, 
 that dies not with her summer of life, but clings still to her 
 leaves, though scattered and wafted wherever the winds list. 
 There 
 
 " The lilach, (various in array, now white, 
 
 Now sanguine, as if, — 
 
 Studious of ornament, yet unresolved 
 
 Which hue she most approved, — she chose them all,)" 
 
 loads the air with fragrance. And there, 
 
 " Copious of flowers, the woodbine, pale and wan, 
 But welJ compensating her sickly looks 
 With never-cloying odours," 
 
 clings, like weakness, to the wall. The jessamine throws 
 " wide her elegant sweets." Sweet peas flutter like various- 
 winged butterflies, ready for flight. Blue-bells seem to swing 
 silently in the air, — to our ears, — but, perhaps, to beings 
 better endowed, with finer perceptions, and organs more del- 
 icately tuned, are ringing an aerial peal. The fox-gloves, — 
 with whom the bees love to wrestle, — bloom, and invite 
 them to the sportive war. Pinks throw far and wide their 
 clove-scented breath; and every flower of the field and the 
 (l trim garden," has arrayed itself in all its glories, to welcome 
 and do honour to the Morn. 
 
 EXERCISE XCI. 
 
 FASHION IN DRESS. Mrs. Farrar. 
 
 English ladies have never adopted the fashions of France 
 so implicitly as the American. They always modify them, in 
 a greater or less degree, to suit themselves, and the climate 
 of the country. A first-rate London dress-maker goes to 
 
238 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Paris twice a year for her fashions ; but there she sees some 
 things which she knows will not accord with English notions, 
 and therefore she passes them by, and only brings over what 
 she thinks will suit her more sober countrywomen. At this 
 distance from the fountain of taste, our dress-makers cannot 
 exercise the same discretion ; they, therefore, are obliged to 
 trust to agents, and to rely on prints representing the fashions. 
 The Parisians, who furnish garments made to order for the 
 Americans, are known to send out such extravagant speci- 
 mens, as ladies of bon ton would not wear in Paris; yet these 
 are implicitly adopted here, as the reigning mode. 
 
 There is some convenience in having a standard of fashion 
 that all may conform to : the eye soon becomes reconciled to 
 whatever is universally worn ; but we ought to mistrust all 
 extravagant French models, and, by modifying our copies of 
 them, escape being made ridiculous, at the will and pleasure 
 of a marchand des modes or a Parisian dress-maker. The 
 ladies of Philadelphia are the best dressed in the United 
 States ; and may not this be attributable to the influence of 
 the Quaker and the French population of that city? — the 
 one tending to moderation from principle, the other from 
 taste. 
 
 There is one thing which is never sufficiently taken into 
 account in the fashions of this country ; and that is climate. 
 Receiving our models from the equable temperature of 
 France, they are often unsuited to the scorching suns of 
 our summers, and the severe frosts of our winters. The 
 English ladies set us a good example in this respect; they 
 always accommodate their fashions to the dripping skies of 
 their moist climate, and the chilliness produced by it : ac- 
 cordingly, there never has been a winter, for thirty years, 
 when muffs were not generally worn. Broadcloth suits their 
 drizzling weather particularly well ; and therefore habits made 
 of it, and coats and cloaks to wear in carriages, are always 
 in use. Beaver hats, for riding on horseback, are always in 
 fashion for the same reason ; and so are coarse straw bonnets, 
 particularly in the country, for an undress, and thick leather 
 shoes, for walking through the mud. The most delicately 
 bred fine lady in the land, puts on cotton stockings and thick 
 shoes, to walk out for exercise, and would think it very 
 unlady-like not to be so provided ; and, on more dressy occa- 
 sions, when she wears silk hose, she would on no account go 
 out, in cold weather, without warm shoes, either kid lined 
 with fur, or quilted silk shoes foxed with leather. To walk 
 
READER. 239 
 
 out, as our young ladies do, in cold and wet weather, with 
 thin-soled prunella, or kid shoes, would seem to them very 
 vulgar ; as betraying a want of suitableness, only to be 
 accounted for by supposing the individual to be unable to 
 provide herself with better. 
 
 If there are principles of true taste involved in the myste- 
 ries of a lady's toilet, is not the study of them worthy of a 
 refined and intellectual being ; and would not her time and 
 thoughts be better spent, in conforming her style of dress to 
 them, than in eagerly following every change of the mode, 
 dictated by the love of novelty, apart from real beauty 1 
 
 I do not mean, by this, to recommend singularity of dress, 
 and a wide departure from the prevailing mode : far from it ; 
 singularity is to be avoided ; and she is best dressed whose 
 costume presents an agreeable whole, without any thing that 
 can be remarked. Dr. Johnson once praised a lady's appear- 
 ance, by saying, she was so perfectly well-dressed, he could 
 not recollect any thing she had on. 
 
 I would have young people of cultivated minds, look at 
 every thing with an eye of taste, and, judging of the merits 
 of a certain form of garment, apart from the charm of fash- 
 ion, so modify their compliance with the reigning mode, as 
 not to sacrifice to it their sense of beauty. Mere fashion 
 should never be allowed to triumph over common sense, or 
 good taste, but be kept in check by both. 
 
 In this country, where there are no dashing duchesses and 
 elegant countesses to lead the ton, any lady of sense and 
 taste may set a pretty fashion, and thus do her friends and 
 neighbours an acceptable service. 
 
 A pure taste in dress may be gratified at a small expense; 
 for it does not depend on the costliness of the materials em- 
 ployed, but on the just proportions observed in the forms, 
 and an harmonious arrangement of colours. 
 
 Dr. Spurzheim observed, that the American ladies were 
 deficient in the organ of colour, and said, that, on landing in 
 New York, he was shocked to see ladies wearing indiscrimi- 
 nately all the colours of the rainbow, without regard to their 
 complexions, or the season of the year, and often with pink, 
 blue, and yellow on at the same time. 
 
 In nothing is the taste of Parisian dames more conspicu- 
 ous, than in the skilful selection of colours ; and, when a 
 taste for the fine arts is more diffused in this country, we 
 shall not see our belles with pink ribands on their bonnets, 
 and blue shawls on their shoulders, while their hands display 
 
240 
 
 yellow gloves and green bags. Nor shall we witness sallow 
 complexions contrasted with sky-blue, nor flushed cheeks 
 surrounded by the hues of the rose, nor pale ones made to 
 appear more colourless by green linings. All these things 
 will, in time, be better understood, when the cultivated and 
 refined portion of society shall have learned to regard dress 
 less as a matter to be taken on trust from foreign dealers, in 
 finery, than as an individual accomplishment, and to consider, 
 that their appearance in the world depends more on their 
 own good taste, than the length of their fathers' purses. 
 
 EXERCISE XCII. 
 
 PRINTING. Anon. 
 
 In searching for the origin of things, says a learned writer, 
 — quite indisputably, it must be confessed, — we can begin 
 no higher than the creation of the world, and the formation 
 of man ; and if we seek truth, it is nowhere to be met with 
 in such obvious characters, as in the illustrious records of the 
 Hebrews. The Bible, then, that book of all books, brings us 
 acquainted with a nation which, in the earliest ages, surpassed 
 all others in illumination ; and with regard to the proficiency 
 of its people in the mechanic and useful arts, we have but to 
 combine the descriptions of the ark of the covenant, and 
 of Solomon's Temple, with the early mention of graven and 
 molten images, coins, signets, and brands for the purpose of 
 marking, — to be convinced that the arts of carving, engrav- 
 ing, die-sinking, casting in metal, and even a species of print- 
 ing, were coeval with, and some of them perhaps antecedent 
 to, the art of writing. 
 
 If these circumstances, (of which the truth of sacred writ 
 warrants our undoubted belief,) be, as we think they are, of a 
 nature to induce our credit of all that is said relative to the 
 knowledge and practice of printing by the Chinese, in the 
 tenth century, we cannot, we confess, see with what justice 
 the merit of invention is ascribed to Europeans in the fif- 
 teenth. That the knowledge of any art peculiar to so singu- 
 lar a people as the Chinese, should long be restricted to 
 themselves, is a matter of no wonder whatever ; and though 
 we join in the surprise expressed by more than one ingenious 
 
241 
 
 writer, that after the introduction of wood-engra/mg from 
 Asia, in the thirteenth century, the nations of Europe should, 
 for so many ages, walk upon the borders of two important in- 
 ventions, typography and chalcography, without discovering 
 either, — the fact, in our opinion, goes far to prove that the 
 first idea of printing, in Europe, had its origin from the 
 Chinese. 
 
 The importance of the event naturally caused an eagerness 
 for notoriety ; and the simultaneous attempts, in various cities, 
 to prosecute or improve the original invention, produced a 
 controversy which shortly justified the remark, that the origin 
 of printing, — an art which gives light to most others, — is, 
 itself, involved in darkness. Such, indeed, is the fact, if our 
 researches be limited to European history; but, leaning to 
 the opinions of those who give a very remote date and an 
 eastern origin to the invention, we think it enough to honour 
 the names of the persons who, in our hemisphere, first en- 
 gaged in or promoted its revival ; — appropriating to their 
 proper niche in the temple of Fame, the inventors of detached 
 types, Faust, Guttemburg, and Shaeffer, of Mentz, — Caxton, 
 as the introducer, and Copland, Day, Grafton, and others, 
 as the improvers of the art, in Britain, 
 
 So early as 1462, three years after the invention of sepa- 
 rate metal types, Faust, the German artist, had carried the 
 process to such perfection, as to be able to take with him, to 
 Paris, an impression of the Bible. But such was the igno- 
 rance of the times, that on vending the copies of his book, 
 he was imprisoned, on suspicion of dealing with familiar spir- 
 its ; the French having no conception how so many books 
 could be made to agree so unerringly in every letter and 
 point. Nor did Faust obtain his liberty, till he had disclosed 
 the whole secret of his art. 
 
 About eight years subsequently, viz. 1470, printing was 
 introduced into England, and practised at Westminster ; and, 
 in a £ew years, presses were established at Oxford, Cambridge, 
 and other towns. Hitherto, the proficients in the art had 
 proceeded no farther than the Gothic alphabet; as it most 
 resembled the manuscripts of those times ; but in 1474, soon 
 after its introduction into Rome and Italy, the Italians pro- 
 duced the Roman, and, in 1476, the Greek type; while two 
 Rabbi, in the duchy of Milan, first introduced, in 1480, the 
 printed Hebrew character. 
 
 Such is the outline of the history of printing, for fifty years 
 after its revival in Europe ; in which time so rapid was its 
 21 
 
242 YOUNG 
 
 diffusion, and so great its improvement, that the sixteenth 
 century may be said to have commenced under auspices em- 
 inently glorious. — Knowledge and learning, which had hith- 
 erto been confined to a few, now opened their benign stores, 
 and dispersed them liberally abroad. Now departed the 
 gloom of ignorance, to give place to the dawn of intellec- 
 tual day. 
 
 By this happy invention, — without which other discoveries 
 would be of very circumscribed utility, — past ages are 
 made to live again ; every character which adorned them is 
 revived, at will ; the various regions of the globe are made 
 to pass before us in review, pouring upon our minds all the 
 wisdom of intellect, the discoveries of philosophy, the experi- 
 ence of time. Great, however, as those benefits are, we 
 shall estimate but imperfectly the blessings derived from the 
 press, unless we extend our view beyond the sphere of merely 
 human science, and contemplate it in its most important and 
 benign aspect, as the great and rapid disseminator of that Sa- 
 cred Truth, with which all men are yet to become illuminated. 
 
 EXERCISE XCIII. 
 
 IMMORTALITY. Dana. 
 
 Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love ? 
 And doth Death cancel the great bond, that holds 
 Commingling spirits ? Are thoughts, that know no bounds, 
 But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out 
 The Eternal Mind, — the Father of all thought, — 
 Are they become mere tenants of a tomb 1 — 
 Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms 
 Of uncreated light have visited, and lived ? — 
 Lived in the dreadful splendour of that throne, 
 Which One, with gentle hand, the veil 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 1 — 
 Souls, that Thee know by a mysterious sense, — 
 Thou awful, unseen Presence, — are they quenched? 
 Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes 
 
 
READER, 243 
 
 By that bright day which ends not; as the sun 
 
 His robe of light flings round the glittering stars ? 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Oh ! 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. 
 Oh ! listen, ye, our spirits ; drink it in 
 From all the air. 'Tis in the gentle moonlight; 
 *Tis floating midst 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 
 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 ! 
 
244 
 
 EXERCISE XCIV. 
 
 STATE OF THE SOUL AT DEATH. Hubbard Winslow. 
 
 The soul is an essence entirely distinct from the body. 
 It is not a mere chain of exercises ; — it is a positive exist" 
 ence, — a reality r — as truly as matter. Thought, love, fear, 
 hope, veneration, and all the operations of an intellectual and 
 moral nature, must have their basis in something real. 
 
 If from nothing only nothing comes, the greatest of effects 
 can come only from the greatest of causes. And what are 
 the effects of matter, compared with those of the intelligent 
 spirit? — that spirit before which the savage wilderness melts 
 away, and becomes a blooming paradise ; which constructs a 
 path for ships over the trackless sea;, which compels the 
 laws of nature into its service, and even snatches the flashing 
 lightnings from their clouds ; which can dart, in an instant, 
 over spaces which it would require ages for light to traverse ; 
 and finally, can, with a single leap, pass " the flaming bounds- 
 of space and time," and burn with seraphic joys before the 
 throne of God ! 
 
 We believe it to be a general law of our present condition,, 
 that the soul and the body, — the immortal and the mortal, — 
 shall be separated only by death. We cannot accompany 
 the spirit through that mysterious and dark valley; — which 
 to the Christian, however, is usually far from dark. Some- 
 times the diseased body afflicts the spirit with a dethrone- 
 ment of reason, wildness of fancy, or utter obliviousness, and 
 always with more or less of its own earthiinessy until the finaL 
 decisive moment comes, when Death executes his commission 
 strikes the blow, and opens the prison-door. At that instant, 
 the emancipated spirit goes forth, a free denizen of eternity* 
 It then enters upon the higher walks of existence. Like a 
 bird let loose, it moves with unfettered wing, in its owes 
 proper element. Its faculties are quickened into a more 
 vigorous and commanding activity; its perceptions become 
 immeasurably more lucid and comprehensive, than while 
 they were restricted in these dull fetters of clay. 
 
 These considerations bring eternal retributions very near. 
 It is but a breath, a vapour, that separates us from them. 
 They also invest death with an amazing solemnity. It is not 
 "the pains, the groans, the dying strife;." not the parting 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 245 
 
 with all the possessions and friendships of earth ; not the 
 narrow house of gloom and corruption, awaiting the body, 
 that imparts the shrinking dread to death,- — it is the fact 
 that the undying spirit is about to open its eye on the tre- 
 mendous scenes of eternity. That active, conscious, immortal 
 spirit, is about to meet its Judge, and render its last account ! 
 The curtain that has hitherto hung before the eye of the 
 probationer is about to rise. A few hours or moments, and 
 his eternal destiny will be fixed. 
 
 The hour, the moment, at length comes I There is an 
 awful pause. — The last agony of nature is over; — the gates 
 of mortality are thrown open ; — the struggling spirit has 
 escaped. And as we gaze upon the calm, pale form, — now 
 only a form, — that deathless spirit is awakening to more 
 amazing realities and more mighty activities than we have 
 ever conceived. 
 
 Is he a spirit of holiness? He that is holy is holy still. 
 His pure and piercing eye descries the far-rolling worlds of 
 brightness, all radiant with the glory of God and the Lamb. 
 An innumerable company of angels, and the spirits of just 
 men made perfect, invite him with their hallelujahs to come 
 up higher. With bounding joy, he exclaims, 
 
 " I mount, I fly : — 
 O grave, where is thy victory? 
 O death, where is thy sting? " 
 
 In a moment, the gates of glory receive him ; — and while 
 our tears are falling, he is in the midst of the visions of that 
 world, where God wipes all tears away; — while our mourn- 
 ful silence is broken only with sobs of grief, his ears are 
 drinking the melodies of heaven ; and he is beginning to sing 
 that new song which no man on earth can learn. He has 
 reached his home ; — and so shall he be " forever with the 
 Lord." 
 
 EXERCISE XCV. 
 
 RESULTS FROM THE SUFFERINGS OF THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 E. Everett. 
 
 It is sad indeed to reflect on the disasters, which the little 
 band of pilgrims encountered. Sad to see a portion of them, 
 
 21* 
 
246 YOUNG LADIES 7 READER 
 
 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 
 ©ne hundred and sixty tons. One is touched at the story of 
 the long, cold,, and weary autumnal passage ; of the landing 
 on the inhospitable rocks at this dismal 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 ig- 
 norant of the numbers, of the power,, and the temper of the 
 savage tribes, that filled the unexplored continent, upon 
 whose verge they had ventured. 
 
 Methinks I see it now, that one, solitary, adventurous 
 vessel, the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the 
 prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown 
 sea. I behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the 
 uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set; weeks 
 and months pass ; and winter surprises them on the deep, but 
 brings them not the sight of the wished-for shore. 
 
 I see them now, scantily supplied with provisions, crowded 
 almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by 
 calms, pursuing a circuitous route, - — and now driven in fury 
 before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy waves. 
 The awful voice of the storm howls through the rigging. 
 The labouring masts seem straining from their base, — the dis- 
 mal sound of the pumps is heard, — the ship leaps, as it were, 
 madly, from billow to billow, — the ocean breaks, and settles 
 with ingulphing floods over the floating deck, and beats with 
 deadening, shivering weight, against the staggered vessel. 
 
 I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their alt 
 but desperate undertaking, and landed at last, after a five 
 months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth, — weak 
 and weary from the voyage, — poorly armed, scantily pro- 
 visioned, 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 
 handful of adventurers. Tell me, man of military science, in 
 how many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage 
 tribes enumerated within the early limits of New England? 
 Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 247 
 
 which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish 
 on the distant coast ? 
 
 Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the 
 deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures of other 
 times, and find the parallel of this. — Was it the winter's 
 storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and chil- 
 dren, — was it hard labour and spare meals, — was it disease, 
 — was it the tomahawk, — was it the deep malady of a 
 blighted hope, a rained 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 not one of these causes, that not all 
 combined, were able to blast this bud of hope 1 Is it possi- 
 ble, that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not 
 so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a 
 progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an expansion so 
 ample, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, 
 so glorious 1 
 
 EXERCISE XCVI. 
 
 THE USEFUL AND THE ORNAMENTAL. Mrs. Farrar. 
 
 Anna. Well, I cannot expect to be like you : Nature 
 meant me to be only useful. 
 
 Sarah. I should be very sorry, if I thought she had not 
 made me for the same purpose. 
 
 Anna. Oh ! you are above being useful. You were meant 
 to be ornamental ; every body is willing you should be so ; 
 few can be like you ; for few can make such attainments ; 
 and those who can, are not expected to be useful. 
 
 Sarah. What do you mean by being useful 1 
 
 Anna. Oh ! you know, fulfilling one's duty in the common 
 relations of life. 
 
 Sarah. Do I neglect that ? 
 
 Anna. No, — I would not say that; but you do not put 
 your whole mind into it. 
 
 Sarah. Why should I, if I have mind enough for that and 
 other things too 1 
 
 Anna. Well, you are more ornamental than useful, at any 
 rate. 
 
248 YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 
 
 Sarah. It seems to me that you strangely limit the term 
 useful. I suppose you mean that we are useful, only when 
 we are making raiment for the body, or setting the house in 
 order, or tending the sick. 
 
 Anna. Oh ! and visiting the poor, and keeping Sunday 
 school. 
 
 Sarah. Well, do you propose doing this last without cul- 
 tivation 1 Shall the blind lead the blind t 
 
 Anna. That requires no knowledge beyond Christian 
 morality. 
 
 Sarah. The highest knowledge of all, and to which all 
 other attainments are subsidiary ! 
 
 Anna. Well, but granting that, of what other use, Sarah, 
 are all your accomplishments 1 They make you very inde- 
 pendent, I know, and much admired by certain persons ; but 
 then they render insipid other society, in which they are not 
 appreciated, and from which you can gain nothing ; and what 
 good do they do any body but yourself? 
 
 Sarah. I think they do some good, when they make my 
 father and brothers like to be at home, and talk with me. 
 You have often complained, that you could not make home 
 attractive to your father and brothers, and lamented the 
 ennui of the one, and the idle amusements of the other. As 
 to its making the sort of society of which you speak, insipid 
 to me, I know that although you spend so much time in it, it 
 is as disagreeable to you, as it is wearisome to me. You 
 are always bringing me stories of the calumnies which are 
 afloat about you and your friends. Now I say, that much of 
 this wicked gossiping arises from idleness, and that if these 
 people's minds were better furnished, their tongues would be 
 less venomous. 
 
 Anna. But if we can do nothing for this society, ought 
 we to withdraw ourselves wholly from it 1 
 
 Sarah. If we cannot raise its tone, I think it may be of 
 some use to bear a quiet testimony, that we can find some 
 better way of passing our time, than in tasteless, childish 
 amusements, the monotony of which is only relieved by the 
 most malicious backbiting. 
 
 Anna. I wish I could think as you do ; but I have always 
 been afraid, that if I were highly cultivated, I should not be 
 so useful. 
 
 Sarah. If you enlarge your views of utility, you will per- 
 haps see that we promote it no less by ministering to the 
 spiritual than the temporal wants of others. I cannot con- 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 249 
 
 sider the person who gives me a beautiful thought, enriches 
 me with a valuable truth, or leads me to take, more liberal 
 views of the capacity of the soul or the value of time, is less 
 useful to me than that other kind of beings who make jellies 
 for me, and watch with me in illness, or take me to ride, and 
 entertain me with their best cheer, when I am well. Let 
 none of us neglect the common duties of our spheres ; but if 
 any hours be left, can we devote them better than to acquir- 
 ing a knowledge of the laws of God's world, or the minds and 
 history of his creatures? Are we not thus fitting ourselves 
 to perform the highest kind of duty towards each other ? 
 And I do believe that, if we judiciously manage our time on 
 earth, — short though it be, — there will be sufficient to ena- 
 ble us to be useful in the highest sense of that term, as well 
 as in the sense in which you use it. 
 
 EXERCISE XCVII. 
 
 SIR KIT RACKRENT AND HIS LADY. Miss EdgewortL 
 
 • 
 
 " Sir Kit condescended," said one of his servants, " to 
 tell us in his letter that all would be speedily settled to his 
 satisfaction, and we should turn over a new leaf, for he was 
 going to be married in a fortnight to the grandest heiress in 
 England, and had only immediate occasion at present for two 
 hundred pounds; as he would not choose to touch his lady's 
 fortune for travelling expenses home to Castle Rackrent, — 
 where he intended to be, wind and weather permitting, early 
 in the next month ; and desired fires, and the house to be 
 painted, and the new building to go on as fast as possible for 
 the reception of him and his lady, before that time ; with 
 several words besides in the letter, which we could not make 
 out, because he wrote in such a flurry. 
 
 " My heart warmed to my new lady, when I read this. I 
 was almost afraid it was too good news to be true ; but the 
 girls fell to scouring ; and it was well they did ; for we soon 
 saw his marriage in the paper to a lady with I don't know 
 how many tens of thousand pounds to her fortune. Then I 
 watched the post-office for his landing ; and the news came 
 to my son of his and the bride being in Dublin, and on the 
 way home to Castle Rackrent. We had bonfires all over the 
 
250 YOUNG LADIES 
 
 country, expecting him down the next day ; and we had his 
 coming of age still to celebrate, which he had not time to do 
 properly before he left the country ; therefore a great ball was 
 expected, and great doings upon his coming, as it were, fresh 
 to take possession of his ancestors' estate. 
 
 " I never shall forget the - day he came home : we had 
 waited and waited, all day long, till eleven o'clock at night; 
 and I was thinking of sending the boy to lock the gates, and 
 giving them up for that night, when there came the carriages, 
 thundering up to the great hall-door. I got the first sight of 
 the bride ; for when the carriage-door opened, just as she had 
 her foot on the steps, I held the flam full in her face to light 
 her, at which she shut her eyes ; but I had a full view of the 
 rest of her ; and greatly shocked I was, for by that light she 
 was little better than a blackamoor, and seemed crippled ; — 
 but that was only sitting so long in the chariot. 
 
 " ' You're kindly welcome to Castle Rackrent, my lady,' 
 says I, (recollecting who she was;) 'did your honour hear 
 of the bonfires ? ' His honour spoke never a word, nor so 
 much as handed her up the steps ; — he looked at me no more 
 like himself than nothing at all ; I know I took him for the 
 skeleton of his honour. I was not sure what to say next to 
 one or t'other ; but seeing she was a stranger in a foreign 
 country, I thought it but right to speak cheerful to her ; so I 
 went back again to the bonfires. 
 
 " ' My lady,' says I, as she crossed the hall, * there would 
 have been fifty times as many, but for fear of the horses and 
 frightening your ladyship : Jason and I forbid them, please your 
 honour.' With that she looked at me a little bewildered. — 
 * Will I have a fire lighted in the state-room to-night? ' — was 
 the next question I put to her ; but never a word she an- 
 swered ; so I concluded she could not speak a word oi' Eng- 
 lish, and was from foreign parts. 
 
 " The short and the long of it was, I couldn't tell what to 
 make of her ; so I left her to herself, and went straight down 
 to the servants' hall to learn something for certain about her. 
 Sir Kit's own man was tired ; but the groom set him a-talking 
 at last ; and we had it all out, before ever I closed my eyes 
 that night. — The bride might well be a great fortune, — she 
 was a Jewish by all accounts, who are famous for their great 
 riches. I had never seen any of that tribe or nation before, 
 and could only gather that she spoke a strange kind of Eng- 
 lish of her own, that she could not abide porK or sausages, 
 and went neither to church nor mass. 
 
YOUNG LADIES 9 READER. 251 
 
 " ' Mercy upon his honour's poor soul ! ' thought I, ' what 
 will become of him and his, and all of us with his heretic 
 blackamoor at the head of the Castle Rackrent estate ! ' 1 
 never slept a wink all night for thinking of it ; but before the 
 servants I put my pipe in my mouth, and kept my mind to 
 myself; fori had a great regard for the family; and after 
 this, when strange gentlemen's servants came to the house, 
 and would begin to talk about the bride, I took care to put 
 the best foot foremost, and passed her for a nabob, — in the 
 kitchen, — which accounted for her dark complexion and 
 every thing. 
 
 " The very morning after they came home, however, I saw 
 how things were, plain enough, between Sir Kit and my lady ; 
 though they were walking together arm-in-arm after break- 
 fast, looking at the new building and the improvements. 
 
 " ' Old Thady,' said my master, just as he used to do, ' how 
 do you do?' — 'Very well, I thank your honour's honour,' 
 said I. But I saw he was not well pleased ; and my heart 
 was in my mouth, as I walked along after him. — 
 
 "'Is the large room damp, Thady?' said his honour. — 
 ' Oh ! damp, your honour ! how should it but be as dry as a 
 bone,' says I, ' after all the fires we have kept in it day and 
 night? It's the barrack-room your honour's talking on.' 
 
 " ' And what is a barrack-room, pray, my dear? ' were the 
 first words I ever heard out of my lady's lips. — 'No matter, 
 my dear ! ' said he, and went on talking to me, ashamed- 
 like I should witness her ignorance. To be sure, to hear her 
 talk, one might have taken her for an innocent ; — for it was, 
 ' What's this, Sir Kit? ' and ' What's that, Sir Kit? ' all the 
 way we went. — To be sure, Sir Kit had enough to do to an- 
 swer her. ' And what do you call that, Sir Kit ? ' said she, 
 ' that, that looks like a pile of black bricks, pray, Sir Kit ? ' 
 — ' My turf-stack, my dear,' said my master, and bit his lip. 
 — ' Where have you lived, my lady, all your life, not to know 
 a turf-stack when you see it ? ' thought I, but I said nothing. 
 
 " Then, by-and-by, she takes out her glass, and begins spy- 
 ing over the country. ' And what's all that black swamp out 
 yonder, Sir Kit ? ' says she. — ' My bog, my dear,' says he, 
 and went on whistling. — ' It's a very ugly prospect, my dear,' 
 says she. — 'You don't see it, my dear,' says he, 'for we've 
 planted it out ; when the trees grow up in summer-time,' — 
 says he. — ' Where are the trees,' says she, ' my dear ? ' still 
 looking through her glass. — ' You are blind, my dear,' says 
 he ; — ' what are these under your eyes ? ' — ' These shrubs ? ' 
 
252 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 said she. — ' Trees,' said he. — ■ Maybe they are what you 
 call trees in Ireland, my dear,' says she ; ' but they are not a 
 yard high, are they ? ' — ' They were planted out but last 
 year, my lady,' says I, to soften matters between them, for 1 
 saw she was going the way to make his honour mad with her ; 
 * they are all very well grown for their age, and you'll not see 
 the bog of Allyballycarrick-o'shaughlin, at all, at all, through 
 the screen, when once the leaves come out. But, my lady, 
 you must not quarrel with any part or parcel of Allyballycar- 
 rick-o'shaughlin, for you don't know how many hundred years 
 that same bit of bog has been in the family ; we would not 
 part with the bog of Allyballycarrick-o'shaughlin upon no 
 account at all : it cost the late Sir Murtagh two hundred 
 good pounds to defend his title to it, and boundaries against 
 the O'Learys, who cut a road through it.' 
 
 " Now one would have thought this would have been hint 
 enough for my lady; but she fell to laughing like one out of 
 their right mind, and made me say the name of the bog over 
 for her to get it by heart, a dozen times ; then she must ask 
 me how to spell it, and what was the meaning of it in Eng- 
 lish, — Sir Kit standing by whistling all the while ; I verily 
 believe she laid the corner-stone of all her future misfortunes 
 at that very instant ; but I said no more, — only looked at 
 Sir Kit." 
 
 EXERCISE XCVIII. 
 
 THE SOUTHERN CROSS. Dr. Bacon. 
 
 In tropic skies, the moon and planets, instead of cow- 
 ering low in the southern quarter, and creeping around from 
 east to west, as in northern latitudes, mount in a bolder and 
 more heavenward course, directly above us ; — each at times 
 becoming the glittering key-stone and central gem of the blue 
 dome. At about ten o'clock on Sunday night, the evening 
 clouds having vanished, I stretched myself out supinely, at 
 full length, on the tafferel, secured from rolling overboard, by 
 the stern-boat which was triced up there. Looking up into 
 the sky, I saw the moon, with Mars and Jupiter near, one on 
 each side at equal distance, shining with a beauty and power 
 of light, before unknown to me. 
 
 The brilliancy of these planets, in the pure, clear sky of 
 
253 
 
 the tropic ocean, which no unwholesome vapour or smoky, 
 dusty haze from the land, ever dims or defiles, is beyond all 
 conception. Jupiter, every night, as it ascended, threw a 
 brilliant, long, silvery track of light over the waters, almost 
 equal to that which I have seen caused by the moon on our 
 northern seas and bays. And so, all over the heavens, the 
 stars were brighter than I had ever imagined it possible for 
 them to shine through any earthly atmosphere. 
 
 Yet several nights passed, while I looked in vain for some 
 of those peculiarly interesting constellations near the south 
 pole, which were already above our horizon. For though all 
 the rest of the sky was clear, along the southern quarter, a 
 peculiar dark, misty cloud descended across our path, shroud- 
 ing from view the long-desired lights of the southern hemi- 
 sphere. The cloud occupying about fifteen degrees in altitude 
 from the horizon, was just sufficient to hide, for some time, 
 the magnificent Southern Cross, so richly described by Hum- 
 boldt, and by Tyerman and Bennet, whose vivid impressions 
 at the sight, so poetically expressed, had long led me to an- 
 ticipate this, as one of the richest rewards of a tropical 
 voyage. 
 
 And when, at length, my nights of vain watching, and my 
 years of studious hope, were requited by the sight of this 
 most glorious object in the created universe, all the circum- 
 stances and incidents seemed wonderfully arranged to 
 impress me not only with gratification at the happy accom- 
 plishment of my wishes, and with admiration of the beauty 
 of the spectacle, but also with deeper and farther-reaching 
 feelings, of the moral power of the strange picture before me 
 in heaven and in earth. It was on an evening in January, that 
 I obtained a distinct view of the Starry Cross ; the form of it 
 being so perfect, that at the very first glance no observer 
 could be mistaken. I saw it standing erect and resplendent 
 over the dark cloud, in more than imagined beauty and glory, 
 — its four large stars arranged in striking order and symme- 
 try, in the form which all Christendom recognizes as the sign 
 and memorial of God's infinite love and man's eternal hope ; 
 and the rapture I then felt, was cheaply purchased by all the 
 sufferings and perils of the voyage then past or yet before 
 me. Many hours I enjoyed the scene and the emotions ris- 
 ing from it ; and so through months and years of wanderings 
 that followed, that glorious object attracted my eyes through 
 watchful nights of exile, of suffering, of peril, and of loneli- 
 ness, till it became to me a familiar and welcome thing, asso- 
 22 
 
254 YOUNG LADIES 
 
 ciated with the idea of high consolation under trials and 
 fears. 
 
 In those wild years of strange adventure, many a dreary 
 night of perilous exposure and of fearful watching, on ocean 
 and land, was solaced by the sight of that beautiful starry 
 cross, standing erect, or bending at various angles over the 
 south pole ; — sometimes sought in hours of danger as a 
 beacon and guide, and ever hailed with joy, and hope, and 
 gratitude. 
 
 EXERCISE XCIX. 
 
 BADEN. Anon. 
 
 The environs of Baden, to the distance of three or four 
 leagues, are varied by the most striking and the most pictu- 
 resque scenery ; full of chivalrous associations, and peculiarly 
 well adapted for the generation of those unearthly thoughts 
 that are said to come to poets by inspiration. The ruins of 
 the chateau of * Yburg consist of two lofty towers, and the 
 remains of some old walls, at the distance of about two leagues 
 from Baden. One of these towers was rent from top to bot- 
 tom, some years ago, by a thunderbolt ; but the other is well 
 preserved ; and, as it is the highest point which the country 
 around presents, the view from it is singularly magnificent. 
 On the east, the majestic mountains of the Black Forest ap- 
 pear in the distance ; while, towards the west, we behold a 
 boundless plain, watered by the Rhine, and shining in all the 
 pride and beauty of human life and industry. 
 
 The ruins of the castle of f Eberstein are also particularly 
 interesting. It was the abode of the Baden family, from the 
 thirteenth to the sixteenth century, during which period its 
 ample precincts witnessed many tournaments and feats of 
 arms. The strength of this ancient castle may be collected 
 from the romantic history of the attempt which was made by 
 Otho the Great, to gain possession of it by a stratagem. 
 
 War may be said never to have ceased during the reign 
 of this emperor. After he had suppressed the formidable 
 insurrection which had broken out at Strasburg, he learned 
 that the principal instigators of that revolt were the Counts 
 of Eberstein. He marched immediately, with a large army, 
 
 * Pronounced, Eeboorg. t Mberstine. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 255 
 
 against the.r castle, and besieged it, without success, during 
 two years and a half. 
 
 He then resolved to have recourse to other means for the 
 accomplishment of his purpose. He affected to make peace 
 with the Counts of Eberstein, withdrew his army, and gave, 
 at * Spires, a series of festivals in celebration of the cessation 
 of the war. A tournament of course formed part of the 
 amusements of this season of joy : a multitude of princes and 
 lords were invited to attend it, — among the rest the three 
 brothers of Eberstein. One of these, a fine youth, of robust 
 figure and martial bearing, captivated the affections of a 
 lady of the court, who, while he was dancing with her, took an 
 opportunity to whisper into his ear that the castle of Eber- 
 stein was in danger, and that the emperor had despatched 
 emissaries to take possession of it during the absence of the 
 three brothers. The latter consulted with each other imme- 
 diately, and resolved to lose no time in returning home ; but, 
 in order to avoid suspicion, they continued apparently to en- 
 joy the scene of festivity, as the gayest of the gay, announced 
 that they would measure their arms with those of any other 
 knight or gentleman present, and that they would present a 
 hundred golden florins to the conqueror. 
 
 During the night, they crossed the Rhine in a boat, and 
 towards morning, found themselves, once more, safe within 
 the walls of their castle. When the emperor heard of their 
 departure, he was much enraged, and ordered the castle to 
 be assaulted. But the attack was bravely repelled. He then 
 sent three knights to endeavour to prevail on the brothers to 
 give in their submission. The only answer these messengers 
 received was this : — they were conducted to the caverns of 
 the castle, which were stored with wine and corn for three 
 years. Their report was that the castle of Eberstein could 
 not be taken either by storm or by famine. Otho finally con- 
 cluded a real peace with the three brothers, on terms equally 
 honourable to both parties, and gave his sister to one of them 
 in marriage. This was the lady who had warned one of the 
 Counts of Eberstein, at Spires ; and the object of her affection 
 became her husband. 
 
 * Pronounced, Speeraiss. 
 
256 
 
 EXERCISE C. 
 
 THE TEA-ROSE. Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. 
 
 " Cousin, I have been thinking what you are to do with 
 
 your pet rose when you go to New York, as, — to our 
 consternation, — you are determined to do : you know it 
 would be a sad pity to leave it with such a scatter-brain as I 
 am. I love flowers, indeed ; that is, I like a regular bouquet, 
 cut off and tied up, to carry to a party ; but as to all this 
 tending and fussing, which is needful to keep them growing, 
 I have no gifts in that line." 
 
 " Make yourself easy as to that, Kate," said Florence, 
 with a smile ; " I have no intention of calling upon your 
 talents : I have an asylum in view for my favourite." 
 
 " Oh ! then you know just what I was going to say. Mrs. 
 Marshall, I presume, has been speaking to you : she was 
 here yesterday ; and I was quite pathetic upon the subject, 
 telling her the loss your favourite would sustain, and so 
 forth ; and she said how delighted she would be to have it in 
 her greenhouse, — it is in such a fine state now, so full of 
 buds. I told her I knew you would like to give it to her ; 
 you are so fond of Mrs. Marshall, you know." 
 
 " Now, Kate, I am sorry, but I have otherwise engaged 
 it." 
 
 " Who can it be to? you have so few intimates here." 
 
 " Oh ! it is only one of my odd fancies." 
 
 " But do tell me, Florence." 
 
 " Well, cousin, you know the little pale girl to whom we 
 give sewing ? " 
 
 " What ! little Mary Stephens ! how absurd, Florence ' 
 This is just another of your motherly oldmaidish ways, 
 dressing dolls for poor children, making bonnets, and knitting 
 socks for all the little dirty babies in the neighbourhood. I do 
 believe you have made more calls in those two vile ill-smell- 
 ing alleys behind our house, than ever you have in Chestnut 
 street, though you know every body is half dying to see you ; 
 and now, — to crown all, — you must give this choice little 
 bijou to a sempstress girl, when one of your most intimate 
 friends, in your own class, would value it so highly. What 
 in the world can people in their circumstances want with 
 flowers ? " 
 
257 
 
 " Just the same that I do," replied Florence calmly. 
 Have you not noticed that the little girl never comes here 
 without looking wistfully at the opening buds? And don't 
 you remember the other morning she asked me so prettily if 
 I would let her mother come and see it, she was so fond of 
 flowers 1 " 
 
 " But, Florence, only think of this rare flower standing on 
 a table with ham, eggs, cheese, and flour, and stifled in that 
 close little room, where Mrs. Stephens and her daughter man- 
 age to wash, iron, and cook." 
 
 " Well, Kate, and if I were obliged to live in one coarse 
 room, and wash, and iron, and cook, as you say ; if I had to 
 spend every moment of my time in toil, with no prospect 
 from my window but a brick wall and dirty lane, such a 
 flower as this would be untold enjoyment to me." 
 
 "Pshaw! Florence; all sentiment ! Poor people have no 
 time to be sentimental. Besides, I don't believe it will grow 
 with them ; it is a greenhouse flower, and used t j delicate 
 living." 
 
 " Oh ! as to that, a flower never inquires whether its owner 
 is rich or poor ; and Mrs. Stephens, — whatever else she 
 has not, — has sunshine of as good quality as this that 
 streams through our window. The beautiful things that 
 God makes, are his gifts to all alike. You will see that my 
 fair rose will be as well and cheerful in Mrs. Stephens's 
 room as in ours." 
 
 " Well, after all, how odd ! When one gives to poor peo- 
 ple, one wants to give them something useful, — a bushel of 
 potatoes, a ham, and such things." 
 
 " Why, certainly potatoes and ham must be supplied ; but, 
 having administered to the first and most craving wants, why 
 not add any other little pleasures or gratifications we may 
 have it in our power to bestow 1 I know there are many of 
 the poor who have fine feeling and a keen sense of the beau- 
 tiful, which rusts out and dies, because they are too hard 
 pressed to procure it any gratification. Poor Mrs. Stephens, 
 for example, I know she would enjoy birds, and flowers, and 
 music as much as I do. I have seen her eye light up as she 
 looked upon these things in our drawing-room ; and yet not 
 one beautiful thing can she command. From necessity, her 
 room, her clothing, — all she has, — must be coarse and 
 plain. You should have seen the rapture she and Mary felt 
 when I offered them my rose." 
 
 " Dear me ! all this may be true; but I never thought of it 
 22* 
 
258 
 
 before. I never thought that these hard-working peopje had 
 any ideas of taste! " 
 
 " Then why do you see the geranium or rose so carefully 
 nursed in the old cracked teapot in the poorest room, or the 
 morning-glory planted in a box, and twined about the win- 
 dow 1 Do not these show that the human heart yearns for 
 the beautiful in all ranks of life 1 You remember, Kate, 
 how our washerwoman sat up a whole night, after a hard 
 day's work, to make her first baby a pretty dress to be bap- 
 tized in." 
 
 " Yes ; and I remember how I laughed at you for making 
 such a tasteful little cap for it." 
 
 " Well, Katy, I think the look of perfect delight with 
 which the poor mother regarded her baby in its new dress 
 and cap, was something quite worth creating. I do believe 
 she could not have felt more grateful, if I had sent her a bar- 
 rel of flour." / 
 
 " Well, I never thought before of giving any thing to the 
 poor, but what they really needed, and I have always been 
 willing to do that when I could without going far out of 
 my way." 
 
 " Well, cousin, if our heavenly Father gave to us after this 
 mode, we should have only coarse, shapeless piles of pro- 
 visions lying about the world, instead of all this beautiful 
 variety of trees, and fruits, and flowers." 
 
 " Well, well ; cousin, I suppose you are right, but have 
 mercy on my poor head : it is too small to hold so many new 
 ideas all at once ; — so go on your own way." 
 
 EXERCISE CI. 
 INFLUENCE OF CHRISTIANITY ON WOMAN. Muzzey. 
 
 The general condition of woman, among the ancient Jews, 
 and in contemporary nations, was one of degradation and 
 servitude. She was the slave of man. 
 
 But open the New Testament ; and how, in a moment, is 
 this estimation elevated ! Of the physical and intellectual 
 rank of woman, nothing is, indeed, there said. But as a 
 creature of God, and a member of the great family of man- 
 kind, she is placed on an entire equality with man. Christi- 
 
am 
 
 anity does not make her responsible, as a moral and immortal 
 being, to man, but represents both as having a common 
 Master in heaven. No virtue inculcated on the one sex, is 
 omitted in describing the duties of the other. The Christian 
 character is a moral statue, to be wrought by every living 
 hand ; and taste, composition, symmetry, effect, are required 
 and expected, in the spiritual workmanship, no less of woman 
 than of man. 
 
 The personal treatment which this sex received at the 
 hand of Jesus, was always respectful, as well as tender and 
 kind. " His earliest friend was a woman : his only steadfast 
 friends through his ministry were women." It was " the 
 daughters of Jerusalem," who wept for him in his final 
 agony. " The last at his cross, and the first at his sepul- 
 chre, was a woman. And when, after his ascension, the 
 little company of believers was assembled, waiting for the 
 fulfilment of his promise, there also were found the women 
 who had accompanied him in life and stood by him in death." 
 How could he, with such proofs of their piety, zeal, and per- 
 severance, fail to regard the sex with a consideration, at least 
 equal to that he bestowed upon man 1 
 
 And in the religion itself, we find qualities with which the 
 capacities and powers of woman singularly harmonize. It is 
 founded upon the affections. Love to God, and love to man, 
 are its two great commandments. The sacrifice it requires, 
 on the altar of life, is that of the heart. And what is this, 
 but the unquestioned empire of woman'? Sentiment, with 
 her, is natural, — the growth of her moral being: in man, it 
 is usually acquired, — the result of thought. Deny, as man 
 may, her mental equality with himself, — doubt, as we may, 
 the comparative strength or capabilities of any other portion of 
 her nature, as related to man, — in the possessions of the 
 heart, no man can contest the ascendency with woman. She 
 is naturally less selfish than man. She can, (if she will but 
 obey her best impulses,) rise to the loftiest heights of Christian 
 excellence. And, if serious impediments oppose her prog- 
 ress, — on herself, — her own culpableness, not on her' 
 nature, — must each consequent failure be charged. 
 
 Another characteristic of our religion, is its call for what 
 have sometimes been termed the passive virtues, — fortitude, 
 submission, patience, resignation. The acquisition of these 
 qualities, is, to man, a most arduous task. He can toil, and 
 struggle, and resist. In scenes of active effort, and strong 
 
260 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 conflict, he is at home. But his power of endurance is by 
 no means commensurate with these traits. In woman, they 
 find a congenial spirit, a heart open, and waiting for their re- 
 ception. — " Those disasters," says an elegant writer, " which 
 break down and subdue the spirit of 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 their character, 
 that at times, it approaches to sublimity." 
 
 Who does not perceive that this sex enjoys preeminent 
 advantages for the culture of that spiritual union with God, 
 required of the Christian ? And, in sustaining the ordinary 
 trials of our lot, as social beings, — in cherishing forbearance 
 toward the unjust, kindness to the thankless, and love toward 
 those who inflict personal injuries, — woman is endowed by 
 her Maker with a divine power. 
 
 EXERCISE CII. 
 THE AURORA BOREALIS. Barry. 
 
 This phenomenon is seen in its most brilliant state, in high 
 northern and southern latitudes. Dr. Barry thus describes 
 the appearance of it on the coast of Orkney : — " Here, the 
 northern lights appear, both more frequently, and with greater 
 splendour, than in most other regions ; for, during the harvest, 
 winter, and spring months, they arise almost every unclouded 
 night, and often shine with the most magnificent brilliancy. 
 The light of the moon at her quadratures, sometimes scarcely 
 equals them, in illuminating the friths and the islands. 
 
 " Between the setting of the sun and the close of the twi- 
 light, they commonly make their first appearance in the north; 
 issuing, for the most part, from behind the clouds, like a foun- 
 tain of pale light, the form of which is undefined ; and they 
 continue, in this state, a little above the horizon, — some- 
 times, only for a short period, and, at other times, for the space 
 of several hours, without any motion that can be discovered. 
 
 " They form themselves, one while, into an arch, the height 
 of which is about thirty degrees, and its breadth about sixty, 
 and tne pillars on which it is supported, several times broader 
 than the rainbow; and so long as they retain this shape, they 
 
READER. 261 
 
 are without any sensible motion. At another time, they ex- 
 tend farther over the heavens, rise much higher, assume a 
 greater variety of shapes, and discover a dusky hue, — with a 
 motion that is slow, but perceptible. 
 
 " Very often they exhibit an appearance quite different, and 
 spread themselves over the whole heavens, diffusing every- 
 where a surprising degree of light, and exhibiting the most 
 beautiful phenomena. Their motion, in this case, is in vari- 
 ous directions, extremely swift, and, as it were, in separate 
 columns, resembling, somewhat, the evolutions of a great 
 army. Their lowest extremities are distinctly defined, and 
 deeply tinged with the colours of the rainbow ; their upper 
 ones tapering, but fainter. In several places at once, they 
 kindle into a blaze, dart along in almost all directions, for 
 some seconds of time ; and then, — as if by the strength of 
 their exertions they had spent their force, — they are extin- 
 guished in a moment, — leaving a brown track in the sky 
 behind them. 
 
 " Near the place where they disappeared, in a short time, 
 they flash out anew, and with equal rapidity trace the same 
 path in similar motions, and again expire in the same man- 
 ner. This they often continue for several hours together, to 
 the great satisfaction and amusement of the spectators on 
 land, and the advantage of the mariner ; when they gradually 
 die away, and leave through the whole heavens, a colour re- 
 sembling that of brass. If the night be uncommonly still, 
 and their motion very rapid, a whizzing noise has been 
 thought to have been distinctly heard from them at various 
 intervals. 
 
 " This beautiful coruscation, which has never yet been 
 satisfactorily explained, is said to have been much less fre- 
 quent, eighty or ninety years ago, than it is at present. It 
 appears now, however, very often, and seems to occupy that 
 space in the heavens which is between the region of the 
 clouds and the summit of the atmosphere ; as the clouds in 
 motion never fail to eclipse it; — and, as it cannot be seen 
 from two places greatly distant from one another, at once, 
 nor yet in conjunction with the same fixed stars, it evidently 
 has no great degree of elevation." 
 
FOUNG LADIES' READER, 
 
 EXERCISE CIII. 
 
 THE TWO VOICES. Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 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 that 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 blest to go ! " 
 
 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 ! 
 
 " Fair form, young spirit, morning vision fled ! 
 Canst thou be of the dead, the awful dead ? 
 
 The dark unknown ? 
 
READER. 263 
 
 Yes ! to the dwelling where no footsteps fall, — 
 Never again to light up hearth or hall, — 
 
 Thy smile is gone ! " 
 
 " Home, home! " once more th' 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 ! thy bark hath past 
 
 The rough 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 ! " 
 
 EXEPvCISE CIV. 
 SCENERY OF THE ETTRICK AND YARROW. Anon. 
 
 The River Ettrick has its source in a wild moorland coun- 
 try, and is hemmed in on all sides by dark and lonely moun- 
 tains, among which it forces its way, for several miles. The 
 valley then begins to open, and the country to assume a more 
 cheerful aspect : the mountains are less rugged in their ap- 
 pearance, and of a brighter green than those which frown 
 over the source of the infant stream. On passing the church 
 of Ettrick, which is sweetly situated on a gentle eminence, 
 with its guardian hill in the background, the river is joined 
 by the Temma, Rankle-burn, and other minor streams; it 
 then passes the mansion-house of the Lords of Napier, de- 
 scendants of the celebrated discoverer of the logarithms, and 
 the ruins of Tushilaw Castle ; and, about twelve miles farther 
 down, it joins its sister stream, the Yarrow. About six miles 
 below this, having passed the town of Selkirk, it is lost in 
 the broader waters of the Tweed, in the vicinity of Abbots- 
 ford. 
 
 The Yarrow owes its name to a Celtic word, signifying 
 "the brawling stream," — a term most appropriate, when 
 
264 YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 
 
 applied to this river ; as it is rarely for a moment at rest, 
 from the time it leaves its parent lake, until it joins the 
 Ettrick at Bowhill. The scenery near this lordly mansion of 
 the Buccleuchs, is picturesque in the highest degree. This 
 princely abode, — for it well may be called so, — stands on a 
 kind of peninsula, formed by the meeting of the waters. 
 The mountains overlooking the Yarrow rise to no great 
 height; but their appearance is greatly enhanced by the 
 tasteful plantations which adorn their sides, and clothe some 
 of them to their utmost tops. 
 
 In the lower parts of the valley, the Yarrow may, at times, 
 be seen bounding in gladness, (if aught inanimate can feel 
 that sensation,) over its rocky bed, at times visible, at others 
 hidden from our view ; but it will ever be reminding us of 
 its vicinity ; like a spoiled child, it appears unwilling to 
 be forgotten, even for a moment, but must continually be 
 forcing itself upon our notice : — if not present to our sight, 
 we can at least hear its brawling at no great distance. 
 
 On ascending the stream, we reach the humble cottage in 
 which the interesting but ill-fated Mungo Park was born ; 
 and, a short way farther on, we pass 
 
 " Where Newark's stately tower 
 Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower." 
 
 Newark is no longer the scene of feudal hospitality, as in 
 the days of the last minstrel, but now a mouldering ruin, — 
 a time-worn monument of years long departed, and of pride 
 and pomp, which have had an end. The situation of this ruin 
 is exceedingly beautiful ; proudly standing on a precipitous 
 bank overhanging the river : and, by its presence, — aside 
 from every recollection of the past, — adding much to the 
 beauty of the surrounding landscape. Here Sir Walter 
 Scott lays the scene of the " Lay of the Last Minstrel." But 
 those halls which once rang to the song of the wandering 
 bard, are cold, silent, and deserted; the fire which burned 
 so merrily in the hall has long been extinguished ; and Time, 
 the great destroyer of man and the most durable of his works, 
 has here set his seal ; and although this hoary pile may, for a 
 course of time, brave the storms of winter and the heat of 
 summer, it shall never more raise its head, as in the days of 
 other years, when its courts resounded to the warrior's shout, 
 or echoed back the song of the minstrel. 
 
 A few miles above the ruins of Newark Castle, the scene- 
 ry on the banks of the river undergoes an entire change 
 
265 
 
 and a tree is an object for which we look almost in vain . the 
 character of the scenery bears a strong resemblance to that 
 on the banks of the Ettrick, only the valley of the Yarrow is 
 a little narrower, and the mountains of a darker hue. The 
 Yarrow has its source in St. Mary's Loch, on whose placid 
 bosom, at times, in the words of a truly great poet, the swan 
 may be seen " to float double, swan and shadow;" but the 
 visits of this majestic bird, are, like those of angels, " few 
 and far between." 
 
 St. Mary's is hemmed in, on all sides, by lofty mountains . 
 well may the poet exclaim, 
 
 " Abrupt and sheer the mountains sink 
 At once upon the level brink ; 
 And just a trace of silver sand 
 Marks where the water meets the land." 
 
 Bourhope Law seems to have been born of the waters, and 
 to have sprung from the deep recesses of the lake, rising, as 
 it does, in the most abrupt, yet picturesque manner, from its 
 margin : no appearance of cultivation, unless we except a 
 few solitary patches, breaks in upon the solitude of the 
 scene — 
 
 " There's nothing left to fancy's guess, — 
 You see that all is loneliness." 
 
 When the surface of the water is unruffled by the breath- 
 ings of the summer's eve, the surrounding mountains are 
 beautifully shadowed forth, in a manner which art cannot 
 imitate, and to which even the pencil of a Turner could not 
 do justice. The ruins of St. Mary's Chapel no longer give 
 Bn interest to the landscape ; but the tower of Dryhope still 
 remains, recalling us to the days of Mary Scott, the cele- 
 brated Flower of Yarrow. The Lochs of the Lows and St, 
 Mary's are almost one and the same sheet of water ; being 
 separated only by a very narrow strip of land: and the de- 
 scription which serves for the one, may well be applied to the 
 other. 
 
 Should curiosity lead the traveller farther from the abodes 
 of men into the solitary wilderness, among the dark moun- 
 tains which frown over the western shores of this lake, he 
 will be gratified by a view of the Gray Mare's Tail, roaring 
 and foaming over a terrific precipice of three hundred feet in 
 height ; and, about a mile above this fall, we come upon the 
 dark Loch Skene, lying in a scene of gloomy desolation and 
 23 
 
YOUNG LADIES- 7 READER.. 
 
 grandeur, unequalled, we believe, by any thing of the same 
 nature in the Highlands of Scotland. 
 
 A long course of years has elapsed since this country, 
 whose scenery we have endeavoured to describe, was covered 
 with a dense forest ; and although few vestiges of it now re- 
 main, it is still known as the Forest of Ettrick. In olden 
 times, when Scotland was an independent kingdom , with a 
 sovereign and a court of her own, Ettrick Forest was the 
 hunting domain of royalty ; and here the court frequently 
 assembled to enjoy the heart-stirring amusement of hunting 
 the wild deer with horn and hound. In the words of the 
 ballad we may say, that 
 
 * c Ettricke Foreste is the fairest foreste 
 That evir man saw wi' his e'e ; 
 There's the dae, the rae, the hart, the hynde 7 
 And of wild bestis grete plentie." 
 
 But those times are long passed ; and although tradition? 
 may still point out such localities as the Hart's Loup, or the 
 Clench of the Buck,, there is not, at this time, a single deer to 
 be seen on the forest mountains. Years have rolled on • and 
 many changes have taken place, since Ettrick and Yarrow 
 keard the bugle of royalty echo along the shores of St. Mary,, 
 or among the " dowie dens o' Yarrow:" the hart no longer 
 roams in uncontrolled freedom, a glorious creature full of life 
 and beauty 7 on the heath-clad mountains of Ettrick r — he no 
 longer bounds away, tossing his spreading antlers aloft, in 
 mockery of bis pursuers ; — but a scene of a more pleasing 
 nature opens on our view. Royalty, and the freaks of roy- 
 alty, are only remembered in those wilds as among the things 
 which once had a being ; and the race who now inhabit those 
 sequestered glens, if not so warlike, are certainly more inde- 
 pendent, and, we may add, far more happy than their forefa- 
 thers. The shepherds who now dwell in those valleys, are 
 generally men highly intelligent, of great simplicity of man- 
 ners, and of great goodness of heart ; having had but little 
 intercourse with the more busy world, they live a virtuous,, a 
 contented, and a happy life, and are, at all times, hospitable 
 and kind to strangers. In such a country, and among such a 
 people, it was the fortune, — we may say the good fortune, — - 
 of the Ettrick Shepherd to be born, and to live for the first 
 forty years of his life. 
 
READER* 267 
 
 EXERCISE CV. 
 
 THE SWISS GUIDE. Rogers. 
 
 * Jorasse was in his three-and-twentieth year, ■— 
 Graceful and active as a stag just roused, 
 ■Gentle withal, and pleasant in his speech, 
 Yet seldom seen to smile. He had grown up 
 Among the hunters of the Higher Alps ; 
 Had caught their starts and fits of thoughtfulness, 
 Their haggard looks, and strange soliloquies, 
 Said to arise, (by those who dwell below,) 
 From frequent dealings with the mountain-spirits. 
 But other days had taught him better things ; 
 And now he numbered., — marching by my side, — ■ 
 The savans, princes, who with him had crossed 
 The frozen tract, with him familiarly 
 Through the rough day and rougher night conversed 
 In many a chalet f round the Peak of Terror, J 
 Round Tacul, Tour, Wellhorn and Rosenlau,§ 
 And Her, whose throne is inaccessible, || 
 Who sits, withdrawn, in virgin majesty, 
 Nor oft unveils. Anon, an avalanche 
 Rolled its long thunder ; and a sudden crash, 
 Sharp and metallic, to the startled ear 
 Told that far-down a continent of Ice 
 Had burst in twain. But he had now begun; 
 And with what transport he recalled the hour 
 When to deserve, to win his blooming bride, 
 Madelaine of Annecy, to his feet he bound 
 The iron crampons,^] and ascending, trod 
 The upper realms of frost; then, by a cord • 
 Let half-way down, entered a grot star-bright., 
 And gathered from above., below, around. 
 The pointed crystals ! 
 
 Once, nor long before, — ■ 
 Thus did his tongue run on, fast as his feet. 
 And with an eloquence that Nature gives 
 To all her children, — once, — nor long before, — 
 Alone, at daybreak, on the Meitenberg, 
 
 * Pronounced, Yoras'say. § Rozenlow, — ow, as in now. 
 
 t Shallay. \\ The Jungfrau, — Yoongfrow 
 
 $ The Schrekhorn, — Shraildiorn. IF Cramipong. 
 
•308 YOUNG LADIES' HEADER. 
 
 He slipped, — he fell; and, through a fearful elefi 
 
 Gliding from ledge to ledge, from deep to deeper,, 
 
 Went to the under- world ! Longwhile he lay 
 
 Upon his rugged bed, — then waked like one 
 
 Wishing to sleep again and sleep forever ! 
 
 For, looking round, he saw, or thought he saw,. 
 
 Innumerable branches of a cavern,. 
 
 Winding beneath a solid crust of ice, 
 
 With here and there a rent that showed the stars ! 
 
 What then, alas ! was left him but to die i 
 
 What else in those immeasurable chambers, 
 
 Strewn with the bones of miserable men, 
 
 Lost like himself? Yet he must wander on,. 
 
 Till cold and hunger set his spirit free ! 
 
 And, rising, he began his dreary round ; 
 
 When hark J the noise as of some mighty river 
 
 Working its way to light ! Back he withdrew,. 
 
 But soon returned, and, fearless, from despair, 
 
 Dashed down the dismal channel ; and all day, — 
 
 If day could be where utter darkness was, — 
 
 Travelled incessantly, the craggy roof 
 
 Just over-head, and the impetuous waves, 
 
 Nor broad nor deep, yet with a giant's strength 
 
 Lashing him on. At last the water slept 
 
 In a dead lake, — at the third step he took, 
 
 Unfathomable ; and the roof, that long 
 
 Had threatened, suddenly descending, lay 
 
 Flat on the surface. Statue-like he stood,. 
 
 His journey ended ; when a ray divine 
 
 Shot through his soul. Breaming a prayer to Her 
 
 Whose ears are never shut, — the Blessed Virgin, — 
 
 He plunged, he swam, — and in an instant rose, — 
 
 The barrier past, — in light, in sunshine ! Through, 
 
 A smiling vajley, full of cottages, 
 
 Glittering, the river ran ; and on the bank 
 
 The young were dancing, ('twas a festival-day,) 
 
 All in their best attire. There first he saw 
 
 His Madelaine. In the crowd she stood to hear,. 
 
 When all drew round, inquiring ; and her face, 
 
 Seen behind all, and, varying, as he spoke, 
 
 With hope, and fear, and generous sympathy,. 
 
 Subdued him. — From that very hour he loved. 
 
 
YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 269 
 
 EXERCISE CVL 
 
 WINDSOR CASTLE. Miss Sedgwick. 
 
 Windsor Castle, you know, is rich with the accumulated 
 associations of ages, having been begun by Henry III., and 
 enlarged and enriched, from time to time, down to George IV., 
 who put it in complete order. It stands on an eminence just 
 above the little town of Windsor, which, built of brick and 
 stone, is compact and clean, as is every thing English, indi- 
 vidual and congregate. It is said to be the best specimen of 
 castellated architecture in England. Certainly it is very 
 beautiful ; and the most beautiful thing about it, is the view 
 from the terrace, which it would be little better than imperti- 
 nent to describe in any other words than Gray's, in his invo- 
 cation to those who stand on the terrace ^ — 
 
 "" And ye, that from the stately brow 
 Of Windsor's heights, the expanse below 
 
 Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, 
 Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among, 
 Wanders the hoary Thames along 
 His silver winding way " — 
 
 But such a mead! such turf! such shade! "Father 
 Thames" might be compared to an old king winding his 
 way through his court : the very sheep that were lying on the 
 grass under the majestic trees in the " home park," looked 
 like princes of the blood. The most thought-awakening ob- 
 ject in the view, is undoubtedly the Gothic pile of Eton 
 College, with its spires and antique towers. 
 
 We spent some hours in going through the magnificent 
 apartments of the palace, looking at the pictures, the Gobelin 
 tapestry, &c. The quaint, curious banqueting-room of the 
 knights of the garter, with their insignia, pleased me best. 
 
 We had enough of the enjoying spirit of children to be de- 
 lighted, and felt much in the humour of the honest man who 
 said to Prince Esterhazy, when he was blazing in diamonds, 
 " Thank you for your diamonds." " Why do you thank 
 me ? " naturally asked the prince. " You have the trouble 
 of keeping them, and I the pleasure of looking at them." 
 Wise and happy man ! He solved a puzzling problem. In 
 truth, the monarch has not the pleasure of property in Wind- 
 sor Castle, that almost every American citizen has in the roof 
 23* 
 
270 
 
 lhat shelters him. " I congratulate your majesty on the pc©^ 
 session of so beautiful a palace/ 5 said some foreign prince 
 to whom Victoria was showing it. "It is not mine, but the 
 country's," she replied. And so it is, and all within it. She- 
 may not give away a picture, or even a footstool. 
 
 We went into St. George's Chapel, which is included" in 
 the pile of buildings. We saw there the beautiful effect 
 produced by the sun shining through the painted windows, 
 through all the colours of the rainbow, on the white marble 
 pillars and pavement. The royal family are buried in the 
 vaults of this chapel. There is an elaborate monument, in 
 wretched taste, in one corner, to the Princess Charlotte. We 
 trod on a tablet in the pavement, which told us that, beneath 
 it, were lying the remains of Henry VIII, and Jane Seymour ! 
 It is such memorials as these that we are continually meet- 
 ing, which, as honest uncle Stephen says, " give one feelings." 
 
 Lady B. had said to me in a note, " If you attend service 
 in St. George's Chapel, observe the waving of the banners to 
 the music. It seems like a strange sympathy with the tones 
 of the organ, before one reflects on the cause." We did 
 attend the service, and realized the poetic idea. The banner 
 of every knight of the garter, from the beginning of the insti- 
 tution, is hung in the choir. 
 
 This was the third time we had been present, since we 
 came to England, at worship in the temples into which art 
 has breathed its soul. First in Winchester Cathedral, then at 
 Westminster Abbey, and now at this old royal chapel. The 
 daily service appointed by the Church was performing with 
 the careless and heartless air of prescription. The clergy- 
 man and clerk hurried sing-songing through the form of 
 prayers, that, perfect as they are, will only rise on the soul's 
 wings. 
 
 I felt the Puritan struggling at my heart, and could have 
 broken out with Mause's fervour, if not her eloquence. I 
 
 thought of our summer Sunday service in dear J 's " long 
 
 parlour." Not a vacant place was there. The door open 
 into the garden, the children strewed round the door-step, 
 their young faces touched with an expression of devotion and 
 love, such as glows in the faces of the cherubs of the old pic- 
 tures ; and for vaulted roof, columns, and storied glass, we 
 had the blue sky, the everlasting hills, and lights and shadows 
 playing over them, — all suggestive of devotion, and in har- 
 mony with the pure and simple doctrine our friend Dr. Follen 
 taught us. To me, there was more true worship in those all- 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 271 
 
 embracing words, " Our Father ! " as he uttered them, than 
 in all the task-prayers I have heard in these mighty cathe- 
 drals. Here it is the temple that is greatest. Your mind is 
 preoccupied, filled with the outward world. The monuments 
 of past ages, and the memorials of indiviuual greatness, are 
 before you. Your existence is amplified; your sympathies 
 are carried far back ; the " inexorable past " does give up its 
 dead. Wherever your eye falls, you see the work of a power 
 new to you, — the creative power of art. You see forms of 
 beauty which never entered into your " forge of thought." 
 You are filled with new and delightful emotions ; but they 
 spring from new impressions of the genius of man, of his 
 destiny and history. — No ; these cathedrals are not like the 
 arches of our forests, — the temples for inevitable worship ; 
 but they are the fitting places for the apotheosis of genius. 
 
 EXERCISE CVII. 
 LIGHT CONVERSATION WITH A HEAVY MAN. Anon. 
 
 " Charlotte, my dear, there is a ring at the hall bell," 
 said Mrs. Shawford, the morning after a ball. " Who can it 
 be?" — "Perhaps the Sydenhams — no! it is Henry Wa- 
 ring." — "What shall we do? He is so very heavy, and is 
 always calling." 
 
 The servant announced Mr. Henry Waring. 
 
 "How do you do?" inquired Mrs. Shawford; "I hope 
 Mrs. Waring and Eliza are quite well." 
 
 " Quite well, I thank you." 
 
 " I hope they are not fatigued. It was so very kind of 
 Mrs. Waring to stay so late. Eliza looked exceedingly well : 
 I think she has quite recovered." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Been shooting to-day ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Pray, is it true, Mr. Henry Waring," inquired Charlotte, 
 " that Dewhurst Hall is taken ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Very great thing for the neighbourhood, if it be." 
 
 " Yes." — {A pause.) " Beautiful weather/' remarked Mr. 
 Henry Waring. 
 
 " Very fine, indeed," agreed Mrs. Shawford " When do 
 your family go to town 1 " 
 
272 YOUNG ladies' reader. 
 
 " Next week." 
 
 " I hope we shall induce papa to take us soon," said Char- 
 lotte ; " I want to hear Paganini." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Have you heard him 1 " 
 
 " No." 
 
 '* He must be very wonderful." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You are fond of music, I believe 1 " 
 
 " Pretty well." — (Pause the second.) 
 
 ** The Dean ages, I think," observed Mrs. Shawford, with 
 a sigh. 
 
 " I think he does." 
 
 " I suppose William Rushton will soon return," observed 
 Miss Charlotte Shawford. 
 
 ** I suppose he will," replied Mr. Henry Waring. — (Pause 
 the third.) 
 
 " Pray, is there any talk of Donnington balls this year 1 " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " They were very pleasant." 
 
 "Yes, very." — (Pause the fourth.) 
 
 " Have you heard any thing of your cousin ? " inquired 
 Mrs, Shawford. 
 
 " Believe they had a letter, the other day," 
 
 " I hope he is quite well 1 " 
 
 " Yes, quite well." 
 
 " I suppose the important day will soon arrive now?" 
 
 " I suppose it will." — (Pause the fifth.) 
 
 " Will you take some luncheon, Mr. Waring? — It is in the 
 dining-room." — 
 
 " Thank vou, — I have lunched." 
 
 " How does John like Oxford 1 " 
 
 " Oh ! I don't know : — pretty well." 
 
 " Great change ! " 
 
 " Yes." — (Pause the sixth.) 
 
 " Sure you will not take any luncheon ? " 
 
 *' No, thank you. Good morning, Mrs, Shawford : Good 
 morning, Miss Shawford." 
 
 " Good morning. Pray remember us most kindly at home." 
 
 " Yes, — Good morning ; " — and he retired. 
 
 " Very heavy man is Mr. Henry Waring," observed Mrs. 
 Shawford. — " Shocking ! " said Charlotte. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 2*3 
 
 EXERCISE CVIII. 
 
 BALLAD. Heber. 
 
 " O captain of the Moorish hold, 
 
 Unbar thy gates to me ! 
 And I will give thee gems and gold, 
 
 To set Fernando free. 
 For I a sacred oath have plight 
 
 A pilgrim to remain, 
 Till I return, with Lara's knight, 
 
 The noblest knight of Spain." 
 
 " Fond Christian youth," the captain said, 
 
 " Thy suit is soon denied ; 
 Fernando loves a Moorish maid, 
 
 And will with us abide. 
 Renounced is every Christian rite ; 
 
 The turban he hath ta'en ; 
 And Lara thus hath lost her knight, 
 
 The noblest knight of Spain." 
 
 Pale, marble pale, the pilgrim turned, — 
 
 A cold and deadly dye ; 
 Then in his cheeks the blushes burned, 
 
 And anger in his eye ; — 
 From forth his cowl a ringlet bright 
 
 Fell down of golden grain : — 
 " Base Moor ! to slander Lara's knight, 
 
 The boldest knight of Spain ! 
 
 " Go look on Lugo's gory field, 
 
 Go look on Tayo's tide ! 
 Can ye forget the red-cross-shield, 
 
 That all your host defied? 
 Alhama's warriors turned to flight, 
 
 Granada's sultan slain, 
 Attest the worth of Lara's knight, 
 
 The boldest knight of Spain." 
 
 " By Allah, yea! " with eyes of fire 
 
 The lordly paynim said, 
 "Granada's sultan was my sire, 
 
 Who fell by Lara's blade ; 
 
274 
 
 And though thy gold were forty fold, 
 
 The ransom were but vain 
 To purchase back thy Christian knight, 
 
 The boldest knight of Spain." 
 
 ' ' Ah ! Moor, the life that once is shed, 
 
 No vengeance can repay ; 
 And who can number up the dead 
 
 That fall in battle fray 1 
 Thyself in many a manly fight 
 
 Hast many a father slain : 
 Then rage not thus, 'gainst Lara's knight, 
 
 The boldest knight of Spain ! " 
 
 " And who art thou, whose pilgrim vest 
 
 Thy beauties ill may shroud, — 
 The locks of gold, the heaving breast, — 
 
 A moon beneath a cloud 1 — 
 Wilt thou our Moorish creed recite, 
 
 And here with me remain ? 
 He may depart, — that captive knight, 
 
 The conquered knight of Spain." 
 
 " Ah, speak not so ! " — with voice of woe, 
 
 The shuddering stranger cried ; 
 " Another creed I may not know, 
 
 Nor live another's bride ! 
 Fernando's wife may yield her life, 
 
 But not her honour stain, 
 To loose the bonds of Lara's knight, 
 
 The noblest knight of Spain." 
 
 " And know'st thou, then, how hard the doom 
 
 Thy husband yet may bear 1 — 
 The fettered limbs, the living tomb, 
 
 The damp and noisome air ? — 
 In lonely cave, and void of light, 
 
 To drag a helpless chain, 
 Thy pride condemns the Christian knight, 
 
 The prop and pride of Spain." 
 
 " Oh! that within that dungeon's gloom 
 
 His sorrows I might share, 
 And cheer him in that living tomb, 
 
 With love and hope and prayer ! 
 
 
275 
 
 But still the faith I once have plight 
 
 Unbroken must remain ; 
 And God will help the captive knight, 
 
 And plead the cause of Spain." 
 
 "And deem'st thou from the Moorish hold 
 
 In safety to retire, 
 Whose locks outshine Arabia's gold, 
 
 Whose eyes the diamond's fire 1 " 
 She drew a poniard small and bright, 
 
 And spake in calm disdain, — 
 "He taught me how, — my Christian knight, 
 
 To guard the faith of Spain ! " 
 
 The drawbridge falls ! with loud alarm 
 
 The clashing portals fly, 
 She bared her breast, — she raised her arm, 
 
 And knelt, in act to die ; — 
 But ah ! the thrill of wild delight 
 
 That shot through every vein ! — 
 He stood before her, — Lara's knight, 
 
 The noblest knight of Spain ! 
 
 EXERCISE CIX. 
 
 THE CONDITION OF THE BLIND. Sydney Smith. 
 [From a Discourse before an Asylum for the Blind.'] 
 
 The object of the Society for which I now implore your 
 protection, is, to diminish the misfortune of blindness, by 
 giving to those afflicted with it, the means of obtaining sup- 
 port by their ingenuity and labour, and of walking in the law 
 of Christ, by attending to the religious instructions and exer- 
 cises prescribed by this institution. They are here instruct- 
 ed in a variety of works for which manual skill is requisite, 
 rather than manual labour ; and^ which they perform with a 
 dexterity astonishing to those who have connected with blind- 
 ness the notion of absolute helplessness and incapacity. 
 
 A charitable institution, conducted upon such principles 
 
276 
 
 as an asylum for the blind, is superior to any common char- 
 ity, as it interweaves science with compassion ; and by show- 
 ing how far the other senses are capable of improvement, 
 takes off from the extent of human calamity all that it adds to 
 the limits of human knowledge. 
 
 Who could have imagined, — to speak of a kindred in- 
 stance of ingenious benevolence, that the deaf and dumb 
 could be taught to reason, to speak, and to become acquainted 
 with all the terms and intricate laws of a language, — or that 
 men who never, from their earliest infancy, enjoyed the privi- 
 lege of sight, could be taught to read and to write, to print 
 books, and the ablest of them to penetrate into all the depths 
 of mathematical learning? Such facts afford inexhaustible 
 encouragement to men engaged in the benevolent, task of in- 
 structing those in whom the ordinary inlets of knowledge are 
 blocked up. They seem to place within our reach the 
 miracles of those Scriptures from whence they have sprung, 
 and to show the fervent votary of Christ, that he, also, 
 like his great Master, can make the deaf hear, the dumb 
 speak, and the blind see. 
 
 Consider the deplorable union of indigence and blindness, 
 and what manner of life it is from which you are rescuing 
 these unhappy people. — The neglected blind man comes out 
 in the morning season to cry aloud for his food : when he 
 hears no longer the feet of men, he knows that it is night, 
 and gets him back to the silence and famine of his cell. 
 Active poverty becomes rich ; labour and prudence are re- 
 warded with distinction ; the weak of the earth have risen up 
 to be strong ; but he is forever dismal and ever forsaken. 
 The man who comes back to his native city, after years of 
 absence, beholds again the same extended hand into which 
 he cast his boyish alms; the self-same spot, the old attitude 
 of sadness, the ancient cry of sorrow, the intolerable sight of 
 a human being that has grown old in supplicating a misera- 
 ble support for a helpless, mutilated frame. Such is the life 
 these unfortunate children would lead had they no friends to 
 appeal to your compassion. Such are the evils we will con- 
 tinue to remedy, if they experience from you that compassion 
 their magnitude so amply deserves. 
 
 The author of the book of Ecclesiastes has told us, that 
 " the light is sweet ; that it is a pleasant thing for the eyes to 
 behold the sun." The sense of sight, is, indeed, the highest 
 bodily privilege, the purest physical pleasure, which man has 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 277 
 
 derived from his Creator. To see that wandering fire, after 
 he has finished his journey through the nations, coming back 
 to us in the eastern heavens; the mountains painted with 
 light ; the floating splendour of the sea ; the earth waking 
 from deep slumber ; the day flowing from the sides of the 
 hills, till it reaches the secret valleys ; the little insect re- 
 called to life; the bird trying her wings; man going forth 
 to his labour ; each created being, moving, thinking, acting, 
 continuing, according to the scheme and compass of his 
 nature, — by force, by reason, by cunning, by necessity; — 
 is it possible to joy in this animated scene, and feel no 
 pity for the sons of darkness, — for the eyes that will never 
 taste the sweet light, — for the poor, clouded in everlasting 
 gloom ? 
 
 If you ask me why they are miserable and dejected, I turn 
 you to the plentiful valleys ; to the fields now bringing forth 
 their increase ; to the freshness and the flowers of the earth ; 
 to the endless variety of its colours ; to the grace, the sym- 
 metry, the shape of all it cherishes, and all it bears: — these 
 you have forgotten, because you have always enjoyed them ; 
 but these are the means by which God Almighty makes man 
 what he is, — cheerful, lively, erect, full of enterprise, muta- 
 ble, — glancing from heaven to earth ; prone to labour and 
 to act. 
 
 Why was not the earth left without form and void 1 Why 
 was not darkness suffered to remain on the face of the deep? 
 Why did God place lights in the firmament for days, for sea- 
 sons, for signs, and for years ? That he might make man the 
 happiest of beings; that he might give to this his favourite 
 creation, a" wider scope ; a more prominent decoration ; a 
 richer diversity of joy. This is the reason why the blind are 
 miserable and dejected ; because their soul is mutilated, and 
 dismembered of its best sense. Therefore I implore you by 
 the Son of David, have mercy on the blind ! If there is not 
 pity for all sorrows, turn out the full and perfect man to meet 
 the inclemency of fate : let not those who have never tasted 
 the pleasures of existence, be assailed by any of its sorrows : 
 — the eyes which are never gladdened by light, should never 
 stream with tears. 
 24 
 
278 YOUNG LADIES 5 READER, 
 
 EXERCISE CX. 
 
 THE BLIND MAN'S LAY. Mrs. Whitman. 
 
 " At times Allan felt as if his blindness were a blessing ; — for it forced 
 him to trust to his own soul, — to turn for comfort to the best 
 and purest human affections, — and to see God always. Fanny- 
 could almost have wept to see the earth and the sky so beautiful, 
 now that Allan's eyes were dark ; but he whispered to her, that 
 the smell of the budding trees and of the primroses, that he knew 
 were near his feet, was pleasant indeed, and that the singing of all 
 the little birds made his heart dance within him." — Lights ani 
 Shadows of Scottish Life. 
 
 Though I hear thee gayly tell 
 Of the tulip's shaded bell, 
 Of the wall-flower's varied hue, 
 And the violet " darkly blue," 
 And the crimson blush that glows 
 On the rich, voluptuous rose, — 
 These no longer bloom for me : 
 These I never more may see. 
 
 But this gentle season still 
 Can my heart with gladness fill ; — 
 I can hear the spring-winds blow, 
 And the gurgling fountains flow. 
 Hark ! e'en now a zephyr breathes, 
 Through the balmy hawthorn wreaths, 
 Unfelt, unheard by all but me, 
 It swells so soft, so silently ! 
 
 I can hear the humming-bee 
 Flitting o'er the sunny lea, 
 Wooing every bashful flower, 
 From morn till evening's dewy hour. — - 
 All around, the voice of birds, 
 And the lisped and laughing words 
 Of merry childhood, greet my ear, 
 With power the saddest heart to cheer. 
 
 When o'er earth night's shadow lies, 
 I hear thee tell of cloudless skies, 
 
READER. 279 
 
 And countless stars that twinkle through 
 Heaven's broad and boundless arch of blue ; 
 Of snow-white spires and turrets fair, 
 Soft gleaming in the moonlit air, 
 Whose dusky depths of shadows lie 
 Heightening the brilliant scenery. 
 
 Then beneath the pine-trees tall, 
 Near yonder foaming waterfall, 
 I listen to the stock-dove's wail, 
 Far floating through the quiet vale ; 
 Soft-sighing breezes waft to me 
 The fragrance of the birchen tree ; — 
 And the " brawling burnie " wimples by, 
 With a gush of soothing melody. 
 
 E'en all sweet sense of these will fade 
 At times, — as though impervious shade, 
 Like that which hides me from the day, 
 O'er each external image lay : — 
 Then many a form thou canst not see, 
 Unfolds its sun-bright wings to me, 
 And, deep within my silent soul, 
 High thoughts and holiest visions roll. 
 
 EXERCISE CXI. 
 UNWRITTEN MUSIC. N. P. Willis. 
 
 There is unwritten music. The world is full of it. 1 
 hear it every hour that I wake ; and my waking sense is sur- 
 passed sometimes 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 so harmony. You may mingle, and 
 divide, and strengthen the passages of its great anthem ; and 
 it is still 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 
 
280 YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 
 
 the long grass hissing as it sweeps through, and its own sol- 
 emn monotony over all; — and the dimple of that same 
 brook, and the waterfall's unaltered bass shall still reach you, 
 in the intervals of its power, 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 wind and waters, and the exquisite ear of the 
 musician can detect no jar. 
 
 I have read somewhere of a custom in the Highlands, 
 which, in connection with the principle it involves, is exceed- 
 ingly beautiful. It is believed that, to the ear of the dying, 
 (which, just before death, becomes always exquisitely acute,) 
 the perfect harmony of the voices of nature, is so ravishing, 
 as to make him forget his suffering, and die gently, like one 
 in a pleasant trance. And so, when the last moment ap- 
 proaches, they take him from the close shieling, and bear him 
 out into the open sky, that he may hear the familiar rushing 
 of the streams. I can believe that it is not superstition. I 
 do not think we know how exquisitely nature's many voices 
 are attuned to harmony, and to each other. 
 
 The old philosopher we read of, might not have been 
 dreaming when he discovered that the order of the sky was 
 like a scroll of written music, and that two stars, (which are 
 said to have appeared centuries after his death, in the very 
 places he mentioned,) were wanting to complete the har- 
 mony. We know how wonderful are the phenomena of col- 
 our; how strangely like consummate- art the strongest dyes 
 are blended in the plumage of birds, and in the cups of 
 flowers ; so that, to the practised eye of the painter, the har- 
 mony is inimitably perfect. It is natural to suppose every 
 part of the universe equally perfect; and it is a glorious and 
 elevating thought, that the stars of heaven are moving on 
 continually to music ; and that the sounds we daily listen to 
 are but part of a melody that reaches to the very centre of 
 God's illimitable spheres 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 281 
 
 EXERCISE CXII. 
 
 THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF. Caroline Bowles 
 
 There is a tongue in every leaf — 
 
 A voice in every rill ; 
 A voice that speaketh everywhere — 
 In flood and fire, through earth and air, — - 
 
 A tongue that's never still. 
 
 'Tis the great Spirit wide diffused 
 
 Through every thing we see, 
 That with our spirits communeth, 
 Of things mysterious, — Life and Death, 
 
 Time and Eternity. 
 
 I see Him in the blazing sun, 
 
 And in the thunder-cloud ; 
 I hear Him in the mighty roar 
 That rusheth through the forests hoar, 
 
 When winds are piping loud. 
 
 I see Him, hear Him, everywhere, — 
 
 In all things, — darkness, light, 
 Silence and sound, — but most of all, 
 When slumber's dusky curtains fall, 
 
 At the dead hour of night. 
 
 Ifcel Him in the silent dews, 
 
 By grateful earth betrayed ; 
 I feel Him in the gentle showers, 
 The soft south wind, the breath of flowers, 
 
 The sunshine and the shade. 
 
 And yet, (ungrateful that I am !) 
 
 I've turned, in sullen mood, 
 From all these things, whereof He said, — 
 When the great whole was finished, — 
 
 That they were " very good." 
 
 My sadness on the loveliest things 
 Fell like ungrateful dew ; 
 
 24* 
 
282 
 
 The darkness that encompassed me, 
 The gloom I felt so palpably, 
 My own dark spirit threw. 
 
 Yet He was patient, — slow to wrath, 
 Though every day provoked 
 
 By selfish, pining, discontent, 
 
 Acceptance cold or negligent, 
 And promises revoked ; 
 
 And still the same rich feast was spread 
 
 For my insensate heart ! 
 Not always so : — I woke again, 
 To join Creation's rapturous strain, 
 
 " Oh ! Lord, how good thou art ! " 
 
 The clouds drew up, — the shadows fled 
 The glorious sun broke out ; 
 
 And love, and hope, and gratitude, 
 
 Dispelled that miserable mood 
 Of darkness and of doubt. 
 
 
 EXERCISE CXIII. 
 THE READING OF THE BIBLE. Jacob Abbott 
 
 There are many persons who really wish to study the 
 Bible more intellectually, and to receive more vivid impres- 
 sions from it, but who do not know exactly what they are to 
 do to secure these objects. I shall therefore describe onef 
 of the means which can easily be adopted, and which will be 
 very efficient for this purpose : — 
 
 Picturing to the imagination the scenes described. There 
 is a very common difficulty felt by multitudes in reading 
 the Bible, which admits of so sure and easy a remedy by the 
 above direction, that I cannot avoid devoting a few para- 
 graphs to the formal consideration of it. 
 
 A person who is convinced that it is his duty to read the 
 word of God, and who really desires to read it, and to receive 
 instruction from it, sits down on the Sabbath to the work. 
 He opens, perhaps, at a passage in the Gospels, and reads on, 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 283 
 
 verse after verse. The phraseology is all perfectly familiar. 
 He has read the same passage a hundred times before, and 
 the words fall upon his ear like a sound long familiar, pro- 
 ducing no impression aid awakening no idea. After going 
 through a few verses, hi finds that he is making no progress; 
 perhaps his mind has left his work altogether, and is wander- 
 ing to some other subject. He turns back, therefore, a few 
 verses, and endeavours to become interested in the narrative ; 
 but it is to little purpose ; and, after spending half an hour in 
 reading, he shuts his book, and instead of feeling that re- 
 newed moral strength and peace of mind, which come from 
 the proper use of the word of God, he feels disappointed and 
 dissatisfied, and returns to his other duties more unquiet in 
 spirit than before. What a vast proportion of the reading of 
 the Bible, as practised in Christian countries, does this de- 
 scription justly portray ! 
 
 Now some one may say, that this careless and useless study 
 of God's word, arises from a cold and indifferent state of heart 
 toward God. It does unquestionably often arise, in a great 
 degree, from this source, but not entirely. There is another 
 difficulty not connected with the moral state of the heart. It 
 is this : — 
 
 Words that have been often repeated, gradually lose their 
 power to awaken vivid ideas in the mind. The clock which 
 has struck perhaps many thousand times in your room, you at 
 last cease even to hear. On the walls of a school-room there 
 was once painted in large letters, '*' A place for every thing, 
 and every thing in its place." But, after a little time, the 
 pupils, becoming familiar with the sight of the inscription, 
 lost altogether its meaning ; and a boy would open his disor- 
 derly desk, and look among the confused mass of books, and 
 slates, and papers there, for some article he had lost ; and 
 then, as he looked around the room, his eye would fall on the 
 conspicuous motto, without thinking, a moment, of the incon- 
 gruity between its excellent precept, and his own disorderly 
 practice. It is always so. The oft-repeated sound falls at 
 last powerless and unheeded on the ear. 
 
 The difficulty, then, that I am now to consider, is, that, in 
 reading the Bible, especially those portions which are familiar, 
 we stop with merely repeating once more the words, instead of 
 penetrating fully to the meaning beyond. In order to illus- 
 trate this difficulty and its remedy, more fully, let me take a 
 passage, the sixth chapter of St. John, for example, to which 
 I have opened at random. 
 
284 YOUNG ladies' reader. 
 
 " After these things Jesus went over the Sea of Galilee, 
 which is the Sea of Tiberias. And a great multitude fol- 
 lowed him, because they saw his miracles which he did on 
 them that were diseased." 
 
 How familiar, now, this sounds to every reader ! Every 
 phrase comes upon the ear like an oft-told tale ; but it makes 
 a very slight impression upon the mind. The next verse, 
 though perhaps few of my readers know now what it is, will 
 sound equally familiar, when they read it here. 
 
 " And Jesus went up into a mountain, and there he sat with 
 his disciples." 
 
 Now, suppose this passage and the verses which follow it, 
 were read at morning prayer by the master of a family; how 
 many of the children would hear it without being interested, 
 or receiving any clear and vivid ideas from the description ! 
 And how many would there be, who, if they were asked, 
 two hours afterward, what had been read that morning, would 
 be utterly unable to tell ! 
 
 But now suppose that this same father could, by some 
 magic power, show to his children the real scene which these 
 verses describe. Suppose he could go back through the 
 eighteen hundred years which have elapsed since these events 
 occurred, and taking his family to some elevation in the ro- 
 mantic scenery of Palestine, from which they might overlook 
 the country of Galilee, actually see all that this chapter de- 
 scribes. 
 
 " Do you see," he might say, " that wide sea which spreads 
 out beneath us, and occupies the whole extent of the valley ? 
 That is the Sea of Tiberias ; it is also called the Sea of Gali- 
 lee. All this country which spreads around it, is Galilee. 
 Those distant mountains are in Galilee, and that beautiful 
 wood which skirts the shore, is a Galilean forest." 
 
 " Why is it called the Sea of Tiberias? " a child might ask. ' 
 
 " Do you see at the foot of that hill, on the opposite shore 
 of the lake, a small town? It extends along the margin of 
 the water, for a considerable distance. That is Tiberias ; 
 and the lake sometimes takes its name. 
 
 "But look, — there is a small boat coming round a point 
 of land which juts out beautifully from this side of the lake. 
 It is slowly making its way across the water, — we can almost 
 hear the splashing of the oars. It contains the Saviour and 
 some of his disciples. They are steering towards Tiberias, — 
 now they approach the shore, — they stop at the landing, and 
 the Saviour, followed by his disciples, walks upon the shore " 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 28o 
 
 Suppose now that this party of observers can remain a 
 little longer at their post, and see, in a short time, that some 
 sick person is brought to the Saviour to be healed. Another 
 and another comes. A crowd gradually collects around him. 
 He retreats slowly up the rising ground ; and, after a little 
 time, he is seen to take his place upon an elevated spot, where 
 he can overlook and address the throng which has collected 
 around him. 
 
 If this could be done, how strong and how lasting an im- 
 pression would be made upon those minds ! Years, and 
 perhaps the whole of life itself, would not obliterate it. 
 
 Even this faint description, though it brings nothing new 
 to the mind, will probably make a much stronger and more 
 lasting impression, than merely reading the narration would 
 do. And what is the reason ? How is it that what I have 
 here said has impressed this scene upon your minds more 
 distinctly than the simple language of the Bible 1 It is only 
 because I have endeavoured to lead you to picture this scene 
 to your minds, — to conceive of it strongly and clearly. Now, 
 any person can do this for himself, in regard to any passage 
 of Scripture. 
 
 It is not necessary that I should go on, and delineate, in 
 this manner, the whole of the account. Each reader can, — 
 if he will task his imagination, — paint for himself the 
 scenes which the Bible describes. And if he does bring 
 his intellect and his powers of conception to the work, and 
 read, not merely to repeat, formally and coldly, sounds al- 
 ready familiar, but to bring to his mind vivid and clear con- 
 ceptions of all which is represented there, he will be inter- 
 ested. He will find new and striking scenes coming up 
 continually to view, and will be surprised at the novelty and 
 interest which this simple and easy effort will throw over 
 those very portions of the Bible, to which the ear has become 
 most completely familiar. 
 
 EXERCISE CXIV. 
 
 SUNDAY EVENING. Anon. 
 
 I sat, last Sunday evening, 
 From sunset even till night, 
 
 At the open casement, watching 
 The day's departing light. 
 
286 
 
 The sun had shone bright all day, 
 
 His setting was brighter still ; 
 But there sprang up a lovely air, 
 
 As he dropped down the western hill. 
 
 Such hours to me are holy, 
 
 Holier than tongue can tell : 
 They fall on my heart like dew 
 
 On the parched heather-bell. 
 
 The steer and the steed in their pastures, 
 Lie down with a look of peace, 
 
 As if they knew 'twas commanded 
 
 That this day their labours should cease. 
 
 The lark's vesper song is more thrilling, 
 As he mounts to bid heaven good night; 
 
 The brook sings a quieter tune ; 
 The sun sets in lovelier light ; — 
 
 The grass, the green leaves, and the flowers 
 Are tinged with more exquisite hues ; 
 
 More odorous incense from out them 
 Steams up with the evening dews. 
 
 I watched the departing glory, 
 Till its last red streak grew pale, 
 
 And earth and heaven were woven 
 In twilight's dusky veil. 
 
 Then the lark dropped down to his mate, 
 By her nest on the dewy ground ; 
 
 And the stir of human life 
 
 Died away to a distant sound : — 
 
 All sounds died away ; — the light laugh, 
 The far footstep, the merry call ; — 
 
 To such stillness, — the pulse of one's heart 
 Might have echoed a rose-leaf's fall. 
 
 And, by little and little, the darkness 
 
 Waved wider its sable wings, 
 Till the nearest objects and largest 
 
 Became shapeless, confused things ; — 
 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 287 
 
 And, at last, all was dark : — then I felt 
 
 A cold sadness steal over my heart ; 
 And I said to myself, " Such is life ! 
 
 So its hopes and its pleasures depart." 
 
 But I lifted mine eyes up ; and, lo ! 
 
 An answer was written on high, 
 By the finger of God himself, 
 
 In the depths of the dark-blue sky. 
 
 There appeared a sign in the east, — 
 
 A bright, beautiful, fixed star ! 
 And I looked on its steady light 
 
 Till the evil thoughts fled afar ; — 
 
 And the lesser lights of heaven 
 
 Shone out with their pale, soft rays, — 
 
 Like the calm unearthly comforts 
 Of a good man's latter days. 
 
 And there came up a sweet perfume 
 
 From the unseen flowers below, 
 Like the savour of virtuous deeds, — 
 
 Of deeds done long ago. 
 
 EXERCISE CXV. 
 
 Our visit to Retsch, — the poet-illustrator of Shak- 
 speare, Schiller, and Goethe,* in his well-known outlines, was 
 a genuine Arcadian episode, a dip into the fine simplicity of 
 poetical existence, passed in the bosom of nature, a refined 
 rusticity, a fragment of the golden age. This noble artist 
 has a house at Dresden, where, in winter, he receives his 
 friends, and where a most interesting class of persons is to be 
 met ; but in summer he retires to his " Weinberg," that is, his 
 vineyard, at Tosnitz, six or seven miles down the valley. 
 
 * The oe in Goethe, (or the 6 in Gothe,) sound nearly like ten in the 
 French word cceur ; the h is silent ; and the e final sounds like ay in 
 day, but shorter in quantity. 
 
288 
 
 They who would know exactly where his abode there is, may 
 readily see it by standing on the fine airy bridge at Dresden, 
 and looking down the valley to the next range of hills. On 
 their ridge, at Tosnitz. stands a tower ; directly below it, at 
 the foot of the hills, is a white house; and there nestles 
 Retsch in his poetical retirement, maturing those beautiful 
 conceptions which have given him so wide a fame. 
 
 A pleasant drive down the valley, brought us into the re- 
 gion of vineyards, which, in the bright colours of autumn, did 
 not want for picturesque effect. In the midst of these, we 
 found the very simple cottage of the artist. His wife and 
 niece compose all his family ; and he can muse on his fancies 
 at will. His house was furnished as German houses often 
 are, somewhat barely, and with no trace of picture or print 
 upon the walls ; but a piano and heaps of music told of the 
 art of which his wife is passionately fond. While noticing 
 these things, a very broad and stout-built man, of middling 
 stature, and with a great quantity of gray hair, stood before 
 us. By portraits which we had seen of him, and which are 
 like and yet unlike, we immediately recognized him. Though 
 polite, yet there was a coldness about his manner, which 
 seemed plainly to say, " Who are these who come to interrupt 
 me out of mere curiosity 1 for they are quite strange to me." 
 
 When, however, he understood that Mrs. Howitt was the 
 English poetess in whom he had expressed so much interest, 
 a mist seemed to pass from his eyes ; he stretched out his 
 arms, grasped her hand in both of his, and shook it with a 
 heartiness that must have been felt for some minutes after. 
 He then gave one hand to our daughter and another to my- 
 self, with equally vigorous demonstrations of pleasure, and 
 set about to display to us every thing that he thought could 
 gratify us. Through various narrow passages, and up vari- 
 ous stairs of his rustic abode, he conducted us to his own 
 little study, where he showed to us from the window, his 
 vineyard running up the hill, pulled from the shelf a copy of 
 Mrs. Howitt's " Seven Temptations/ 5 and sat on a table, 
 where he told us he had sketched most of the outlines of 
 Faust and Shakspeare. He exhibited to us drawings and 
 paintings in profusion, till his niece appeared with a tray 
 bearing splendid wine and grapes from his own vineyard ; a 
 perfect little picture in itself, for in the pretty and amiable- 
 looking niece we could see the prototype of a good many of 
 his young damsels in his sketches. He then drew forth from 
 under a heap of drawings, the album of his wife, — a book 
 
READER* 289 
 
 which, from Mrs. Jameson's interesting description, we had a 
 great desire to see. 
 
 This is most unquestionably the most valuable and beau- 
 tiful album in the world. It is filled with the most perfect 
 creations of his fancy, whether sportive or solemn, as they 
 have accumulated through years ; and it is a thousand pities 
 that they are not published during his lifetime, while he 
 could superintend their execution, and see that justice was 
 done them. It is a volume of the poetry of sublimity, beau- 
 ty, and piety; for, while he is the finest illustrator of the 
 ideas of great poets, he is also a great poet himself, writing 
 out his imaginations with a pencil. The zephyrs besetting 
 his wife on a walk, fluttering her dress, and carrying off her 
 hat, is a charming piece of sportiveness ; the Angel of Good- 
 ness blessing her, is most beautiful with the heavenly beauty 
 of love.; Christ as a youth, standing with an axe in his hand, 
 before the shop of Joseph, with children about him, to whom 
 he is pointing out the beauties of nature, and thence unfold- 
 ing to them the Creator, is full of the holiest piety and youth- 
 ful grace; the Angel of Death, "severe in youthful beauty," 
 and the sublime figure of Imagination advancing on its way, 
 and looking forward into the mysteries of futurity, are glori- 
 ous creations. In short, this gem of a book, with its truly 
 wonderful drawings, — not merely outlines, but most delicate- 
 ly and exquisitely finished, — will one day raise still higher 
 the true fame of this great original artist. 
 
 We had gone so far with the Herr Professor, (as he is there 
 called,) into the fairy land, or rather heaven of poetry, that 
 we were startled to find the day going fast over. As we 
 turned over these charmed leaves, the artist sat by, and read 
 to us his written description of the various sketches, ever and 
 anon breaking away into half-moralizing, half-sentimental and 
 poetical observations, quite in the spirit of his fancies. We 
 were extremely sorry that the arrangements for our farther 
 journey did not allow us once more to return to this simple 
 and happy retreat of the muses of poetry and painting. With 
 true country cordiality, himself, his wife, and lovely niece, 
 accompanied us to our carriage ; and as we whirled away 
 through the ocean of vines, the good-hearted man stood and 
 waved his cap to us, till the last turn shut out from view him 
 and his house. 
 
29a 
 
 EXERCISE CXVI. 
 
 SUSQUEHANNA. Mrs, Ellet. 
 
 Softly the blended light of evening rests 
 Upon thee, lovely stream ! Thy gentle tide,, 
 Picturing the gorgeous beauty of the sky, 
 Onward, unbroken by the ruffling wind, 
 Majestically flows. — Oh ! by thy side, 
 Far from the tumults and the throng of men,. 
 And the vain cares that vex poor human life, 
 *Twere happiness to dwell,, alone with thee, 
 And the wide solemn grandeur of the scene F 
 From thy green shores, the mountains that enclose 
 In their vast sweep the beauties of the plain, — 
 Slowly receding, toward the skies ascend, 
 Enrobed with clustering woods, o'er which the smik 
 Of Autumn in his loveliness hath passed, 
 Touching their foliage with his brilliant hues, 
 And flinging o'er the lowliest leaf and shrub 
 His golden livery. On the distant heights 
 Soft clouds, earth-based, repose, and stretch afar 
 Their burnished summits; in the clear blue heaven,. 
 Flooded with splendour, that the dazzled eye 
 Turns drooping from the sighs. — Nature is here 
 Like a throned sovereign; and thy voice doth tell,.— • 
 In music never silent, — of her power. 
 Nor are thy tones unanswered, where she builds 
 Such monuments of regal sway. These wide,. 
 Untrodden forests eloquently speak, 
 Whether the breath of Summer stir their depths,, 
 Or the hoarse moaning of November's blast 
 Strip from the boughs their covering. 
 
 All the air 
 Is now instinct with life. The merry hum 
 Of the returning bee, and the blithe song 
 Of fluttering bird, mocking the solitude, 
 Swell upward • and the play of dashing streams,, 
 From the green mountain side, is faintly heard. 
 The wild swan swims the water's azure breast 
 With graceful sweep, or startled, soars away,. 
 Cleaving, with mounting wing the clear bright air. 
 
291 
 
 Oh ! in the boasted lands beyond the deep, 
 
 Where beauty hath a birth-right, — where each mound 
 
 And mouldering ruin tells of ages past, — 
 
 And every breeze, as with a spirit's tone, 
 
 Doth waft the voices of oblivion back, 
 
 Waking the soul to lofty memories, — 
 
 Is there a scene whose loveliness could fill 
 
 The heart with peace more pure 1 — Nor yet art thou, 
 
 Proud stream ! without thy records, — graven deep 
 
 On yon eternal hills, which shall endure 
 
 Long as their summits breast the wintry storm, 
 
 Or smile in the warm sunshine. They have been 
 
 The chroniclers of centuries gone by, 
 
 Of a strange race, who trod perchance their sides, 
 
 Ere these gray woods had sprouted from the earth 
 
 Which now they shade. Here onward swept thy waves. 
 
 When tones now silent mingled with their sound, 
 
 And the wide shore was vocal with the song 
 
 Of hunter chief, or lover's gentle strain. 
 
 Those passed away, — forgotten as they passed ; 
 
 But holier recollections dwell with thee : 
 
 Here hath immortal Freedom built her proud 
 
 And solemn monuments. The mighty dust 
 
 Of heroes in her cause of glory fallen, 
 
 Hath mingled with the soil, and hallowed it. 
 
 Thy waters in their brilliant path have seen 
 
 The desperate strife that won a rescued world, — 
 
 The deeds of men who live in grateful hearts, — 
 
 And hymned their requiem. 
 
 Far beyond this vale 
 That sends to heaven its incense of lone flowers, 
 Gay village spires ascend, — and the glad voice 
 Of industry is heard. — So, in the lapse 
 Of future years, these ancient woods shall bow 
 Beneath the levelling axe, — and Man's abodes 
 Displace their sylvan honours. They will pass 
 In turn away ; — yet, heedless of all change, 
 Surviving all, thou still wilt murmur on, 
 Lessoning the fleeting race that look on thee, 
 To mark the wrecks of time, and read their doom/ 
 
292 
 
 EXERCISE CXVIL 
 
 FEMALE COURAGE. Lady Stanhope, 
 
 I set out, one day, from Damascus, to visit BaJbe© and its 
 ruins. My friend the Pacha had referred me to the charge 
 of the Sheik NaseJ, who was the chief of fifty Arabs. Mj 
 people followed me at the distance of a day's journey. 
 
 We travelled on, sometimes in the night, and sometimes in 
 the day ; and the sun had thrice risen since my departure, 
 when a messenger, mounted on a dromedary, sped forward 
 towards our caravan. He addressed a word to the Sheik 
 Nasel, who became troubled, and changed countenance. 
 
 " What is the matter?" said I. " Nothing," he replied, 
 and we proceeded on our route. Presently a second drome- 
 dary reached us ; and the result much increased the depres- 
 sion evinced by Nasel. I insisted on knowing the cause 
 of it 
 
 "Well, then, Cid Milady" answered he, " since I must 
 tell you, my father is pursuing me with a force three trimes 
 superior to mine, and will shortly overtake us. He seeks my 
 life, I am certain. The offence demands blood; but you 
 have been intrusted to my care ; and I will rather die than 
 abandon you." — 
 
 " Make your escape; fry f 7 * exclaimed I. "For me, I will 
 sooner abide singly in the desert, than see you slain by your 
 father's hand. / will await his coming, and attempt your 
 reconciliation. In any case,. Baibec cannot be far off;, and 
 the sun shall be my guide." With these words I quitted him. 
 He sprang forward, and disappeared with his fifty Arabs. 
 
 I had been left alone, nearly an hour, with no other com 
 pany than the animal that carried me, and no other protec- 
 tion than my dagger, when a cloud of dust showed itself in 
 the horizon : horsemen approached at full gallop ; and, in 
 a few moments, Nasel was at my side. 
 
 " Honoured be the Cid Milady, ! " was his exclamation.,, — - 
 " he * wears the heart of a warrior! All that I have pretended 
 to him, has only been to prove his courage.. Come, my atheff 
 is at hand to receive you." — - 
 
 * Forgetting her sex, in the hardihood: and' fearless bearing which 
 sometimes almost concealed it, the wild Arabs were accustomed^ Li 
 aeems, to address Lady Stanhope in the masculine gendes.. 
 
I followed him, and was welcomed beneath his tent, with 
 sdl the state and ceremony of the desert. Gazelles an^ 
 young camels supplied our repast ; and poets celebrated tfr*- 
 exploits of past times. I cultivated the alliance of their trib* 
 who, from that day, have loved and respected me. 
 
 EXERCISE CXVIII, 
 
 GRACE DARLING. Wordsworth. 
 
 Among the dwellers in the silent fields, 
 The natural heart is touched ; and public way 
 And crowded street resound with ballad strains, 
 Inspired by one whose very name bespeaks 
 Favour divine, exalting human love ; 
 Whom, since her birth, on bleak Northumbrian coast, 
 Known unto few, but prized as far as known, 
 A single act endears to high and low, 
 Through the whole land, — to manhood, moved in spitt 
 Of the world's freezing cares, — to generous youth, — 
 To infancy, that lisps her praise, — and age, 
 Whose eye reflects it, glistening through a tear 
 Of tremulous admiration. Such true fame 
 Awaits her now. But, verily, good deeds 
 Do no imperishable record find 
 Save in the rolls of heaven, where hers may live 
 A theme for angels, when they celebrate 
 The high-souled virtues which forgetful earth 
 Has witnessed. Oh ! that winds and waves could speak 
 Of things which their united power calls forth 
 From the pure depths of her humanity ! 
 
 A maiden gentle, yet, at duty's call, 
 Firm and unflinching as the lighthouse reared 
 On the island rock, her lonely dwelling-place ; 
 Or like the invincible rock itself, that braves, 
 Age after age, the hostile elements, 
 As when it guarded holy Cuthbert's cell : 
 All night the storm had raged, nor ceased nor paused, 
 W T hen, as day broke, the maid, through misty air, 
 Espies, far off, a wreck, amid the surf 
 25* 
 
Beating ok owe of those disastrous isles. — 
 Half of a vessel, — haM,,— -no more.; the rest 
 Had vanished, swallowed up with all that there 
 Had for the common safety striven in vain, 
 Or thither thronged for refuge. With quick glance 
 Daughter and sire, through optic-glass, discern, 
 Clinging about this remnant of the ship, 
 Creatures, — how precious in the maiden's sight I 
 For whom, belike, the old man grieves still more- 
 Than for their fellow-sufferers ingulfed, 
 Where every parting agony is hushed, 
 And hope and fear mix not in farther strife-. 
 
 " But courage, father I let us out to sea — 
 A few may yet be saved." — The daughter's words - . 
 Pier earnest tone, and look beaming with faith, 
 Dispel the father's doubts ; nor do they lack 
 The noble-minded mother's helping hand 
 To launch the boat ; and with her blessing cheered. 
 And inwardly sustained by silent prayer, 
 Together they put forth, father and child ! 
 Each grasps an oar, and struggling, on they go ; 
 Rivals in effort ; and, alike intent 
 Here to elude and there surmount, they watch 
 The billows lengthening, mutually crossed 
 And shattered, and re-gathering their might; 
 As if the wrath aisd trouble of the sea 
 Were by the Almighty's sufferance prolonged, 
 That woman's fortitude, — so tried, so proved, — 
 May brighten more and more! 
 
 True to the mark, 
 They stem the current of that perilous gorge ; 
 Their arms still strengthening with the strengthening h< \rt, 
 Though danger, as the wreck is neared, becomes 
 More imminent. — Not unseen do they approach ; 
 And rapture, with varieties of fear 
 Incessantly conflicting, thrills the frames 
 Of those who, in that dauntless energy, 
 Foretaste deliverance ; but the least perturbed 
 Can scarcely trust his eyes, when he perceives 
 That of the pair, — tossed on the waves to bring 
 Hope to the hopeless, to the dying, life, — 
 One is a woman, a poor earthly sister, 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 295 
 
 Or, be the visitant other than she seems, 
 
 A guardian spirit sent from pitying Heaven, 
 
 In woman's shape. — But why prolong the tale, 
 
 Casting weak words amid a host of thoughts 
 
 Armed to repel them 1 — Every hazard faced 
 
 And difficulty mastered, with resolve 
 
 That no one breathing should be left to perish, 
 
 This last remainder of the crew are all 
 
 Placed in the little boat, then o'er the deep 
 
 Are safely borne, landed upon the beach, 
 
 And, in fulfilment of God's mercy, lodged 
 
 Within the sheltering lighthouse. — Shout, ye wave 9 . 
 
 Pipe a glad song of triumph, ye fierce winds ! 
 
 Ye screaming sea-mews, in the concert join ! 
 
 And would that some immortal voice, a voice 
 
 Fitly attuned to all that gratitude 
 
 Breathes out from floor or couch, through pallid lips 
 
 Of the survivors, to the clouds might bear, 
 
 (Blended with praise of that parental love, 
 
 Beneath whose watchful eye the maiden grew, 
 
 Pious and pure, modest, and yet so brave, 
 
 Though young, so wise ; though meek, so resolute,) 
 
 Might carry to the clouds and to the stars, 
 
 Yes, to celestial choirs, Grace Darling's name ! 
 
 EXERCISE CXIX. 
 
 MONODY ON THE DEATH OF GRACE DARLING. 
 
 Mrs. C. B. Wilson. 
 
 When round her ocean-dwelling 
 
 Burst the rude tempest's blast, 
 While waves to mountains swelling, 
 
 Closed o'er the sinking mast ; 
 Forth came the seaman's daughter, 
 
 Like Mercy o'er the wave, 
 Stemming that stormy water, 
 
 To succour, and to save. 
 
 The laurel for the warrior's brow, 
 Fame's glorious fingers twine ; 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 
 
 But far more verdant did it glow, 
 
 Heroic maid, on thine. 
 And, ever, to thy deathless name 
 
 Shall hallowed memories cling, 
 More precious than the wreath of Fame, 
 
 Pure, bright, unperishing. 
 
 Thy firm, but woman's spirit shrank 
 
 From the homage of the crowd ; 
 While pale decay thy life-spring drank, 
 
 And death thy beauty bowed. — 
 Now, sadly, round thy ocean-home 
 
 Mourneth the murmuring wave, 
 And, (hushed each angry billow's foam,) 
 
 Makes music o'er thy grave ! 
 
 EXERCISE CXX. 
 
 FEMALE STUDIES. Mrs. Barbauld. 
 
 Men have various departments in active life : women have 
 but one ; and all women have the same, differently modified, 
 indeed, by their rank in life, and other incidental circum- 
 stances. It is, to be a wife, a mother, a mistress of a family. 
 The knowledge belonging to these duties, is woman's profes- 
 sional knowledge ; the want of which nothing will excuse. 
 The acquisition of literary knowledge, therefore, in men, is 
 often an indispensable duty : in women, it can be only a de- 
 sirable accomplishment. In woman, it is more immediately 
 applied to the purposes of adorning and improving the mind, 
 — of refining the sentiments, and supplying proper stores for 
 conversation. 
 
 For general knowledge, women have, in some respects, 
 more advantages than men. Their occupations often allow 
 them more leisure : their sedentary way of life disposes them 
 to the domestic, quiet amusement of reading : the share they 
 take in the education of their children, throws them in the 
 way of books. The uniform tenor and confined circle of 
 their lives, make them eager to diversify the scene by de- 
 scriptions which open to them a new world ; and they are 
 
297 
 
 eager to gain an idea of scenes on the busy stage of life, from 
 which they are shut out by their sex. 
 
 It is likewise particularly desirable for women to be able 
 to give spirit and variety to conversation, by topics drawn 
 from the stores of literature ; as the broader mirth and more 
 boisterous gayety of the other sex, are, to them, prohibited. 
 As their parties must be innocent, care should be taken that 
 they do not stagnate into insipidity. 
 
 I will venture to add, that the purity and simplicity of 
 heart which a woman ought never, in her freest commerce 
 with the wcrld, to wear off; her very seclusion from the 
 jarring interests and coarser amusements of society, fit her 
 in a peculiar manner for the worlds of fancy and sentiment, 
 and dispose her to the quickest relish of what is pathetic, 
 sublime, or tender. To her, therefore, the beauties of poetry, 
 of moral painting, and all, in general, that is comprised under 
 the term of polite literature, lie particularly open ; and she 
 cannot neglect them without neglecting a very copious source 
 of enjoyment. 
 
 What particular share any one of the studies I have men- 
 tioned, may engage of her attention, will be determined by 
 her peculiar turn and bent of mind. But I shall conclude 
 with observing, that a woman ought to have that general 
 tincture of them all, which marks the cultivated mind. She 
 ought to have enough of them to engage gracefully in general 
 conversation. In no subject is she required to be deep, — of 
 none ought she to be ignorant. If she knows not enough to 
 speak well, she should know enough to keep her from speak- 
 ing at all ; enough to feel her ground, and prevent her from 
 exposing her ignorance ; enough to hear with intelligence, to 
 ask questions with propriety, and to receive information where 
 she is not qualified to give it. 
 
 A woman, who to a cultivated mind joins that quickness ol 
 intelligence and delicacy of taste which such a woman often 
 possesses in a superior degree, with that nice sense of pro- 
 priety which results from the whole, will have a kind of tact 
 by which she will be able, on all occasions, to discern between 
 pretenders to science and men of real merit. On subjects 
 upon which she cannot talk herself, she will know whether a 
 man talks with knowledge of his subject. She will not judge 
 of systems ; but by their systems she will be able to judge of 
 men. She will distinguish the modest, the dogmatical, the 
 affected, the over-refined, and give her esteem and confidence 
 accordingly. She will know with whom to confide the edu- 
 
298 
 
 cation of her children, and how to judge of their progress 
 and the methods used to improve them. 
 
 From books, from conversation, from learned instructors, 
 she will gather the flower of every science ; and her mind, in 
 assimilating every thing to itself, will adorn it with new 
 graces. She will give the tone to the conversation, even 
 when she chooses to bear but an inconsiderable part in it. 
 She will seem to know every thing, by leading every one to 
 speak of what he knows ; and when she is with those to 
 whom she can give no real information, she will yet delight 
 them by the original turns and sprightly elegance which 
 will attend her manner of speaking on any subject. Such is 
 the character to whom professed scholars will delight to 
 give information, and from whom others will equally delight to 
 receive it. 
 
 EXERCISE CXXI. 
 
 "SHOCKING IGNORANCE," OR RESULTS OF EDUCA- 
 TION. Anon. 
 
 A short time ago, Punch had occasion to horrify his 
 readers by publishing the report of his Select Committee on 
 Education, which revealed the amount of ignorance of 
 domestic matters, prevailing among young men generally. 
 His Commissioners have just sent up to him their second 
 report, which relates to the knowledge of business and the 
 affairs of life, possessed by young ladies ; and he has determined, 
 at the risk of creating a fearful panic in the marriage market, 
 to print it. 
 
 "Miss Mary Anne Watkins examined. — Is the daughter 
 of a private gentleman. Has several brothers and sisters. 
 Is engaged to be married to a young surgeon, as soon as he 
 can get into practice. Has an idea that she ought to know 
 something of housekeeping; supposes it comes naturally. 
 Can sing and play ; draw and embroider. Cannot say that 
 she ever darned a stocking. — The price of brown Windsor 
 soap is from one shilling to one and threepence the packet ; 
 cannot tell what yellow comes to ; never got any. Circassian 
 cream is half-a-crown a pot ; does not know the price of 
 pearlash. — Knows how to furnish a house, would goto the 
 upholsterer's and buy furniture. Cannot say how much she 
 
299 
 
 would expect to give for an easy-chair, or for a wash-hand- 
 stand, or a set of tea things; should ask mamma, if neces- 
 sary ; never thought of doing it before. Papa paid for the 
 dress she had on ; forgets what he gave for it. — Has no 
 notion what his butcher's bill amounts to in a year. 
 
 " Miss Harriet Somers. — Papa is a clergyman. Is unable 
 to say whether he is a pluralist or not. He is a curate, and 
 has but one curacy. Expects to be married, of course. 
 Would not refuse a young man with three hundred a year. 
 Has no property of her own. Has some skill in needle-work ; 
 lately worked a brigand in red, blue, and yellow worsted. 
 Can make several washes for the complexion. Cannot tell 
 how she would set about making an apple dumpling. Loaves 
 should remain in the oven till they are done ; the time they 
 would take depends upon circumstances. If she were mar- 
 ried, would expect her husband to be ill sometimes : suppos- 
 ing him to be ordered calves' foot jelly, should send for it to 
 the pastry-cook's. It never occurred to her that she might 
 make it herself. If she tried, should buy some calves' feet ; 
 what next she should do, cannot say. Has received a fashion- 
 able education ; knows French and Italian. Likes dancing 
 better than any thing else. 
 
 "Miss Jane Briggs. — Is the daughter of a respectable 
 tradesman, — a grocer and tea-dealer. Looks forward to a 
 anion with somebody in her own station in life. Was for five 
 years at a boarding school in Clapham. Really cannot say 
 what a leger is : it may be the same as a day-book. Has an 
 album. Has painted flowers in the album. Knows what a 
 receipt-book is : it tells you how to dress things. Should 
 suppose that a receipt in full was a receipt that told you all 
 particulars. Never heard of a balance-sheet : it may be a 
 calico sheet, for all she knows. Cannot say whether papa 
 buys or sells at prime cost. Has eaten fowl occasionally. 
 Never trussed one. Does not know how to make stuffing for 
 a duck or a goose. 
 
 " Miss Elizabeth Atkins. — Resides at Hampstead with her 
 parents. Papa is a solicitor ; has an office in Gray's Inn. Will 
 have a little money of, her own shortly, when she comes of 
 age. Is not aware whether she is a minor or not. The 
 property was left her by an aunt. Cannot say whether she is 
 a legatee or testatrix. Her property is real property. Is sure 
 of that. It is in the funds. — Should say that it was not per- 
 sonal property, as it was not any thing about her person. Knows 
 what consols are ; has read about them in history ; they were 
 
300 
 
 ancient Romans. Mamma keeps house. When she marries, 
 expects to do the same. Is unable to say what the family 
 milk-score is a week. Starch is used to stiffen collars ; — has 
 no notion what it is a pound, or what made of, or whether it 
 is used with hot water or cold. Drugget is cheaper than 
 Turkey carpet ; but how much, cannot say. Her time is 
 principally occupied in fancy-work, reading novels, and play- 
 ing quadrilles and waltzes on the piano." 
 
 Out of sixty other young ladies examined, three only knew 
 how to corn beef, six what a sausage was composed of, and 
 four how to make onion sauce. Not one of the whole num- 
 ber could brew. They mostly could tell what the last new 
 song was ; but none of them knew the current price of beef. 
 Every soul of them meant to marry as soon as possible. What 
 is to become of their husbands ? Echo answers " What ! " — 
 and Punch shudders at the idea. 
 
 EXERCISE CXXII. 
 
 A VISIT TO EDGEWORTHSTOWN. Mrs. S. C. Hall. 
 
 The demesne of Edgeworthstown is judiciously and abun- 
 dantly planted ; and the dwelling-house is large and commo- 
 dious. We drove up the avenue at evening. It was cheering 
 to see the lights sparkle through the windows, and to feel the 
 cold nose of the house-dog thrust into our hand as an earnest 
 of welcome ; it was pleasant to receive the warm greetings of 
 Miss Edgeworth ; and it was a high privilege to meet Miss 
 Edgeworth in the library, — the very room in which had been 
 written the immortal works that redeemed a character for 
 Ireland, and have so largely promoted the truest welfare 
 of human kind. We had not seen her for some years, — 
 except for a few brief moments, — and rejoiced to find her in 
 nothing changed ; her voice as light and happy, her laughing 
 as full of gentle mirth, her eyes as bright and truthful, and her 
 countenance as expressive of goodness, and loving-kindness, 
 as they had ever been. 
 
 The library at Edgeworthstown is by no means the reserved 
 and solitary room that libraries are, in general. It is large, 
 and capacious, and lofty ; well stored with books, and em- 
 bellished with the most valuable of all classes of prints, — the 
 suggestive ; it is also picturesque, — having been added to, so 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 301 
 
 as to increase its breadth. The addition is supported by 
 square pillars ; and the beautiful lawn, seen through the 
 window, embellished and varied by clumps of trees, judi- 
 ciously planted, imparts much cheerfulness to the exterior. 
 
 An oblong table, in the centre, is a sort of rallying point 
 for the family, who group around it, — reading, writing, or 
 working ; while Miss Edgeworth, only anxious on one point, 
 
 — that all in the house should do exactly as they like, with- 
 out reference to her, — sits quietly and abstractedly in her 
 own peculiar corner, on a sofa ; her desk, upon which lies 
 Sir Walter Scott's pen, given to her by him when in Ireland, 
 placed before her upon a little quaint table, as unassuming as 
 possible. Miss Edgeworth's abstractedness would puzzle the 
 philosophers : in that same corner, and upon that table, she has 
 written nearly all that enlightened and delighted the world ; 
 there she writes as eloquently as ever, wrapped up, to all ap- 
 pearance, in her subject, and knowing, by a sort of instinct, 
 when she is really wanted in dialogue ; and, without laying 
 down her pen, hardly looking up from her page, she will, by 
 a judicious sentence, wisely and kindly spoken, explain and 
 elucidate, in a few words, so as to clear up any difficulty, or 
 turn the conversation into a new and more pleasing current. 
 She has the most harmonious way of throwing in explanations, 
 
 — informing, without embarrassing. 
 
 A very large family party assemble daily in this charming 
 room ; young and old, bound alike to the spot by the strong 
 cords of memory and love. Mr. Francis Edgeworth, the 
 youngest son of the present Mrs. Edgeworth, and, of course, 
 Miss Edgeworth's youngest brother, has a family of little 
 ones, who seem to enjoy the freedom of a library as much as 
 their elders. To set these little people right, if they are 
 wrong ; to rise from her table to fetch them a toy, or even to 
 save a servant a journey ; to mount the steps, and find a 
 volume that escapes all eyes but her own, and done so as to 
 find exactly the passage wanted, are hourly employments of 
 this most unspoiled and admirable woman. She will then 
 resume her pen, and, what is more extraordinary, hardly 
 seem to have even frayed the thread of her ideas. Her mind 
 is so rightly balanced, every thing is so honestly weighed, 
 that she suffers no inconvenience from what would disturb 
 and distract an ordinary writer. 
 
 The library also contains a piano; and, occupied as it is, 
 by some members of the family, from morning until night, it 
 is the most unstudied, and yet, withal, from its shape and 
 26 
 
 
302 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 arrangement, the most inviting to cheerful study, — the 
 study that makes us more useful, both at home and abroad, — 
 of any room we have entered. We have seen it under many 
 circumstances ; in the morning, early, — very early for 
 London folks, yet not so early but that Miss Edgeworth had 
 preceded us. She is down stairs before seven ; and a table 
 heaped with roses, upon which the dew is still moist, and a 
 pair of gloves too small for any hand but hers, told who was 
 the early florist. Then, after the flower-glasses were re- 
 plenished, and a choice rose placed on each cup on the 
 breakfast-table in the next room, such of the servants as 
 were Protestants joined in family worship, and heard a por- 
 tion of Scripture read, hallowing the commencement of 
 the day. 
 
 When breakfast was ended, the circle met again in that 
 pleasant room ; and daily plans were formed for rides and 
 drives; the progress of education, or the loan fund, was dis- 
 cussed ; the various interests of their tenants, or the poor, 
 were talked over, so that relief was granted as soon as want 
 was known. 
 
 It is selfish to regret that so much of Miss Edgeworth's 
 mind has been, and is given to local matters ; but the pleas- 
 ure it gives her to counsel and advise, and the happiness she 
 derives from the improvement of every living thing, are de- 
 lightful to witness. Of all hours, those of the evening in the 
 library at Edgeworthstown were the most delightful : each 
 member of the family contributes, without an effort, to the 
 instruction and amusement of the whole. If we were certain 
 that those of whom we write would never look upon this 
 page, — if we felt it no outrage on domestic life, — no breach 
 of kindly confidence, — to picture each individual of a family 
 so highly gifted, we would fill our sheet with little else than 
 praise ; but we might give pain to this estimable household ; 
 and although Miss Edgeworth is public property, belonging 
 to the world at large, we are forced, every now and then, to 
 think that the friend we so respect, esteem, and love, would 
 look displeased, if we said what, — let us say as little as we 
 will, — she would deem, in her ingenuous and unaffected 
 modesty, too much ; yet we owe it to the honour and glory of 
 Ireland not to say too little. 
 
 It was indeed a rare treat to sit, evening after evening, by 
 her side, turning over the correspondence kept up with her, 
 year after year, by those "mighty ones," who are now passed 
 away, but whose names will survive hers, who, (God be 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 303 
 
 thanked,) is still with us ; to see her enthusiasm unquenched , 
 to note the playfulness of a wit that is never ill-natured ; 
 — to observe how perfectly justice and generosity are blended 
 together in her finely balanced mind ; to see her kindle into 
 warm defence of whatever is oppressed ; and to mark her in- 
 dignation against all that is unjust or untrue. 
 
 We have heard Miss Edgeworth called " cold ; " we can 
 imagine those who know her must smile at this ; those who 
 have so called her have never seen tears gush from her eyes 
 at a tale or incident of sorrow, or heard the warm, genuine 
 laugh that bursts from a heart, — the type of a genuine Irish 
 one, — touched quickly by sorrow or by joy. Never, never 
 shall we forget the evening spent in that now far-away room. 
 
 Miss Edgeworth is a living proof of her own admirable 
 system; she is all she has endeavoured to make others, — she 
 is — true, fearing no colours, yet tempering her mental bra- 
 very with womanly gentleness, — delighting in feminine 
 acquirements, — active, enduring, — of the most liberal 
 heart ; — while ministering to the wants of her dependants, 
 careful to inculcate whatever lesson they most need; of a 
 most cheerful nature, — keeping actively about from half-past 
 six in the morning until eleven at night, — first and last in all 
 those offices of kindness that win the affections of high and 
 low ; her conversational powers unimpaired ; and enlivening 
 all by a racy anecdote or a quickness at repartee, which 
 always comes when it is unexpected. 
 
 EXERCISE CXXIII. 
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF LIFE. Orville Dewey. 
 
 To the reflecting mind, especially if it is touched with any 
 influences of religious contemplation or poetic sensibility, 
 there is nothing more extraordinary, than to observe with 
 what obtuse, dull, and common-place impressions most men 
 pass through this wonderful life, which Heaven has ordained 
 for us. Life, which, to such a mind, means every thing 
 momentous, mysterious, prophetic, monitory, trying to the 
 reflections, and touching to the heart, — to the many is but a 
 round of cares and toils, of familiar pursuits and formal ac- 
 tions. Their fathers have lived ; their children will live after 
 
304 
 
 them ; the way is plain ; the boundaries are definite ; the 
 business is obvious; and this to them is life. They look 
 upon this world as a vast domicile, or an extensive pleasure- 
 ground : the objects are familiar ; the implements are worn ; 
 the very skies are old ; the earth is a pathway for those that 
 come and go, on earthly errands; the world is a working- 
 field, a warehouse, a market-place ; — and this is life. 
 
 But life indeed, — the intellectual life, struggling with its 
 earthly load, coming it knows not whence, going it knows 
 not whither, with an eternity unimaginable behind it, with an 
 eternity to be experienced before it, with all its strange and 
 mystic remembrances, now exploring its past years, as if they 
 were periods before the flood, and then gathering them 
 within a space as brief and unsubstantial as if they were the 
 dream of a day, — with all its dark and its bright visions of 
 mortal fear and hope; — life, such a life, is full of mysteries. 
 In the simplest actions, indeed, as well as in the loftiest con- 
 templations, in the most ordinary feelings, as well as in the 
 most abstruse speculations, mysteries meet us everywhere, 
 mingle with all our employments, terminate all our views. 
 
 The bare connection of mind with matter, is itself a mys- 
 tery. The extremes of the creation are here brought together, 
 its most opposite and incongruous elements are blended, not 
 only in perfect harmony, but in the most intimate sympathy. 
 Celestial life and light mingle, nay, and sympathize, with 
 dark, dull, and senseless matter. The boundless thought hath 
 bodily organs. That which in a moment glances through the 
 immeasurable hosts of heaven, hath its abode within the 
 narrow bounds of nerves, and limbs, and senses. The clay 
 beneath our feet is built up into the palace of the soul. The 
 sordid dust we tread upon, forms, in the mystic frame of our 
 humanity, the dwelling-place of high-reasoning thoughts, 
 fashions the chambers of imagery, and moulds the heart, that 
 beats with every lofty and generous affection. Yes, the feel- 
 ings that soar to heaven, the virtue that is to win the heavenly 
 crown, flows in the life-blood, that, in itself, is as senseless as 
 the soil from which it derives its nourishment. 
 
 Who shall explain to us this mysterious union, — tell us 
 where sensation ends, and thought begins, or where organi- 
 zation passes into life? There have been philosophers who 
 have reasoned about this, — materialists and immaterialists ; 
 and under their direction, the powers of matter and spirit 
 have been marshalled in the contest, for ascendency in this 
 human microcosm. But the war has been fruitless ; the 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 305 
 
 argument futile : philosophers have settled nothing, proved 
 nothing ; for they knew nothing. 
 
 Turn to what pursuit of science, or point of observation we 
 will ; and it is still the same. In every department of thought 
 and study, we, sooner or later, come to a region into which 
 our inquiries cannot penetrate. Everywhere our thoughts 
 run out into the vast, the indefinite, the incomprehensible : 
 time stretches to eternity, place to immensity, calculation to 
 " numbers without number," being to Infinite Greatness. 
 Every path of our reflections brings us, at length, to the 
 shrine of the unknown and the unfathomable, where we must 
 sit down, and receive with devout and childlike meekness, if 
 we receive at all, the voice of the oracle within. 
 
 EXERCISE CXXIV. 
 
 SCENE FROM MIRIAM. Mrs. E. Hall 
 
 Piso, Euphas, and Miriam. 
 
 [Paulus, the son of Piso, a Roman magistrate, has been seized and 
 detained as a hostage for the safety of Euphas's father, who, to- 
 gether with other Christians, has been imprisoned, and condemned 
 to death.] 
 
 Piso. Speak ! 
 
 How fell my noble Paulus in the gripe 
 Of yonder ravening wolves ? 
 
 Euphas. How came he there? 
 Alas ! — that question hath a dagger's point. 
 Man! I would rather die than answer it! 
 
 Pi. But thou shalt speak, or I will have thy bones 
 Wrenched from their sockets. — Silent still 1 — Stripling ! 
 Bethink thee, thou art young and delicate : 
 Thy tender limbs have a keen sense of pain ! 
 
 Eu. In dark thoughts am I lost, — but not of that ! 
 
 Pi. Answer me ! Rouse thee from thy trance ; thou'lt find 
 A stern reality around thee soon. 
 
 Eu. % It is a thought to search the very soul ! 
 And yet, — so young, — she may repent. — Piso ! 
 Tt is a short but melancholy tale ; 
 And if my heart break not the while, in brief 
 20* 
 
306 
 
 Will I declare how fell thy haughty son 
 
 Into the power of Christian foes, — He sought — 
 
 I have a sister; — she is beautiful, — 
 
 Touched by three summers more than I have seen, 
 
 Into the first young grace of womanhood, — 
 
 Lovely, yet thoughtful. — O my God ! it comes 
 
 Upon my soul too heavily ! — Proud Roman ! 
 
 Art thou not answered ? 
 
 Pi. I am. He dies. 
 
 Eu. How ! 
 
 Pi. Ye shall all die. In my mighty wrath 
 I have no words, — no frenzy now ! 'Tis deep, 
 Too deep for outward show ! — But he shall die, 
 The base, degenerate boy ! — Now am I free ! 
 My son hangs not upon my palsied arm, 
 Checking the half-dealt blow ' 
 
 Eu. Dost thou exult ? 
 O Heaven ! to think such spirits are ! — Piso ! 
 Wilt thou indeed forget - 
 
 Pi. Strange error thine, 
 To tell this secret, boy ! — I loved my son, 
 And loved nought else on earth. In him alone 
 Centred the wild, blind fondness of a heart 
 All adamant, except for him ! and thou, — 
 Thou — foolish youth, hast made me hate and scorn 
 Him whom my pride and love — Knowest thou not 
 Thou hast but sealed thy fate ? His life had been 
 More precious to me than the air I breathe ; 
 And cheerfully I would have yielded up 
 A thousand Christian dogs from yonder dens, 
 To save one hair upon his head. But now — 
 A Christian maid ! — Were there none other? — Gods ! 
 Shame and a shameful death be his ! — and thine ! 
 
 Eu. It is the will of God. — My hopes burnt dim 
 Even from the first, and are extinguished now. 
 The thirst of blood hath choked at last 
 The one affection which thy dark breast knew ; 
 And thou art man no more. — Let me but die 
 First of thy victims — 
 
 Pi. Would that among them — 
 Where is the sorceress? I fain would see 
 The beauty that hath witched Rome's noblest youth. 
 
 Eu. Hers is a face thou never wilt behold. 
 
 Pi. I will. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 307 
 
 On her, — on her shall fall my worst revenge ; 
 And I will know what foul and magic arts 
 
 [Miriam glides in. — A pause. 
 Beautiful shadow ! in this hour of wrath 
 What dost thou here ?. In life thou wert too meek, 
 Too gentle for a lover stern as I. 
 And since I saw thee last, my days have been 
 Deep steeped in sin and blood ! What seekest thou 1 
 I have grown old in strife ; and hast thou come, 
 With thy dark eyes and their soul-searching glance, 
 To look me into peace? — It cannot be. 
 Go back, fair spirit, to thine own dim realms ! 
 He whose young love thou didst reject on earth 
 May tremble at this visitation strange, 
 But never can know peace or virtue more ! 
 Thou wert a Christian ; and a Christian dog 
 Did win thy precious love. — I have good cause 
 To hate and scorn the whole detested race ; 
 And till I meet that man, whom most of all 
 My soul abhors, will I go on and slay ! 
 Fade, vanish, — shadow bright! — In vain that look! 
 That sweet, sad look [ — My lot is cast in blood ! 
 
 Mir. Oh ! say not so ! — 
 
 Pi. The voice that won me first ! 
 Oh ! what a tide of recollections rush 
 Upon my drowning soul ! — my own wild love, — 
 Thy scorn, — the long, long days of blood and guilt 
 That since have left their footprints on my fate ! — 
 The dark, dark nights of fevered agony, 
 When, 'mid the strife and struggling of my dreams, 
 The gods sent thee at times to hover round, 
 Bringing the memory of those peaceful days 
 When I beheld thee first ! — But never yet 
 Before my waking eyes hast thou appeared 
 Distinct and visible as now ! — Spirit ! 
 What wouldst thou have ? 
 
 Mir. O man of guilt and woe ! 
 Thine own dark phantasies are busy now, 
 Lending unearthly seeming to a thing 
 Of earth, as thou art ! 
 
 Pi. How ! Art thou not she 1 
 I know that face ! I never yet beheld 
 One like to it among earth's loveliest. 
 Why dost thou wear that semblance, if thou art 
 
308 YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 
 
 A thing of mortal mould 1 — Oh ! better meet 
 The wailing ghosts of those whose blood doth clog 
 My midnight dreams, than that half-pitying eye ! 
 
 Mir. Thou art a wretched man ! and I do feel 
 Pity even for the suffering guilt hath brought. 
 But from the quiet grave I have not come, 
 Nor from the shadowy confines of the world 
 Where spirits dwell, to haunt thy midnight hour. 
 The disimbodied should be passionless, 
 And wear not eyes that swim in earth-born tears, 
 As mine do now ! — Look up, thou conscience-struck ! 
 
 Pi. Off! off! — she touched me with her damp, cold hand • 
 But 'twas a hand of flesh and blood ! — Away ! — 
 Come thou not near me till I study thee. 
 
 Mir. Why are thine eyes so fixed and wild ? thy lips 
 Convulsed and ghastly white? Thine own dark sins, 
 Vexing thy soul, have clad me in a form 
 Thou dar'st not look upon — I know not why. 
 But I must speak to thee. 'Mid thy remorse, 
 And the unwonted terrors of thy soul, 
 I must be heard, — for God hath sent me here. 
 And it was He who smote thee, even now, 
 With a strange, nameless fear. 
 
 Pi. Girl ! Name it not. 
 I deemed I looked on one, whose bright young face 
 First glanced upon me 'mid the shining leaves 
 Of a green bower in sunny Palestine, 
 In my youth's prime ! I knew the dust, 
 The grave's corroding dust, had soiled 
 That spotless brow long since. — A shadow fell 
 Upon the soul that never yet knew fear. — 
 But it is past. Earth holds not what I dread; 
 And what the gods did make me, am I now. 
 What seekest thou 1 
 
 Eu. Miriam ! go thou hence. 
 Why shouldst thou die 1 
 
 Mir. Brother ! 
 
 Pi. Ha ! is this so 1 
 Now by the gods ! — Bar, — bar the gates, ye slaves ! 
 If they escape me now, — Why this is good ! 
 I had not dreamed of hap so glorious. 
 His sister ! — she that beguiled my son ! 
 
 Mir. Peace ! 
 Name not with tongue unhallowed love like ours. 
 
300 
 
 Pi Thou art her image ; — and the mystery 
 Confounds my purposes. Take other form, 
 Foul sorceress, and I will baffle thee ! 
 
 Mir. I have no other form than this God gave ; 
 And He already hath stretched forth his hand, 
 And touched it for the grave. 
 
 Pi. It is most strange. 
 Is not the air around her full of spells ? — 
 Give me the son thou hast seduced ! 
 
 Mir. Piso ! 
 Thy son hath seen me, — loved me ! — and hath won 
 A heart too prone to worship noble things, 
 Although of earth ; — and he, alas ! was earth's ! 
 I strove, — I prayed, — in vain ! — In all things else 
 I might have stirred his soul's best purposes. 
 But for the pure and cheering faith of Christ, 
 There was no entrance in that iron soul. 
 And I — Amid such hopes, despair arose, 
 And laid a withering hand upon my heart. 
 I feel it yet ! — We parted ! Ay, — this night 
 We met to meet no more. 
 
 Pi. Maid ! 
 Hath then my son withstood thy witchery ; 
 And on this ground ye parted 1 
 
 Mir. It is so. 
 Alas ! that I rejoice to say it ! 
 
 PL Nay, 
 Well thou mayst, for it hath wrought his pardon. 
 That he had loved thee would have been a sin 
 Too full of degradation, — infamy, — 
 Had not these cold and aged eyes themselves 
 Beheld thee in thy loveliness ! And yet, bold girl ! 
 Think not thy Jewish beauty is the spell 
 That works on one grown old in deeds of blood. 
 I have looked calmly on when eyes as bright 
 Were drowned in tears of bitter agony, 
 When forms as full of grace, — and pride, perchance,-— 
 Were writhing in the sharpness of their pain, 
 And cheeks as fair were mangled — 
 
 Eu. Tyrant ! cease. 
 Wert thou a fiend, such brutal boasts as these 
 Were not for ears like hers ! 
 
 Mir. I tremble not. 
 He spake of pardon for his guiltless son ; 
 
310 
 
 And that includeth life for those I love. 
 What need I more ? 
 
 Eu. Let us go hence. Piso ! 
 Bid thou thy myrmidons unbar the gates, 
 That shut our friends from light and air. 
 
 Pi. Not yet, 
 My haughty boy, for we have much to say, 
 Ere you two pretty birds go free. Chafe not ! 
 Ye are caged close, and can but flutter here 
 Till I am satisfied. 
 
 EXERCISE CXXV. 
 
 LONDON. Anon. 
 
 When a stranger visits London, for the first time, he finds 
 a vast deal to astonish him, which he had not previously cal- 
 culated upon. Before he sees it, he has formed his own 
 ideas of its appearance, character, and extent ; but his con- 
 ceptions, though grand, are not accurate : so that, when he 
 actually arrives within its precincts, — when he is driven for 
 the first time from the Exchange to Charing-Cross, — he is, 
 generally, much amazed, and, in no small degree, stupified. 
 
 London can neither be rightly described as a town, nor as 
 a city: it is a nation, — a kingdom, in itself. Its wealth is 
 that of half the world ; and its amount of population, that 
 of some second-rate countries. Its conventional system of 
 society, by which the human being is rounded down like a 
 pebble in a rapid river, and its peculiarities of diftere'nt 
 kinds, mark it as quite an anomaly, — something to which 
 the topographer can assign no proper title. 
 
 London was originally a town, on its own account. It is 
 now composed of the cities of London and Westminster, — 
 the latter having once been a seat of population on its western 
 confines, — besides a number of villages, formerly at a dis- 
 tance from it in different directions, but now engrossed within 
 its bounds, and only known by the streets to which they have 
 communicated their appellations. All now form one huge 
 city, in a connected mass, and are lost in the common name 
 of London. By its extensions in this manner, London now 
 measures seven and a half miles in length, from east to west, 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 31. 
 
 by a breadth of five miles, from north to south. Its circum- 
 ference, allowing for various inequalities, is estimated at 
 thirty miles; while the area of ground which it covers, is 
 considered to measure no less than eighteen miles square. 
 
 The increase of London has been particularly favoured by 
 the nature of its site. It stands at the distance of sixty 
 miles from the sea, on the north bank of the Thames, on 
 ground rising very gently towards the north ; and so even and 
 regular in outline, that among the streets, with few exceptions, 
 the ground seems perfectly flat. On the south bank of the 
 river, the ground is quite level ; and, on all sides, the country 
 appears very little diversified with hills, or any thing to inter- 
 rupt the extension of the buildings. 
 
 The Thames, which is the source of greatness and wealth 
 to the metropolis, is an object which commonly excites a 
 great deal of interest among strangers. It is a placid, ma- 
 jestic stream of pure water, rising in the interior of the 
 country, — at the distance of a hundred and thirty-eight 
 miles above London, and entering the sea, on the east coast, 
 about sixty miles below it. It comes flowing between low 
 and fertile banks, out of a richly ornamented country on the 
 west, and, arriving at the outmost houses of the metropolis, a 
 short way above Westminster Abbey, it pursues a winding 
 course between banks thickly clad with dwelling-houses, 
 manufactories, and wharves, for eight or nine miles ; its 
 breadth being, here, from a third to a quarter of a mile. 
 The tides affect it, for fifteen or sixteen miles above the 
 city ; but the salt water comes no farther than thirty miles 
 below it. Such is the volume and depth of water, however, 
 that vessels of seven or eight hundred tons reach the city, on 
 its eastern quarter. 
 
 Most unfortunately, the beauty of this exceedingly useful and 
 fine stream, is much hidden from the spectator, there being 
 no quays or promenades, along its banks, as is the case with 
 the Liffey, at Dublin. With the exception of the summit of 
 St. Paul's, the only good points of sight, for the river, are the 
 bridges, which cross it at convenient distances, and, by their 
 length, convey an accurate idea of the breadth of Me chan- 
 nel. During fine weather, the river is covered with numerous 
 barges or boats, of fanciful and light fabric, suitable for quick 
 rowing ; and, by means of these pleasant conveyances, the 
 Thames forms one of the chief thoroughfares. 
 
 London consists of an apparently interminable series of 
 streets, composed of brick houses, which are commonly four 
 
312 
 
 stories in height, and never less than three. The London 
 houses are not by any means elegant in their appearance ; 
 they have, for the most part, a dingy, ancient aspect; and it 
 is only in the western part of the metropolis that they assume 
 any thing like a superb outline. Even at the best, they have 
 a meanness of look, in comparison with houses of polished 
 white freestone, which is hardly surmounted by all the efforts 
 of art, and the daubings of plaster and stucco. 
 
 The greater part of the dwellings are small. They are 
 mere slips of buildings, containing, in most instances, only 
 two small rooms on the floor, one behind the other, often 
 with a wide door of communication between, and a wooden 
 stair, with balustrades, from bottom to top of the house. It 
 is only in the more fashionable districts of the town, that the 
 houses have sunk areas with railings : in all the business 
 parts, they stand close upon the pavements ; so that trade 
 may be conducted with the utmost facility and convenience. 
 
 The lightness of the fabric of the London houses, affords 
 an opportunity for opening up the ground stories as shops 
 and warehouses. Where retail business is carried on, the 
 whole of the lower part of the edifice, in front, is door and 
 window, adapted to show goods to the best advantage to the 
 passengers. The London shops seem to throw themselves 
 into the wide expansive windows ; and these, of all diversities 
 of size and decoration, transfix the provincial visitor with 
 their charms. 
 
 The exhibition of goods in the London shop-windows, is 
 one of the greatest wonders of the place. Every thing which 
 the appetite can suggest, or the fancy imagine, would appear 
 there to be congregated. In every other city, there is an 
 evident meagreness in the quantity and assortments. But, 
 here, there is the most remarkable abundance, and that not 
 in isolated spots, but along the sides of thoroughfares, miles 
 in length. In whatever way you turn your eyes, this extraor- 
 dinary amount of mercantile wealth is strikingly observable ; 
 if you even penetrate into an alley, or what you think an 
 obscure court, there you see it in full force, and on a greater 
 scale than in any provincial town whatsoever. 
 
 It is equally obvious to the stranger, that there is, Ijtere, a 
 dreadful struggle for business. Every species of lure is tried 
 to induce purchases ; and modesty is quite lost sight of. A 
 tradesman will cover the whole front of his house with a 
 sign, whose gaudy and huge characters might be read, with- 
 out the aid of a glass, at a mile's distance. He will cover 
 
READER. 313 
 
 the town with a shower of coloured bills, descriptive of the 
 extraordinary excellence and cheapness of his wares; each 
 bill measuring half a dozen feet square, and, to make them 
 more conspicuous, will plaster them on the very chimney-tops, 
 or, what appears a very favourable situation, the summit of 
 the gable of a house destroyed by fire, or any other calamity 
 calculated to attract a mob. 
 
 The struggle which takes place for subsistence, in London, 
 is particularly observable in the minute classification of trades, 
 and in the inventive faculty and activity of individuals in the 
 lower ranks. Money is put in circulation through the mean- 
 est channels. Nothing is to be had for nothing. You can 
 hardly ask a question without paying for an answer. The 
 paltriest service which can be rendered, is a subject of exac- 
 tion. The shutting of a coach-door will cost you twopence ; 
 some needy wretch, always rising up, as if by magic, out of 
 the street, to do you this kind turn. An amusing instance 
 of this excess of refinement in the division of labour, is 
 found in the men who sweep the crossing places from the 
 end of one street to another. These crossings are a sort of 
 hereditary property to certain individuals. A man, having a 
 good deal the air of a mendicant, stands with his broom, and 
 keeps the passage clean ; for exercising which public duty, 
 the hat is touched, and a hint as to payment muttered, which, 
 in many cases, meets with attention, for there is quite a 
 number of good souls who never miss paying him for his 
 trouble. 
 
 EXERCISE CXXVL 
 FRENCH POLITENESS. 
 
 [Translated from Saint- Simon.] 
 
 The first president of the Parliament of Paris, D'Harlay, 
 was a man whose character will well repay the study. Saint- 
 Simon, who hated him, — and he was generally both feared 
 and hated, — has touched off his minutest peculiarities with a 
 felicity inspired by warm admiration of his talents, and the 
 deepest contempt of his character. The high office held by 
 D'Harlay brought him repeatedly into contact with the king, 
 and more especially with the aristocracy, with whom it was 
 27 
 
314 
 
 then the prevailing custom to solicit their own cause before 
 the tribunal over which D'Harlay presided. 
 
 " D'Harlay was a spare little man, but full of vigour and 
 energy, with a lozenge-shaped face, a large aquiline nose, and 
 vulture eyes, that seemed ready to eat every thing up, and to 
 pierce the very walls. His dress was more ecclesiastical 
 than legal ; for he carried every thing that was formal to an 
 extreme. He was always full-dressed, his gait stooping, his 
 speech slow, studied and distinct, his pronunciation of the 
 old school, his words and phrases the same : the whole manner 
 was made up, constrained, and affected ; an air of hypocrisy 
 infected all his actions ; his manner was hollow and cynical ; 
 his reverences were to the ground ; and, as he walked along, 
 his dress rustled against the walls with a pretence of humility. 
 His manner was always profoundly respectful, under which 
 was clearly enough to be seen a spirit of insolent audacity ; 
 and though his expressions were measured and guarded, pride 
 of some sort was sure to peep out, and as much contempt 
 and sarcasm as he dared to show. 
 
 " His conversation was usually made up of sententious say- 
 ings and maxims : always dry and laconic ; he was never at 
 ease himself, and no one with him. He had a great fund of 
 sense, great penetration, a vast knowledge of mankind, more 
 especially of that class of persons with whom he dealt : he 
 was well acquainted with literature, extremely learned in 
 jurisprudence, and more especially in international law. His 
 reading was general, his memory extraordinary ; and though 
 he studied a deliberate preciseness of manner, his quickness 
 of repartee was surprising^ and never failed him. In all the 
 intricacies of practice, he was superior to the most dexterous 
 practitioners. He had rendered himself so completely the 
 master of the parliament, that not a single member stood be- 
 fore him, but with the trembling humility of a pupil : he ruled 
 all connected with it, with the most absolute tyranny ; turning 
 and using them as he listed, and often without their perceiv- 
 ing it ; and when they did, they were obliged to submit. He 
 never suffered the slightest approach to familiarity, on the 
 part of any person : even in his own family as much cere- 
 mony was kept up as between the most perfect strangers. At 
 table, the conversation turned upon the most common-place 
 subjects ; and though resident in the same house, his son 
 never called upon him without sending a message ; when he 
 entered, his father rose to meet him with hat in hand, ordered 
 a chair to be brought, and took leave of him in the same 
 manner. 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 315 
 
 (l D'Harlay was celebrated for his dexterity in his form of 
 bowing out.' The instant he wished to get rid of any 
 person, he began bowing him out from door to door, with so 
 much affected humility, and at the same time with such de- 
 termined perseverance, that it was equally impossible either 
 to be offended or to resist. After he had uttered one of the. 
 cruel bons mots, for which he was remarkable, and many of 
 which are preserved, he would instantly commence his i rev- 
 erences,' and not end until his antagonist was fairly driven 
 from the field. He carried this formal mode of politeness to 
 such an excess, that he generally saw his victims into their 
 coach, and the door shut upon them. 
 
 " On one occasion, the Due de Rohan, leaving him in great 
 dudgeon at the manner in which he had been treated in an 
 audience, as he was descending the stairs indulged in all sorts 
 of abuse of the first president to his intendant, who accom- 
 panied him ; when suddenly turning round, they found D'Har- 
 lay close behind them, bowing them out in the most reveren- 
 tial style possible. The duke, quite confused, begged and 
 prayed, and was quite shocked that he should give himself 
 the trouble to see him out. * O sir,' said D'Harlay, * it is 
 impossible to quit you, say such charming things : ' and in 
 fact he did not leave him till he had seen him off in his 
 carriage, 
 
 " The Duchesse de Ferte, in the same way, as she was 
 descending his staircase, called him ' an old baboon : ' she 
 found he was close behind her, but hoped it had not been 
 heard ; for no change in his manner was visible. He put her 
 into her carriage with his usual prostrations. Shortly after 
 her cause came on; and judgment was quickly given in her 
 favour. The duchess ran to the president, and overwhelmed 
 him with her gratitude. He, as usual, plunged into his rev- 
 erences, and was full of humility and modesty,, till he caught 
 an opportunity, when all eyes being upon them, then looking 
 her full in the face, he said, ' Madam, I am delighted that 
 an old baboon can do a favour for an old ape.' The duchess 
 could have killed him on the spot ; he, however, recommenced 
 his reverences, and bowed her out of the place, in profound 
 silence, and his eyes upon the ground, until he had seen her 
 into her carriage." 
 
310 
 
 EXERCISE CXXVIL 
 
 THE PILGRIMS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. Anon. 
 
 The pilgrim is the very type of toil, mortification, and 
 austerity; and thus is his portrait drawn by the inimitable 
 Spenser : -— 
 
 " A silly man, in simple weedes foreworne, 
 
 And soiled with dust of the long-dried way; 
 His sandals were with tiresome travel tome, 
 And face all tanned with scorching sunny ray ; 
 As he had travelled many a summer's day, 
 Through boyling sands of Arable or Inde ; 
 And, in his hand, a Jacob's staff, to stay 
 His weary limbs upon ; and eke, behind,. 
 His scrip did hang, in which his needments he did bind. 
 
 The custom of making pilgrimages to spots of reputed 
 sanctity, prevailed to a great extent, in the latter ages of 
 Paganism ; coupled with a reverence for relics, it was early- 
 transferred to the Christian church; and from an innocent 
 custom it was exalted into a spiritual duty. A journey to* 
 Jerusalem was encouraged and enjoined by some of the oldest 
 "Fathers," as they were termed; they are mentioned as tak- 
 ing place in the third century ; and St.. Jerome says that, m 
 the fourth century, they were common from all parts of the 
 Roman empire. 
 
 " The professional costume of a pilgrim,'* says the " Retro- 
 spective Review," " is usually described as consisting of a 
 long,, coarse russet gown, with large sleeves, and sometimes 
 patched with crosses; a leathern belt, worn round the shoul- 
 ders or loins, a bowl and bag suspended from it ; a round hat 
 turned up in front, and stuck with scallop shells, (to help 
 himself to water,) or with leaden images of saints ; a rosary 
 of large "beads hanging from the neck or arm ; and a long 
 walking-staff, hooked like a crosier, or furnished near the top 
 with two hollow balls, which were occasionally used as a 
 musical instrument." 
 
 Before setting out on his pilgrimage,, the pilgrim received 
 consecration, which was extended also to the several articles 
 of his attire. Those pilgrims who went from England, usually? 
 passed to the south of France,, and proceeded to Rom% 
 
 
317 
 
 either by land or sea, and from thence to Loretto, and down 
 the Adriatic; and having touched at Cyprus or Candia, 
 landed at Alexandria ; and sometimes they went to Venice, 
 without proceeding to Rome. Those from Constantinople 
 sailed to Rhodes, and from thence to a more eastern part of 
 Egypt. But the greater number crossed the desert from Cairo, 
 and entered Palestine from the south. The pilgrims usually 
 travelled through European kingdoms on foot; and their pe- 
 culiar habit insured for them alms and protection. At Mar- 
 seilles, ship captains, whose vessels were bound for eastern 
 ports, were in the habit of receiving on board, without 
 pecuniary reward, a certain number of these " holy men," 
 whose intention of visiting Jerusalem was at once a pass- 
 port and pay. 
 
 In the order of foreign pilgrims must be reckoned the 
 palmers, a class of men whose real history and condition are 
 little known, though their name is familiar. According to 
 the most probable account, their designation was derived 
 from the palm, the symbol of Palestine; branches of which 
 were often brought home by them, as evidences of their 
 journey. The distinction between them and ordinary pilgrims 
 has been denned as consisting in the following circumstances : 
 " The pilgrim had some home or dwelling-place; but the 
 palmer had none. The pilgrim travelled to some certain de- 
 signed place ; but the palmer to all. The pilgrim usually 
 went at his own charges ; but the palmer professed wilful 
 poverty, and went upon alms. The pilgrim might give over 
 his profession, and return home ; but the palmer must be 
 consistent till he has obtained his palm by death." These 
 distinctions, however, were not invariably preserved ; and it 
 would be, perhaps, difficult to determine any that were so. 
 The profession of a palmer was at first voluntary, but after- 
 ward it was not unfrequently imposed as a penance. 
 
 Toward the close of the eleventh century, about the year 
 1075, the dominion of Palestine was torn from the Arabian 
 dynasty by the wilder hands of the Turks. The pure fanati- 
 cism of that rude people, was not yet softened by friendly inter- 
 course with the followers of the adverse faith ; nor would it 
 stoop even to yield to the obvious dictates of interest. Many 
 outrages were at this time perpetrated upon the pilgrims who 
 visited the sepulchre, and upon the Christian natives and so- 
 journers in Syria. Those who returned from the East were 
 clamorous in their descriptions and complaints ; and tales of 
 27* 
 
gig you 
 
 suffering and of sacrilege,, of the prostration of Chrlsfs fol- 
 lowers, the profanation of his name, the pollution of the holy 
 places, — tales of Moslem oppression and impiety, — were 
 diffused and exaggerated, and believed with fierce and re 1 * 
 vengeful determination, from one end of Europe to the other. 
 
 " About twenty years after the conquest of Jerusalem by 
 the Turks," says Gibbon, " the holy sepulchre was visited by 
 a hermit of the name of Peter, a native of Amiens, in the 
 province of Picardy, in France. His resentment and sympa- 
 thy were excited by his own injuries, and the oppression of 
 the Christian name. ' I will rouse,' exclaimed the hermit,, 
 'the martial nations of Europe in the cause;' and Europe 
 was obedient to the call of the hermit. 
 
 " Invigorated by the approbation of the pope, this zealous 
 missionary traversed, with speed and success, the provinces 
 of Italy and France. His diet was abstemious, his prayers 
 long and fervent ; and the alms which he received with one 
 hand, he distributed with the other ; his head was bare, his 
 feet naked; his meagre body was wrapped in a coarse gar- 
 ment; he bore and displayed a weighty crucifix; and the ass 
 on which he rode, was sanctified, in the public eye, by the 
 service of the man of God. He preached to innumerable 
 crowds in the churches, the streets, and the highways ; the 
 hermit entered, with equal confidence, the palace and the cot- 
 tage ; and the people, — for all were people? — were impetu- 
 ously moved by his call to repentance and to arms. When 
 he painted the sufferings of the natives and pilgrims of Pales- 
 tine, every heart was melted to compassion ; every breast 
 glowed with indignation, when he challenged the warriors of 
 the age to defend their brethren, and rescue their Saviour. 
 His ignorance of art and language was compensated by sighs, 
 and tears, and ejaculations; and Peter supplied the deficiency 
 of reason by loud and frequent appeals to Christ and his 
 mother, to the saints and angels of paradise, with whom he 
 had personally conversed," 
 
 The practice of making foreign pilgrimages, existed in 
 England, from the seventh till about the middle of the fifteenth 
 century. Few persons of any station or wealth, failed, during 
 that period, to engage in those religious tours ; and, in later 
 ages, they were not uncommon among persons in the middle 
 ranks of Jife. 
 
YOUNG LADlES 5 READER. 319 
 
 EXERCISE CXXVIII. 
 
 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. Anna Maria Wells. 
 
 Winter is coming on : the forest trees 
 Put off their green ; and leaves that early fall, 
 Already lie, crushed by the white-winged frost ; — 
 Others, yet waving to the breeze, array 
 Themselves in tints of crimson, brown, and gold, — 
 Gauds that foretell their ruin. 
 
 Now the last 
 Autumnal sunset bathes in yellow light 
 The hills ! The pale-eyed moon, and that one star, 
 That never doth her mistress' side forsake, 
 Go wandering coldly through the clear blue sky. 
 Old earth her yearly task accomplished hath; 
 The joyous harvest is in-gathered ; and 
 The labourer rests awhile from toil and care, 
 In fireside comfort, and the joys of home ! 
 Winter is coming on ! I feel it near, 
 The winter of my life ! — Now, half afraid 
 To scan the train that startled memory brings, 
 Thought backward glances, and an inward voice 
 Asks for the harvest of my summer time. 
 In that sweet season, when all vital things 
 Within my soul first woke ; when childhood smiletf 
 As only childhood can, and life flowed on 
 As a clear stream that dances in the sun, 
 Though oft my wayward spirit would rebel, 
 I still, with answering gentleness, gave smile 
 For smile into the eyes that loved me. As 
 Young thoughts expanded, in my mind there grew 
 Heart-fancies, like to flowers that breathe delight ; 
 While hopes, like butterflies, with gilded wings, 
 Lay lightly on them, — and false Flattery's voice 
 Mellifluous sang ever in my ear ! 
 Did I then feel ? — I did, — I did, — that there 
 Were purer, nobler objects. Then I had 
 Keen aspirations unto better things : — 
 I felt what virtue was, and worshipped it. 
 But in the bustle and the stir of life, 
 'Mid varied good and ill, — the gush of joy, — 
 
320 YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 
 
 Corroding sorrow, — oh ! 'mid these, that power 
 
 Of holy truth that on me early fell, 
 
 Hath it been purely kept? and o'er my path 
 
 With steady ray, still doth it light me on ? 
 
 My spirit — hath it known the grace of mild 
 
 Forbearance ? And hath resignation kissed 
 
 Meekly the rod, — and grateful love adored 
 
 The Hand that blessed ? The powers God gave — have the) 
 
 Been nurtured, and, within their humble sphere, 
 
 Diffused around love, — joy, — intelligence 1 
 
 Where are the golden stores of mind? — the fruits 
 
 Of intellectual and of moral strength ? — 
 
 O inward voice, that must be answered, cease, — 
 
 Or help my prayers, — or tell my sinking heart 
 
 That the All-Wise is the All-Merciful ! 
 
 EXERCISE CXXIX. 
 
 THE OCEAN. Greenwood. 
 
 Xi We sail the sea of life; — a ealm one finds ; 
 And one, a tempest ; — and, the voyage o'er, 
 Death is the quiet haven of us all." 
 
 Thus discourses the ocean on the great themes of mortality, 
 
 — the eloquent ocean, sounding forth incessantly, in its deep- 
 toned surges, a true and dignified philosophy ; repeating to 
 every shore the moral and the mystery of human life. 
 
 But it does something more. — It is so vast, so uniform, 
 so full, so all-enveloping, that it leads the thoughts to a sub- 
 limer theme than life or time, to the theme of dread eternity. 
 When contemplations on this subject are suggested by it, 
 human life shrinks up into a stream, wandering through a 
 varied land, — now through flowers, and now through sands, 
 now clearly and now turbidly, now smoothly and quietly, and 
 now obstructed and chafed, till it is lost, at last, in the mighty 
 ocean, which receives, and feels it not. 
 
 There is nothing among the earthly works of God, which 
 brings the feeling, — for it can hardly be termed a conception, 
 
 — the feeling of eternity so powerfully to the soul, as does the 
 
321 
 
 " wide, wide sea." We look upon its waves, succeeding 
 each other continually, one rising up as another vanishes; 
 and we think of the generations of men, which lift up their 
 heads for a while, and then pass away, one after the other, — 
 for all the noise and show they make, — even as those restless 
 and momentary waves. Thus the waves and the ages come 
 and go, appear and disappear ; and the ocean and eternity 
 remain the same, undecaying and unaffected, abiding in the 
 unchanging integrity of their solemn existence. 
 
 We stand upon the solitary shore ; and we hear the surges 
 beat, uttering such grand, inimitable symphonies as are fit for 
 the audience of cliffs and skies ; and our minds fly back 
 through years and years, to that time, when, though we were 
 not and our fathers were not, those surges were yet beating, 
 incessantly beating, making the same wild music, and heard 
 alone by the overhanging cliffs, and the overarching skies, 
 which silently gave heed to it, even as they do now. 
 
 In the presence of this old and united company, we feel on 
 what an exceedingly small point we stand, and how soon we 
 shall be swept away, while the surges will continue to beat 
 on that very spot, and the cliffs and the skies will still lean 
 over to hear. This is what may be called the feeling of 
 eternity. 
 
 Perhaps the feeling is rendered yet more intense, when we 
 lie on our bed, musing and watching, and hear the sonorous 
 cadences of the waves coming up solemnly and soothingly 
 through the stillness of night. It is as the voice of a spirit, 
 — as the voice of the spirit of eternity. The ocean seems 
 now to be a living thing, ever living and ever moving, a 
 sleepless influence, a personification of unending duration, 
 uttering aloud the oracles of primeval truth. 
 
 " Listen ! the mighty being is awake, 
 And doth with his eternal motion make 
 A sound like thunder, everlastingly." 
 
 Where are the myriads of men who have trodden its shores, 
 and gone down to it in ships? They are passed away. Not 
 a single trace has been left by all their armaments. Where are 
 the old kingdoms which were once washed by its waves 1 They 
 have been changed, and changed again, till a few ruins only 
 tell where they stood. But the sea is still the same. Man can 
 place no monuments upon it, with all his ambition and pride. 
 It suffers not even a ruin to speak of his triumphs or his 
 existence- It remains as young, as strong, as free, as when 
 
322 # YOUNG 
 
 it first listened to the Almighty Word, and responded with 
 all its billows to the song of the morning stars. 
 
 " Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow ; 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now ! " 
 
 EXERCISE CXXX. 
 
 ODE TO THE FLOWERS. Horace Smith. 
 
 Day-stars ! that ope your eyes with man to twinkle, 
 
 From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, 
 And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle 
 As a libation ! 
 
 Ye matin worshippers ! who bending lowly 
 Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye, 
 Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
 Incense on high ! 
 
 Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty 
 
 The floor of nature's temple tessellate, 
 What numerous emblems of instinctive duty 
 Your forms create ! 
 
 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth. 
 
 And tolls its perfume on the passing air, 
 Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
 A call to prayer, — 
 
 Not to the domes, where crumbling arch and column 
 
 Assert the feebleness of mortal hand, 
 But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, 
 
 Which God hath planned, — 
 
 To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 
 
 Whose quenchless lamp the sun and moon supply ; 
 Its choir, the winds and waves ; its organ, thunder ■ 
 Its dome, the sky ! 
 
 There, as in solitude and shade I wander 
 
 Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the sod, 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 323 
 
 Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
 The ways of God, 
 
 Your voiceless lips, O flowers ! are living preachers, — 
 
 Each cup a pulpit, — every leaf a book, 
 Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
 From lowliest nook. 
 
 Floral apostles ! that in dewy splendour 
 
 Weep without woe, and blush without a crime ! 
 Oh ! may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender 
 Your lore sublime ! 
 
 " Thou wert not, Solomon ! in all thy glory, 
 
 Arrayed," — the lily cries, — " in robes like ours : 
 " How vain your grandeur ! ah ! how transitory 
 Are human flowers ! " 
 
 In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist ! 
 
 With which thou paintest nature's wide-spread hall, 
 What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
 Of love to all! 
 
 P{or useless are ye, flowers, though made for pleasure, 
 
 Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night; 
 From every source your sanction bids me measure 
 Harmless delight. 
 
 Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary 
 
 For such a world of thought could furnish scope ; 
 Each fading calyx a " memento mori," — 
 Yet fount of hope? 
 
 Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection ! 
 
 Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, 
 Ye are to me a type of resurrection 
 And second birth. 
 
 Were I, O God ! in churchless lands remaining, 
 
 Far from all voice of teachers and divines, 
 My soul would find in flowers of thy ordaining, 
 Priests, sermons, shrines ! 
 
324 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 EXERCISE CXXXI. 
 THE BESIEGED CASTLE. Scott 
 
 [The wounded knight of Ivanhoe, is lying sick and helpless, in a 
 chamber of the castle, under the care of Rebecca the Jewess.] 
 
 The voices of the knights were heard, animating their 
 followers or directing means of defence, while their commands 
 were often drowned in the clashing of armour, or the clamor- 
 ous shouts of those whom they addressed. Tremendous as 
 these sounds were, and yet more terrible from the awful event 
 which they presaged, there was a sublimity mixed with them, 
 which Rebecca's high-toned mind could feel even in that 
 moment of terror. Her eye kindled, although the blood fled 
 from her cheeks ; and there was a strong mixture of fear and 
 of a thrilling sense of the sublime, as she repeated, half 
 whispering to herself, half speaking to her companion, the 
 sacred text, — "The quiver rattleth — the glittering spear 
 and the shield — the noise of the captains and the shouting." 
 
 But Ivanhoe was like the war-horse of that sublime pas- 
 sage, glowing with impatience at his inactivity, and with his 
 ardent desire to mingle in the affray of which these sounds 
 were the introduction. " If I could but drag myself," he 
 said, " to yonder window, that I might see how this brave 
 game is like to go, — if I had but bow to shoot a shaft, or 
 battle-axe to strike were it but a single blow for our deliver- 
 ance ! — It is in vain,- 1 — it is in vain. — I am alike nerveless 
 and weaponless." 
 
 " Fret not thyself, noble knight," answered Rebecca; " the 
 sounds have ceased, of a sudden : — it may be they join not 
 battle." 
 
 "Thou knowest nought of it" said Wilfrid, impatiently; 
 " this dead pause only shows that the men are at their posts 
 on the walls, and expecting an instant attack ; what we 
 have heard was but the distant muttering of the storm : — it 
 will burst anon in all its fury. — Could I but reach yonder 
 window ! " 
 
 " Thou wilt but injure thyself by the attempt, noble 
 knight," replied his attendant. Observing his extreme soli- 
 citude, she firmly added, " I myself will stand at the lattice, 
 and describe to you, as I can, what passes without." 
 
 " You must not, — you shall not ! " exclaimed Ivanhoe ; 
 
i'OUNG ladies' READER. 325 
 
 "each latuct, each aperture, will be soon a mark for the 
 archers ; some random shaft " 
 
 " It shall be welcome," murmured Rebecca, as with a firm 
 pace she ascended two or three steps, which led to the win- 
 dow of which they spoke. 
 
 " Rebecca, dear Rebecca ! " exclaimed Ivanhoe, " this is 
 no maiden's pastime, — do not expose thyself to wounds 
 and death, and render me forever miserable for having 
 given the occasion ; at least, cover thyself with yonder ancient 
 buckler, and show as little of your person at the lattice, as 
 may be." 
 
 Following with wonderful promptitude the directions of 
 Ivanhoe, and availing herself of the protection of the large 
 ancient shield, which she placed against the lower part of the 
 window, Rebecca, with tolerable security to herself, could 
 witness part of what was passing without the castle, and re- 
 port to Ivanhoe the preparations which the assailants were 
 making for the storm. Indeed, the situation which she thus 
 obtained was peculiarly favourable for this purpose, because, 
 being placed on an angle of the main building, Rebecca 
 could not only see what passed beyond the precincts of the 
 castle, but also commanded a view of the outwork likely to 
 be the first object of the meditated assault. It was an exte- 
 rior fortification, of no great height or strength, intended to 
 protect the postern gate, through which Cedric had been 
 recently dismissed by Front-de-Boeuf. The castle-moat di- 
 vided this species of barbican from the rest of the fortress ; 
 so that, in case of its being taken, it was easy to cut off the 
 communication with the main building, by withdrawing the 
 temporary bridge. In the outwork was a sally-port, corre- 
 sponding to the postern of the castle ; and the whole was sur- 
 rounded by a strong palisade. Rebecca could observe, from 
 the number of men placed for the defence of this post, that 
 the besieged entertained apprehensions for its safety ; and, 
 from the mustering of the assailants in a direction nearly op- 
 posite to the outwork, it seemed no less plain that it had 
 been selected as a vulnerable point of attack. 
 
 These appearances she hastily communicated to Ivanhoe, 
 and added,." The skirts of the wood seem lined with archers, 
 although only a few are advanced from its dark shadow." 
 
 " Under what banner? " asked Ivanhoe. 
 
 " Under no ensign of war which I can observe," answered 
 Rebecca. 
 
 " A singular novelty," muttered the knight, " to advance to 
 28 
 
326 
 
 storm such a castle without pennon or banner displayed. — 
 Seest thou who they be that act as leaders ? " 
 
 " A knight, clad in sable armour, is the most conspicuous," 
 said the Jewess ; " he alone is armed from head to heel, and 
 seems to assume the direction of all around him." 
 
 " What device does he bear on his shield ? " demanded 
 Ivanhoe. 
 
 " Something resembling a bar of iron and a padlock 
 painted blue, on the black shield." 
 
 " A fetterlock and shackle-bolt azure," said Ivanhoe ; " I 
 know not who may bear the device; but well I ween it 
 might now be mine own. Canst thou not see the motto 1 " 
 
 " Scarce the device itself at this distance," replied 
 Rebecca; " but when the sun glances fair upon his shield, it 
 shows as I tell you." 
 
 " Seem there no other leaders ? " exclaimed the anxious 
 inquirer. 
 
 " None of mark and distinction that I can behold from this 
 station," said Rebecca ; " but, doubtless, the other side of 
 the castle is also assailed. They seem even now preparing to 
 advance — God of Zion, protect us! — what a dreadful sight! 
 — Those who advance first bear huge shields, and defences 
 made of plank ; the others follow, bending their bows as they 
 come on. — They raise their bows ! — God of Moses, forgive 
 the creatures thou hast made ! " 
 
 Her description was here suddenly interrupted by the sig- 
 nal for assault, which was given by the blast of a shrill bugle, 
 and at once answered by a flourish of the Norman trumpets 
 from the battlements, which, mingled with the deep and hol- 
 low clang of the nakers, (a species of kettle-drum,) retorted, in 
 notes of defiance, the challenge of the enemy. The shouts 
 of both parties augmented the fearful din, the assailants 
 crying, " Saint George for England ! " and the Normans 
 answering them with cries of " En avant De JBragy ! — 
 Beau-seant ! Bcau-seant ! — Front-dc-Bczuf a la rescousse ! " 
 according to the war-cries of their different commanders. 
 
 It was not, however, by clamour that the contest was to be 
 decided ; and the desperate efforts of the assailants were met 
 by an equally vigorous defence, on the part of the besieged. 
 The archers, trained by their woodland pastimes to the most 
 effective use of the long bow, shot, to use the appropriate 
 phrase of the time, so " wholly together," that no point at 
 which a defender could show the least part of his person, 
 escaped their cloth-yard shafts. By this heavy discharge, 
 
READER. 327 
 
 which continued as thick and sharp as hail, while, notwith- 
 standing, every arrow had its individual aim, and flew, by 
 scores together, against each embrasure and opening in the 
 parapets, as well as at every window where a defender either 
 occasionally had post, or might be suspected to be stationed, 
 — by this sustained discharge, two or three of the garrison 
 were slain, and several others wounded. But, confident in 
 their armour of proof, and in the cover which their situation 
 afforded, the followers of Front-de-Bceuf and his allies, showed 
 an obstinacy in defence, proportioned to the fury of the at- 
 tack, and replied with the discharge of their large cross-bows, 
 as well as with their long bows, slings, and other missile weap- 
 ons, to the close and continued shower of arrows ; and, as 
 the assailants were necessarily but indifferently protected, 
 did considerably more damage than they received at their 
 hand. The whizzing of shafts and missiles, on both sides, 
 was only interrupted by the shouts which arose when either 
 side inflicted or sustained some notable loss. 
 
 " And I must lie here like a bedridden monk," exclaimed 
 Ivanhoe, " while the game that gives me freedom or death, is 
 played out by the hand of others ! — Look from the window 
 once again, kind maiden ; but beware that you are not 
 marked by the archers beneath, — look out once more, and 
 tell me if they yet advance to the storm." 
 
 With patient courage, strengthened by the interval which 
 she had employed in mental devotion, Rebecca again took 
 post at the lattice, sheltering herself, however, so as not to be 
 visible from beneath. 
 
 "What dost thou see, Rebecca?" again demanded the 
 wounded knight. 
 
 " Nothing but the cloud of arrows, flying so thick as to 
 dazzle mine eyes, and to hide the bowmen who shoot them." 
 
 "That cannot endure," said Ivanhoe; "if they press not 
 right on to carry the castle by pure force of arms, the arch- 
 ery may avail but little against stone walls and bulwarks. 
 Look for the knight of the fetterlock, fair Rebecca, and see 
 how he bears himself; for as the leader is, so will his follow- 
 ers be." 
 
 " I see him not," said Rebecca. 
 
 " Foul craven ! " exclaimed Ivanhoe ; " does he blench 
 from the helm when the wind blows highest ? " 
 
 " He blenches not ! he blenches not ! " said Rebecca ; " I 
 see him now ; he leads a body of men close under the outer 
 
328 YOUNG LADIES READER. 
 
 barrier of the barbican.* — They pull down the piles and pal- 
 isades ; they hew down the barrier with axes. — His high 
 black plume floats abroad over the throng, like the raven 
 over the field of the slain. — They have made a breach ij 
 *ihe barriers, — they rush in, — they are thrust back ! — 
 Front-de-Bceuf heads the defenders, — I see his gigantic 
 form above the press. They throng again to the breach, 
 and the pass is disputed hand to hand and man to man. God 
 of Jacob ! it is the meeting of two fierce tides, — the conflict 
 of two oceans moved by adverse winds." 
 
 She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable longer to 
 endure a sight so terrible. 
 
 EXERCISE CXXXII. 
 
 SAME SUBJECT CONCLUDED. 
 
 " Look forth again, Rebecca," said Ivanhoe, mistaking 
 the cause of her retiring; "the archery must in some de- 
 gree have ceased, since they are now fighting hand to hand. 
 
 — Look again, there is now less danger." 
 
 Rebecca again looked forth, and almost immediately ex- 
 claimed, " Holy prophets of the law! Front-de-Bceuf and the 
 Black Knight fight hand to hand on the breach, amid the 
 roar of their followers, who watch the progress of the strife. 
 
 — Heaven strike with the cause of the oppressed and of the 
 captive ! " She then uttered a loud shriek, and exclaimed, 
 " lie is down ! — he is down ! " 
 
 " Who is down ? " cried Ivanhoe ; " for our dear lady's sake 
 tell me, — which has fallen ? " 
 
 "The Black Knight," answered Rebecca, faintly; then 
 instantly again shouted with joyful eagerness, — "But no, — 
 but no ! the name of the Lord of hosts be blessed ! — he is up- 
 on his feet again, and fights as if there were twenty men's 
 strength in his single arm. — His sword is broken, — he 
 snatches an axe from a yeoman, — he presses Front-de-Bceuf 
 
 * Every Gothic castle and city had, beyond the outer walls, a fortifi- 
 cation composed of palisades, called the barriers, which were often the 
 scene of severe skirmishes ; as these must necessarily be carried before 
 the walls themselves could be approached. Many of those valiant feats 
 of arms which adorn the chivalrous pages of Froissart, took place at the 
 oarriers of besieged places. 
 
YOUNG LADIFS 5 READER. 329 
 
 with blow on blow. — The giant stoops, and totters like an 
 oak under the steel of the woodman, — he falls, — he falls!" 
 
 " Front-de-Boeuf ? " exclaimed Ivanhoe. 
 
 " Front-de-Boeuf," answered the Jewess. "His men rush to 
 the rescue, headed by the haughty templar. — Their "united 
 force compels the champion to pause. — They drag Front-de- 
 Boeuf within the walls ! " 
 
 "The assailants have won the barriers, have they not?" 
 said Ivanhoe. 
 
 " They have, — they have ; — and they press the besieged 
 hard upon the outer wall : some plant ladders, some swarm 
 like bees, and endeavour to ascend upon the shoulders of 
 each other, — down go stones, beams, and trunks of trees, 
 upon their haeds ; and, as fast as they bear the wounded to 
 the rear, fresh men supply their place in the assault. — Great 
 God ! hast thou given men thine own image, that it should 
 be thus cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren ! " 
 
 " Think not of that," replied Ivanhoe : " this is no time 
 for such thoughts : — Who yield? — who push their way?" 
 
 " The ladders are thrown down," replied Rebecca, shud- 
 dering; " the soldiers lie grovelling under them, like crushed 
 reptiles. — The besieged have the better." 
 
 " Saint George strike for us ! " said the knight ; " do the 
 false yeomen give way?" 
 
 "No!" exclaimed Rebecca, "they bear themselves right 
 yeomanly, — the Black Knight approaches the postern with 
 his huge axe : — the thundering blows which he deals, — you 
 may hear them above all the din and shout of the battle. — 
 Stones and beams are hailed down upon the bold champion, 
 — he regards them no more than if they were thistle-down 
 or feathers." 
 
 " By Saint John of Acre ! " said Ivanhoe, raising himself 
 joyfully on his couch, " methought there was but one man in 
 England that might do such a deed." 
 
 "The postern gate shakes," continued Rebecca; "it 
 crashes — it is splintered by his blows: — they rush in, — 
 the outwork is won: — O God! — they hurl the defenders 
 from the battlements, — they throw them into the moat : — 
 O men ! — if ye be indeed men, — spare them that can resist 
 no longer ! " 
 
 " The bridge ! — the bridge which communicates with the 
 castle, — have they won that pass ? " exclaimed Ivanhoe. 
 
 " No," replied Rebecca, " the templar has destroyed the 
 plank on • which they crossed : — few of the defenders es- 
 28* 
 
330 YOUNG ladies' reader. 
 
 caped with him into the castle: — the shrieks and cries 
 which you hear tell the fate of the others. — Alas! I see 
 that it is still more difficult to look upon victory than upon 
 battle." 
 
 "What do they now, maiden?" said Tvanhoe. "Look 
 forth yet again : — this is no time to faint at bloodshed." 
 
 "It is over for the time," said Rebecca; "our friends 
 strengthen themselves within the outwork which they have 
 mastered ; and it affords them so good a shelter from the foe- 
 men's shot, that the garrison only bestow a few bolts on it, 
 from interval to interval, as if rather to disquiet than effectu- 
 ally injure them." 
 
 " Our friends," said Wilfrid, " will surely not abandon an 
 enterprise so gloriously begun and so happily attained. — 
 Oh ! no. — I will put my faith in the good knight whose axe 
 has rent heart of oak and bars of iron. — Singular," he 
 again muttered to himself, " if there can be two who can do 
 a deed of such dcrring-do — a fetterlock, and a shackle-bolt 
 on a field sable! — what may that mean? — Seest thou 
 nought else, Rebecca, by which the Black Knight may be 
 distinguished ? " 
 
 "Nothing," said the Jewess; "all about him is black as 
 the wing of the night raven. Nothing can I spy that can 
 mark him further ; — but, having once seen him put forth his 
 strength in battle, methinks I could know him again among 
 a thousand warriors. He rushes to the fray as if he were 
 summoned to a banquet. There is more than mere strength, 
 there seems as if the whole soul and spirit of the champion 
 were given to every blow which he deals upon his enemies. 
 God assoilzie him of the sin of bloodshed ! — it is fearful, yet 
 magnificent, to behold how the arm and heart of one man 
 can triumph over hundreds." 
 
 " Rebecca," said Ivanhoe, " thou hast painted a hero. 
 Surely they rest but to refresh their force, or to provide the 
 means of crossing the moat. — Under such a leader as thou 
 hast spoken this knight to be, there are no craven fears, no 
 cold-blooded delays, no yielding up a gallant enterprise ; since 
 the difficulties which render it arduous render it also glori- 
 ous. I swear by the honour of my house, — I vow by the 
 name of my bright lady-love, I would endure ten years' cap- 
 tivity to fight one day by that good knight's side in such a 
 quarrel as this ! " 
 
 " Alas ! " said Rebecca, leaving her station at the window, 
 and approaching the couch of the wounded knight, " this impa- 
 
YOUNG LA1HES 5 READER. 331 
 
 tient yearning after action, — this struggling with and repining 
 at your present weakness, will not fail to injure your returning 
 health. — How couldst thou hope to inflict wounds on others, 
 ere that be healed which thou thyself hast received 1 " 
 
 " Rebecca," he replied, " thou knowest not how impossi- 
 ble it is for one trained to actions of chivalry, to remain 
 passive as a priest, or a woman, when they are acting deeds of 
 honour around him. The love of battle is the food upon 
 which we live, — the dust of the mellay is the breath of our 
 nostrils! — We live not, — we wish not to live longer than 
 while we are victorious and renowned. Such, maiden, are 
 the laws of chivalry to which we are sworn, and to which we 
 offer all that we hold dear." 
 
 " Alas ! " said the fair Jewess, " and what is it, valiant 
 knight, save an offering of sacrifice to a dream of vain glory, 
 and a passing through the fire to Moloch ? — What remains 
 to you as the prize of all the blood you have spilled, — of all 
 the travail and pain you have endured, — of all the tears 
 which your deeds have caused, when death hath broken the 
 strong man's spear, and overtaken the speed of his war- 
 horse ? " 
 
 " What remains 1 " cried Ivanhoe ; " glory, maiden, glory ! 
 which gilds our sepulchre, and embalms our name." 
 
 " Glory," continued Rebecca, " alas ! is the rusted mail 
 which hangs as a hatchment over the champion's dim and 
 mouldering tomb, — is the defaced sculpture of the inscrip- 
 tion which the ignorant monk can hardly read to the inquir- 
 ing pilgrim, — are these sufficient rewards for the sacrifice of 
 every kindly affection, for a life spent miserably that ye may 
 make others miserable 1 — Or is there such virtue in the rude 
 rhymes of a wandering bard, that domestic love, kindly affec- 
 tion, peace and happiness, are so wildly bartered, to become 
 the hero of those ballads which vagabond minstrels sing to 
 drunken churls over their evening ale ? " 
 
 EXERCISE CXXXIII. 
 
 SHIP BY MOONLIGHT. Wilson. 
 
 It is the midnight hour : — the beauteous sea, 
 
 Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven discloses, 
 
YOUNG LADIE : . READER. 
 
 While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee, 
 
 Far down within the watery sky reposes. 
 As if the ocean's breast were stirred 
 With inward life, a sound is heard, 
 Like that of dreamer murmunng in his sleep, — 
 
 'Tis partly the billow, and partly the air, 
 
 That lies like a garment floating fair 
 Above the happy deep. 
 The sea, I ween, cannot be fanned 
 By evening freshness from the land, 
 
 For the land it is far away ; 
 But God hath willed that the sky-born breeze, 
 In the centre of the loneliest seas, 
 
 Should ever sport and play. 
 The mighty moon she sits above, 
 Encircled with a zone of love, 
 A zone of dim and tender light, 
 That makes her wakeful eye more bright! 
 She seems to shine with a sunny ray, 
 And the night looks like a mellowed day ! 
 The gracious Mistress of the Main 
 Hath now an undisturbed reign, 
 And, from her silent throne, looks down, 
 As upon children of her own, 
 On the waves that lend their gentle breast 
 In gladness for her couch of rest ! — 
 And lo ! upon the murmuring waves 
 
 A glorious Shape appearing, 
 A broad-winged Vessel, through the shower 
 
 Of glimmering lustre steering ! 
 As if the beauteous ship enjoyed 
 
 The beauty of the sea, 
 She lifteth up her stately head, 
 
 And saileth joyfully. 
 A lovely path before her lies, 
 
 A lovely path behind : 
 She sails amid the loveliness 
 
 Like a thing with heart and mind. 
 Fit pilgrim through a scene so fair, 
 
 Slowly she beareth on ; 
 A glorious phantom of the deep, 
 
 Risen up to meet the moon. 
 The moon bids her tenderest radiance fall 
 
 On her wavy streamer and snow-white wings; 
 
333 
 
 And the quiet voice of the rocking sea 
 
 To cheer the gliding vision sings. 
 Oh ! ne'er did sky and water blend 
 
 In such a holy sleep, 
 Or bathe in brighter quietude 
 
 A roamer of the deep. 
 So far the peaceful soul of heaven 
 
 Hath settled on the sea, 
 It seems as if this weight of calm 
 
 Were from eternity. 
 O world of waters ! the steadfast earth 
 
 Ne'er lay entranced like thee ! — 
 Is she a vision wild and bright, 
 That sails amid the still moonlight, 
 
 At the dreaming soul's command? 
 A vessel borne by magic gales, 
 All rigged with gossamery sails, 
 
 And bound for Fairy-land] 
 Ah ! no : — an earthly freight she bears, 
 Of joys and sorrows, hopes and fears ; 
 And lonely as she seems to be, 
 Thus left by herself on the moonlight sea 
 
 In loneliness that rolls, 
 She hath a constant company, — 
 In sleep, or waking revelry, — 
 
 Five hundred human souls ! 
 Since first she sailed from fair England, t ^ 
 
 Three moons her path have cheered ; Jt 
 And another lights her lovelier lamp /+ i 
 
 Since the Cape hath disappeared. 
 For an Indian isle she shapes her way ; — 
 With constant mind, both night and day, 
 She seems to hold her home in view, 
 And sails as if the path she knew ; 
 So calm and stately is her motion 
 Across the unfathomed pathless ocean ! Q j) 
 
334 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 EXERCISE CXXXIV. 
 
 BEAUTY. R. W. Emerson. 
 
 Beauty is ever that divine thing the ancients esteemed it. 
 It is, they said, the flowering of virtue. Who can analyze 
 the nameless charm which glances from one and another 
 face and form ? We are touched with emotions of tender- 
 ness and complacency ; but we cannot find whereat this dain- 
 ty emotion, this wandering gleam, points. It is destroyed for 
 the imagination by any attempt to refer it to organization. 
 Nor does it point to any relations of friendship or love, that 
 society knows and has, but, — as it seems to me, — to a quite 
 other and unattainable sphere, — to relations of transcendent 
 delicacy and sweetness, — a true fairy land ; — to what roses 
 and violets hint and foreshow. 
 
 We cannot get at beauty. Its nature is like opaline doves'- 
 neck lustres, hovering and evanescent. Herein it resembles 
 the most excellent things, — which all have this rainbow char- 
 acter, defying all attempts at appropriation and use. What 
 else did Jean Paul Richter signify, when he said to music, 
 " Away ! away ! thou speakest to me of things which in all 
 my endless life I have found not, and shall not find." 
 
 The same fact may be observed in every work of the plas- 
 tic arts. The statue is then beautiful, when it begins to be 
 incomprehensible, when it is passing out of criticism, and 
 can no longer be defined by compass and measuring wand, 
 but demands an active imagination to go with it, and to say 
 what it is in the act of doing. The god or hero of the 
 sculptor, is always represented in a transition from that 
 which is representable to the senses, to that which is not. 
 Then first it ceases to be a stone. The same remark holds 
 of painting. And of poetry, the success is not attained 
 when it lulls and satisfies, but when it astonishes and fires 
 us with new endeavours after the unattainable. Concerning 
 it, Landor inquires " whether it is not to be referred to some 
 purer state of sensation and existence." 
 
 So must it be with personal beauty, which love worships. 
 Then first is it charming and itself, when it dissatisfies us 
 with any end ; when it becomes a story without an end ; when 
 
 
335 
 
 it suggests gleams and visions, and not earthly satisfactions ; 
 when it seems 
 
 " too bright and good, 
 For human nature's daily food ; " 
 
 when it n.akes the beholder feel his un worthiness ; when he 
 cannot feel his right to it, though he were Caesar ; — he can- 
 not feel more right to it, than to the firmament, and the splen- 
 dours of a sunset. 
 
 Hence arose the saying, " If I love you, what is that to 
 you ? " We say so, because we feel that what we love, is 
 not in your will, but above it. It is the radiance of you, and 
 not you. It is that which you know not in yourself, and can 
 never know. 
 
 This agrees well with that high philosophy of Beauty, 
 which the ancient writers delighted in ; for they said, that 
 the soul of man, imbodied here on earth, went roaming up 
 and down in quest of that other world of its own, out of 
 which it came into this, but was soon stupified by the light 
 of the natural sun, and unable to see any other objects than 
 those of this world, which are but shadows of real things. 
 Therefore, the Deity sends the glory of youth before the soul, 
 that it may avail itself of beautiful bodies, as aids to its recol- 
 lection of the celestial good and fair ; and the man beholding 
 such a person in the female sex, runs to her, and finds the 
 highest joy in contemplating the form, movement, and intelli- 
 gence of this person, because it suggests to him the presence 
 of that which, indeed, is within the beauty, and the cause of 
 the beauty. 
 
 If, however, from too much conversing with material ob- 
 jects, the soul was gross, and misplaced its satisfaction in the 
 body, it reaped nothing but sorrow ; body being unable to 
 fulfil the promise which beauty holds out ; but if, accepting 
 the hint of these visions and suggestions which beauty makes 
 to his mind, the soul passes through the body, and falls to 
 admire strokes of character, and the lovers contemplate one 
 another in their discourses and their actions, then, they pass 
 to the true palace of Beauty, — more and more inflame their 
 love of it, and by this love extinguishing the base affection, 
 as the sun puts out the fire by shining on the hearth, they 
 become pure and hallowed. By conversation with that which 
 is in itself excellent, magnanimous, lovely and just, the lover 
 comes to a warmer love of these nobilities, and a quicker 
 apprehension of the n. Then, he passes from loving them in 
 
336 YOUNG LADIES 9 READER. 
 
 one, to loving them in all ; — and so is the one beautiful soul 
 only the dooi through which he enters to the society of all 
 true and pure souls. In the particular society of his mate, 
 he attains a clearer sight of any spot, any taint, which her 
 beauty has contracted from this world, and is able to point it 
 out, and this with mutual joy that they are now able, without 
 offence, to indicate blemishes and hinderances in each other, 
 and give to each all help and comfort in curing the same. 
 And, beholding in many souls the traits of the divine beauty, 
 and separating in each soul that which is divine from the 
 taint which they have contracted in the world, the lover as- 
 cends ever to the highest beauty, to the love and knowledge 
 of the Divinity, by steps on this ladder of created souls. 
 
 Somewhat like this have the truly wise told us of love in 
 all ages. The doctrine is not old, nor is it new. If Plato, 
 Plutarch, and Apuleius taught it, so have Petrarch, Angelo, 
 and Milton. It awaits a truer unfolding in opposition and 
 rebuke to that subterranean prudence which presides at mar- 
 riages with words that take hold of the upper world, whilst 
 one eye is eternally boring down into the cellar, so that its 
 gravest discourse has ever a slight savour of hams and pow- 
 dering-tubs. Worst, when the snout of this sensualism in- 
 trudes into the education of young women, and withers the 
 hope and affection of human nature, by teaching, that mar- 
 riage signifies nothing but a housewife's thrift, and that 
 woman's life has no other aim. 
 
 
 EXERCISE CXXXV. 
 
 THE FLOWER-STEALERS. Laman Blanchard. 
 
 Following the gardener through some of the loveliest por- 
 tions of the ducal demesne, we all entered the conservatory. 
 
 The heat was oppressive. As we passed out of the fresh 
 air, although the light breeze that crept about had just before 
 appeared to serve no other purpose than that of blowing the 
 sunshine into our eyes, the atmospheric change was strik- 
 ingly perceptible. The uneasy sensation, however, was but 
 momentary; for as soon as the rapid glance, startled and 
 delighted, had taken in the full display of flower and leaf. 
 
READER. 337 
 
 every sense seemed to share the intoxication of the eye, and 
 the rapt soul fed on a profusion of beauty. 
 
 The collection so striking and superb in its general effect, 
 was more enchanting in detail. We paused at every step ; 
 admiring in plants familiar to us, a perfection and maturity 
 unknown to them elsewhere ; and in others, which were new 
 to our eyes, a charm surpassing all. We became converts to 
 the melancholy doctrine, that the loveliest things are after 
 all the rarest. But there was no touch of melancholy in the 
 Feeling then. That keen perception of the beautiful was 
 all joy. 
 
 The ladies, who were my companions, were gladdened be- 
 yond telling. Among their various tastes there was one, — 
 it was rather a passion, — that made the whole five hearts 
 beat as with a single pulse. One love united them all, — 
 gave the same lustre of earnestness and admiration to their 
 eyes, the same flush of warmth and pleasure to their cheeks^ 
 
 — it was the Love of Flowers \ 
 
 On they passed, slowly and inquiringly, but with quick 
 sight and leaping hearts; their ribands, their draperies, all 
 but the cheeks before mentioned, and the lips that might be 
 yet more lovingly alluded to, made pale by the hues which 
 surrounded us. 
 
 The plants, in their utmost rarity and bloom, still seemed 
 but worthy, — only worthy, — of their human admirers. 
 
 While I was gently musing upon the elevating, the puri- 
 fying influence which the love of floriculture exercises, even 
 over coarser minds, and exulting in its exquisite workings 
 upon the refined natures of my fair companions, I was 
 stopped by a general exclamation of pleasure, suddenly eli- 
 cited by the view of an unrivalled cluster of blossoms, crown- 
 ing many others, which rose or fell in infinite variety and with 
 astonishing profusion. Why record the name of this plant? 
 
 — even its colour, or the figure of its countless leaves ? 
 
 As we stopped, the gardener, v/ho had left us to gather bou- 
 quets for the party, reentered, and presenting each of us with 
 some choice flowers, said, 
 
 "I would cut you some of these beautiful clusters, ladies," 
 (turning to the one plant,) " but they would die directly in 
 the open air — you could not keep them ten minutes" 
 
 I felt half angry with the good nature of our attendant. 
 Cut them ! Those ! The precious perishables ! To doom 
 their short lives to a yet shorter date, — to destroy their con- 
 summate symmetry, — seize tl eir peerless beauty, and waste 
 29 
 
338 
 
 it on " the desert air ! " The idea of it awoke terror. It 
 seemed impiety. It was like shooting nightingales while in 
 full song, or clipping the wings of humming-birds. 
 
 When he again quitted the conservatory, we pursued our 
 tour of admiration, found numberless beauties we had missed, 
 and presently returning, stood before the same specimen of 
 floricultural perfection. And here the pen seems actually to 
 burn between my fingers ; — my very fingers, as they guide it, 
 blush. 
 
 Whether it was that the idea of cuttings from its rich stem 
 had been implanted in the minds of my innocent and gentle 
 companions by him who had given breath to it, — or whether 
 that spark of doubtful and conditional promise had fallen up- 
 on an inflammable train of wishes already existing in the mind, 
 I know not ; but their desires now appeared all to take the 
 same direction; — they grew ungovernable; — they began to 
 find expression, not in coveting look alone, but in broken 
 words and half-repressed exclamations. United in one 
 guileless and enthusiastic love before, they seemed united 
 still, — but it was in one wish, — one fear, — not a fear of 
 sacrilege, but of detection. 
 
 Yes, a fear of humiliation and exposure ! — not of profa- 
 nation and theft, in plucking a forbidden treasure of unexam- 
 pled delicacy, and trampling it in the dust. 
 
 Before we passed over the threshold of that conservatory , 
 every one of the five ladies had snatched a slip I 
 
 As I stepped into the fresh air, the breeze was not in the 
 least degree cooler to my cheek than the atmosphere within ; 
 but in one instant I felt my heart plunged into a cold bath. 
 
 " That thing of beauty is a pang forever." 
 
 O ancient mariner " who shot the albatross ! " Young 
 hearts that never throbbed on the far sea, — spirits tender 
 and weak, that would tremble even in the calm, and expire 
 in the first breath of tempest, — may yet do as cruel and 
 terrible things, calling them all the while the deeds of rap- 
 turous love I 
 
 O Bardolph ! who, having stolen the lady's lute-case, car- 
 ried it eleven miles, and sold it for three-halfpence, a most 
 judicious thief wert thou, compared with purloiners, whose 
 fragrant prizes wither in the common air, and yield them 
 nothing. 
 
 O lady, whom the great prose-teacher of memorable les- 
 sons in our complex and erring humanity, has immortalized 
 
READER. 339 
 
 without naming, — you, who, prompted by four religious 
 love, stole Tillotson's Sermons from your friend, — look earth- 
 ward, wherever you are, and see what love of flowers will 
 prompt its votaries to do ! 
 
 Under what sacred robes do we play our tricks ! What 
 holy names we bestow upon our covetous desires ! What 
 theft and spoliation we commit in the temple of the purest 
 affection, amidst the symbols and evidence of innocence ! 
 Let no one ever talk of the " sentiment of flowers," who has 
 not within him the hallowed principle, which ever guards him 
 from the temptation of stealing even the meanest, — violat- 
 ing truth at her very altar, and uprooting the sheltering plant 
 of confidence. 
 
 EXERCISE CXXXVI. 
 
 QUALITIES REQUISITE IN A WIFE. Dr. Aikin. 
 
 Tastes, manners, and opinions, being things not original, 
 but acquired, cannot be of so much consequence as the fun- 
 damental properties of good sense and good temper. Pos- 
 sessed of these, a wife, who loves her husband, will fashion 
 herself in the others according to what she perceives to be 
 his inclination ; and if, after all, a considerable diversity re- 
 main between them, in such points, this is not incompatible 
 with domestic comfort. But sense and temper can never be 
 dispensed with in the companion for life : they form the basis 
 on which the whole edifice of happiness is to be raised. As 
 both are absolutely essential, it is needless to inquire which 
 is so in the highest degree. Fortunately, they are oftener 
 met with together, than separate ; for the just and reasonable 
 estimation of things, which true good sense inspires, almost 
 necessarily produces that equanimity and moderation of spirit, 
 in which good temper properly consists. 
 
 There is, indeed, a kind of thoughtless good nature, which 
 is not unfrequently coupled with weakness of understanding; 
 but, having no power of self-direction, its operations are ca- 
 pricious ; and no reliance can be placed on it for promoting 
 solid felicity. When, however, this easy humour appears 
 with the attractions of youth and beauty, there is some dan- 
 ger lest even men of sense should overlook the defects of a 
 shallow capacity, especially if they have entertained the too 
 
340 young ladies' reader. 
 
 common notion, that women are no better than playthings, 
 designed rather for the amusement of their lords and masters, 
 than for the more serious purposes of life. But no man ever 
 married a fool without severely repenting it ; for though the 
 pretty trifler may have served well enough for the hour of 
 gayety, yet when folly assumes the reins of domestic, and 
 especially of parental control, she will give a perpetual heart- 
 ache to a considerate partner. 
 
 Oh the other hand, there are to be met with instances of 
 considerable powers of the understanding, combined with 
 waywardness of temper, sufficient to destroy all the comfort 
 of life. Malignity is sometimes joined with wit, haughtiness 
 and caprice with talents, sourness and suspicion with saga- 
 city, and cold reserve with judgment. But all these being in 
 themselves unamiable qualities, it is less necessary to guard 
 against the possessors of them. They generally render even 
 beauty unattractive ; and no charm, but that of fortune, is 
 able to overcome the repugnance they excite. How much 
 more fatal than even folly they are to all domestic felicity, 
 you have probably already seen enough of the matrimonial 
 state to judge. 
 
 Many of the qualities which fit a woman for a companion, 
 also adapt her for the office of a helper ; but many additional 
 ones are requisite. The original purpose for which this sex 
 was created, is said, you know, to have been, providing man 
 with a help-mate ; yet it is, perhaps, that notion of a wife, 
 which least occupies the imagination in the season of court- 
 ship. Be assured, however, that, as an office for Life, its im- 
 portance stands extremely high to one whose situation does 
 not place him above the want of such aid : and fitness for it 
 should make a leading consideration in his choice. Roman- 
 tic ideas of domestic felicity will infallibly, in time, give way 
 to that true state of things, which will show that a large pari 
 of it must arise from well-ordered affairs, and an accumula- 
 tion of petty comforts and conveniences. 
 
 A clean and quiet fireside, regular and agreeable meals^ 
 decent apparel, a house managed with order and economy, 
 ready for the reception of a friend or the accommodation of 
 a stranger, a skilful as well as affectionate nurse in time of 
 sickness,. — all these things compose a very considerable part 
 of what the nuptial state was intended to afford us ; and:,, 
 without them, no charms of person or understanding will long 
 continue to bestow delight. The arts of housewifery should 
 be regarded as professional to the woman who intends to he- 
 
READER. 341 
 
 come a wife ; and to select one for that station, who is desti- 
 tute of them, or disinclined to exercise them, rowever other- 
 wise accomplished, is as absurd, as it would be to choose for 
 your lawyer or physician a man who excelled in every thing 
 rather than in law or physic. 
 
 Let me remark, too, that knowledge and good will are not 
 the only requisites for the office of a helper. It demands a 
 certain energy both of body and mind, which is less frequent- 
 ly met with among the females of the present age, than might 
 be wished. How much soever infirm and delicate health may 
 interest the feelings, it is certainly an undesirable attendant 
 on a connection for life. Nothing can be more contrary to 
 the qualification of a help-mate, than a condition, which con- 
 stantly requires that assistance which it never can impart. 
 
 EXERCISE CXXXVIL 
 LOVE FOR HUMANITY. Mrs. Child. 
 
 If at times, the discord of man proves too strong for thee, 
 go out into the great temple of Nature, and drink in fresh- 
 ness from her never-failing fountain. The devices of men 
 pass away as a vapour ; but she changes never. Above all 
 fluctuations of opinion, and all the tumult of the passions, 
 she smiles ever, in various but unchanging beauty. I have 
 gone to her with tears in my eyes, with a heart full of the 
 saddest forebodings, for myself and all the human race; and 
 Jo ! she has shown me a babe plucking a white clover, with 
 busy, uncertain little fingers, and the child walked straight 
 into my heart, and prophesied as hopefully as an angel ; and 
 I believed her, and went on my way rejoicing. 
 
 The language of nature, like that of music, is universal : 
 it speaks to the heart, and is understood by all. Dialects 
 belong to clans and sects ; tones to the universe. High 
 above all language, floats music on its amber cloud. It is 
 not the exponent of opinion, but of feeling. The heart made 
 it ; therefore it is infinite. It reveals more than language 
 can ever utter, or thoughts conceive. And high as music is 
 above mere dialects, — winging its godlike way, while verbs 
 and nouns go creeping — even so, sounds the voice of Love, 
 29*° 
 
that clear, treble-note of the universe, into the heart of mare, 
 and the ear of Jehovah. 
 
 In sincere humility do I acknowledge that if I am less 
 guilty than some of my human brothers, it is mainly because 
 I have been beloved. Kind emotions and impulses have not 
 been sent back to me, like dreary echoes, through empty 
 rooms. All around me, at this moment, are tokens of a 
 friendly heart-warmth. A sheaf of dried grasses brings near 
 the gentle image of one who gathered them for love ; a va- 
 ried group of the graceful lady-fern tells me of summer ram- 
 bles in the woods, by one who mingled thoughts of me with 
 all her glimpses of nature's beauty. A rose-bush, from a poor 
 Irish woman, speaks to me of her blessings. A bird of para- 
 dise, sent by friendship, to warm the wintry hours with 
 thoughts of sunny Eastern climes, cheers me with its floating 
 beauty, like a fairy fancy. Flower-tokens from the best of 
 neighbours, have come, all summer long,, to bid me a blithe 
 good morning, and tell me news of sunshine and fresh air. 
 A piece of sponge, graceful as if it grew on the arms of the 
 wave, reminds me of Grecian seas, and of Hylas borne away 
 by water-nymphs. It was given me for its uncommon beauty ; 
 and who will not try harder to be good, for being deemed a 
 fit recipient of the beautiful ? A root, which promises to 
 bloom into fragrance, is sent by an old Quaker lady, whom I 
 know not, but who says, " I would fain minister to thy love 
 of flowers." Affection sends childhood to peep lovingly at 
 me from engravings, or stand in classic grace,, imbodied in 
 the little plaster cast. The far-off and the near, the past and 
 the future, are with me in my humble apartment. True, the 
 mementoes cost little of the world's wealth ; for they are of 
 the simplest kind; but they express the universe, — because 
 they are thoughts of love, clothed in forms of beauty. 
 
 Why do I mention these things? From vanity? Nay„ 
 verily; for it often humbles me to tears^to think how much 
 I am loved more than I deserve ; while thousands, far nearer 
 to God, pass on their thorny path, comparatively uncheered 
 by love and blessing. But it came into my heart to tell 
 you how much these things helped me to be good; how they 
 were like roses dropped by unseen hands, guiding me through 
 a wilderness-path unto our Father's mansion. And the Awe 
 that helps me to be good, I would have you bestow upon all, 
 that all may become good. To love others, is greater happi- 
 ness than to be beloved by them ; to do good is more blessed 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 343 
 
 than to receive. The heart of Jesus was so full of love, that 
 he called little children to his arms, and folded John upon his 
 bosom ; and this love made him capable of such divine self- 
 renunciation, that he could offer up even his life for the good 
 of the world. 
 
 The desire to be beloved is ever restless and unsatisfied ; 
 but the love that flows out upon others, is a perpetual well- 
 spring from on high. This source of happiness is within the 
 reach of all: here, — if not elsewhere, — may the stranger 
 and the friendless satisfy the infinite yearnings of the human 
 heart, and find therein refreshment and joy. 
 
 EXERCISE CXXXVIII. 
 
 A QUAKER MEETING, Charles Lamb. 
 
 Reader, wouldst thou know what true peace and quiet 
 mean ; wouldst thou find a refuge from the noises and 
 clamors of the multitude ; wouldst thou enjoy at once sol- 
 itude and society ; wouldst thou possess the depth of thine 
 own spirit in stillness, without being shut out from the con- 
 solatory faces of thy species ; wouldst thou be alone, and yet 
 accompanied; solitary, yet not desolate; singular, yet not 
 without some to keep thee in countenance ; a unit in aggregate ; 
 a simple in composite : come with me into a Quaker meeting. 
 
 Dost thou love silence deep as that " before the winds were 
 made," go not out into the wilderness, descend not into the 
 profundities of the earth; shut not up thy casements; nor 
 pour wax into the little cells of thine ears, with little-faithed, 
 self-mistrusting Ulysses. Retire with me into a Quaker 
 meeting. 
 
 For a man to refrain even from good words, and to hold 
 his peace, it is commendable ; but for a multitude, it is a great 
 mastery. 
 
 What is the stillness of the desert, compared with this 
 place? what the uncommunicating muteness of fishes? Here 
 the goddess reigns and revels. " Boreas, and iCecias, and Ar- 
 gestes loud," do not with their inter-confounding uproars 
 more augment the brawl, — nor the waves of the blown Bal- 
 tic with their clubbed sounds, — than their opposite, (Silence, 
 her sacred self,) is multiplied and rendered more intense by 
 
;>44 YOUNG ladies' reader. 
 
 numbers, and by sympathy. She too hath her deeps, thai 
 call unto deeps. Negation itself hath a positive more and 
 less ! and closed eyes would seem to obscure the great ob- 
 scurity of midnight. 
 
 There are wounds which an imperfect solitude cannot 
 heal. By imperfect I mean that which a man enjoyeth by 
 himself. The perfect is that which he can sometimes attain 
 in crowds, but nowhere so absolutely as in a Quaker meet- 
 ing. Those first hermits did certainly understand this prin- 
 ciple, when they retired into Egyptian solitudes, not singly, 
 but in shoals, to enjoy one another's want of conversation. 
 The Carthusian is bound to his brother by his agreeing spirit 
 of uncommunicativeness. In secular occasions, what so 
 pleasant as to be reading a book through a long winter even- 
 ing, with a friend sitting by, — say a wife, — he, or she, too, 
 (if that be probable,) reading another, without interruption, 
 or oral communication'? Can there be no sympathy without 
 the gabble of words 1 Away with this inhuman, shy, single, 
 shade-and-cavern-haunting solitariness ! Give me, — Master 
 Zimmerman, — a sympathetic solitude. 
 
 To pace alone in the cloisters or side aisles of some ca- 
 thedral, time-stricken, — 
 
 " Or under hanging mountains, 
 Or by the fall of fountains," — 
 
 is but a vulgar luxury, compared with that which those enjoy, 
 who come together for the purposes of more complete, a:>- 
 stracted solitude. This is the loneliness " to be felt." The 
 abbey church of Westminster hath nothing so solemn, so 
 spirit-soothing, as the naked walls and benches of a Qua- 
 ker meeting. Here are no tombs, no inscriptions, — 
 
 " sands, ignoble things, 
 Dropped from the ruined sides of kings ; " — 
 
 but here is something which throws Antiquity herself into 
 the foreground, — Silence, — eldest of things, language of 
 old Night, — primitive discourser, — to which the insolent 
 decays of mouldering grandeur have but arrived by a violent 
 and, as we may say, unnatural progression. 
 
 " How reverend is the view of these hushed heads, 
 Looking tranquillity ! " 
 
 Nothing-plotting, naught-caballing, unmischievous synod ! 
 convocation without intrigue ! parliament without debate ! — 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 345 
 
 What a lesson dost thou read to council and to consistory ! 
 If my pen treat of you lightly, — as haply it will wander, — 
 yet my spirit hath gravely felt the wisdom of your custom, 
 when sitting among you in deepest peace, which some out- 
 welling tears would rather confirm than disturb, I have 
 reverted to the times of your beginnings, and the sowings of 
 the seed by Fox and Dewsbury. I have witnessed that which 
 brought before my eyes your heroic tranquillity, inflexible to 
 the rude jests and serious violence of the insolent soldiery, 
 republican or royalist, sent to molest you ; — for ye sat be- 
 tween the fires of two persecutions, the outcast and orfscouring 
 of church and presbytery. I have seen the reeling sea-ruf- 
 fian, who had wandered into your receptacle, with the avowed 
 intention of disturbing your quiet, from the very spirit of the 
 place receive in a moment a new heart, and presently sit 
 among ye as a lamb amid lambs. And I remember Penn 
 before his accusers, and Fox in the bail dock, where he 
 was lifted up in spirit, as he tells us, and " the judge ar.d the 
 jury became as dead men under his feet." 
 
 EXERCISE CXXXIX. 
 
 SONG FOR AUGUST. Harriet Martineau. 
 
 Beneath this starry arch, 
 
 Nought resteth or is still ; 
 
 But all things hold their march 
 
 As if by one great will. 
 
 Moves one, move all ; 
 
 Hark to the footfall ! 
 
 On, on, forever. 
 
 Yon sheaves were once but seed ; 
 Will ripens into deed ; 
 As eave-drops swell the streams, 
 Day thoughts feed nightly dreams ; 
 And sorrow tracketh wrong, 
 As echo follows song. 
 On, on, forever. 
 
 By night, like stars on high, 
 The hours reveal their tram ; 
 
346 
 
 They whisper and go by ; 
 I never watch in vain. 
 Moves one, move all ; 
 Hark to the footfall ! 
 On, on, forever. 
 
 They pass the cradle head, 
 And there a promise shed ; 
 They pass the moist new grave 
 And bid rank verdure wave; 
 They bear through every clime, 
 The harvests of all time. 
 On, on, forever. 
 
 EXERCISE CXL. 
 
 RECIPROCAL INFLUENCE OF LITERATURE AND 
 MORALS. Prof. Frisbie. 
 
 Those compositions in poetry and prose, which constitute 
 the literature of a nation, — the essay, the drama, the novel, 
 — it cannot be doubted, have a most extensive and powerful 
 influence upon the moral feelings and character of the age. 
 The very business of the authors of such works, is, directly 
 or indirectly, with the heart. Even descriptions of natural 
 scenery, owe much of their beauty and interest to the moral 
 associations they awaken. 
 
 In like manner, fine turns of expression or thought, often 
 operate more by suggestion than enumeration. But when 
 feelings and passions are directly described, or imbodied in 
 the hero, and called forth by the incidents of a story, it is 
 then that the magic of fiction and poetry is complete, — that 
 they enter in and dwell in the secret chambers of the soul, 
 moulding it at will. In these moments of deep excitement, 
 must not a bias be given to the character, and much be done 
 to elevate and refine, or degrade and pollute, those sympathies 
 and sentiments which are the sources of much of our virtue 
 and happiness, or our guilt and misery 1 
 
 The danger is that, in such cases, we do not discriminate 
 the distinct action of associated causes. Even in what is 
 presented to the senses, we are aware of the power of haL it- 
 
YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 347 
 
 ual combination. An object naturally disagreeable, becomes 
 beautiful, because we have often seen the sun shine or the 
 dew sparkle upon it, or it has been grouped in a scene of pe- 
 culiar interest. Thus the powers of fancy and of taste, blend 
 associations in the mind, which disguise the original nature 
 of moral qualities. A liberal generosity, a disinterested self- 
 devotion, a powerful energy, or deep sensibility of soul, a 
 contempt of danger and death, are often so connected in 
 story with the most profligate principles and manners, that 
 the latter are excused and even sanctified by the former. 
 The impression, which so powerfully seizes all the sympa- 
 thies, is one; and the ardent youth becomes almost ambitious 
 of a character he ought to abhor. So too sentiments, from 
 which, in their plain form, delicacy would revolt, are insinu- 
 ated with the charms of poetical imagery and expression ; and 
 even the coarseness of Fielding is probably less pernicious 
 than the seducing refinement of writers like Moore ; whose 
 voluptuous sensibility steals upon the heart, and corrupts its 
 parity, as the moonbeams, in some climates, are believed to 
 poison the substances on which they fall. 
 
 Bat in no productions of modern genius is the reciprocal 
 influence of morals and literature more distinctly seen, than 
 in those of the author of Childe Harold. His character pro- 
 duced the poems ; and it cannot be doubted, that his poems 
 are adapted to produce such a character. His heroes speak 
 a language, supplied not more by imagination, than conscious- 
 ness. They are not those machines, that, by a contrivance 
 of the artist, send forth a music of their own, — but instru- 
 ments, through which he breathes his very soul, in tones of 
 agonized sensibility, that cannot but give a sympathetic im- 
 pulse 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 sublimity it cannot have, till it is aban- 
 doned by every thing that is kind and peaceful and happy, 
 and its halls are ready to become the haunts of outlaws 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 
 unfavourable to a healthful state of thought and feeling, pe- 
 culiarly dangerous to the finest minds and most susceptible 
 hearts. They are the scene of a summer evening, where all 
 
348 YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 
 
 is tender and beautiful and grand ; but the damps of disease 
 descend with the dews of heaven, and the pestilent vapours 
 of night are breathed in with the fragrance and balm ; and 
 the delicate and fair are the surest victims of the exposure. 
 
 Although I have illustrated the moral influence of litera- 
 ture, principally from its mischiefs ; yet it is obvious, if what 
 I said be just, it may be rendered no less powerful, as a 
 means of good. Is it not true that within the last century a 
 decided and important improvement in the moral character 
 of our literature, has taken place ; and, had Pope and Smol- 
 lett written at the present day, would the former have pub- 
 lished the imitations of Chaucer, or the latter the adventures 
 of Pickle and Random ? Genius cannot now sanctify impuri- 
 ty or want of principle ; and our critics and reviewers are 
 exercising jurisdiction not only upon the literary but moral 
 blemishes of the authors, that come before them. We ob- 
 serve, with peculiar pleasure, the sentence of just indignation, 
 which the Edinburgh tribunal has pronounced upon Moore, 
 Swift, Goethe, and in general the German sentimentalists. 
 Indeed, the fountains of literature into which an enemy has 
 sometimes infused poison, naturally flow with refreshment 
 and health. Cowper and Campbell have led the muses to re- 
 pose in the bowers of religion and virtue ; and Miss Edge- 
 worth has so cautiously combined the features of her charac- 
 ters, that the predominant expression is ever what it should 
 be ; she has shown us, not vices ennobled by virtues, but 
 virtues, degraded and perverted by their union with vices. 
 The success of this lady has been great; but had she availed 
 herself more of the motives and sentiments of religion, we 
 think it would have been greater. She has stretched forth a 
 powerful hand to the impotent in virtue ; and had she added, 
 with the apostle, — " In the name of Jesus of Nazareth," — 
 we should almost have expected miracles from its touch. 
 
 The incorporating of religion with morality we mention, 
 in the last place, as a means of practical influence. Those 
 we have hitherto noticed, have a more particular reference 
 to the higher and intellectual classes ; but this extends to 
 every order in society. It is not the fountain, which plays 
 only in the gardens of the palace, but the rain of heaven 
 which descends alike upon the enclosures of the rich and the 
 poor, and refreshes the meanest shrub, no less than the fairest 
 flower. The sages of antiquity seem to have believed, that 
 morality had nothing to do with religion ; and Christians of 
 the middle age, that religion had nothing to do with morality ; 
 
READER. 349 
 
 but, at the present day, we acknowledge how intimate and 
 important is their connection. It is not views of moral fitness, 
 by which the minds of men are at first to be affected, but by 
 connecting their duties with the feelings and motives, the hopes 
 and fears, of Christianity. Both are necessary : the latter, to 
 prompt and invigorate virtue ; the former, to give it the beau- 
 ty of knowledge and taste. It is heat, that causes the germ 
 to spring, and flourish in the heart ; but it is light, that im- 
 parts verdure to its foliage, and their hues to its flowers. 
 
 EXERCISE CXLI. 
 BIRTHPLACE OF BURNS. Cunningham. 
 
 The cottage in which Burns was born, was raised by the 
 hands of his father, on Doonside, nigh to the town of Ayr, 
 and close to the old kirk of Alloway. It would seem to have 
 been but a frail structure : a few days after his birth, a rough 
 wind shook part of the gable and roof to the ground ; and the 
 swaddled poet was carried to the shelter of a neighbouring 
 cottage. He loved, it is said, to allude to this when he grew 
 up, and gayly claim commiseration for the stormy passions of 
 one to whom a tempest had acted as handmaid. 
 
 In other days, a mason was seldom called in, and an archi- 
 tect never, to the construction of our northern stealings. The 
 peasant marked out the ground-floor, (near a stream, and in 
 the shelter of wood or hill,) of his projected dwelling-place : 
 the wood-work, — nearly as rough as when felled in the for- 
 est, — was first framed and erected; around the legs of the 
 couples, or principal timbers of the roof, which generally 
 stood on the ground, the rustic artist reared his walls of clay, 
 straw, and stone ; shaped out his windows and his door, 
 made his fireside roomy, and then covered the whole in 
 with turf and broom. 
 
 The abode had a rough comfort about it, which atoned for 
 want of elegance; and with a well-managed "kale-yard," 
 behind the house, a spring-well probably nigh the door, and 
 meal in the chest, and some books on the shelves, the " in- 
 ventor and maker " of the shealing set up his staff" ; and with 
 the wife of his bosom, commenced housekeeping. There is 
 little either poetic or heroic in this ; yet poets of a high or- 
 30 
 
350 
 
 der, and heroes of the truest stamp, have sprung from such 
 hovels. 
 
 The birthplace of Burns, like the dwelling-places of other 
 bards, has had its revolutions. The houses in which Milton 
 lived are cast down ; the home of Shakspeare has become a 
 butcher's shop ; through part of the abode of Cowley, the 
 members of a turnpike-trust have driven a road ; in the grove 
 of Pope, — the nightingale of Twickenham, — birds, but not 
 of song, roost and abide ; while, in the cottage of Burns, an 
 alehouse-keeper bottles off his barrels, and makes an honest 
 penny of passers by, who halt to look at the place whence the 
 great light of Scottish song came. 
 
 All around are to be seen places made sacred by his muse : 
 every hill has its fame ; every stream its praise ; every wood 
 its immortality ; nor has the poet failed to consecrate in 
 verse the rude structure which has been described. In the 
 words uttered at the hour of his birth, he indicates the fame 
 which awaits him. 
 
 " He'll be a credit to us a', — 
 We'll a' be proud of Robin." 
 
 A random sentiment of his own, — but now the fixed opinion 
 of mankind. 
 
 EXERCISE CXLII. 
 
 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S MOTHER. Anon. 
 
 To his mother, the Ettrick Shepherd was more indebted 
 for much of his after-celebrity, than the world will perhaps 
 be inclined to allow. In this remarkable woman he found a 
 mental nurse, capable of fostering his rising genius, and of 
 cheering him on in his earliest aspirations after fame. She 
 soon discovered that her shepherd-boy had something within 
 him not to be found in the common herd of mankind : to 
 bring that out was her early, and, as the world has seen, her 
 successful endeavour. 
 
 Margaret Laidlaw would, in any station of life, have been 
 considered a woman of no ordinary character. Like her 
 more remarkable son, she was almost entirely sell-educated. 
 When in her twelfth or thirteenth year, she had the misfor- 
 tune to lose her own mother ; and, being the eldest of several 
 
351 
 
 children, the care of a father's family wholly devolved upon 
 her, at a period of her life when the children of the Scottish 
 peasantry usually enjoy the advantages which the parochial 
 schools of their country so widely diffuse over their land. 
 Margaret Laidlaw early felt her inferiority to her more fa- 
 voured brothers and sisters ; and, with a zeal highly laudable 
 in one so young, determined to overcome the disadvantages 
 ti'ider which she laboured. To accomplish this, on the Sab- 
 bath day, — her only day of rest, — she would wander out 
 upon the mountains, a solitary being, yet not alone ; her 
 Bible was her companion. Her zeal soon accomplished the 
 object dearest to her heart, and supplied many of the defects 
 in her imperfect education. 
 
 At this period, — about the year 1740, — the race of min- 
 strels was not altogether extinct, on the borders of Scotland ; 
 and, from the recitations of one of these wanderers, an old 
 man verging on his ninetieth year, Margaret Laidlaw stored 
 her memory, a most retentive one, with many thousand 
 lines of the border ballads. To the knowledge of this aged 
 individual, — perhaps the last of his race, — she was no 
 unworthy successor ; and from her lips Sir Walter Scott 
 afterwards took down several of the finest ballads in the 
 " Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." 
 
 The cottage in which Margaret Laidlaw was born, and 
 under the roof of which she passed the first thirty years of 
 her life, is situated in one of the wildest and most sequestered 
 glens in the south of Scotland. To those who have been ac- 
 customed to the luxuriant valleys and richer plains of the 
 south, Phaup might well appear a region of desolation : — 
 at best it is but the nursing-place of the storm, — where thick 
 mists and thunder-clouds lord it over the surrounding moun- 
 tains, for the greater part of the year. 
 
 During the long months of winter, little or no intercourse 
 was to be had between the inhabitants of this dwelling 
 in the wilderness and the more busy world : when we reflect 
 upon such circumstances, is it to be wondered at, that the 
 mind of Margaret Laidlaw was early filled with all the super- 
 stitious notions which were then so prevalent? She lived, as 
 it were, at the fountain-head of superstition, and had drunk 
 deeply from its troubled waters : a dweller in the lonesome 
 wilderness, she had heard, or imagined she had heard — ■ 
 
 " Those airy tongues, which syllable men's names 
 On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses." 
 
352 
 
 She was a firm believer in the existence of those spiritual 
 beings with which fancy had peopled every hill and dale, and 
 every running stream, in her native wilds. In her day, the 
 shepherd, while tending his flock, had seen, in imagination, 
 that playful race from fairy land, dancing in the dewy dell, 
 beneath the light of the broad harvest moon ; the " brownie" 
 was no unfrequent visitor at the cottage of the peasant, as 
 well as in the hall of the lordly proprietor ; the shriek of the 
 " water-kelpie " had been heard amid the rising storm ; and 
 the deceitful glare of the Will-o'-the-wisp had often allured the 
 unsuspicious and homeless wanderer to an untimely grave. 
 
 In after-years, when Margaret Laidlaw became a mother, 
 it was her practice to amuse her children, during the long 
 nights of winter, with animated recitations from the border 
 ballads : these she would deliver in a strain something be- 
 tween a chant and a song ; or she would relate tales of fairy 
 land or witchcraft, or might, perhaps, thrill the young hearts 
 of her children, by affecting accounts of the death of some 
 unfortunate shepherd, who had perished amidst the snow, 
 when endeavouring to rescue his flock from the wreath under 
 which they had been buried. But while she thus gave vent 
 to her imagination, she was never forgetful of that which was 
 of still greater importance ; we mean the religious instruction 
 of her children : she was in the daily habit of reading pas- 
 sages to them from the sacred volume, and those of a nature 
 which she knew would not only interest, but would also im- 
 prove, the infant mind. 
 
 EXERCISE CXLIII. 
 
 LADIES' HEAD-DRESSES, IN 1707. Addison. 
 
 There is not so variable a thing in nature as a lady's head- 
 dress. Within my own memory, I have known it rise and 
 fall above thirty degrees. About ten years ago, it shot up to 
 a very great height, insomuch that the female part of our 
 species were much taller than the men.* The women were 
 of such an enormous stature, that we appeared as grasshop- 
 
 * This refers to the commode called by the French fontange, — 
 a kind of head-dress worn by the ladies at the beginning of the 
 eighteenth century, which, by means of wire, bore up the hair, and 
 
YOUNG LADIES READER. 353 
 
 pers before them : at present the whole sex is in a manner 
 dwarfed and shrunk into a race of beauties that seems almost 
 another species. I remember several ladies, who were once 
 very near seven feet high, that at present want some inches 
 of five. How they came to be thus curtailed I cannot learn. 
 Whether the whole sex be at present under any penance 
 which we know nothing of; or whether they have cast their 
 head-dresses in order to surprise us with something in that 
 kind which shall be entirely new ; or whether some of the 
 tallest of the sex, being too cunning for the rest, have con- 
 trived this method to make themselves appear sizable, is still 
 a secret : though I find most are of opinion, they are at pres- 
 ent like trees new lopped and pruned, that will certainly 
 sprout and flourish with greater heads than before. 
 
 For my own part, as I do not love to be insulted by women 
 who are taller than myself, I admire the sex much more in 
 their present humiliation, which has reduced them to their 
 natural dimensions, than when they had extended their per- 
 sons and lengthened themselves out into formidable and 
 gigantic figures. I am not for adding to the beautiful edifices 
 of Nature, nor for raising any whimsical superstructure upon 
 her plans : I must therefore repeat it, that I am highly pleased 
 with the " coiffure " now in fashion, and think it shows the 
 good sense which at present reigns among the valuable part 
 of the sex. 
 
 One may observe, that women, in all ages, have taken more 
 pains than men to adorn the outside of their heads; and, in- 
 deed, I very much admire, that those female architects who 
 raise such wonderful structures out of ribands, lace, and wire, 
 have not been recorded for their respective inventions. It is 
 certain there have been as many orders in these kinds of 
 building, as in those which have been made of marble. 
 Sometimes they rise in the shape of a pyramid, sometimes 
 like a tower, and sometimes like a steeple. In Juvenal's 
 time, the building grew by several orders and stories, as he 
 has very humorously described it : — 
 
 " With curls on curls they build her head before, 
 And mount it with a formidable tower : 
 A giantess she seems ; but look behind, 
 And then she dwindles to the pygmy kind." 
 
 the forepart of the cap, — consisting of many folds of fine lace, — to a 
 prodigious height. The transition from this to the opposite extreme 
 was very abrupt and sudden. 
 30* 
 
354 
 
 But I do not remember, in any part of my reading, that the 
 head-dress aspired to so great an extravagance as in the four- 
 teenth century ; when it was built up in a couple of cones, 
 or spires, which stood so excessively high on each side of the 
 head, that a woman, who was but a pygmy without her head- 
 dress, appeared like a colossus upon putting it on. Monsieur 
 Paradin * says, " These old-fashioned ' fontanges ' rose an ell 
 above the head ; that they were pointed like steeples ; and 
 had long loose pieces of crape, fastened to the tops of them, 
 which were curiously fringed, and hung down their backs 
 like streamers." 
 
 The women might possibly have carried this Gothic build- 
 ing much higher, had not a famous monk, Thomas Conecte 
 by name, attacked it with great zeal and resolution. This 
 holy man travelled from place to place, to preach down this 
 monstrous commode ; and succeeded so well in it, that, as 
 the magicians sacrificed their books to the flames, upon the 
 preaching of an apostle, many of the women threw down 
 their head-dresses in the middle of his sermon, and made a 
 bonfire of them within sight of the pulpit. He was so re- 
 nowned, as well for the sanctity of his life, as his manner of 
 preaching, that he had often a congregation of twenty thou- 
 sand people ; the men placing themselves on the one side of 
 his pulpit, and the women on the other, who appeared, (to use 
 the similitude of an ingenious writer,) like a forest of cedars 
 with their heads reaching to the clouds. He so warmed and 
 animated the people against this monstrous ornament, that it 
 lay under a kind of persecution ; and, whenever it appeared 
 in public, was pelted down by the rabble, who flung stones at 
 the persons that wore it. But notwithstanding this prodigy 
 vanished while the preacher was among them, it began to ap- 
 pear again some months after his departure; or, — to tell it 
 in Monsieur Paradin's own words, — " The women, that, like 
 snails in a fright, had drawn in their horns, shot them out 
 again as soon as the danger was over." This extravagance 
 of the women's head-dresses in that age, is taken notice of 
 by Monsieur d'Argentre in his History of Bretagne,f and by 
 other historians, as well as the person I have here quoted. 
 
 * Guillaurae Paradin was a French writer of the sixteenth century, 
 author of several voluminous histories. 
 
 t Thomas Conecte, mentioned above, was a Carmelite monk born 
 in Bretagne, who began to be famous for his preaching in 1428. Af- 
 ter having travelled through several parts of Europe, opposing the 
 fashionable vices of the age, this celebrated preacher came at length 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 355 
 
 It is usually observed, that a good reign is the only proper 
 time for the making of laws against the exorbitance of power : 
 in the same manner, an excessive head-dress may be attacked 
 the most effectually when the fashion is against it. I do there- 
 fore recommend this paper to my female readers, by way of 
 prevention. 
 
 I would desire the fair sex to consider how impossible it is 
 for them to add any thing that can be ornamental to what is 
 already the masterpiece of nature. The head has the most 
 beautiful appearance, as well as the highest station, in a hu- 
 man figure. Nature has laid out all her art in beautifying 
 the face ; she has touched it with vermilion, planted in it a 
 double row of ivory, made it the seat of smiles and blushes, 
 lighted it up and enlivened it with the brightness of the eyes, 
 hung it on each side with curious organs of sense, given it 
 airs and graces that cannot be described, and surrounded it 
 with such a flowing shade of hair as sets all its beauties in 
 the most agreeable light. In short, she seems to have de- 
 signed the head as the cupola to the most glorious of her 
 works ; and when we load it with a pile of supernumerary 
 ornaments, we destroy the symmetry of the human figure, 
 and foolishly contrive to call off the eye from great and real 
 beauties, to childish gewgaws, ribands, and bone lace. 
 
 EXERCISE CXLIV. 
 
 ATTEMPTS AT DOMESTIC EDUCATION. Mrs. Oilman. 
 [From " Recollections of a Southern Matron."] 
 
 After the departure of our Connecticut teacher, papa re- 
 solved to carry on our education himself. We were to rise 
 by daylight, that he might pursue his accustomed ride over 
 the fields, after breakfast. New writing-books were taken 
 out and ruled, — fresh quills laid by their side, — our task 
 carefully committed to memory ; and we sat with a mixture 
 of docility and curiosity, to know how he would manage as a 
 teacher. 
 
 to Rome, where his zeal led him to reprove the enormities of the 
 papal court, and the dissoluteness of the Romish clergy. On this, 
 he was imprisoned, tried, and condemned to the flames for heresy : a 
 punishment which he suffered with great constancy in 1434. 
 
356 
 
 The first three days, our lessons being on trodden ground, 
 and ourselves under the impulse of novelty, we were very ami- 
 able, — he, very paternal. On the fourth, John was turned 
 jut of the room, — Richard was pronounced a mule ; and I 
 went sobbing to mamma, as if my heart would break ; while 
 papa said he might be compelled to ditch rice-fields, but he 
 never would undertake to teach children again. 
 
 A slight constraint was thrown over the family, for a day 
 or two. But it soon wore off; and papa returned to his good 
 nature. For three weeks, we were as wild as fawns, until 
 mamma's attention was attracted by my sunburnt complexion, 
 and my brother's torn clothes. 
 
 " This will never answer," said she to papa. " Look at 
 Cornelia's face ! It is as brown as a chincapin. Richard 
 has ruined his new suit ; and John has cut his leg with the 
 carpenter's tools. I have half a mind to keep school for 
 them, myself." 
 
 Papa gave a slight whistle, which seemed rather to stimu- 
 late than check her resolution. 
 
 " Cornelia," said she, " go directly to your brothers, and 
 prepare your books for to-morrow. I will teach you." 
 
 The morning after mamma's order, we assembled at ten 
 o'clock. There was a little trepidation in her manner ; but 
 we loved her too well to annoy her by noticing it. Her 
 education had been confined to mere rudiments ; and her 
 good sense led her only to conduct our reading, writing, and 
 spelling. 
 
 We stood in a line. 
 
 " Spell irrigate" said she. Just then the coachman en- 
 tered, and bowing, said, " Maussa send me for de key for get 
 four quarts o' corn for him bay horse." 
 
 The key was given. 
 
 " Spell imitate" said mamma. 
 
 " We did not spell irrigate" we all exclaimed. 
 
 " Oh ! no," said she, " irrigate" 
 
 By the time the two words were well through, Chloe, the 
 most refined of our coloured circle, appeared. 
 
 " Will mistress please to medjure out some calomel for Sy- 
 phax, who is feverish and onrestless ? " 
 
 During mamma's visit to the doctor's shop, as the medicine- 
 closet was called, we overturned the inkstand on her mahog- 
 any table, and wiped it up with our pocket-handkerchiefs. 
 It required some time to cleanse and arrange ourselves ; and 
 just as we were seated, and had advanced a little way, on our 
 
READER. 357 
 
 orthographical journey, Maum Phillis entered with her usual 
 drawl, " Little maussa want for nurse, marm." 
 
 While this operation was going on, we gathered round 
 mamma, to play bo-peep with the baby, until even she forgot 
 our lessons. At length, the little pet was dismissed ; and our 
 line was formed again. 
 
 Mamma's next interruption, after successfully issuing a few 
 words, was to settle a quarrel between La Fayette and Venus, 
 two little creatures, who were going through their daily 
 drill, in learning to rub the furniture, which, with brush- 
 ing off flies at meals, constitutes the first instruction for 
 house servants. 
 
 These important and classical personages rubbed about a 
 stroke to the minute, on each side of the cellaret ; rolling up 
 their eyes, and making grimaces at each other. At this cri- 
 sis, they had laid claim to the same rubbing-cloth. Mamma 
 stopped the dispute by ordering my seamstress Flora, who was 
 sewing for me, to apply the weight of her thimble, that long- 
 known weapon of offence, as well as implement of industry, 
 to their organ of firmness. 
 
 " Spell accentuate" said mamma, whose finger had slipped 
 from the column. 
 
 " No, no ; that is not the place/' we exclaimed, rectifying 
 the mistake. 
 
 " Spell irritate" said she, with admirable coolness ; and 
 John fairly succeeded, just as the overseer's son, a sallow lit- 
 tle boy with yellow hair, and blue homespun dress, came in 
 with his hat on, and kicking up one foot, for manners, said, 
 " Fayther says as how he wants Master Richard's horse, to 
 help tote some tetters * to t'other field." 
 
 This pretty piece of alliteration was complied with, after 
 some remonstrance from brother Dick; and we finished our 
 column. 
 
 At this crisis, before we were fairly seated at writing, 
 mamma was summoned to the hall, to one of the field hands, 
 who had received an injury in the ankle from a hoe. Papa 
 and the overseer being at a distance, she was obliged to su- 
 perintend the wound. We all followed her ; La Fayette and 
 Venus bringing up the rear. She inspected the sufferer's 
 great foot, covered with blood and perspiration, superintend- 
 ed a bath, prepared a healing application, and bound it on 
 with her own delicate hands, first quietly tying on a black 
 
 * Potatoes, 
 
358 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 apron over her white dress. Here was no shrinking, no 
 hiding of the eyes ; and, while extracting some extraneous 
 substance from the wound, her manner was as resolute as it 
 was gentle and consoling. 
 
 This episode gave Richard an opportunity to unload his 
 pockets of ground-nuts, and treat us therewith. We were 
 again seated at our writing-books, and were going on swim- 
 mingly with " Avoid evil company," when a little crow-minder, 
 hoarse from his late occupation, came in with a basket of 
 eggs, and said, — 
 
 " Mammy Phillis send missis some egg for buy, ma'am '■ 
 she ain't so bery well, and ax for some 'baccer." 
 
 It took a little time to pay for the eggs, and send to the 
 Store-room for the Virginia weed, of which opportunity we 
 availed ourselves to draw figures on our slates : mamma re- 
 proved us ; and we were resuming our duties, when the cook's 
 son approached, and said, — 
 
 " Missis, Daddy Ajax say he been broke de axe, and ax me 
 for ax you for len' him de new axe." 
 
 This made us shout out with laughter ; and the business 
 was scarcely settled, when the dinner-horn sounded. That 
 evening, a carriage full of friends arrived from the city, to 
 pass a week with us ; and thus ended mamma's experiment 
 in teaching. 
 
 EXERCISE CXLV. 
 
 THE WATER-LILY. Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 The water-lilies, that are serene amid the calm clear water, but no 
 less serene among the black and scowling waves." — Lights and 
 Shadows of Scottish Life. 
 
 Oh ! beautiful thou art, 
 Thou sculpture-like and stately River-Clueen ! — 
 Crowning the depths, as with the light serene 
 
 Of a pure heart. 
 
 Bright lily of the wave ! 
 Rising in fearless grace with every swell, 
 Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave 
 
 Dwelt in thy cell : 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 359 
 
 Lifting alike thy head 
 Of placid beauty, feminine yet free, 
 Whether with foam or pictured azure spread 
 
 The waters be. 
 
 What is like thee, fair flower ! — 
 The gentle and the firm — thus bearing up 
 To the blue sky that alabaster cup, 
 
 As to the shower ? 
 
 Oh ! Love is most like thee, — 
 The love of woman, — quivering to the blast 
 Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast, 
 
 'Midst Life's dark sea ! 
 
 And Faith — Oh ! is not Faith 
 Like thee, too, Lily, — springing into light, 
 Still buoyantly, above the billows' might, 
 
 Through the storm's breath? 
 
 Yes, linked with such high thought, 
 Flower, let thine image in my bosom lie ! 
 Till something there of its own purity 
 
 And peace is wrought : — 
 
 Something yet more divine 
 Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre, shed 
 Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed, 
 
 As from a shrine ! 
 
 EXERCISE CXLVI. 
 
 STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 31iss London. 
 
 "The rose — the glorious rose is gone." 
 
 Lays of Many Lands. 
 
 " Bring flowers to crown the cup and lute,— 
 Bring flowers, — the bride is near ; 
 Bring flowers to soothe the captive's cell, 
 Bring flowers to strew the bier ! 
 
360 
 
 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, — the 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 odours 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 to earth 
 
 Brings down the heaven above, 
 And fills the universal heart 
 
 With universal love ! 
 
 Such gifts were thine, — as from the block, 
 
 The unformed and the cold, 
 The sculptor calls to breathing life 
 
 Some shape of perfect mould, 
 So thou from common thoughts and things 
 
 Didst call a charmed song, 
 Which on a sweet and swelling tide 
 
 Bore the full soul along. 
 
 And thou from far and foreign lands 
 
 Didst bring back many a tone, 
 And gavest such new music, still, 
 
 A music of thine own : — 
 A lofty strain of generous thoughts, 
 
 And yet subdued and sweet. — 
 An angel's song, who sings of earth, 
 
 Whose cares are at his feet. 
 
 And yet thy song is sorrowful ; 
 
 Its beauty is not bloom : 
 The hopes of which it breathes, are hopes 
 
 That look beyond the tomb. 
 
 
YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 361 
 
 Thy song is sorrowful as winds 
 
 That wander o'er the plain, 
 And ask for summer's vanished 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 
 
 Life's 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 lot; — 
 It dazzles, only to divide 
 
 From those who wear it not. 
 
 Didst thou not tremble at thy fame, 
 
 And loathe its bitter prize, 
 While what to others triumph seemed. 
 
 To thee was sacrifice 1 
 O Flower brought from paradise 
 
 To this cold world of ours, — 
 Shadows of beauty such as thine 
 
 Recall thy native bowers! 
 
 Let others thank thee, — 'twas for them 
 Thy soft leaves thou didst wreathe ; — - 
 31 
 
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 honoured thee 
 
 Who only knew thy name ; 
 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 charm that dwelt 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 ! 
 
 O weary one I since thou art laid 
 
 Within thy mother's breast, — 
 The green, the quiet mother earth,, — - 
 
 Thrice blessed be thy rest I 
 Thy heart is left within our hearts, 
 
 Although life's pang is o'er ; — 
 But the quick tears are in my eyes, 
 
 And I can write no more. 
 
 EXERCISE CXLVIL 
 
 THE DYING MIDSHIPMAN. Anors. 
 
 On Lord Nelson's arrival off Palermo, all Sicily flocked on 
 board to compliment him and his gallant crew. The royal 
 standard, seen in the admiral's barge, and the long measured 
 

 READER. 363 
 
 stroke of the rowers, with the respectful standing position of 
 the lieutenant at the helm, denote that the very highest in the 
 realm are on board. The boatswain's shrill pipe called at- 
 tention ; and the words, " All hands, man ship," reechoed by 
 his mates through the different decks, instantly placed seven 
 hundred men in our rigging, the light top-men, that were to 
 ascend the dizzy height of the royal yards, in advance. — 
 ** Away aloft ! " and, like a flash of lightning, they ascend to 
 their respective posts. The graceful toss of the bowman's 
 oar, and the tune from the boatswain's call, gave the signal 
 to " lay out;" and our well-squared yards were covered by 
 sailors in their long-quartered shoes, check shirt, blue jacket, 
 and trousers white as driven snow, with queues hanging 
 down their backs ; for cropping was not then in fashion ; 
 while three bold and active boys climbed the royal masts, 
 and sat on the trucks apparently much at ease. 
 
 " Turn out a captain's guard, summon all the officers ! " — 
 and six of the best-dressed midshipmen attend the side ropes, 
 and plant the silk standard in the ladies' chair, into which 
 the hero of England and the pride of the navy, awkwardly, 
 (from the want of an arm,) assisted the Queen of Sicily and 
 her three daughters. 
 
 The daughter of Maria Theresa, with animated eyes and a 
 quick step, advanced to the captain, who gallantly kissed her 
 fair hand, while she, with great volubility, complimented and 
 thanked him over and over again ; and turning to the officers 
 with inimitable grace, she and her daughters presented hands 
 to be kissed by each and all of us. The band played a 
 march ; the guard presented arms ; and the officers uncov- 
 ered, as the descendant of Maria Theresa placed her foot on 
 the deck of the conqueror's ship. The Sicilian royal stan- 
 dard superseded Lord Nelson's flag ; and the unfolding of its 
 banners roused the sleeping thunder of the squadron. A 
 royal salute welcomed this energetic woman, whose slender 
 and perfect form seemed to tread on air, while the tender 
 animation of her sparkling eyes expressed the warmth of her 
 heart 
 
 Very little time did she devote to the splendid collation 
 prepared for her ; but, with her amiable daughters, sought to 
 soothe the anguish of pain, and alleviate the sufferings of the 
 wounded. The drums beat to arms ; and the court inspected 
 the quarters, on their way to the different hospitals established 
 in the ship : with every wounded man and boy they shook 
 
364 
 
 hands, saying something kind and consoling, while the.'r gifts 
 were munificent. 
 
 The princesses shed tears over the sufferings they beheld, 
 and enclosed their delicate hands in the iron grasp of Jack, 
 as he lay restless on his couch of pain ; but still he was an 
 object of envy to me, as the beauteous Marie Antoinette ben* 
 over him with looks of pity, that an angel might have envied, 
 while her coral lips gave utterance to the most melodious 
 sounds that ever extracted the sting from the anguish of the 
 suffering, either in mind or body. 
 
 The last object of attention to the royal party, was my 
 excellent friend and brother signal-midshipman, Mr. West ; 
 the chaplain making way for us. Here was a change shock- 
 ing to behold : the fine apple-cheeked, bold boy, had shrunk 
 into a withered, and apparently old man, by his sufferings ; 
 fevered, emaciated, and wan, he lay a ghastly spectacle. 
 Lord Nelson, with great feeling, took him by the hand, 
 praised his courage, told him he was promoted by him, and 
 hailed him as Lieutenant West. No emotion was shown by 
 the heroic boy, no other word uttered by him than " drink : " 
 the young princess, with great promptitude, divided ara 
 orange, and squeezed the juice on his parched lips. 
 
 Lord Nelson introduced the dueen of Naples and her fair 
 daughters as mourning his misfortunes, in which,, in truth, 
 they took a deep interest, as they stood by his cot in tears : 
 he exhorted him to look forward to long life, and high rank in 
 his profession : the surgeon shook his head, and whispered, 
 an hour was the utmost tenure he held of this world, as the 
 wound had gangrened. The good-natured hero seemed 
 much shocked, and showed great emotion. The boy, finding 
 relief and gratification from the kind exertions of th© 
 princess, opened his eyes with a death-like stare, as she 
 bent over him : at once he seemed to comprehend his situa- 
 tion ; the blood again rallied to the heart ; the pulse that had 
 nearly ceased, again resumed its beat ; animation lighted up 
 his eyes : as he surveyed the beautiful vision, he, no doubt, 
 thought of his far-distant home, and its affectionate inmates. 
 I heard him audibly sigh, and saw him make a feeble attempt 
 to kiss the fair hand that had so kindly administered to his 
 wants. It was the last effort of expiring nature : the gallant 
 boy dropped on his pillow, — his fine eyes assumed the 
 glazed hue of death, — the rattles in the throat gave notice- 
 of the difficulty of respiration ; and the surgeon announces! 
 him to be in his last agonies. 
 

 YOUNG LADIES READER. 365 
 
 Here was a lesson of mortality to a frivolous and dissolute 
 court. The maids of honour and the officers of the house- 
 hold, walked off without waiting for orders ; first attempting, 
 in vain, to move the queen and princesses, who evinced deep 
 feeling ; and the sobs of the lovely young princess were quite 
 hysterical. 
 
 Lord Nelson, in silent grief, motioned Lady Hamilton to 
 remove the queen, and — the princess royal on his only arm, 
 — led the way on deck. Our gallant captain gave an arm to 
 each of the younger princesses ; and* the royal procession 
 embarked in his barge in solemn silence, so different from 
 the animation and pleasure that had lighted up their expres- 
 sive features, on their arrival. The guard had been dis- 
 missed ; the band ceased to play ; and silence was ordered 
 fore and aft, on the knowledge of my friend's fate. The 
 gallant boy was interred with military honours, in the ground 
 of the Protestant chapel of the ambassador. 
 
 EXERCISE CXLVIII. 
 
 THE DEPARTED. Mary Ann Browne. 
 
 They are not there ! where once their feet 
 Light answer to sweet music beat, — 
 Where their young voices sweetly breathed, 
 And fragrant flowers they lightly wreathed. 
 Still flows the nightingale's sweet song, — 
 Still trail the vine's green shoots along, — 
 Still are the sunny blossoms fair ; — 
 But they who loved them are not there ! 
 
 They are not there ! by the lone fount 
 That once they loved at eve to haunt ; 
 Where, when the day-star brightly set, 
 Beside the silver wave they met : 
 Still lightly glides the quiet stream, — =■ 
 Still o'er it falls the soft moonbeam ; — « 
 But they who used its beams to share 
 With fond hearts by it, are not there ! 
 31* 
 
YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 
 
 They are not there ! by the dear hearth 
 That once beheld their harmless mirth ; 
 When through their joy came no vain fear, 
 And o'er their smiles no darkening tear : 
 It burns not now a beacon-star ; — 
 'Tis cold and fireless as they are : 
 Where is the glow it used to wear 1 — 
 'Tis felt no more, — they are not there ! 
 
 EXERCISE CXLIX. 
 
 Charles Sprague. 
 
 " 1 rocked her in the cradle, 
 And laid her in the tomb. She was the youngest. 
 What fireside circle hath not felt the charm 
 Of that sweet tie ? The youngest ne'er grow old, 
 The fond endearments of our earlier days 
 We keep alive in them; and when they die, 
 Our youthful joys we bury with them." 
 
 I see thee still ; 
 Remembrance, faithful to her trust, 
 Calls thee in beauty from the dust : 
 Thou comest in the morning light, 
 Thou'rt with me through the gloomy night, — 
 In dreams I meet thee as of old ; 
 Then thy soft arms my neck enfold, 
 And thy sweet voice is in my ear ; — 
 In every scene to memory dear, 
 
 I see thee still. 
 
 I see thee still 
 In every hallowed token round ; 
 This little ring thy finger bound, 
 This lock of hair thy forehead shaded, 
 This silken chain by thee was braided, 
 These flowers, — all withered now, like thee,- 
 Sweet Sister ! thou didst cull for me : 
 This book was thine ; here didst thou read : 
 This picture, — ah ! yes, here, indeed, 
 
 I see thee still. 
 
READER. 367 
 
 I see thee still ; 
 Here was thy summer noon's retreat, 
 Here was thy favourite fireside seat ; 
 This was thy chamber, — here, each day, 
 I sat and watched thy sad decay ; 
 Here, on this bed, thou last didst lie, 
 Here, on this pillow, — thou didst die. 
 Dark hour ! once more its woes unfold ; — 
 As then I saw thee, pale and cold, 
 
 I see thee still. 
 
 I see thee still ; 
 Thou art not in the grave confined, — 
 Death cannot claim the immortal Mind. 
 Let Earth close o'er its sacred trust; 
 But goodness dies not in the dust : 
 Thee, O my Sister r 'tis not thee 
 Beneath the coffin's lid I see ; — 
 Thou to a fairer land art gone : — 
 Then, let me hope, — my journey done, — 
 
 To see thee still ! 
 
 EXERCISE CL. 
 
 A DIRGE. Moir. 
 
 Weep not for her ! — Oh ! she was far too fair, 
 Too pure to dwell on this guilt-tainted earth ! 
 
 The sinless glory, and the golden air 
 Of Zion seemed to claim her birth : 
 
 A Spirit wandered from its native zone, 
 
 Which soon discovering, took her for its own : — 
 Weep not for her ! 
 
 Weep not for her ! — Her span was like the sky 
 Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright; 
 
 Like flowers, that know not what it is to die ; 
 
 Like long-linked, shadeless months of polar light 
 
 Like music floating o'er a waveless lake, 
 
 While Echo answers from the flowery brake : — 
 Weep not for her ! 
 
368 
 
 Weep not for her ! — She died in early youth, 
 Ere hope had lost its rich, romantic hues ; 
 
 When human bosoms seemed the homes of truth, 
 And earth still gleamed with beauty's radiant dews. 
 
 Her summer-prime waned not to days that freeze ; 
 
 Her wine of life was run not to the lees : — 
 "Weep not for her ! 
 
 Weep not for her ! — By fleet or slow decay, 
 It never grieved her bosom's core to mark 
 
 The playmates of her childhood wane away ; 
 
 Her prospects wither ; or her hopes grow dark ; — 
 
 Translated by her God, with spirit shriven, 
 
 She passed as 'twere in smiles from earth to heaven. - 
 Weep not for her ! 
 
 Weep not for her ! — It was not hers to feel 
 The miseries that corrode amassing years, 
 
 'Gainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel, 
 To wander sad down Age's vale of tears, 
 
 As whirl the withered leaves from Friendship's tree, 
 
 And on earth's wintry world alone to be : — 
 Weep not for her ! 
 
 Weep not for her ! — She is an angel now, 
 And treads the sapphire floor of Paradise; 
 
 All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow, — 
 Sin, sorrow, suffering, banished from her eyes ; 
 
 Victorious over death ; to her appear 
 
 The vista'd joys of Heaven's eternal year : — 
 Weep not for her ! 
 
 Weep not for her ! — her memory is the shrine 
 Of pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers, 
 
 Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline, 
 
 Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers, 
 
 Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light, — 
 
 Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night : — 
 Weep not for her ! 
 
 Weep not for her ! — there is no cause for woe; 
 
 But rather nerve the spirit, that it walk 
 Unshrinking o'er the thorny paths below, 
 
 And from earth's low defilements keep thee back- 
 
So, when a few fleet severing years are flown, 
 She'll meet thee at heaven's gate, — and lead thee on I 
 Weep not for her ! 
 
 EXERCISE CLI. 
 
 RISE OF THE GUELPH AND GHIBELINE FACTIONS. 
 
 Da Ponte. 
 
 About the year 1215, the differences between distinguished 
 families, in Florence, began to manifest themselves in such a 
 manner as to render it too evident that family feuds, inde- 
 pendent of all political character, and family alliances, were 
 sufficient to disturb the peace of the city, beyond the power 
 of the magistracy to restore. If a difference, however, of 
 views and opinions, prevailed in the state, at a period like 
 this, it would naturally be seized, in each personal quarrel ; 
 and a party name would be eagerly sought, to add importance 
 and bitterness to private feuds. The political bias of the 
 government and the people, might be easily interested ; and 
 the first ground of quarrel, would be speedily lost, in the es- 
 pousal of the cause of the church or of the empire. 
 
 Seventy or eighty families formed, at this time, in Florence, 
 the high nobility. Among these, were many who had been 
 distinguished before, as most powerful for their fortified cas- 
 tles, and for the number of their retainers and alliances. 
 Young * Buondelmonte, the head of an ambitious race, had 
 been betrothed to a daughter of the house of f Amidei. In 
 this union, — which was to join with their extensive connec- 
 tions, the |Buondelmonti, the Amidei, and the §Uberti, with 
 others whose influence was sufficient to enlist in their quarrel 
 the whole population of Florence, — the parties were un- 
 known to each other. 
 
 Time was considered necessary, between the plighting and 
 the solemnization of the nuptials, to give them that splendour 
 which the dignity of both houses was supposed to require. 
 In this interval, while the peace of the city was left in the 
 power of an unsteady youth, his fortune was preparing for it 
 years of anarchy and civil wars. 
 
 * Pronounced, Boo-ondelmontay. $ Boo-ondelm^ntee. 
 
 * Ahmeeday'ee § Oober'tee. 
 
370 YOUNG 
 
 " O Buondelmonte ! what ill counselling 
 Prevailed on thee to break the plighted bond 1 
 Many, who now are weeping, would rejoice 
 Had God to Emma given thee, the first time 
 Thou near our city cam'st. — But so was doomed Florence ! " 
 
 says Dante ; and all the writers of the time, attribute to the 
 faithlessness of Buondelmonte and the revenge of his ene- 
 mies, all the misfortunes which were inevitable in the consti- 
 tution of the times ; and which resulted .in the establishment 
 of a liberty that must otherwise have early perished, between 
 the claims of Rome and Germany. " During these troubles, " 
 says a writer, " talent was roused and invigorated by collision, 
 while each leader struggled to obtain some temporary popu- 
 larity by some popular concession." 
 
 Meanwhile, the preparations for the marriage were nearly 
 completed ; and young Buondelmonte was looked upon, by 
 all, as the husband of Emma of the Amidei. But the ambi- 
 tious hopes of the * Donati, were concerned in the comple- 
 tion, or, rather, in the interruption, of these espousals; and 
 the projected union was soon to be converted into an eternal 
 feud. The head of this family was a female, at the trying 
 crisis, when, as the only heir to its honours was a daughter, 
 a protecting alliance by marriage was thought necessary, to 
 maintain and direct its authority. Buondelmonte, besides 
 being the most accomplished cavalier, was also one of the 
 most powerful barons of the state ; and the Donati could 
 form no more honourable or useful alliance, f Ammirato 
 observes that " neither fabulously nor poetically, but with all 
 regard to truth, it may be said, that the beauties of this fair 
 Donati were no less pernicious to Florence, than those of 
 Helen had been to Troy." 
 
 The mother of this young girl, who was destined to pro- 
 duce a more than ten years' war to Italy, watched eagerly 
 each opportunity of obtruding herself upon the young Buon- 
 delmonte. None, however, occurred until the day, almost, 
 on which the last ceremonial was to be solemnized. Buon- 
 delmonte was then in Florence ; and however desperate the 
 hope might seem of winning him, it was still sufficient for the 
 intriguing mother aided by the charms of her daughter. 
 Buondelmonte and this woman met, by accident, as it ap- 
 peared to the former, near the palace of the Donati. He 
 
 * Pronounced, Donahtee. t Ammeerahto 
 
371 
 
 received the salutations and congratulations of the lady, and 
 would have passed, but she detained him for a farther com- 
 pliment: and that compliment was the signal for the entrance 
 into Italy, of what her historians call the accursed names of 
 Ghibelines and Guelphs. 
 
 " You have chosen fairly," said the lady ; " but fairer might 
 have been your choice; and the daughter of a Donati would 
 have brought no disgrace to the best blcod of Florence." 
 Buondelmonte at that moment cast his eyes on the daughter, 
 who, in obedience to a sign from her mother, appeared from 
 the palace. " I kept her for your sake," continued the moth- 
 er : "Is she beautiful? look on her! I cherished her beau- 
 ties for you." "For me?" said Buondelmonte, "then, that 
 which is kept for me, is mine : the beauty that has bloomed 
 for me, none else shall gather." 
 
 The Italians, though but little romantic in their religion 
 and their wars, were full of the spirit of adventure in their 
 love. That night, the nuptials of Buondelmonte were per- 
 formed with the heiress of the Donati ; and, soon after, he 
 was found near the passage of the Arno, mangled with the 
 wounds of the revengeful partisans of the outraged Amidei. 
 
 While all Italy witnessed the diiferences between the popes 
 and the emperor, it was impossible that men should not be- 
 come, in feeling at least, and by sympathy, parties on either 
 side in the contest as interest dictated, or as political predi- 
 lections inclined. In Florence, this sympathy was deeply 
 felt, and greatly divided the people : but, with the utmost 
 acrimony of feeling, the citizens had found, as yet, no pre- 
 text for violence. The moment, however, was at hand ; the 
 friends of the Buondelmonti, on one side, and those of the 
 Amidei, on the other, were in arms ; the streets were barri- 
 caded, that none might escape who were destined, and that 
 none who were bound to support the quarrel of either, might 
 avoid the encounter : the civil authority was lost, in the des- 
 perate struggle that enlisted, on either side, the interest, and. 
 on both, excited the fury of the citizens. All the rancour 
 of long-repressed hatred, burst forth, to strengthen the ani- 
 mosity of the combatants; and, while the friends of the 
 church attached themselves, naturally, to that one of the lead- 
 ing families whose opinions were known in favour of the 
 Romish cause, a similar impulsive force attracted, to the op- 
 posite side, the friends of the emperor. The name of Ghibe- 
 Une, by which the latter had already been distinguished in 
 other countries, thus changed, in a moment, the quarrel of 
 
372 
 
 he Amidei and Uberti into that of half of Italy ; and the 
 epithet of Guelph converted the cause of the Buondelmonti 
 into that of religion. Those who cared little for the fate of 
 the first disputants, were excited by the obstinacy and warmth 
 of contested opinion ; and passion, or conscience, or cunning, 
 conducted to this civil slaughter the children of one soil, and 
 the offspring of the same parents. 
 
 EXERCISE CLII. 
 
 VISIT TO THE MOSQUE OF SANTA SOPHIA. 
 
 3Rss Pardoe. 
 
 As the evening closed in, I remarked that the eldest son 
 of the house, was carrying on a very energetic sotto voce '" 
 conversation with his venerable father ; and I was not a little 
 astonished when he ultimately informed me, in his imperfect 
 French, that there was one method of visiting the mosques, 
 if I had nerve to attempt it, which would probably prove suc- 
 cessful ; and that, in the event of my resolving to run the 
 risk, he was himself so convinced of its practicability, that 
 he would accompany me with the consent of the father, at- 
 tended by the old kiara, or house-steward, upon the under- 
 standing, (and on this the gray-bearded effendi had resolutely 
 insisted,) that in the event of detection it was to be sauve 
 qui peut ; an arrangement that would enable his son at once 
 to elude pursuit, if he exercised the least ingenuity or caution. 
 
 What European traveller, possessed of the least spirit of 
 adventure, would refuse to encounter danger in order to stand 
 beneath the dome of f Santa Sophia? And, above all, what 
 wandering t Giaour could resist the temptation of entering a 
 mosque during High Prayer 1 
 
 These were the questions that I asked myself as the young 
 bey vowed himself so gallantly to the venture, (to him, in any 
 case, not without its dangers,) in order to avert from me the 
 disappointment which I dreaded. 
 
 I at once understood that the attempt must be made in a 
 Turkish dress ; but this fact was of trifling importance, as no 
 costume in the world lends itself more readily or more con- 
 
 * Pronounced, vockay. t Sahnta Sopheea. t Jaiooor, (Infidel.) 
 
373 
 
 veniently to the purposes of disguise. After having delib- 
 erately weighed the chances for and against detection, I 
 resolved to run the risk, and accordingly stained my eye- 
 brows with some of the dye common in the harem ; concealed 
 my female attire beneath a magnificent pelisse, lined with 
 sables, which fastened from my chin to my feet; pulled a. fez 
 low upon my brow ; and preceded by a servant with a lantern, 
 attended by the bey, and followed by the kiara and a pipe- 
 bearer, at half-past ten o'clock I sallied forth on my adven- 
 turous errand. 
 
 We had not mentioned to either the wife or the mother of 
 the bey whither we were bound, being fearful of alarming 
 them unnecessarily ; and they consequently remained per- 
 fectly satisfied with the assurance of the old gentleman, that 
 I was anxious to see the Bosphorus by moonlight, though a 
 darker night never spread its mantle over the earth. 
 
 I am extremely doubtful whether, on a less exciting occa- 
 sion, I could have kept time with the rapid pace of my com- 
 panion over the vile pavement of Constantinople; as it was, 
 however, I dared not give way, lest any one among the indi- 
 viduals who followed us, and who were perhaps bound on the 
 same errand, should penetrate my disguise. 
 
 " If we escape from Santa Sophia unsuspected," said my 
 chivalrous friend, " we will then make another bold attempt ; 
 we will visit the mosque of Sultan Achmet ; and as this is a 
 high festival, if you risk the adventure, you will have done 
 what no Infidel has ever yet dared to do ; but I forewarn you 
 that, should you be discovered, and fail to make your escape 
 on the instant, you will be torn to pieces." 
 
 This assertion somewhat staggered me ; and for an instant, 
 my woman-spirit quailed ; I contented myself, however, with 
 briefly replying : " When we leave Santa Sophia, we will talk 
 of this," and continued to walk beside him in silence. At 
 length we entered the spacious court of the mosque, and as 
 the servants stooped to withdraw my shoes, the bey murmured 
 in my ear: "Be firm or you are lost!" — and making a 
 strong effort to subdue the feeling of mingled awe and fear 
 which was rapidly stealing over me, I pulled the fez deeper 
 upon my eyebrows, and obeyed. 
 
 On passing the threshold, I found myself in a covered 
 peristyle, whose gigantic columns of granite are partially sunk 
 in the wall of which they form a part ; the floor was covered 
 with fine matting, and the coloured lamps, which were sus- 
 pended in festoons from the lofty ceiling, shed a broad light 
 32 
 
374 
 
 on all the surrounding objects. In most of the recesses 
 formed by the pillars, beggars were crouched down, holding 
 in front of them their little metal basins, to receive the * paras 
 of the charitable ; while servants lounged to and fro, or 
 squatted in groups upon the matting, awaiting the egress of 
 their employers. As I looked around me, our own attendant 
 moved forward, and raising the curtain which veiled a double 
 door of bronze, situated at mid-length of the peristyle, I in- 
 voluntarily shrank back before the blaze of light that burst 
 upon me. 
 
 Far as the eye could reach upwards, circles of coloured 
 fire, appearing as if suspended in mid-air, designed the form 
 of the stupendous dome ; while beneath, devices of every 
 shape and colour were formed by myriads of lamps of various 
 hues ; the imperial closet, situated opposite to the pulpit, was 
 one blaze of refulgence ; and its gilded lattices flashed back 
 the brilliancy, till it looked like a gigantic meteor ! 
 
 As I stood a few paces within the doorway, I could not 
 distinguish the limits of the edifice, — I looked forward, up- 
 ward, — to the right hand, and to the left ; — but I could only 
 take in a given space, covered with human beings, kneeling 
 in regular lines, and, at a certain signal, bowing their tur- 
 baned heads to the earth, as if one soul and one impulse ani- 
 mated the whole congregation ; while the shrill chanting of 
 the choir pealed through the vast pile, and died away in 
 lengthened cadences, among the tall dark pillars which 
 support it. 
 
 And this was Santa Sophia! To me it seemed like a ere- 
 ation of enchantment: — the light, — the ringing voices,- — 
 the mysterious extent, which baffled the earnestness of my 
 gaze, — the ten thousand turbaned Moslems, all kneeling 
 with their faces turned towards Mecca, and at intervals lay- 
 ing their foreheads to the earth, — the bright and various 
 colours of the dresses, — and the rich and glowing tints of 
 the carpets that veiled the marble floor, — all conspired to 
 form a scene of such unearthly magnificence, that I felt as 
 though there could be no reality in what I looked on ; but 
 that, at some sudden signal, the towering columns would fail 
 to support the vault of light above them, and all would be- 
 come void. 
 
 * Pronounced, pahras 
 
READER. 375 
 
 EXERCISE CLIIL 
 
 SCENE FROM " AS YOU LIKE IT." Sha/cspeare. 
 
 Rosalind, Celia, and Touchstone. 
 
 Cel. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry. 
 
 Ros. Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress 
 of; and would you yet I were merrier? Unless you could 
 teach me to forget a banished father, you must not learn me 
 how to remember any extraordinary pleasure. 
 
 Cel. Herein, I see, thou lovest me not with the full weight 
 that I love thee. If my uncle, thy banished father, had ban- 
 ished thy uncle, the duke my father, so thou hadst been still 
 with me, I could have taught my love to take thy father for 
 mine ; so wouldest thou, if the truth of thy love to me were 
 so righteously tempered as mine is to thee. 
 
 Ros. Well, I will forget the condition of my estate, to 
 rejoice in yours. 
 
 Cel. You know, my father hath no child but me, nor none 
 is like to have ; and, truly, when he dies, thou shalt be his 
 heir : for what he hath taken away from thy father perforce, 
 I will render thee again in affection ; — by mine honour, I 
 will ; and when I break that oath, let me turn monster : 
 therefore, my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be merry ! 
 
 Ros. From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports : let 
 me see ; — what think you of falling in love ? 
 
 Cel. Marry, I pr'ythee, do, to make sport withal : but love 
 no man in good earnest. 
 
 Ros. What shall be our sport, then ? 
 
 Cel. Let us sit and mock the good housewife, Fortune, 
 from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed 
 equally. 
 
 Ros. I would, we could do so ; for her benefits are mighti- 
 ly misplaced : and the bountiful blind woman doth most mis- 
 take in her gifts to women. [Enter Touchstone.] 
 
 Cel. Though nature hath given us wit to flout at fortune, 
 hath not fortune sent in this fool to cut off the argument? 
 Peradventure, this is not fortune's work neither, but nature's : 
 who, perceiving our natural wits too dull to reason of such 
 goddesses, hath sent this natural for our whetstone : for always 
 
376 
 
 the dulness of the fool is the whetstone of his wits. — How 
 now, wit? whither wander you? 
 
 Touch. Mistress, you must come away to your father. 
 
 Cel. Were you made the messenger ? 
 
 Touch. No, by mine honour ; but I was bid to come for 
 you. 
 
 Ros. Where learned you that oath, fool ? 
 
 Touch. Of a certain knight that swore by his honour 
 they were good pancakes, and swore by his honour the mus- 
 tard was naught : now I'll stand to it, the pancakes were 
 naught, and the mustard was good ; and yet was not the 
 knight forsworn. 
 
 Cel. How prove you that, in the great heap of your 
 knowledge ? 
 
 Ros. Ay, marry, now unmuzzle your wisdom. 
 
 Touch. Stand you both forth now : and sw^ar by your 
 beards that I am a knave. 
 
 Cel. By our beards, — if we had them, — thou art. 
 
 Touch. By my knavery, — if I had it, — then I were : 
 but if you swear by that that is not, you are not forsworn : 
 no more was this knight, swearing by his honour, — for he 
 never had any ; or if he had, he had sworn it away before 
 ever he saw those pancakes, or that mustard. 
 
 Cel. Pr'ythee, who is't that thou mean'st? 
 
 Touch. One that old Frederick, your father, loves. 
 
 Cel. My father's love is enough to honour him. Enough ! 
 speak no more of him ; you'll be whipped for taxation, some 
 of these days. 
 
 Touch. The more pity, that fools may not speak wisely, 
 what wise men do foolishly. 
 
 Cel. By my troth, thou say's.t true : for since the little wit 
 that fools have, was silenced, the little foolery that wise men 
 have, makes a great show. 
 
 
 EXERCISE CLIV. 
 
 SABBATH MUSINGS. Harriet Martineau. 
 
 While all here is still, as if the breezes had forgotten their 
 accustomed haunt, how that single elm on the lawn, shivers 
 and stoops, as if an invisible giant were uprooting it for a 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 377 
 
 trophy ! The gust is coming, lighting here and there on the 
 tree-tops, and rolling blackness and tempest before it. Far 
 off the commotion begins. How the roar swells as it ap- 
 proaches, rushing, driving athwart the ivied stems, and 
 whistling among the tossing boughs above ! 
 
 The terrified birds come fluttering, each from its domestic 
 tree. How that boy's light laugh mingles with the uproar, as 
 he rocks fearlessly in his lofty seat ! He feels not, more than 
 I, that these are tokens of wrath around us, or that these 
 heavy drops are signs of Nature's sorrow. Human joy over- 
 flows in tears ; and why should not the oppression of Her 
 solemn joy be removed in like manner 1 What a brimming 
 shower ! and the sun already gleaming again on the thousand 
 tricklings from the shining leaves, which refuse to retain 
 their liquid burden ! The whole grove glitters, as if beneath 
 the spray of Niagara. In a moment the chill is gone ; and 
 but for the pearls which gem those pendent crowns, the gust 
 and the shower might be supposed the dream of a spring 
 noon, the creation of preceding thoughts. 
 
 Thus may end, thus will end, the storms of the spirit ; and 
 in bright and harmonious praise, like that which greets my 
 senses now, shall man bear his part, when the vicissitudes of 
 his early day are passed. Praise, praise alone shall be the 
 end, as it ought to be the beginning, of devotion, though 
 praise must change and advance its character as the mind of 
 the worshipper advances. 
 
 The infant's first communion should be praise. He knows, 
 or ought to know, no fear ; he knows, or ought to know, no 
 want : for what then should he petition 1 When he learns 
 that others have wants, he begins to petition for them, and in 
 time for himself. When he becomes a subject of conscience, 
 he is led to confession and to intercession. All this time, 
 praise should be the beginning and end of his communion : 
 praise first for the low good of which alone he is sensible ; then 
 for each new glimpse of glory which his opening vision reveals, 
 till his thanksgivings reach the ends of the earth, and com- 
 pass the starry heavens. 
 
 Of the more sacred heights and depths, which teem with 
 realities instead of shadows, he knows not yet, nor has 
 learned to praise creative and preserving power, as manifested 
 in the external creation, for its true grandeur and ulterior 
 purposes. Of the spiritual creation he knows nothing till 
 long after he has been accustomed to adore the Maker of un- 
 numbered worlds. When the rich mysteries of the sublimer 
 32* 
 
378 YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 
 
 creation, become dimly discerned, he petitions less fervently 
 for external good. As they wax clearer, his fears perish, his 
 desires subside, his hopes pass through perpetual mutations 
 till they become incorruptible ; and his praise is of a kindred 
 nature, however far inferior to that of the unseen, world. 
 
 He henceforth regards the moving heavens only as they 
 send their melodies through the soul ; the forms of the earth 
 only as they are instinct with life ; and, no longer calling 
 inanimate forms to witness his praises, he appeals from the 
 infant on his bosom to the archangel who suspends new sys- 
 tems in the farthest void, for sympathy in his adoration of the 
 Father of his spirit. — Of higher subjects of praise, man 
 knows not, nor can conceive. It is bliss enough to discern 
 the end of human worship, (in kind, if not in degree,) and 
 in some rare moments, in occasional glimpses of a celestial 
 Sabbath, to reach it. 
 
 Oh ! that our earthly Sabbaths could bear something of 
 this character ! But as long as so many ranks of mind join 
 in its services, these services must be too high for some, and 
 too low for others. Blessed is the season to multitudes, and 
 holy its rites to innumerable worshippers. But its benefits 
 are of a specific kind ; its devotion is peculiar, and can in no 
 degree supply the place of private communion. Alas ! then, 
 for those who join not in its rites ; and alas ! also for those 
 who look not beyond its rites ! Strange, that any should 
 turn away coldly from the divinely-kindled altar, where mul- 
 titudes are thronging to cast in their incense, and returning 
 with the reflection of its glory in their faces ! Yet more 
 strange that any should avoid the still solitude where the 
 fount of this glory welleth up forever ! 
 
 EXERCISE CLV. 
 
 A CONNECTICUT FARM-HOUSE OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 Mrs. Sigourney. 
 
 It was a long, low, unpainted house, with narrow case- 
 ments, situated about half a mile from the main road. Near 
 it was a substantial barn, surrounded by a large yard, where 
 a number of animals, assembled, exhibited an appearance of 
 comfort, which denoted, at once, a kind and careful master. 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 379 
 
 Cuffee alighting, removed the bars, which formed, or rather 
 obstructed, the rustic entrance to the demesne ; and then 
 addressed a few soothing words to his horse, who advanced 
 his head, and bent down his quivering ear, as if the sounds 
 of the human voice were either comprehended or beloved. 
 
 As Madam L entered, she heard, in the clattering of 
 
 knives and forks, the reason, why she was not as usual 
 welcomed at the door. Unwilling to interrupt the refection 
 of the family, she took a seat, unobserved. She found herself 
 in the best room in the mansion; but to this the inhabitants 
 of the neighbouring villages would assign, neither the name 
 of "parlour, hall, nor drawing-room;" avoiding the example 
 of their city acquaintance, as the ancient reformers did the 
 abominations of the church of Rome. Adhering to their 
 habits of precision as tenaciously as to their ideas of simpli- 
 city, they gave to this most honourable room, an appellation 
 derived from its bearing upon the cardinal points. The one 
 under present consideration, being visited by the latest beams 
 of the setting sun, and the first breathing of the summer 
 breeze, was denominated the " south-west room." As the 
 furniture of this best apartment of Farmer Larkin, may serve 
 as a sample of the interior of most of the " best rooms " of 
 the better sort of agriculturists, at that early period, it may 
 be well to add a brief description. 
 
 The bed, — an indispensable appendage, — was without 
 either curtains or high posts, and decorated with a new 
 woollen coverlet, where the colour of red gorgeously predomi- 
 nated over the white and green, with which it was inter- 
 mingled. So small a space did it occupy, that if, like Og, 
 king of Bashan, whose gigantic height was predicated from 
 his bedstead of nine cubits, the size of our farmers should 
 have been estimated by the dimensions of their places of 
 repose, posterity would do them immense injustice. 
 
 A * buffet, or corner-cupboard, was a conspicuous article, 
 in which were arranged a set of bright pewter plates, some 
 red and white cups and saucers, not much larger than what 
 now belong to a doll's equipage, and a pyramidal block-tin 
 tea-pot. The lower compartment of this repository, which 
 was protected by a door, furnished a receptacle for the 
 Sabbath-day hats and bonnets of the children ; each occupy- 
 ing its own place upon the shelves. In the vicinity was what 
 was denominated " a chist o' draws," namely, a capacious 
 vault of stained pine, which, opening like a chest, contained 
 
 * Accented, buffet'. 
 
380 YOUNG 
 
 the better part of the wardrobe of the master and mistrt js of 
 the family ; while, beneath, space was left for two or three 
 "draws," devoted to the accommodation of the elder children. 
 
 But the masterpiece of finery was a tea-table, which, ele- 
 vating its round disk perpendicularly, evinced that it was 
 more for show than use. Its surface displayed a commendable 
 lustre, protected by a penal statute from the fingers of the chil- 
 dren. But an unruly kitten used to take delight in viewing, 
 on the lower extremity of that polished orb, a reflection of 
 her own round face, and formidable whiskers. Unhappily 
 mistaking the appearance of these for an adversary, she im- 
 printed thereon the marks of her claws, too deeply for all the 
 efforts of the good housewife to efface, and soon after expiated 
 her crime upon the scaffold. 
 
 A looking-glass, much smaller than the broad expansion ol 
 the farmer's face, hung against the roughly-plastered, yet 
 unsullied wall. A few high straight-backed chairs, and a 
 pair of small andirons, nicely blacked, whose heads bore a 
 rude resemblance to the " human face divine," completed the 
 inventory of goods and chattels. Over the low, wide fire- 
 place, hung, in a black frame, without the superfluity of a 
 glass, the family record, legibly penned, with a space very 
 considerately left for future additions. 
 
 The apartment had an air of neatness, beyond what was 
 then generally observed in the houses of those who made the 
 dairy, and spinning-wheel, the prime objects of attention. 
 The white floor was carefully sanded ; and, at each door, a 
 broad mat, made of the husks of the Indian corn, claimed 
 tribute from the feet of those who entered. 
 
 Where Madam L was seated, she had a full view of 
 
 the family, surrounding their peaceful board, and so cordially 
 engaged in doing justice to its viands, that not a glance 
 wandered to the spot which she occupied. The table, 
 covered with a coarse white cloth, bore at the head a large 
 supply of boiled beef and pork, served up in a huge dish of 
 glazed ware, of a form between platter and bowl, though it 
 probably would rank with the latter genus. A mass of very 
 fine cabbage appeared in the same reservoir, like a broad, 
 emerald islet, flanked with parsnips and turnips, the favourite 
 " long and short saace " of the day. At the bottom of the 
 board, was an enormous pudding of Indian meal, supported by 
 its legitimate concomitants, a plate of butter, and a jug of 
 molasses. Four brown mugs of cider, divided into equal 
 compartments the quadrangle of the board ; and the wooden 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 381 
 
 tienchers, which each one manfully maintained, were per- 
 fectly clean and comfortable. 
 
 Farmer Larkin and his wife, not deeming it a point of 
 etiquette to separate as far as the limits of the table would 
 permit, shared together the post of honour by the dish of 
 meat, At the left hand of the father, sat his youngest son, 
 and at the right hand of the mother, her youngest daughter. 
 Thus the male line, beginning at Jehu, and touching every 
 one, according to his age, passed over the heads of Timothy 
 and Jehoiakim, ending in Amariah, the nephew. On the 
 other hand, the female line, from the mother, who held in 
 her lap the chubbed Tryphosa, passed with geometrical 
 precision through the spaces allotted to Tryphena, Keziah, 
 Roxey, and Reuey, terminating with buxom Molly. She was 
 indeed a damsel of formidable size, but of just proportions, 
 and employed her brawny arm, in cutting slices from a large 
 loaf of brown bread, which she distributed with great exact- 
 ness by each trencher, as soon as her father had stocked it 
 with meat, and her mother garnished it with vegetables. 
 There was something pleasing in the sight of so many healthy 
 and cheerful faces, and in the domestic order which evidently 
 prevailed. 
 
 EXERCISE CLVI. 
 
 CONNECTICUT. Mrs. Sigourney. 
 
 Thou hast no mountain peering to the cloud, 
 
 No boundless river for the poet's lyre, 
 Nor mighty cataract, thundering far and loud, 
 
 Nor red volcano, opening through its pyre 
 
 A safety-valve to earth's deep, central fire, 
 Nor dread * glacier, nor forest's awful frown. 
 
 Yet turn thy sons to thee with fond desire, 
 And from Niagara's pride, or Andes' crown, 
 In thy scant, noteless vales delight to lay them down. 
 
 Thou art a Spartan mother, and thy sons 
 
 From their sweet sleep at early dawn dost call. 
 
 Mindless of wintry blast or sultry suns, 
 Some goodly task proportioning to all, — 
 
 Pronounced, here, for metrical accent, glassyay, in the French mode. 
 
382 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Warning to fly from sloth and folly's thrall, 
 And patient meet the tempest or the thorn, — 
 Nor ermine robe thou giv'st, nor silken pall, 
 Nor gilded boon, of bloated luxury born, 
 To bid the pampered soul its lowly brother scorn. 
 
 Yet hath bold Science in thy sterile bed 
 
 Struck a deep root ; nor from thy clime recoil 
 
 The Arts, but wide their winged seeds have spread, 
 For hardened hands, embrowned with peasant toil, 
 To pluck their delicate flowers ; and, while the soil 
 
 Their plough hath broken, some the Muse have hailed, 
 Smit with her love 'mid poverty's turmoil, — 
 
 And, like the seer by angel might assailed, 
 Wrestled till break of day, and then like him prevailed. 
 
 Yet humbler virtues throw their guard around 
 
 Thy rocky coast } and, 'mid the autumn leaves 
 That, falling, rustle with a solemn sound, 
 
 His magic spell a hidden spirit weaves. 
 
 Nursed 'neath the peaceful shade of cottage eaves, 
 By chime of Sabbath-bell from hallowed dome, 
 
 And breath of household prayer, which Heaven receives, 
 It binds around the heart of those who roam, 
 The patriot's stainless shield, — the sacred love of home. 
 
 EXERCISE CLVII. 
 
 PARTICULAR PEOPLE. Anon. 
 
 Did you ever live with a particular lady 1 — one possessed 
 not simply with the spirit, but the demon of tidiness, — who 
 will give you a good two hours' lecture upon the sin of an 
 untied shoe-string, and raise a hurricane about your ears, on 
 the enormity of a fractured glove 1 — who will be struck 
 speechless at the sight of a pin instead of a string, or set a 
 whole house in an uproar, on finding a book on the table, 
 instead of in the book-case ? 
 
 Those who have had the misfortune to meet with such a 
 person, will know how to sympathize with me. I have 
 passed two whole months with a particular lady. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 383 
 
 I had often received very pressing invitations to visit an 
 old schoolfellow, who is settled in a snug parsonage, about 
 fifty miles from town ; but something or other was continually 
 occurring to prevent me from availing myself of them. 
 
 But on the 17th of June, 1826, (I shall never forget it, if 
 I live to the age of old Parr,) having a few spare weeks at 
 my disposal, I set out for my chum's residence. He received 
 me with his wonted cordiality ; but I fancied that he looked a 
 little more care-worn than a man of thirty might be expected 
 to look, — married as he is to the woman of his choice, and 
 in the possession of an easy fortune. 
 
 Poor fellow ! I did not know that his wife was a precisian. 
 The first hint I received of the fact, was from* ?.!.. Z., who, 
 removing my hat from the first peg in the hall to the fourth, 
 observed, " My wife is a little particular in these matters; 
 the first peg is for my hat, the second, for William's, the third 
 for Tom's, and you can reserve the fourth, if you please, for 
 your own : ladies, you know, do not like to have their arrange- 
 ments interfered with." 
 
 I promised to do my best to recollect the order of prece- 
 dence with respect to the hats, and walked up stairs, im- 
 pressed with an awful veneration for a lady who had contrived 
 to impose so rigid a discipline on a man formerly the most 
 disorderly of mortals ; mentally resolving to obtain her 
 favour by the most studious observance of her wishes. 
 
 I might as well have determined to be emperor of China ! 
 Before the week was at an end, I was a lost man. I always 
 reckon myself tolerably tidy ; never leaving more than half 
 my clothes on the floor of my dressing-room, nor more than a 
 dozen books about any apartment I may happen to occupy 
 for an hour. I do not lose more than a dozen handkerchiefs 
 in a month ; nor have more than a quarter of an hour's hunt 
 for my hat or gloves, whenever I am going out in a hurry. 
 
 I found all this was but as dust in the balance. The 
 first time I sat down to dinner, I made a horrible blunder ; for, 
 in my haste to help my friend to some asparagus, I pulled a 
 dish a little out of its place, thereby deranging the exact hex- 
 agonal order in which the said dishes were arranged. I 
 discovered my mishap on hearing Mr. S. sharply rebuked for 
 a similar offence. 
 
 Secondly, I sat, the whole evening, with the cushion a full 
 finger's length beyond the cane-work of my chair ; and what 
 is worse, I do not know that I should have been aware of my 
 delinquency, "f the agony of the lady's feelings had not over- 
 
384 
 
 powered every consideration, and at last burst forth, " Excuse 
 me, Mr. , but do pray put your cushion straight : it an- 
 noys me, beyond measure, to see it otherwise ! " 
 
 My third offence was displacing the snuffer-stand from its 
 central position between the candlesticks ; my fourth, leaving 
 a pamphlet I had been perusing on the piano-forte; its proper 
 place being a table in the middle of the room, on which all 
 books in present use were ordered to repose; my fifth — but, 
 in short, I should never have done, were I to enumerate eve 
 ry separate enormity of which I was guilty. My friend S.'s 
 drawing-room had as good a right to exhibit a placard of 
 " steel traps and spring guns," as any park I am acquainted 
 with. 
 
 In one place, you are in danger of having your legs snapped 
 off; and in another, your nose. There never was a house so 
 atrociously neat : every chair and table knew its duty ; — the 
 very chimney ornaments " had been trained up in the way 
 they should go ; " and woe to the unlucky wight who should 
 make them depart from it ! 
 
 Even those " chartered libertines," the children and dogs, 
 were taught to be as demure and hypocritical as the matronly 
 tabby cat herself, who sat with her two fore-feet together and 
 her tail curled round her, as exactly as if she had been worked 
 in an urn-rug, instead of being a living mouser. It was the ut- 
 most stretch of my friend's marital authority, to get his favourite 
 spaniel admitted to the honour of the parlour ; and even this 
 privilege is only granted in his master's presence. If Carlo 
 happens to pop his unlucky brown nose into the room when S. 
 is from home, he sets off directly with as much consciousness 
 in his ears and tail, as if he had been convicted of larceny 
 in the kitchen, and anticipated the application of the broom- 
 stick. As to the children, I believe that they look forward to 
 their evening visit to the drawing-room with much the same 
 sort of feeling. Not that Mrs. S. is an unkind mother, 
 or, — I should rather say, — not that she means to be so; 
 but she has taken it into her head, that, as young people 
 have sometimes short memories, it is necessary to put 
 them verbally in mind of their duties, " from morn till dewy 
 eve." 
 
 So it is with her servants. If one of them leaves a broom 
 or a duster out of its place, for a second, she hears of it for 
 a month afterwards. I wonder how they endure it ! I have 
 sometimes thought that from long practice, they do not heed 
 it, as a friend of mine who lives in a bustling street in the 
 
385 
 
 city tells me he does not hear the noise of the coaches and 
 carts, in front of his house, nor even of a brazier, who ham- 
 mers away in his near neighbourhood, from morning till night. 
 
 The worst of it is, that while Mrs. S. never allows a mo- 
 ment's peace to her husband, children, or servants, she thinks 
 herself a jewel of a wife ; but such jewels are too costly for 
 every-day wear. I am sure poor S. thinks so in his heart, 
 and would be content to exchange half-a-dozen of his wife's 
 tormenting good qualities, for the sake of being allowed a 
 little common-place repose. 
 
 I never shall forget the delight I felt on entering my own 
 house, after enduring her thraldom for two months. I abso- 
 lutely revelled in disorder, and gloried in my litters. I tossed 
 my hat one way, my gloves another ; pushed all the chairs 
 into the middle of the room, and narrowly escaped kicking 
 my faithful Christopher, for offering to put it " in order " 
 again, — "straightening," as they call it in Cheshire. That 
 cursed " spirit of order ! " I am sure it is a spirit of evil omen. 
 For my own part, I do so execrate the phrase, that if I were a 
 member of the house of commons, and the " order " of the 
 day were called for, I should make it a " rule " to walk out. 
 
 EXERCISE CLVIIL 
 
 THE GRAND AM. Lamb. 
 
 On the green hill top, 
 Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof, 
 And not distinguished from its neighbour-barn, 
 Save by a slender-tapering length of spire, 
 The grandam sleeps. — A plain stone barely tells 
 The name and date to the chance passenger. 
 For lowly born was she, and long had ate, 
 Well-earned, the bread of service : — hers was else 
 A mounting spirit, one that entertained 
 Scorn of base action, deed dishonourable, 
 Or aught unseemly. 
 
 I remember well 
 Her reverend image : I remember, too, 
 With what a zeal she served her master's house, 
 j*ud how the prattling tongue of garrulous age 
 33 
 
386 YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 
 
 Delighted to recount the oft-told tale 
 Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was, 
 And wondrous skilled in genealogies. 
 And could in apt and voluble terms discourse 
 Of births, of titles, and alliances ; 
 Of marriages, and intermarriages ; 
 Relationship remote, or near of kin ; — 
 Of friends offended, family disgraced, — 
 Maiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying 
 Parental strict injunction, and, regardless 
 Of unmixed blood and ancestry remote, 
 Stooping to wed with one of low degree. 
 
 But these are not thy praises ; and I wrong 
 Thy honoured memory, recording chiefly 
 Things light or trivial. Better 'twere to tell, 
 How with a nobler zeal, and warmer love, 
 She served her heavenly Master. I have seen 
 That reverend form bent down with age and pain, 
 And rankling malady. Yet not for this 
 Ceased she to praise her Maker, nor withdrew 
 Her trust in Him, her faith, and humble hope, — 
 So meekly had she learned to bear her cross ' T — 
 For she had studied patience in the school 
 Of Christ ; much comfort she had thence derived, 
 And was a follower of the Nazarene. 
 
 EXERCISE CLIX. 
 
 COTTAGE NAMES. Miss Mitford. 
 
 From the time of Goldsmith, down to the present day, fine 
 names have been the ridicule of comic authors, and the aver 
 sion of sensible people ; notwithstanding which the evil has 
 increased almost in proportion to its reprobation. Miss 
 Clementina Wilhelmina Stubbs was but a type of the Julias, 
 and Isabels, and the Helens of this accomplished age. 
 
 I should not, however, so much mind if this folly were 
 comprised in that domain of cold gentility, to which affectation 
 usually confines itself. One does not regard seeing Miss 
 Arabella seated at the piano, or her little sister Leonora tot- 
 tling across the carpet, to show her new pink shoes. That is 
 
387 
 
 in the usual course of events. But the fashion spreads 
 deeper and wider : the village is infected, and the village 
 green ; Amelias and Claras sweep your rooms and cook your 
 dinners ; gentle Sophias milk your cows ; and if you ask a 
 pretty smiling girl at a cottage door to tell you her name, the 
 rosy lips lisp out Caroline. 
 
 It was but the other day that I went into a neighbour's to 
 procure a messenger, and found the errand disputed by a 
 gentle Georgiana without a shoe, and a fair Augusta with 
 half a frock. Now this is a sad thing. One looks upon 
 cottage names as a part of cottage furniture, — of the cos- 
 tume, — and is as much discomposed by the change as a 
 painter of interiors would be, should he find a Grecian couch 
 instead of an oaken settle by the wide open hearth. 
 
 In fine houses, fine names do not signify ; though I would 
 humbly suggest to godfathers and godmothers, papas, mam- 
 mas, maiden aunts, nurses, and gossips in general, the un- 
 conscious injury that they are doing to novelists, poets, 
 dramatic writers, and the whole fraternity of authors, by 
 trespassing on their (nominal) property, infringing their 
 patent, encroaching on their privilege, underselling their 
 stock in trade, depreciating their currency, and finally rob- 
 bing poor heroes and heroines of their solitary possession, the 
 only thing they can call their own. 
 
 Shakspeare has an admonition much to the purpose, " He 
 who filches from me my good name," and so forth. — Did they 
 never hear that ? never see Othello 1 never read Elegant 
 Extracts 1 never learn the speech by rote out of Enfield's 
 Speaker ? If they did, I must say the lesson has been as 
 completely thrown away as lessons of morality commonly are. 
 Sponsors in these days think no more harm of " filching a 
 name " than a sparrow does of robbing a cherry-tree. 
 
 This, however, is an affair of conscience or of taste ; and 
 conscience and taste are delicate points to meddle with, 
 especially the latter. People will please their fancies, and 
 every lady has her favourite names. I myself have several ; 
 and they are mostly short and simple. Jane, that queenly 
 name ! Jane Seymour, Jane Grey, " the noble Jane de 
 Montfort ; " — Anne, to which Lady seems to belong as of 
 right ; — Mary, which is as common as a white violet, and 
 like that has something indestructibly sweet and simple, and 
 fit for all wear, high or low, suits the cottage or the palace, 
 the garden or the field, the pretty or the ugly, the old or the 
 
388 
 
 young; — Margaret, Marguerite- — the pearl ! the daisy ! Oh ! 
 name of romance and of minstrelsy, which brings the days of 
 chivalry to mind, and the worship of flowers and of ladies fair \ 
 Emily, in which all womanly sweetness seems bound up, — 
 perhaps this is the effect of the association of ideas : — I know 
 so many charming Emilies ; and Susan, the sprightly, the 
 gentle, the home-loving, the kind ; — association again. 
 
 But certainly there are some names which seem to belong 
 to particular classes of character, to form the mind, and even 
 to influence the destiny : — Louisa, now 5 — is not your 
 Louisa necessarily a die-away damsel, who reads novels, and 
 holds her head on one side, languishing and given to love 1 
 Is not Lucy a pretty soubrette, a wearer of cast gowns and 
 cast smiles, smart and coquettish'? Must not Emma, as a 
 matter of course, prove epistolary, if only for the sake of her 
 signature T And is there not great danger that Laura may 
 go a step farther, write poetry, and publish 1 Oh ! beware, 
 dear godmammas, when you call an innocent baby after 
 Petrarch's muse ! Think of the peril ! Beware I 
 
 Next to names simple in themselves, those which fall easily 
 into diminutives seem to be most desirable. All abbrevia- 
 tions are pretty — Lizzy, Bessy, Sophy, Fanny — the prettiest 
 of all! There is something so familiar, so home-like, so 
 affectionate in the sound ; — it seems to tell, in one short 
 word, a story of family love, to vouch for the amiableness of 
 both parties. 
 
 I never thought one of the most beautiful and brilliant women 
 in England quite so charming as she really is, till I heard her 
 call her younger sister " Annie." It seemed to remove, at 
 once, the almost repellent quality which belongs to extreme 
 polish, — gave a genial warmth to her brightness, — became 
 her like a smile. There was a tenderness in the voice too, a 
 delay, a dwelling on the double consonant, giving to English 
 something of the charm of Italian pronunciation, which I 
 have noticed only in two persons, who are, I think, the most 
 graceful speakers and readers of my acquaintance. " Annie ! M 
 If she had called her sister Anna Maria, according to the 
 register, I should have admired, and feared, and shunned 
 her to my dying day. That little word made us friends ira* 
 mediately. 
 
YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 389 
 
 EXERCISE CLX. 
 THE BRIDES OF VENICE. Rogers. 
 
 It was St. Mary's Eve ; and all poured forth, 
 As to some grand solemnity. The fisher 
 Came from his islet, bringing o'er the waves 
 His wife and little one ; the husbandman 
 From the Firm Land, along the Po, the Brenta, — 
 Crowding the common ferry. All arrived ; 
 And in his straw the prisoner turned and listened, — 
 So great the stir in Venice. Old and young 
 Thronged her three hundred bridges ; the grave Turk, 
 Turbaned, long-vested, and the cozening Jew, 
 In yellow hat and threadbare gabardine, 
 Hurrying along. For, as the custom was, 
 The noblest sons and daughters of the state, 
 They of patrician birth, the flower of Venice, 
 Whose names are written in the " Book of Gold," 
 Were on that day to solemnize their nuptials. 
 
 At noon, a distant murmur through the crowd, 
 Rising and rolling on, announced their coming ; 
 And never from the first was to be seen 
 Such splendour or such beauty. Two and two, 
 (The richest tapestry unrolled before them,) 
 First came the brides in all their loveliness ; 
 Each in her veil, and by two bridemaids followed, 
 Only less lovely, who behind her bore 
 The precious caskets that within contained 
 The dowry and the presents. On she moved, 
 Her eyes cast down, and holding in her hand 
 A fan, — that gently waved, — of ostrich-feathers. 
 Her veil, transparent as the gossamer, 
 Fell from beneath a starry diadem ; 
 And on her dazzling neck a jewel shone, 
 Ruby or diamond or dark amethyst ; 
 A jewelled chain, in many a winding wreath, 
 Wreathing her gold brocade. 
 
 Before the church, 
 That venerable pile on the sea-brink, 
 33* 
 
390 YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 
 
 Another train they met, — no strangers to them,— — 
 Brothers to some and to the rest still dearer ; 
 Each in his hand bearing his cap and plume. 
 And, as he walked, with modest dignity 
 Folding his scarlet mantle, his tabarro. 
 
 They join, they enter in, and up the aisle 
 Led by the full-voiced choir, in bright procession, 
 Range round the altar. In his vestments there 
 The patriarch stands ; and, while the anthem flows, 
 Who can look on unmoved ? — mothers in secret 
 Rejoicing in the beauty of their daughters, 
 Sons in the thought of making them their own ; 
 And they, — arrayed in youth and innocence, — 
 Their beauty heightened by their hopes and fears. 
 
 At length the rite is ending : — All fall down 
 In earnest prayer, all of all ranks together ; 
 And, stretching out his hands, the holy man 
 Proceeds to give the general benediction ; 
 When hark ! — a din of voices from without, 
 And shrieks, and groans, and outcries, as in battle ; 
 And lo ! the door is burst, — the curtain rent, — 
 And armed ruffians, robbers from the deep, 
 Savage, uncouth, led on by Barbarigo, 
 And his six brothers in their coats of steel, 
 Are standing on the threshold ! — Statue-like, 
 Awhile they gaze on the fallen multitude, 
 Each with his sabre up, in act to strike ; 
 Then, as at once recovering from the spell, 
 Rush forward to the altar, and as soon 
 Are gone again, — amid no clash of arms 
 Bearing away the maidens and the treasures. 
 
 Where are they now? — ploughing the distant waves 
 Their sails all set ; and they upon the deck 
 Standing triumphant. To the east they go, 
 Steering for Istria ; their accursed barks, 
 (Well are they known, the galliot and the galley,) 
 Freighted with all that gives to life its value ! 
 The richest argosies were poor to them ! 
 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 391 
 
 EXERCISE CLXL 
 
 SAME SUBJECT CONCLUDED. 
 
 Now might you see the matrons running wild 
 Along the beach ; the men half-armed and arming ; 
 One with a shield, one with a casque and spear ; 
 One with an axe, hewing the mooring-chain 
 Of some old pinnace. Not a raft, a plank, 
 But on that day was drifting. In an hour 
 Half Venice was afloat. But long before, — 
 Frantic with grief, and scorning ail control, — 
 The youths were gone in a light brigantine, 
 Lying at anchor near the arsenal ; 
 Each having sworn, and by the holy rood, 
 To slay or to be slain. 
 
 And from the tower 
 The watchman gives the signal. In the east 
 A ship is seen, and making for the port; 
 Her flag St. Mark's — And now she turns the point, — 
 Over the waters like a sea-bird flying ! 
 Ha! 'tis the same, 'tis theirs ! from stern to prow 
 Hung with green boughs, she comes, she comes, restoring 
 All that was lost ! 
 
 Coasting, with narrow search, 
 Friuli — like a tiger in his spring, 
 They had surprised the corsairs where they lay, 
 Sharing the spoil in blind security, 
 And casting lots, — had slain them, one and all, — 
 All to the last, — and flung them far and wide 
 Into the sea, their proper element ; — 
 Him first, as first in rank, whose name so long 
 Had hushed the babes of Venice, and who yet 
 Breathing a little, in his look retained 
 The fierceness of his soul. 
 
 Thus were the brides 
 Lost and recovered ; and what now remained 
 But to give thanks? Twelve breastplates and twelve 
 
 crowns, 
 Flaming with gems and gold, the votive offerings 
 Of the young victors to their patron saint, 
 Vowed on the field of battle, were ere long 
 Laid at his feet ; and to preserve forever 
 
392 
 
 The memory of a day so full of change, 
 
 From joy to grief, from grief to joy again, 
 
 Through many an age, as oft as it came round, 
 
 'Twas held religiously with all observance. 
 
 The Doge resigned his crimson for pure ermine ; 
 
 And through the city in a stately barge 
 
 Of gold, were borne, with songs and symphonies, 
 
 Twelve ladies young and noble. Clad they were 
 
 In bridal white with bridal ornaments, 
 
 Each in her glittering veil ; and on the deck, 
 
 As on a burnished throne, they glided by ; — 
 
 No window or balcony but adorned 
 
 With hangings of rich texture, — not a roof 
 
 But covered with beholders, and the air 
 
 Vocal with joy. Onward they went ; their oars 
 
 Moving in concert with the harmony, 
 
 Through the Rialto to the ducal palace ; 
 
 And at a banquet there, served with due honour, 
 
 Sat, representing, in the eyes of all, — 
 
 Eyes not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears, — 
 
 Their lovely ancestors, the " Brides of Venice." 
 
 EXERCISE CLXII. 
 
 LIGHT. Anon. 
 
 Look at that glassy wave, the light of which daizles our 
 eyes, as if it came from a silvered mirror : where does that 
 light originate ? Oh ! you will say, it is only the sunbeams. 
 To be sure : you admit r then, that the light from the wave 
 does not originate in the wave itself, but that it comes from 
 the sun 1 — ninety-five millions one hundred and seventy- 
 three thousand miles. — A pretty long journey, you will con- 
 fess ; but is the light tardy in accomplishing it 1 No ; it 
 travels at the rate of nearly two hundred thousand miles in a 
 second, and, consequently, arrives at the earth from the sun, 
 in about eight minutes. Does it travel farther than the earth? 
 For what we know, it may travel on forever, till intercepted 
 by some opaque or ponderable object ; but we know for cer- 
 tain, that it reaches Herschel, — the most distant planet of 
 
393 
 
 our system, which is no less than eighteen hundred millions 
 of miles from the sun. 
 
 Is light material ? I have no knowledge of it but what is 
 obtained through the medium of sight ; no other sense recog- 
 nizes it ; we cannot taste it ; we cannot smell it ; and it 
 makes no impression on the nerves of touch. But I can 
 learn, that it is not only compounded of three primary col- 
 oured rays, but also of others not connected with colour at 
 all ; of calorific and of oxidizing and deoxidizing rays. I 
 can see, that it is necessary to vegetation ; that plants, de- 
 prived of its presence, lose their green colour; that it effects 
 various chemical decompositions; and that it is subjected 
 to certain fixed laws, which form the basis of the science of 
 optics. From these circumstances I infer that it is matter, 
 that it is a substance. But how subtile must be the nature of 
 a substance whose particles can move in every direction, 
 without interfering with each other ; which can travel ninety- 
 five millions of miles in eight minutes, and yet not exert the 
 least perceptible force of collision ; which will pass through 
 the hardest crystal, or the purest diamond, with as much ease 
 as through air or water ! 
 
 Light is imponderable, and wants various properties which 
 philosophers have thought to be essential to matter ; but, in 
 fact, we can seldom tell what is essential to any thing. We 
 see objects and light by the eyes : that you will admit ; and 
 you will admit, also, that without organs of vision, we could 
 have no knowledge of light and colours. But is it the eye 
 that sees] Consider now. You say, Yes: I say, No. 
 
 When you take up a telescope, and look at the moons of 
 Jupiter, you see those moons, which, without the telescope, 
 you could not see. But does the telescope see them ] You 
 laugh, perhaps : you think the question childish. It is not so. 
 Suppose a card were slipped in between your eye and the 
 eye-glass, you would then neither perceive the planet nor his 
 satellites. 
 
 Now, the eye is to vision what the telescope is : it is an op- 
 tical instrument ; it serves to form an image ; but the eye 
 itself does not see : it is the organ of communication with 
 light, and is necessary to vision ; but the sensation lies in 
 the brain, or rather, I should say, in the mind which inhabits 
 it. Cut off the communication between the eye and the 
 brain ; and the same result follows as when a card is placed 
 between the eye and the telescope : all is dark. The optic 
 
394 
 
 nerve is the cord through which the brain communicates with 
 the eye ; and when, by disease or other means, that nerve, or 
 its expansion, the retina, on which the images of external 
 objects are painted, loses its function, or if, — as has been 
 often proved by experiment, the optic nerves be cut across, — 
 then the animal sees no longer, though the eyes themselves 
 remain as perfect as before. 
 
 EXERCISE CLXIII. 
 
 TO A LITTLE CLOUD. Montgomery. 
 
 The summer sun was in the west, 
 Yet far above his evening rest; 
 A thousand clouds in air displayed 
 Their floating isles of light and shade, — 
 The sky, like ocean's channels, seen 
 In long meandering streaks between. 
 
 Cultured and waste the landscape lay ; 
 Woods, mountains, valleys stretched away, 
 And thronged the immense horizon round, 
 With heaven's eternal girdle bound : 
 From inland towns, eclipsed with smoke, 
 Steeples in lonely grandeur broke ; 
 Hamlets, and cottages, and streams 
 By glimpses caught the casual gleams, 
 Or blazed in lustre broad and strong, 
 Beyond the picturing powers of song : 
 O'er all the eye enchanted ranged, 
 While colours, forms, proportions changed, 
 Or sank in distance undefined, 
 Still as our devious course inclined ; 
 — And oft we paused, and looked behind. 
 
 One little cloud, and only one, 
 Seemed the pure offspring of the sun, 
 Flung from his orb to show us here 
 What clouds adorn Ms hemisphere ; 
 Unmoved, unchanging, in the gale 
 That bore the rest o'er hill and dale, 
 Whose shadowy shapes, with lights around, 
 Like living motions, swept the ground. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 395 
 
 This little cloud, and this alone, 
 
 Long in the highest ether shone ; 
 
 Gay as a warrior's banner, spread 
 
 Its sunward margin, ruby-red, 
 
 Green, purple, gold, and every hue 
 
 That glitters in the morning dew, 
 
 Or glows along the rainbow's form, — 
 
 The apparition of the storm. 
 
 Deep in its bosom, diamond-bright, 
 
 Behind a fleece of pearly white, 
 
 It seemed a secret glory dwelt, 
 
 Whose presence, while unseen, was felt : 
 
 Like Beauty's eye, in slumber hid 
 
 Beneath a half-transparent lid, 
 
 From whence a sound, a touch, a breath, 
 
 Might startle it, — as life from death. 
 
 Looks, words, emotions of surprise 
 Welcomed the stranger to our eyes : 
 Was it the phoenix, that from earth 
 In flames of incense sprang to birth ? 
 Had Ocean from his lap let fly 
 His loveliest halcyon through the sky ? 
 No : — while we gazed, the pageant grew 
 A nobler object to our view ; 
 We deemed, if heaven with earth would hold 
 Communion, as in days of old, 
 Such, on his journey down the sphere, 
 Benignant Raphael might appear, 
 In splendid mystery concealed, 
 Yet by his rich disguise revealed : 
 — That buoyant vapour, in mid-air, 
 An angel in its folds might bear, 
 Who, through the curtain of his shrine, 
 Betrayed his lineaments divine. 
 The wild, the warm illusion stole, 
 Like inspiration, o'er the soul, 
 Till thought was rapture ; language hung 
 Silent but trembling on the tongue ; 
 And fancy almost hoped to hail 
 The seraph rushing through his veil, 
 Or hear an awful voice proclaim 
 The embassy on which he came. 
 
 But ah ! no minister of grace 
 Showed from the firmament his face, 
 
396 
 
 YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 
 
 Nor, borne aloof on balanced wings. 
 Revealed unutterable things. 
 The sun went down : — the vision passed j 
 The cloud was but a cloud at last ; 
 Yet when its brilliancy decayed, 
 The eye still lingered on the shade, 
 And watching, till no longer seen, 
 Loved it for what it once had been. 
 
 That cloud was beautiful, — was one 
 Among a thousand round the sun : 
 The thousand shared the common lot; 
 They came, — they went, — they were forgot 
 This fairy form alone impressed 
 Its perfect image in my breast, 
 And shines as richly blazoned there 
 As in its element of air. 
 
 Bliss in possession will not last ; 
 Remembered joys are never past : 
 At once the fountain, stream, and sea, 
 They were, — they are, — they yet shall be. 
 
 EXERCISE CLXIV. 
 THE CULTIVATION OF TASTE. 
 
 [From an Address on the Education of Females.] 
 
 The cultivation of taste, is one of those departments of 
 education, in which much depends on the action of the in- 
 dividual. The study of languages, and the practice of read- 
 ing and of composition, are the chief sources of influence on 
 taste, that can be resorted to, in the period of school educa- 
 tion. In some establishments, it is true, pupils enjoy the 
 additional aid of instruction in music and drawing, — pursuits 
 which exert a powerful influence, in cherishing the tendencies 
 of the young mind towards the beautiful in form and in 
 sound. — Pure taste and discriminating judgment, in the 
 teachers of these branches of education, must lie at the 
 foundation of all valuable attainment, on the part of the pupil. 
 Without these primary aids, girls had better be left to those 
 
397 
 
 influences which spring from their own constitutional suscep- 
 tibility to nature and to sentiment, as sources of refinement, 
 than suffer the indescribable evils resulting from false or per- 
 verted taste. 
 
 But, after the best initiatory instruction, the benefits of prac- 
 tice in drawing and in music, depend entirely on judicious per- 
 sonal culture. It matters little that a young lady has studied 
 the rudiments of drawing under a teacher of acknowledged 
 taste and skill, if she allows her practice to run into the line 
 of fancy scenes of delicately graceful Gothic castles, slender 
 upright trees, and prettily draped knights and damsels, 
 promenading in " trim gardens ; " or if she restricts herself 
 to the painting of those birds and flowers which exist nowhere 
 but on much-abused paper or canvass. The taste which is 
 formed by such exercises, is irretrievably perverted : every 
 new essay, in such style, only stereotypes a fault. 
 
 Let the young student, on the other hand, attempt to draw 
 a tree, to paint a flower, or to sketch a group of objects, from 
 nature ; and how different the result ! Let the attempt even 
 prove a failure, — there has been a flood of instruction poured 
 over the mind, a whole world of impressions stamped on the 
 imagination, and a fresh sensibility awakened to every beauty 
 of form, and light, and colour. The student rises from her 
 work to new perceptions of grace, and symmetry, and 
 perfection, in nature and in art, and, not less, in soul and 
 character. 
 
 Similar effects follow the cultivation of music. A girl at 
 school may have enjoyed the best opportunities of faithful 
 and able instruction. But it will all be unavailing, if she 
 give up her subsequent hours of practice to the low strains 
 of a popular ballad, or to rattling off some delicious little 
 snuff-box waltz. Her instrument and her voice become thus 
 the effectual means of degrading her taste to the low and the 
 trivial ; and every hour devoted to such practice, becomes an 
 additional security that she shall never rise to the refinement 
 and elevation of soul, which music is so beautifully adapted 
 to confer. 
 
 Let a young lady, on the contrary, regard every hour 
 which she devotes to music, as consecrated to higher attain- 
 ments in the perception and enjoyment of beauty, and to the 
 power of exalting her own sense of loveliness and perfection ; 
 and she will select the works of great composers only. She 
 may not be able to perform any but their easiest and slightest 
 productions. But to these she will adhere, as to the manna 
 34 
 
398 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 of genius, and shrink from the other, as from the messes of 
 Egypt. She will be content to wait patiently, and practise 
 assiduously, for the skill which, in due time, will reward her 
 resolution and her perseverance, and enable her to present 
 more faithfully, and to enjoy more amply, the richer fruits oi 
 great minds. 
 
 EXERCISE CLXV. 
 
 DECEMBER. Howitt. 
 
 " I love thee, Winter! well." Southey. 
 
 " With his ice, and snow, and rime, 
 Let bleak Winter sternly come ! 
 There is not a sunnier clime 
 
 Than the love-lit winter-home." A. A. Watts. 
 
 We are now placed in the midst of wintry scenes. 
 Nature is stripped of all her summer drapery. Her verdure, 
 her foliage, her flowers, have all vanished. The sky is filled 
 with clouds and gloom, or sparkles only with a frosty radi- 
 ance. The earth is spongy with wet, rigid with frost, or 
 buried in snows. The winds that, in summer, breathe gently 
 over nodding blooms, and undulating grass, swaying the leafy 
 boughs with a pleasant murmur, and wafting perfumes all over 
 the world, now hiss like serpents, or howl like wild beasts of 
 the desert ; cold, piercing, and cruel. 
 
 Every thing has drawn as near as possible to the centre of 
 warmth and comfort. The farmer has driven his flocks and 
 cattle into sheltered home enclosures, where they may receive 
 from his provident care, that food which the earth now 
 denies them ; or into the farm-yard itself, where some honest 
 Giles piles their cratches plentifully with fodder. The 
 labourer has fled from the field to the barn ; and the meas- 
 ured strokes of his flail are heard daily, from morn till eve. 
 
 It amazes us, as we walk abroad, to conceive where can 
 have concealed themselves the infinite variety of creatures 
 that sported through the air, earth, and waters, of summer. 
 Birds, insects, reptiles, — whither are they all gone? The 
 birds that filled the air with their music, the rich blackbird, 
 the loud and cheerful thrush, the linnet, lark, and goldfinch, 
 — whither have they crept ? — The squirrel that played his 
 
399 
 
 antics on the forest-tree ; and all the showy and varied tribes 
 of butterflies, moths, dragon-flies, beetles, wasps, and warrior- 
 hornets, bees and cockchafers, — whither have they fled 1 
 Some, no doubt, have lived out their little term of being, and 
 their bodies, lately so splendid, active, and alive to a thou- 
 sand instincts, feelings and propensities, are become part and 
 parcel of the dull and wintry soil ; but the greater portion 
 have shrunk into the hollows of trees and rocks, and into the 
 bosom of their mother earth itself; where, with millions of 
 seeds, and roots, and buds, they live in the great treasury of 
 Nature, ready at the call of a more auspicious season, to 
 people the world, once more, with beauty and delight. 
 
 The heavens present one of the most prominent and 
 splendid beauties of winter. The long and total absence of 
 the sun's light, and the transparent purity of a frosty atmos- 
 phere, give an apparent elevation to the celestial concave, and 
 a rich depth and intensity of azure, in which the stars burn 
 with resplendent beauty ; the galaxy stretches its albescent 
 glow athwart the northern sky ; and the moon, in her monthly 
 track, sails amongst the glittering constellations, with a more 
 queenly grace ; sometimes, without the visitation of a single 
 cloud, and, at others, seeming to catch, from their wind-winged 
 speed, an accelerated motion of her own. It is a spectacle of 
 which the contemplative eye is never weary ; though it is one, 
 beyond all others, which fills the mind with feelings of the im- 
 mensity of the universe, the tremendous power of its Creator, 
 and of the insignificance of self. 
 
 A breathing atom, — a speck even, — upon the surface of 
 a world which is itself a speck in the universal world, we 
 send our imagination forth amongst innumerable orbs, all 
 stupendous in magnitude, all swarming with existence, — 
 vainly striving to reach the boundaries of space, till, aston- 
 ished and confounded, it recoils from the hopeless task, 
 aching, dazzled, and humbled to the dust. What a weary 
 sense attends the attempt of a finite being to grasp infinity ! 
 — Space beyond space! space beyond space, still ! There is 
 nothing for the mind to rest its weary wing upon ; and it 
 shrinks back into its material cell, in adoration and humility. 
 
 Such are the feelings and speculations which have attended 
 the human spirit in all ages, in contemplating this magnificent 
 spectacle. The awful vastness of the power of the Deity, 
 evinced in the scenes which night reveals, is sure to abase the 
 pride of our intellect, and to shake the overgrowth of our 
 self-love. But these influences are not without their benefit; 
 
400 YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 
 
 and the beauty and beneficence equally conspicuous in every 
 object of creation, — whether a world or an atom, — come to 
 our aid, to reassure our confidence, and to animate us with 
 the proud prospect of an eternity of still perfecting and 
 ennobling existence. 
 
 But the year draws to a close. I see symptoms of its 
 speedy exit. And this awakes in me the consciousness of how 
 little we have thought of man and his toils, and anxieties, as 
 from day to day, and month to month, we have gone wander- 
 ing over the glorious face of the earth, and drinking in its 
 peaceful pleasures ; and yet what a mighty sum of events has 
 been consummated ! — what a tide of passions and affections 
 has flowed, — what lives and deaths have alternately arrived, 
 
 — what destinies have been fixed forever, while we have 
 loitered on a violet-path, and watched the passing splendours 
 of the seasons ! Once more our planet has completed one 
 of those journeys in the heavens, which perfect all the fruit- 
 ful changes of its peopled surface, and mete out the few 
 stages of our existence ; and every day, every hour of that 
 progress, has, in all her wide lands, in all her million hearts, 
 left traces that eternity shall behold. 
 
 Yet, if we have not been burdened with man's cares, we 
 have not forgotten him ; but many a time have we thanked 
 God for his bounties to him, and rejoiced in the fellowship of 
 our nature. If there be a scene to stir in our souls all our 
 thankfulness to God, and all our love for man, it is that of 
 Nature. When we behold the beautiful progression of the 
 seasons, — when we see how leaves and flowers burst forth, 
 and spread themselves over the earth, by myriads in spring, 
 
 — how summer and autumn fill the world with loveliness and 
 fragrance, with corn and wine ; it is impossible not to feel 
 our hearts "breathe perpetual benedictions" to the great 
 Founder and Provider of the world, and warm with sym- 
 pathetic affection towards our own race, for whom He has 
 thought fit to prepare all this happiness. — There is no time 
 in which I feel these sentiments more strongly, than when I 
 behold the moon rising over a solitary summer landscape. 
 The repose of all creatures on the earth, makes more sensibly 
 felt the incessant care of Him who thus sends up " his great 
 light to rule the night," and to shine softly and silently above 
 millions of sleeping creatures, that take no thought for 
 themselves. 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 401 
 
 EXERCISE CLXVI. 
 THE DESERTED HOUSE. Tennyson. 
 
 Life and Thought have gone away 
 
 Side by side, 
 
 Leaving door and windows wide : — 
 Careless tenants they ! 
 
 All within is dark as night : 
 In the windows is no light ; 
 And no murmur at the door, 
 So frequent on its hinge before. 
 
 Close the door, the shutters close ; 
 
 Or through the windows we shall see 
 
 The nakedness and vacancy 
 Of the dark deserted house. 
 
 Come away : no more of mirth 
 Is here, or merry-making sound. 
 
 The house was build ed of the earth, 
 And shall fall again to ground. 
 
 Come away : for Life and Thought 
 Here no longer dwell ; 
 But in a city glorious, — 
 A great and distant city, — have bought 
 A mansion incorruptible. — 
 
 Would they could have staid with us ! 
 
 EXERCISE CLXVII. 
 
 PORTIA. Mrs. Jameson. 
 
 Among Shakspeare's inimitable delineations of female 
 character, Portia, Isabella, Beatrice, and Rosalind, may be 
 classed together, as characters of intellect, because, when 
 compared with others, they are at once distinguished by their 
 mental superiority. In Portia, it is intellect, kindled into 
 34* 
 
402 YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 
 
 romance, by a poetical imagination ; in Isabel, it is intellect, 
 elevated by religious principle ; in Beatrice, intellect, ani- 
 mated by spirit: in Rosalind, intellect, softened by sen- 
 sibility. 
 
 The wit which is lavished on each, is profound, or pointed, 
 or sparkling, or playful, — but always feminine. Like spirits 
 distilled from flowers, it always reminds us of its origin : it is 
 a volatile essence, sweet as powerful; and, — to pursue the 
 comparison a step farther, — the wit of Portia is like attar of 
 roses, — rich and concentrated ; that of Rosalind, like cotton 
 dipped in aromatic vinegar ; the wit of Beatrice is like sal 
 volatile; and that of Isabel, like the incense wafted to 
 heaven. 
 
 Of these four exquisite characters, considered as dramatic 
 and poetical conceptions, it is difficult to pronounce which is 
 most perfect in its way, most admirably drawn, most highly 
 finished. But if considered in another point of view, as 
 women and individuals, as breathing realities, clothed in flesh 
 and blood, I believe we must assign the first rank to Portia, 
 — as uniting in herself, in a more eminent degree than the 
 others, all the noblest and most lovable qualities that ever 
 met together in woman. 
 
 It is singular, that hitherto no critical justice has been 
 done to the character of Portia : it is yet more wonderful, 
 that one of the finest writers on the eternal subject of Shak- 
 speare and his perfections, should accuse Portia of pedantry 
 and affectation, and confess she is not a great favourite of 
 his. * Schlegel, who has given several pages to a rapturous 
 eulogy on the Merchant of Venice, simply designates Portia, 
 as " a rich, beautiful, clever heiress." — If Portia had been 
 created as a mere instrument to bring about a dramatic ca- 
 tastrophe, — if she had merely detected the flaw in Antonio's 
 bond, and used it as a means to baffle the Jew, she might 
 have been pronounced a clever woman. But what Portia 
 does, is forgotten in what she is. The rare and harmonious 
 blending of energy, gentleness, wisdom, and feeling, in her 
 fine character, make, the epithet clever sound like a discord, as 
 applied to Jier, and places her infinitely beyond the slight 
 praise of Richardson and Schlegel, neither of whom appears 
 to have fully comprehended her.f 
 
 * Pronounced, Shlaygel. 
 
 t I find that Schlegel's own word, is, literally, rich in soul or 
 spirit, — a strong and beautiful expression, and just as it is beautiful. 
 Would it not be well if this common and comprehensive word, clever. 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 403 
 
 These and other critics have been apparently so dazzled 
 and engrossed by the amazing character of Shylock, that 
 Portia has received less than justice at their hands ; while 
 the fact is, that Shylock is not a finer or more finished 
 character in his way, than Portia in hers. These two 
 splendid figures are worthy of each other ; worthy of being 
 placed together within the same rich frame-work of enchant- 
 ing poetry, and glorious and graceful forms. She hangs 
 beside the terrible, the inexorable Jew, — the brilliant lights 
 of her character set off by the shadowy power of his, — like a 
 magnificent beauty-breathing Titian by the side of a gorgeous 
 Rembrandt. 
 
 Portia is endued with her own share of those delightful 
 qualities which Shakspeare has lavished on many of his 
 female characters ; but, besides the dignity, the sweetness, 
 and tenderness which should distinguish her sex generally, 
 she is individualized by qualities peculiar to herself; by her 
 high mental powers, her enthusiasm of temperament, her 
 decision of purpose, and her buoyancy of spirit. These are 
 innate : she has other distinguishing qualities, more external, 
 and which are the result of the circumstances in which she is 
 placed. Thus she is the heiress of a princely name and count- 
 less wealth : a train of obedient pleasures have ever waited 
 round her ; and from infancy she has breathed an atmos- 
 phere redolent of perfume and blandishment. 
 
 Accordingly, there is a commanding grace, a high-bred, 
 airy elegance, a spirit of magnificence, in all that she does 
 and says, as one to whom splendour had been familiar, from 
 her very birth. She treads as though her footsteps had been 
 among marble palaces, beneath roofs of fretted gold, o'er 
 cedar floors and pavements of jasper and porphyry, — amid 
 
 were more accurately defined, or, at least, more accurately used ? It 
 signifies, properly, not so much the possession of high powers, as dex- 
 terity in the adaptation of certain faculties, (not necessarily of a high 
 order,) to a certain end or aim, — not always the worthiest. It im- 
 plies something common-place, inasmuch as it speaks the presence 
 of the active and perceptive, with a deficiency of the feeling and re- 
 flective powers ; and, applied to a woman, does it not almost invari- 
 ably suggest the idea of something we should distrust or shrink from, 
 — if not allied to a higher nature? The profligate Frenchwomen, 
 who ruled the councils of Europe, in the middle of the last century, 
 were clever women ; and Madame Du Chatelet, who managed, at 
 one and the same moment, the thread of an intrigue, her cards at 
 piquet, r.nd a calculation in algebra, was a very clever woman. 
 
404 YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 
 
 gardens full of statues, and flowers, and fountains, and haunt- 
 ing music. She is full of penetrative wisdom, and genuine 
 tenderness, and lively wit; but, as she has never known 
 want, or grief, or fear, or disappointment, her wisdom is 
 without a touch of the sombre or the sad ; her affections are 
 all mixed up with faith, hope, and joy ; and her wit has not 
 a particle of malevolence or causticity. 
 
 
 EXERCISE CLXVIII. 
 
 THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON.* Mrs. Sigourney. 
 
 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 honoureth him who pays. 
 — Methinks we see thee, — as in olden time, — - 
 Simple in garb, — majestic and serene, 
 Unmoved by pomp or circumstance, — 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 
 Which she had worshipped. 
 
 For the might that clothed 
 The "Pater Patrice," — for the glorious deeds 
 That make Mount Vernon's tomb a Mecca shrine 
 For all the earth, what thanks to thee are due, 
 
 "* Od laying the corner-stone of the monument to her memory. 
 
405 
 
 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 
 Is 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 ! 
 
 EXERCISE CLXIX. 
 
 FEMALE SENTIMENTALISTS. Mrs. Sandford. 
 
 The sympathy which works of fiction excite, though it 
 has in it something tender and romantic, by no means in- 
 volves real feeling. The young woman who is versed in 
 romances, will, no doubt, acquire the language of sentiment. 
 She will have a sigh and a tear for every occasion, — a lan- 
 guishing look, and a nervous palpitation ; she will condole 
 with every tale of distress, and be exuberant, at least, in her 
 professions of sympathy. She will even imagine it very 
 pretty and picturesque to appear in a cottage, to drop a 
 guinea on a poor man's table, and to receive, with blushing 
 modesty, his lavish thanks. But when the effort is really to 
 be made, — when she finds that charity involves self-denial 
 
406 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 and exertion, — that she must rise from her luxurious couch, 
 and soil her silken sandals, and encounter, perhaps, rudeness 
 and ingratitude from the objects of her relief; and that all 
 this is to be done without observation or applause ; that there 
 is no one to overhear her silver voice, or to watch her gliding 
 footsteps, or to trace her fairy form as she passes down the 
 village street, — then her philanthropic ardour cools ; — she 
 shrinks from the painful duty, and discovers that what is very 
 interesting and poetic in description, is very dull and irksome 
 in practice. 
 
 The very morbidness of her sensibility, is a bar to the real 
 exercise of benevolence : she cannot bear to look upon pain. 
 There is so much that is offensive in human misery, and un- 
 romantic in its detail ; there is so much that is appalling in 
 scenes of misery, and sickness, and death, that she recoils 
 from the mere observation of such calamities, and shuts her 
 eyes, and closes her ears to genuine distress, — from the same 
 feelings that cause her to scream at the approach of a spider, 
 or faint at the sight of blood. Yet she delights to nurse im- 
 aginary griefs, to live in an ideal world, and so to pamper her 
 fancy, and excite her sensibility, that they alone become to 
 her prolific sources of unhappiness. 
 
 There is a romance in grief, that is highly poetic. There 
 is something sublime, in the extremity of human woe. Who 
 does not feel its pathos, when he reads of Antigone, or of 
 Hecuba, of the daughter of Aiah, or of the widow of Nain ? 
 Who does not feel it, when he witnesses or experiences the 
 too frequent tragedies of ordinary life ? 
 
 Yet here there is also danger in the indulgence of senti- 
 ment. There may be a pride in the excess of grief. There 
 may be a luxury in the exuberance of tears. There may be 
 a dreaming trance, in which the sufferers find almost pleasure, 
 and from which they will not descend. And thus they may 
 shroud themselves in their grief, and discard every thing 
 which would divert them from its contemplation, and indulge 
 in a fond and sentimental reverie, which they may almost 
 imagine it a desecration to disturb. 
 
 This is not unfrequently the case with women whose minds 
 are sensitive, but weak, and who seem to make a merit of 
 giving way to sorrow. But it is a perversion of feeling, — 
 not its consequence. For that sentiment is, in reality, most 
 intense that does not indulge itself in expression ; that grief 
 most affecting that is not selfish ; that emotion most noble and 
 
 
READER. 40? 
 
 sublime that elevates not to ecstasy, but to exertion, — that 
 does not spend itself in weeping over a tomb, or in wailing a 
 dirge, but sends the mourner forth in modest, quiet, unobtru- 
 sive sorrow, to encounter again the trials of life, and to fulfil 
 its obligations. 
 
 EXERCISE CLXX. 
 
 THE LOVER'S ECHO. Anon. 
 
 One evening, as lately I strayed by the wave, 
 
 While the sun in his sea-bed was sinking to rest, 
 
 A sigh and a thought to my heart-dear I gave, 
 
 And thus told the secret that burned in my breast ■ 
 
 " I love ; — but alas ! am I loved in return ? " 
 
 When Echo repeating, said — "loved in return." 
 
 With rapture I answered, — " Sweet daughter of air, 
 
 Thou hast brightened my mind with the light of thy spell, 
 
 Thou hast streamed like a meteor of joy o'er my care, 
 And tenderly whispered me hope from thy cell. 
 
 Yet tell me, lone maid, if there's trueness in man ! " 
 
 Lo ! Echo sighed softly — " there's trueness in man I " 
 
 Out of breath, I exclaimed — " Oh ! but tell me of this, — 
 And I'll fondly believe it is Heaven that I hear, — 
 
 Oh! tell me, thou babbler, thou handmaid of bliss, — 
 Oh ! tell if my lover be warm and sincere : 
 
 Oh ! tell me, I pray, if he's fervent and true ! " 
 
 Kind Echo made answer, — " he' s fervent and true." 
 
 " Thanks, thanks ! dearest Echo, for all I have heard ; 
 
 And now, ere we part, thy best tidings express : 
 'Tis the ' last time of asking,' — so waft me a word 
 
 That is spelt with a Y, with an E, and anS; — 
 Shall I soon be a bride 1 — tell me quick, No or Yes ! " — 
 And Echo, dear Echo, distinctly said, — " Yes ! " 
 
40S YOUNG ladies' reader. 
 
 EXERCISE CLXXI. 
 MORAVIAN FUNERALS. Anon. 
 
 If there be a period in life, when the heart is moved to 
 tenderness, and the more susceptible feelings of our nature 
 are softened in grief, with the wanness of melancholy hover- 
 ing on the cheek, it is when we linger near the couch of a 
 dying relative or friend : — it is when we listen to the faint 
 accents of expiring love, and bid adieu to the cold mortal 
 remnant with a trembling grasp ; or clasp, in agonizing sor- 
 row, the object in which was once centred all we held dear 
 of earthly things. The sudden change occasioned by such 
 an event, is an incident that rends the soul, and leaves it for 
 a moment callous to every other object, but that upon which 
 it would pour its last effusion of doting grief, and then 
 resign it to the protection of a higher than earthly power, 
 and the realization of a state of bliss, purer than earthly 
 felicity. 
 
 And it is death, then, that causes this blank in human 
 happiness, and invades, with its palsying touch, the anima- 
 tion of the social circle : that tends for a time to divest life 
 of its charms, and poison the cup of its enjoyments with a 
 bitter dreg ! 
 
 Funeral ceremony is most natural to the heart : it is the 
 last debt we can pay to the memory of departed worth. We 
 cannot but acquiesce in the tendency it has to fit the mind 
 for serious reflection, and prepare it for those subjects of 
 eternal interest, which lay claim to the deepest consideration. 
 
 There is something peculiarly impressive in accompanying 
 the " sable bier " to its last place of deposit, and in witness- 
 ing the last ceremonies of interment. In the high-wrought 
 feelings of the moment, we can only contemplate the spectacle 
 before us, while the more engaging objects of life and nature 
 seem to have lost their chief delights. The placid stillness 
 of a rural funeral, is calculated to enhance these feelings. 
 
 These remarks have been elicited, as appropriate to the 
 subject of Moravian funerals ; as their peculiarities render 
 them the more impressive, and more congenial with the nature 
 of heartfelt sorrow. 
 
 It may, perhaps, be objected, that music is something too 
 intrusive to the feelings, when occupied by the corroding 
 
409 
 
 emotions of grief: we cannot, however, deny its tendency to 
 revive the drooping spirits, and elevate the mind to the par- 
 ticipation of those blessed sensations, which are more nearly 
 allied to heaven than to earth. 
 
 Soon after an individual's dissolution, a short but beautiful 
 dirge is performed upon some elevated position, commonly 
 on the chapel, the solemnity of which is finely adapted to 
 strike upon the susceptible chord of the heart, which is wont 
 to respond to the most casual object of tender inspiration. 
 
 This music is of a low and lengthened tenor, suited to the 
 most solemn occasion, and calculated to heighten the general 
 impressions of sorrow, which pervade the precincts of death. 
 
 It often breaks upon the stillness of morning, and calls the 
 mind for a moment from its daily avocations, and leads it 
 into a train of reflections least congenial with the scenes 
 around us. 
 
 There appears to me something peculiarly striking in this 
 custom of announcing the departure of another to his long 
 home; and I have often listened, as if bound by a sacred 
 spell, to catch the last melting tones of the melody, dying 
 away in the distance. Whence is it, we may inquire, that 
 the breast heaves under such a powerful impulse 1 It cannot 
 be the melody itself, — which upon other occasions would 
 fail to delight, — but the associations hereby revived, which 
 relate so nearly to the object of our former love, and which, 
 as the music of Caryll, " are like the memory of past joys, 
 pleasant yet mournful to the soul," 
 
 This manner of announcing a death, is a regular observ- 
 ance, and seems to have been designed by the original 
 founders of the sect, to be productive of a general expression 
 of mourning, by inspiring all with an equal share of sorrow 
 for the loss of a friend. 
 
 Upon the day of burial, and previous to interment, a 
 solemn dirge is once more performed within the church, ac- 
 companied by vocal music, after which a discourse is given 
 •on the subject most appropriate to the occasion. The 
 mourners and friends then assemble around the bier; a 
 hymn is sung, accompanied by instruments, when the re- 
 mains of the deceased are raised and carried towards the 
 place of burial, preceded by musicians, who play the same 
 dirge, during the procession to the graveyard. After the 
 usual forms of interment are over, and the funeral attendants 
 retire, the final dirge is sounded, until the earth is once more 
 35 
 
410 
 
 levelled with the surface, and all that was mortal is finally 
 consigned to the dust. 
 
 Yet this simple but beautiful ceremony of interment, can- 
 not be said to bear any similarity to those funeral rites 
 occasionally met with, and which, though innocent and 
 touching in themselves, are still marked with superstition. 
 The observances at rural funerals in England, so exquisitely 
 sketched by the pen of Washington Irving, present us with 
 an instance of those remaining traditional customs of the 
 rustic class, who adorn the grave with chaplets of flowers. 
 
 We have heard, too, of Indian burials, — of the doleful 
 lament, — and the train of virgins, who bear to the rude 
 sepulchre the lifeless clay ; while, as the last token of inno- 
 cent affection, they lay near the body the implements of the 
 chase, to serve it on its distant journey ! 
 
 But deep and lasting affection makes a direct appeal to the 
 finer feelings of human nature; and these, when severed 
 from their object by the stroke of death, are most powerfully 
 worked upon by recollections, by favourite associations, and 
 the revival of those incidents which remind us most forcibly 
 of past enjoyments. 
 
 The force of sincere attachment extends its influence 
 beyond the grave; — it hovers in anguish over the silent 
 tomb, and lingers there long after it has ceased to feel the 
 ties of corresponding sympathy and mutual fondness. 
 
 That there is something peculiarly impressive in a Mora- 
 vian funeral, an air of pensive melancholy pervading the 
 whole ceremony, none who have witnessed it can deny. The 
 effect of melody on the heart is powerful, and particularly so 
 when employed in the solemn chant, the devotional hymn, 
 or low dirge that becomes the knell of death. It is by a sort 
 of eloquence, therefore, that musical rites address the soul, 
 and lead it to indulge in moods of sadness, by their tender and 
 irresistible charms. 
 
 I have frequently witnessed scenes calculated to melt the 
 soul, and draw the tear of compassion; but I have never 
 observed a more sublime, solemn, and affecting ceremony, 
 than that of a Moravian burial. 
 
READER. 411 
 
 EXERCISE CLXXIL 
 
 FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. Longfellow. 
 
 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 fire-light 
 Dance upon the parlour 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 holy ones and weakly, 
 Who the cross of suffering bore, 
 
 Folded their pale hands so meekly, 
 Spake with us on earth no more I 
 
 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 saint-like, 
 Looking downward from the skies. 
 
412 
 
 Uttered not, but 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 died I 
 
 EXERCISE CLXXIIL 
 
 DREAMS. Addison. 
 
 Though there are many authors who have written ob 
 dreams,, they have generally considered them only as revela- 
 tions of what has already happened in distant parts of the 
 world, or as presages of what is to happen in future periods 
 of time. 
 
 I shall consider this subject in another light, as dreams 
 may give us some idea of the great excellency of a humans 
 soul, and some intimations of its independency on matter. 
 
 In the first place, our dreams are great instances of that 
 activity which is naturals to the human soul, and which it is- 
 not in the power of sleep to deaden or abate. When the* 
 man appears tired and worn out with the labours of the day,, 
 this active part in his composition is still busied and un- 
 wearied. When the organs of sense want their due repose 
 and' necessary reparations,, and the body is no longer able to* 
 keep pace with that spiritual substance to which it is united^ 
 the soul exerts herself in her several faculties, and continues- 
 in action until her partner is again qualified to bear her 
 company. In this case, dreams look like the relaxations and 
 amusements of the soul, when she is disencumbered of her 
 machine ; — her sports and recreations, when she has laid her 
 charge asleep. 
 
 In the second place, dreams are an instance of that agility 
 and perfection which is natural to the faculties of the mind- 
 when they are disengaged from the body. The soul is 
 clogged and' retarded in her operations, when she acts in 
 conjunction with a companion that is so heavy and unwieldy 
 
READER, 413 
 
 in its motion. But, in dreams, it is wonderful to observe 
 with what a sprightliness and alacrity she exerts herself: the 
 slow of speech make unpremeditated harangues, or converse 
 readily in languages that they are but little acquainted with; 
 — the grave abound in pleasantries; the dull, in repartees 
 and points of wit. There is not a more painful action of the 
 rnind than invention ; yet, in dreams, it works with such ease 
 and activity, that we are not sensible when the faculty is em- 
 ployed. For instance, I believe every one, some time or 
 other, dreams that he is reading papers, books, or letters ; in 
 which case the invention prompts so readily, that the mind is 
 imposed upon, and mistakes its own suggestions for the com- 
 positions of another, 
 
 I shall, under this head, quote a passage out of Sir Thomas 
 Browne, in which the ingenious author gives an account of 
 himself in his dreaming and his waking thoughts. " We are 
 somewhat more than ourselves in our sleeps ; and the slumber 
 of the body seems to be but the waking of the soul. It is 
 the ligation of sense, but the liberty of reason ; and our 
 waking conceptions do not match the fancies of our sleeps. 
 At my nativity, my ascendant was the watery sign of Scor- 
 pio : I was born in the planetary hour of Saturn ; and I think 
 I have a piece of that leaden planet in me. I am no way 
 facetious, nor disposed for the mirth and galliardize of com- 
 pany ; yet in one dream I can compose a whole comedy, be- 
 hold the action, apprehend the jests, and laugh myself awake 
 at the conceits thereof. Were my memory as faithful as my 
 reason is then fruitful, I would never study but in my dreams; 
 and this time also would I choose for my devotions ; but our 
 grosser memories have then so little hold of our abstracted 
 understandings, that they forget the story, and can only relate 
 to our awaked souls a confused and broken tale of that which 
 has passed. Thus it is observed that men, sometimes, upon 
 the hour of their departure, do speak and reason above them- 
 selves ; for then the soul, beginning to be freed from the liga- 
 ments of the body, begins to reason like herself, and to 
 discourse in a strain above mortality." 
 
 I would here remark that wonderful power in the soul 
 .vhen dreaming, of producing her own company. She con- 
 verses with numberless beings of her own creation, and is 
 transported into ten thousand scenes of her own raising. She 
 .s herself the theatre, the actor, and the beholder. This puts 
 me in mind of a saying which I am infinitely pleased with, 
 md which Plutarch ascribes to Heraclitus, that all men, 
 35* 
 
414 YOUNG LADIES 7 READER- 
 
 whilst they are awakey are in. one common world ; but thai 
 each of them, when he is asleep, is in a world of his own. 
 The waking man is conversant in the world of nature : when 
 he sleeps, he retires to a private world, that is particular to 
 himself. There seems something in this consideration that 
 intimates to us a natural grandeur and perfection; in the soul T 
 which is rather to be admired- than explained. 
 
 I must not omit that argument for the excellency of the 
 soul, which I have seen quoted out of Tertullian, namely,, 
 its power of divining in dreams. That several such divina- 
 tions have been made, none can question who believes the 
 hoty writings, or who has but the least degree of a common 
 historical faith ; there being innumerable instances of this 
 nature in several authors, both ancient and modern, sacred; 
 and profane. Whether such dark presages, such, visions of 
 the night, proceed from any latent power in the soul, during 
 this her state of abstraction, or from any communication with 
 the Supreme Being, or from any operation of subordinate 
 spirits, has been a great dispute among the learned r the mat- 
 ter of fact is, I think, incontestable, and has been looked; 
 upon as such by the greatest writers, who have never been 
 suspected either of superstition or enthusiasm. 
 
 I do not suppose that the soul,- in these instances, is entire- 
 ly loose and unfettered from the body : it is sufficient if she 
 is not so far sunk and immersed in matter, nor entangled and 
 perplexed in her operations with such motions of blood and 
 spirits, as when she actuates the machine .in its waking hours. 
 The corporeal union is slackened enough to give the mind 
 more play. The soul seems gathered within herself, and 
 recovers that spring which is broken and weakened^ when 
 she operates more in concert with the body. 
 
 EXERCISE CLXXIV. 
 
 SONG OF THE MAY FASHIONS. Anon. 
 
 Fair May, to all fair maidens of May-Fair 
 Ye matrons, too, the poet's greeting share ; 
 May many a May to matron and to maid 
 Return without a grief, without a shade ; 
 
YOUNG LADIES* READER. 415 
 
 May all be gay from Middlesex to Mayo, 
 
 May never sigh be heaved or heard a heigh-ho ! 
 
 All poets have their impulses and passions ; 
 And mine it is to sing a song of Fashions, 
 Of bonnets, frills, and parasols, and capes, — - 
 Of gauzes, guipures, marabouts, and crepes, — 
 Of dresses, ribands, stomachers, and bustles, 
 And all that floats or flounces, waves or rustles ; — 
 Of trimmings, flowers, feathers, fringes, shawls, 
 For fetes and dinners, operas and balls. 
 
 Be gracious, Maia, queen of merry May ! 
 As smooth as velvet make my summer lay ; 
 And if you be a millinery muse, 
 Airy Muslina, don't your aid refuse, 
 But come with Fancy in your gauzy train, 
 And leave the Gallic for the British plain ; 
 Like your best needle let my verses shine, 
 And with your thimble shield each fearful line. 
 
 Oh ! be propitious ! Make me glib on 
 
 Cambrics, and profound on ribbon, 
 
 Learned in lamas, bright on satin, 
 
 Chemisettes and corsets pat in ; — ■ 
 
 Aid me, lest I make a hash mere 
 
 Of mantilla, scarf, and Cashmere, — 
 
 Thus involve me in dilemmas 
 
 With the Graces, Maudes, and Emmas, — 
 
 Lest I get into quandaries, 
 
 Misdirecting Lady Maries ; 
 
 Or damages may have to pay. 
 
 For leading Bell or Blanche astray ; 
 
 Dishing Kate, deceiving Ellen, 
 
 Or misguiding Madam Helen, 
 
 By some costume which afar is 
 
 From the present mode of Paris. 
 Paris still is Helen's passion, 
 Paris still the glass of fashion. 
 Come Iris, too, with all your vivid hues ! 
 Come Flora, with the dew-drops on your shoes ! 
 For there will now be need of vernal dyes, 
 To suit young May, and charm the charmer's eyes, 
 
416 YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 
 
 Pale pinks, blue lilachs. and the softest greens, 
 
 For bonnets, ribands, silks, and bombazines ; 
 
 And, Flora ! mind you order all your bowers 
 
 To be profuse and prodigal of flowers. 
 
 Pray make the lazy lilies leave their bed, 
 
 To join in weaving crowns for beauty's head, 
 
 And bouquet-sceptres, for her royal hand ; — 
 
 Beauty is queen of all by sea and land ! 
 
 The daffodilly will not leave his cup ; 
 
 But sure the temperate jonquille might be up. ♦ 
 
 Draw largely now upon your violet banks, 
 
 Your drafts will honoured be with ladies' thanks : 
 
 Mind, Flora ! mind you order all your bowers 
 
 To be profuse of May's delicious flowers. 
 
 Say, first, what cap shall head of beauty wear, — 
 Though seldom cap should be admitted there. 
 Tulle chiffonnee, with heather blossoms gay, 
 Or any other tiny flowers of May. 
 Plain on the forehead are the caps in vogue, 
 A matron's air they give each charming rogue ; 
 Broad at the back a pretty curtain placed, 
 With flowery wreath is elegantly graced, 
 And where, on each side, at the ear it closes, 
 Deck it with bunches of the same small roses ; 
 Or place a point, with fluted tulle surrounded, 
 Or with raised lappets, "a la paysanne" bounded, 
 And held in bonds of double-tinted gauze, 
 Lest in " the pride of place " it break through Fashion's laws. 
 
 Pass we now from caps to bonnets, 
 Etard to be discussed in sonnets ; 
 What should be their shape and size, 
 To engage all female eyes? 
 In what hues should we baptize them, 
 That the fair may not despise them ? 
 Bonnets now, — list, maidens all, — 
 Bonnets now are — rather small; 
 Fashioned in the prettiest shapes, 
 Of satins overlaid with crepes. 
 Some with ribands trimmed, and some, 
 Trimmed with lace of France, become. 
 Of the pretty, prettiest far 
 Those in gros de Naples are ; 
 
 
READER. 417 
 
 Colour suited to the face, 
 Covered with applique lace, 
 Decked with branch of rosy bloom, 
 Or with smart feuillage de plume. 
 White straw bonnets are the mode, — 
 Some are worthy of an ode, — 
 With a veil so thin and slight, 
 It seems woven of air and light. 
 Let marabouts around them cluster, 
 ifnd lovers will not fail to muster. 
 
 Fashion now will always choose 
 Cheerful tints and vernal hues. 
 Proper now, the maiden thinks, 
 Softest greens, and palest pinks ; 
 Captivated now she sees 
 Lilachs, blue, and French cerise, 
 But if she be light and merry, 
 Trick her out in English cherry. 
 Pretty colours ! is it not, 
 Pity they should e'er be shot ? 
 Western ladies chiefly prize 
 For ribands now your Eastern dyes. 
 Understand the East afar, 
 Not the east of Temple Bar. 
 Bavolets are deepening down, 
 And feathers flattening on the crown. 
 
 For colours, if you list my lay, 
 You will still consult the May. 
 I have no more rules in store ; — 
 The law has been laid down before, — 
 Nothing dark, and nothing sad, 
 All be gay and all be glad. 
 Your greens you'll from the greenhouse choose, 
 From the sky select your blues. 
 Any garden-wall will teach 
 The most becoming shade of peach. 
 Dress in dark tints, you who dare! 
 'Tis high treason in May-Fair. 
 Should you pant to dress in brown, — 
 Do so ; — but go out of town ! 
 City dames their dowdy limbs on 
 Stiff display their odious crimson, 
 
418 YOUNG ladies' reader. 
 
 Ah ! no better do they know, 
 Belles who hear the bell of Bow ! 
 
 
 But now my song is sung, — I can no more ; 
 May maids and matrons profit by my lore ; 
 Accepted may it be by dames and damsels, 
 By all signoras, donnas, madames, ma'm'selles, — 
 By all the graces, beauties, virtues, powers, 
 In halls and parks, in boudoirs and in bowers ! 
 
 And, oh ! let none of woman born * 
 
 The poet of the Fashions scorn, 
 
 Or account his labours light, 
 
 Or pronounce his merits slight. 
 Sir Husband, you whose thrifty purse they rifle, 
 Know well that London fashions are no trifle ; 
 That coins must pay for ceintures, caps, and collars, 
 That deshabilles and dresses sound in dollars ; 
 That for each pretty hat, each handsome gown, 
 You must, — ay, must you, — handsomely come down. 
 Call dress a trifle ! — no, as I'm a sinner, 
 There's but one weightier theme, — oh ! need I mention 
 
 DINNER ? 
 
 EXERCISE CLXXV. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. Hood. 
 
 With fingers weary and worn, 
 
 With eyelids heavy and red, 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
 
 Plying her needle and thread, — 
 Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
 
 And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, 
 She sang the " Song of the Shirt ! " 
 
 " Work ! work ! work ! 
 While the cock is crowing aloof! 
 
 And work — work — work, 
 Till the stars shine through the roof! 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 419 
 
 It's oh ! to be a slave 
 Along with the barbarous Turk, 
 Where woman has never a soul to save, 
 If this is Christian work ! 
 
 " Work — work — work ! 
 Till the brain begins to swim ; 
 
 Work — work — work ! 
 Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
 SeEfm, and gusset, and band, 
 
 Band, and gusset, and seam, 
 Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 
 
 And sew them on in a dream ! 
 
 " O men, with sisters dear ! 
 
 O men, with mothers and wives I 
 It is not linen you're wearing out, 
 
 But human creatures' lives ! 
 Stitch — stitch — stitch, 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
 Sewing at once, with a double thread, 
 
 A shroud as well as a shirt. 
 
 " But why do I talk of death, 
 
 That Phantom of grisly bone ? 
 I hardly fear his terrible shape, 
 
 It seems so like my own, — 
 
 It seems so like my own, 
 
 Because of the fasts I keep. 
 O God ! — that bread should be so dear, 
 
 And flesh and blood so cheap I 
 
 " Work — work — work ! 
 
 My labour never flags ; 
 And what are its wages? — A bed of straw, 
 
 A crust of bread, — and rags. 
 That shattered roof, — and this naked floor, — 
 
 A table, — a broken chair, — 
 And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 
 
 For sometimes falling there ! 
 
 " Work — work — work ! 
 From weary chime to chime, — 
 
 Work — work — work ! 
 As prisoners work for crime ! 
 
420 YOUNG ladies' reader. 
 
 Band, and gusset, and seam, 
 Seam, and gusset, and band, 
 Till the heart is sick and the brain benun loed, 
 As well as the weary hand. 
 
 " Work — work — work ! 
 In the dull December light, 
 
 And work — work — work ! 
 When the weather is warm and bright, — 
 While underneath the eaves 
 
 The brooding swallows cling, 
 As if to show me their sunny backs, 
 
 And twit me with the spring. 
 
 " Oh ! but to breathe the breath 
 Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, — 
 
 With the sky above my head, 
 And the grass beneath my feet ; 
 For only one short hour 
 
 To feel as I used to feel, 
 Before I knew the woes of want, 
 
 And the walk that costs a meal ! 
 
 " Oh ! but for one short hour ! — 
 
 A respite, however brief! — 
 No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, 
 
 But only time for Grief! 
 A little weeping would ease my heart ; 
 
 But in their briny bed 
 My tears must stop, for every drop 
 
 Hinders needle and thread." 
 
 i 
 With fingers weary and worn, 
 
 With eyelids heavy and red, 
 A woman sat in unwomanly rags, 
 
 Plying her needle and thread — 
 Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
 And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, — 
 Would that its tone could reach the rich ! — 
 
 She sang this " Song of the Shirt ! " 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 421 
 
 EXERCISE CLXXVI. 
 FREDERIKA BREMER. Anon. 
 
 Wha-i is it that has procured so general and well-merited 
 approbation of the works of Frederika Bremer ? Certainly, 
 not alone the attractions presented by that which is new and 
 foreign. For the new and foreign is offered to us yearly, — 
 ay, daily, in such plenitude, that it must be richly endowed 
 and originally conceived, when it not only finds an entrance 
 and wins an ephemeral reputation, but also acquires unani- 
 mous and enduring approbation. The principal reason of the 
 approbation which has been bestowed upon this worthy Swe- 
 dish authoress is, probably, the perfectly unassuming manner 
 in which she presented herself. There is not the least trace 
 of pretension that she is about to offer us something unheard- 
 of, unusual, or extraordinary ; or that her object is to make 
 for herself a name, and crown herself with the laurels of 
 fiction. She does not claim to be an artist, but offers herself 
 simply as she is, like a gentle pilgrim, who, from the treas- 
 ures of her clear understanding and pure heart, would impart 
 to her younger sisters her observations and experience, which 
 serve not only for a delightful recreation, but also for instruc- 
 tion, warning, and advice. The modest title, — " Sketches 
 from Every-day Life," — is evidently, on her part, seriously 
 intended ; although she is doubtless aware that it is any thing 
 but mere every-day life which flows from her pen. In each 
 case, the appellation of sketches is too modest, and conse- 
 quently untrue ; for that which is here offered does not con- 
 sist merely of designs, outlines, and sketches, but of finished 
 paintings, always elaborate, and frequently carried out with 
 the minuteness of the Flemish school ; and even in the copies 
 before us, (the genuine translations,) the fresh colouring of 
 nature is still preserved. 
 
 Frederika Bremer possesses an uncommonly happy, versa- 
 tile, exact, and attractive mode of expression : undoubtedly 
 this is her own from nature, and inborn, but by study and 
 practice developed and highly polished. Nowhere, in her 
 works, can you discern study, while you cannot but enjoy its 
 fruits ; nowhere can you find a circumlocution, either in lan- 
 guage or in expression ; the one adapts itself immediately to 
 the ideas, the other is equally easy and concise : there is 
 nothing overstrained or tinselled ; the same charming sim- 
 36 
 
422 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 plicity is everywhere apparent. Her subject is so clearly 
 presented and moulded, that the form involuntarily presents 
 itself, and in the most unambiguous manner. 
 
 The charms of her pleasing style, however, are heightened 
 by the richness and chasteness of the contents. They con- 
 sist of pictures of real life, striking, calculated to excite 
 reflection, well selected, attractive, illuminated with taste, 
 and with a background of strong common sense ; — in out- 
 line, disposition and colouring, all conceived and finished with 
 the same ability. With all the palpable connection of the 
 subjects, between which a family resemblance is soon de- 
 tected, the variety of incidents and characters is very great. 
 The conceptions, it is true, exhibit no marks of a fiery or 
 luxuriant imagination ; but they are neither barren nor uni- 
 form ; and in no case are they wanting in the charms of 
 novelty or originality. In every new volume, new characters 
 are brought forward, which, although we may imagine that 
 we have in part heard or seen them before ; yet being exhib- 
 ited in another dress and under other circumstances, or in 
 another point of view, are no specimens of every-day individ- 
 uality. 
 
 In the delineation of character, our authoress evinces un- 
 common skill. Not only the principal actors, but several of 
 the inferior ones, are sharply and truly-defined portraits, which 
 possess not only the appearance of life, but have, in fact, a 
 substantial life ; they stand, move, speak, and act before us ; 
 and we are continually taxing our memories for the originals, 
 the counterparts of which the versatile authoress has placed 
 before our eyes ; we have a dim remembrance of having, 
 somewhere or other, during our lives, encountered each one 
 of them. . But it is far from being the case that every-day 
 forms, — those which every one is already acquainted with, — 
 are all that are presented before us : even those readers who 
 have lived much in the world, and have associated with many 
 men, will here make new and interesting acquaintances, 
 whose images they will ever fondly retain in memory. As 
 the marks of truth and nature are everywhere impressed upon 
 these portraits, so there are some which are conceived and 
 drawn with peculiar force. Seldom has the graver, in the 
 hands of a female, drawn and finished such sharply-defined 
 and forcible characters. 
 
 Born upon a Finland estate, not far from Abo, Frederika 
 Bremer was, in her earliest years, removed to Sweden, where 
 her father was an extensive land-proprietor. The simple life 
 
423 
 
 of the family glided calmly away from spring to autumn in 
 the country, and from autumn to spring in the capital city, 
 with agreeable society in either place ; their time being taken 
 up principally in the household duties, in familiar readings, 
 where attention was mostly directed to the German classics, 
 and the practice of the arts. Each daughter of the house 
 availed herself of the means of education here oifered, — 
 each one, according to her own peculiar taste and disposition, 
 and painted a future glowing with all the enchantment of a 
 lively and excited imagination. It may be mentioned as 
 characteristic, that our poetess, in all her visions, foresaw 
 herself a warrior heroine. 
 
 A sad reality, — a deep and bitter melancholy, the origin 
 of which, in consideration of her reluctance to explain it, we 
 can only surmise, here drew like a dark gloomy cloud over 
 the life of the young maiden ; for many a year did she strug- 
 gle with it ; but at length she came out victorious, free, and 
 strong. " The illusions of youth are dissolved ; the spring- 
 time of youth is past." But a new youth, light, and freedom, 
 have arisen in the purified soul, and, with renovated strength, 
 she goes to the daily work which she has recognized as her 
 calling. She began early, even when but a girl, to write, yet 
 it is but lately that she has allowed any of her productions to 
 be printed. " I wrote under the impulse of youthful and 
 restless feelings ; I wrote that I might write. Latterly, I 
 have resumed the pen under far different influences ; " but 
 upon what these are, she is silent. On the verge of the 
 autumn of life, she still delights in the same cheerful society 
 to which she has been accustomed from her earliest spring 
 days, and in the possession of a beloved mother and sister. 
 For the future, she has no other wish than that she may per- 
 fect the labours which she has undertaken, to which her for- 
 mer writings "form the beginning." Thus we may still 
 expect many a ripe and rich offering from her ; if her health 
 remains as sound, and her heart as fresh, as the past warrants 
 us in assuming. 
 
 These revelations from the life of the authoress, give a key 
 to the peculiar delineation and colouring of several of the 
 female characters in her romances, — a high-souled resigna- 
 tion, a calm and impartial contemplation of the world, a 
 rising above the opposition of circumstances, — the joys of 
 the peaceful life of a confiding family circle, together with a 
 lively interest in all the noble and beautiful that lies beyond 
 
424 
 
 its sphere ; — these charming qualities, which she herself ex- 
 hibits, she has impressed upon those characters which have 
 been drawn by her with such vigour and success. But that 
 which more firmly strengthens such qualities, that which 
 imparts to her a generous sympathy in the sorrows and joys 
 of mankind, a profound knowledge of the operations of trie 
 human heart, as well as the calm and lofty bearing of all her 
 productions, is the deep and warm religious tone which gushes 
 like a spring, refreshing and purifying, from her inner life, 
 and, in all her works, mirrors her soul brightly before us. 
 
 Her piety has given her eyes for all the wonders of God 
 in nature, as well as in human life, and has consecrated her 
 a priestess of the religion of the visible creation. She ob- 
 serves and understands the mysterious and yet distinct lan- 
 guage of the mountains and valleys, of the springs and floods, 
 of plants and stones; the rustling of the leaves, the rippling 
 of the waters, the chirping of the lonely cricket, and the song 
 of the lark, " tone " sweetly in her breast. Her pictures of 
 nature are so living, descriptive, and faithful, that we feel, as 
 it were, at home in that country which she places before our 
 eyes, as the field of the incidents she relates : they are land- 
 scapes, which, by their exquisite finishing, produce their full 
 effect. Even when she takes us to that which is strange, — 
 the scenery peculiar to the distant North, the life and distinct- 
 ness of the representation, give us so true a picture, that we 
 easily and speedily accommodate ourselves to our new posi- 
 tion. 
 
 Yet she never loses herself, nor does she fall into a deifica- 
 tion of nature, but points emphatically to the Unseen Hand, 
 which so wisely orders all, and of whose goodness the uni- 
 verse is so full ; and to the one Spirit in which we live, move, 
 and have our being. She acknowledges, and praises, and 
 loves God, in his mighty works : to these she does homage, 
 with devotion and enthusiasm ; and she goes to them and con- 
 verses with them, as if she were in a loved and friendly home ; 
 but, as with a clear eye, she sees Him in his visible creation, 
 so, with listening ear, has she also heard his paternal voice in 
 revelation. 
 
READER. 425 
 
 EXERCISE CLXXVIL 
 
 UNLUCKY DAYS. 
 
 Frederika Bremer, translated by Mary Howitt. 
 
 In the history of the world, we see unfortunate periods, 
 when, through whole centuries, every thing seems to go 
 wrong ; they murder, they burn, they overthrow thrones and 
 religions ; and as the great always mirrors itself in the little, 
 and the little in the great, so does man number, in his life, 
 unlucky days, par excellence. 
 
 You begin in the morning, for example, by putting on your 
 dress wrong side outwards ; and this is a sort of prelude to 
 the events of the whole day ; you cut yourself in shaving ; 
 you go out to seek for people, and you do not find them ; you 
 are found by people whom you do not seek, and who, per- 
 haps, you wish were elsewhere ; you say a stupid thing, when 
 you mean to say something witty ; your dinner is bad, every 
 thing goes on so indescribably stupidly ; and if, on one of 
 these unlucky days, you should take it into your head to 
 make proposals to a lady, you would certainly come off with 
 a refusal. 
 
 What happened as it should not at the President's toilet 
 one unlucky Thursday morning, I will not undertake to con- 
 jecture ; but it is certain, that an unhappy destiny pursued 
 him the whole day, and that every member of the family was 
 obliged to feel this, more or less. 
 
 Early in the morning, it began to go wrong with the hap- 
 piness and the good-humour of the President. He was to go 
 to the palace; and three little black plasters adorned his chin 
 and under lip; and the friseur, who was to cut his hair, did 
 not make his appearance. On this, he scolded so vehemently, 
 and was beside in such terrible uneasiness, that I, in my dis- 
 tress, offered to exercise the office of friseur. The President 
 said, " Heaven forbid ! " — made compliments from politeness, 
 but asked me, however, — pleasantly jesting, — whether J 
 had ever cut a man's hair; and when I told him of my uncle, 
 the High-Court Notary, of my brother, the Auscultant, and 
 of my brother-in-law, the Burgomaster, all of whose hair I 
 had cut on festal occasions, he gladly" accepted my services. 
 
 He went into his study. He sat down to look over his 
 papers, whilst I pinned a napkin over his shoulders, and be- 
 36* 
 
426 
 
 gan operations with my scissors in his rich and abundant 
 growth of hair. The most difficult part of the affair was, that 
 the President did not keep his head still a single instant. 
 He was busily occupied with his papers, and, as it seemed, 
 with something unpleasant in them ; for he muttered to him- 
 self at intervals, and shook his head, at the same time, in 
 such a manner, that my scissors were fain to make sudden 
 and adventurous evolutions. 
 
 I had, as every body had told me, a real talent for cutting 
 and dressing hair ; but, after all, how can it be expected that 
 one should dress a head which is in incessant motion, as well 
 as one which is still ? It was still worse when I attempted to 
 use the curling tongs, to arrange a few locks which ornament- 
 ed his temples very becomingly ; for now, as the manoeuvres 
 of the tongs could not possibly be so rapid as those of the 
 scissors, and the President continued the motions of his head, 
 he was often quite seriously struck and burned. — " Ah ! ah! 
 dear lady, pray do not take off my head! " — The worst of it 
 was, when the President got up, after the hair-cutting was 
 over, and looked at himself in the glass ; — for he stood 
 now so astonished, and obviously enraged, that the perspira- 
 tion from terror actually started out on my forehead. 
 
 " Good gracious," said he, in an angry tone, " what do 1 
 look like? Do you call that cutting hair? I am shaved 
 clean, absolutely shorn ! I cannot allow myself to be seen 
 by any one." I assured him, in the midst of my agony, that 
 it suited him uncommonly well ; that I had never seen him 
 look better ; — but when Adelaide came in, and, embracing 
 her father, burst out into a hearty laugh at his and my re- 
 markable appearance, I was infected by her merriment, and 
 laughed till I cried, while I in vain endeavoured to make e> 
 cuses for my hair-cutting, and my laughter. The President, 
 who was in a fair way to keep us company, turned about sud 
 denly, however, was very angry, and, running all his tei, 
 fingers into his hair, rushed down the steps, got into the car- 
 riage, and drove off to the Court. 
 
 At noon the President came back ; he was in a qurct 
 mood, but rather ungracious towards me ; and I must do him 
 the justice to say, that this was by no means to be won 
 dered at. 
 
 ** God give us enough ! " said he, looking over the table 
 with a disturbed countenance, on which to-day there was one 
 dish less than usual ; that is, there were but four dishes, 
 which, in my opinion, are quite enough to satisfy as many 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 42? 
 
 persons as ourselves. I soon found, however, that the Presi- 
 dent's sighs were prophetic ; for the food was badly prepared ; 
 the roast beef was so much underdone, that it could not be 
 eaten ; the cream-cakes so rancid, that the President insisted 
 that they were poisonous. It was Edla's month for house- 
 keeping; and her indifference and negligence became every 
 day more apparent. The President cast upon her a dissatis- 
 fied glance ; but he was too delicate in his feelings, and too 
 refined, to reprove his daughter at table. He contented him- 
 self with remarking laconically the defects of the dishes, and 
 not eating of them, but was internally the more annoyed. 
 
 After dinner, he attempted, — for the edification of the 
 children, and, perhaps, to show his own stoicism, — a remark- 
 able feat with a full glass of wine, which he intended to turn 
 topsy-turvy, without spilling a drop ; not a drop merely, but 
 all the wine in the glass, poured down upon the white damask 
 table-cloth, which occasioned great alarm, uproar, and con- 
 fusion, but which proved, however, a favourable occurrence 
 for me, as I assured the President, that I could take out the 
 stain entirely. But all these experiments did not prepare for 
 us a happier evening. 
 
 The evening came, — with it, Count Alaric, and the 
 Countess Augusta, and with them, some animation, into our 
 circle ; for even Adelaide had been all day serious and dis- 
 traite. The Countess was unusually gay and bright, and 
 Alaric was gentle and cheerful ; he took the children on his 
 knees, played with them, and looked at Adelaide, who was 
 sewing as diligently as if it had been for her daily bread. 
 
 The wild little ones ran round the room so turbulently, 
 that, before any one could foresee it, a glass of lemonade was 
 discharged into the President's lap ; a teacup flew at my 
 nose ; and the cream was poured into the sugar-bowl. All 
 this took place in one moment; and the President, ex- 
 tremely angry, put the little creatures, with his own hand, 
 into the next room, en penitence. This little scene, however, 
 did not much disturb the rest of the company. 
 
 We soon heard a shriek from the place of banishment of 
 the children ; and a bright light streamed through the half- 
 open door. We rushed all together into the room ; the cur- 
 tains of both windows were in flames ; even the inner hanging 
 was on fire ; the little ones stood by, trembling and screaming 
 with all their might. Alaric took hold, fearlessly, of the 
 burning curtain, and tore it with the hangings from one win- 
 dow ; but his own clothes took fire while he did so. When 
 
428 
 
 Adelaide saw this, she rushed impulsively towards him, and 
 sought to stifle the fire by putting her arms around him. In 
 an instant, her thin dress was in flames ; and all at once 
 Alaric and Adelaide were seen standing locked in an em- 
 brace, and enveloped in flames. — God of love ! if thou didst 
 so will it, — forgive me for putting an end, — by a pitcher 
 of cold water, which I threw over them, — both to the em- 
 brace and to the conflagration ! 
 
 Meanwhile, the President was busy at the other window, — 
 and drew the curtain down upon his head, where the fire de- 
 stroyed what I had left of his hair. He would probably have 
 come off very poorly, if Edla had not remained steadily at 
 his side. From the first moment, she had staid by her fa- 
 ther, and had assisted him with as much courage as discre- 
 tion ; protecting him from injury at her own expense. When 
 the fire was extinguished, she retired to her own room quietly, 
 but much burned. 
 
 The President, angry and confused, looked at first like a 
 thunder-cloud, but was pacified by degrees by Count Alaric; 
 and now we endeavoured to find out the cause of the fire. 
 Our suspicions fell at once upon the children. They had 
 been trying various experiments during their exile ; and their 
 little wax tapers had been particularly serviceable in this * 
 way. Either they had really wished to try whether the cur- 
 tains were combustible, or the kindling of them had taken 
 place accidentally : at any rate, it must have happened through 
 their means. We thought that the fright which the children 
 had had, together with a severe reprimand, and the order to 
 go supperless to bed, would secure us in future from similar 
 illuminations. 
 
 The President's heart hesitated about the last punishment ; 
 but I insisted : Count Alaric joined me ; and the President 
 gave way rather reluctantly, saying, " The Count would have 
 less inclination to send his own children hungry to bed." 
 The Count made no answer to this. 
 
 Edla had a good deal of fever, the next morning ; she went 
 down, however, with Adelaide to her father, to fulfil the 
 promise which she had given to Alaric, to ask her father's 
 forgiveness. The President was touched by her conduct 
 during the scene of the fire, and to her supplications he an- 
 swered mildly, " Let us forgive each other our faults, Edla! " 
 
 [The moral of the unlucky evening, the authoress has put 
 into the mouth of Count Alaric, who is conversing with Edla, 
 the presiding housekeeper, and chief sufferer, of the " un- 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 429 
 
 lucky day : " " We are all, here, in this life, subject, in a 
 certain degree, to the power of circumstances : it is partly 
 through their influence that you suffer. But above these, 
 there stands unshaken an eternal order : to go into this, and 
 to find our place in it, is the problem given to us all ; and it is 
 possible to all to solve it. Then nothing more will essentially 
 disturb our liberty and our happiness."] 
 
 EXERCISE CLXXVIII. 
 a daughter's wish, on her mother's birthday, 
 
 IN NOVEMBER. Montgomery. 
 
 This day to me most dear 
 In the changes of the year ! — 
 Spring, the fields and woods adorning, 
 Spring may boast a gayer morning ; 
 Summer noon, with brighter beams, 
 Gild the mountains and the streams ; 
 Autumn, through the twilight vale, 
 Breathe a more delicious gale : 
 Yet though stern November * reigns, 
 Wild and wintry o'er the plains, 
 Never does the morning rise 
 Half so welcome to mine eyes ; 
 Noontide glories never shed 
 Rays so beauteous round my head ; 
 Never looks the evening scene 
 So enchantingly serene, 
 As on this returning day, 
 When, in spirit rapt away, 
 
 Joys and sorrows I have known, , 
 
 In the years forever flown, 
 Wake, at every sound and sight, 
 Reminiscence of delight, — 
 All around me, all above, 
 Witnessing a mother's love. 
 
 * The English classification of the months, places Novembei in the 
 season of winter. 
 
430 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Love, that watched my early years 
 With conflicting hopes and fears ; 
 Love, that through life's flowery May 
 Led my childhood, prone to stray ; 
 Love, that still directs my youth 
 With the constancy of Truth, 
 Heightens every bliss it shares, 
 Softens and divides the cares, 
 Smiles away my light distress, 
 Weeps for joy, or tenderness : 
 — May that love, to latest age, 
 Cheer my earthly pilgrimage ; 
 May that love, o'er death victorious, 
 Rise beyond the grave, more glorious ! — *> 
 Souls, united here, would be 
 One to all eternity ! 
 
 When these eyes, from native night, 
 First unfolded to the light, 
 On what object, fair and new, 
 Did they fix their fondest view ? 
 On my Mother's smiling mien ; 
 All the mother there was seen. 
 When their weary lids would close, 
 And she sang me to repose, 
 Found I not the sweetest rest 
 On my Mother's peaceful breast 1 
 When my tongue from hers had caught 
 Sounds to utter infant thought, 
 Readiest then what accents came ? 
 Those that meant my Mother's name. 
 When my timid feet begun, 
 Strangely pleased, to stand or run, 
 'Twas my Mother's voice and eye 
 Most encouraged me to try, 
 Safe to run, and strong to stand, 
 Holding by her gentle hand. 
 
 Time, since then, hath deeper made 
 Lines where youthful dimples played ; 
 Yet to me my Mother's face 
 Wears a more angelic grace : 
 And her tresses thin and hoary, 
 Are they not a crown of glory ? 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 431 
 
 — Cruel griefs have wrung that breast, 
 Once my paradise of rest ; 
 
 While in these I bear a part, 
 Warmer grows my Mother's heart ; 
 Closer our affections twine; 
 Mine with hers, and hers with mine. 
 
 — Many a name, since hers I knew, 
 Have I loved with honour due ; 
 
 But no name shall be more dear 
 Than my Mother's to mine ear. 
 
 — Many a hand that Friendship plighted 
 Have I clasped, with all delighted, 
 
 But more faithful none can be 
 Than my Mother's hand to me. 
 
 Thus by every tie endeared, 
 Thus with filial reverence feared, 
 Mother ! on this day, 'tis meet 
 That, with salutation sweet, 
 I should wish you years of health, 
 Worldly happiness and wealth, 
 And when good old age is past, 
 Heaven's eternal peace at last ! 
 But with these I frame a vow 
 For a double blessing now; 
 One, that richly shall combine 
 Your felicity with mine ; 
 One, in which, with soul and voice, 
 Both together may rejoice ; 
 Oh ! what shall that blessing be 1 
 
 — Dearest Mother ! may you see 
 All your prayers fulfilled for me ! 
 
 EXERCISE CLXXIX 
 
 ENGLISH COMPLIMENTS. Anon. 
 
 The day I paid my visit to the Tower of London, I was 
 accompanied by a young French nobleman ; and he was 
 highly amused at the pompous gravity of the men who ex- 
 hibited the curiosities. Every time that a thumb-screw, toe- 
 
432 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 screw, leg-screw, nose-screw, or any other article, was pointed 
 out to our inspection, with the unavoidable comment, — the 
 Frenchman turned to me, and exclaimed — " Ah ! here are 
 the Spaniards yet ! " This was repeated a great number of 
 times ; and I was really put to the blush, when I considered 
 how very flagitious my countrymen had been. At last, we 
 came to a room where we were shown something similar to 
 the above taken from the French. I then turned to my com- 
 panion, and retorted on him. 
 
 We had already given several shillings, and were coming 
 away, when I perceived a board stuck up at the door, on 
 which some words were written to the following purpose, or 
 something like it : " It is expected that visitors will compli- 
 ment the warden." 
 
 This was the cause of a very ludicrous mistake. My 
 French companion was not very conversant with the English 
 language, at the time, and having read the above inscription, 
 most innocently took the thing in a literal sense. Accord- 
 ingly, while the plump and grave warden was, in becoming 
 silence, expecting the "compliment," the Frenchman, — 
 remarkable for politeness, — could not be neglectful of com- 
 plying with what he conceived was enjoined by the inscription. 
 He made, therefore, a graceful bow to the formal warden, 
 and, in broken English, began to compliment the warden on 
 his civil attentions. The man, addressed in this novel way, 
 stared, for some time, in astonishment. A friend who was 
 with us, burst out into laughter. — I did little less; and this 
 tended to heighten the effect of the scene. 
 
 The warden, conceiving that it was a joke, and probably 
 not being partial to such things, put on a most demure as- 
 pect. Indeed, he so far increased his natural stock of dull 
 gravity, that he looked formidable. The Frenchman per- 
 ceiving that his most elegant and well-bred compliments were 
 received not merely with indifference, but had evidently of- 
 fended, began to stare in turn, and ended, no doubt, by attrib- 
 uting the affair to his inexperience of the English tongue. 
 
 But his understanding was soon enlightened. I slipped 
 half-a-crown into the hand of the warden, which made him 
 unbend from his rigidity ; whilst a few words from my friend 
 Stanley set our companion right concerning his strange mis- 
 take. "The mischief!" cried the young Frenchman smil- 
 ing. " This is what the English mean by ' compliments ! ' " 
 
 As we retraced our steps, this scene afforded ample matter 
 for comment and mirth. The Frenchman now and then 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 433 
 
 brought out — -" These English compliments," as he called 
 them; and I make no -doubt that, upon his return to Paris, 
 he informed his countrymen, that the greatest proof of polite- 
 ness one can possibly show an Englishman, is to give him 
 money. 
 
 EXERCISE CLXXX. 
 
 THE GRAVE-DIGGERS. Dickens, 
 
 The old sexton soon got better, and was about again. He 
 was not able to work ; but, one day, there was a grave to be 
 made ; and he came to overlook the man who dug it. He 
 was in a talkative mood; and Nelly, at first standing by his 
 side, and afterwards sitting on the grass at his feet, with her 
 thoughtful face raised towards his, began to converse with him. 
 
 Now the man who did the sexton's duty, was a little older 
 than he, though much more active. But he was deaf; and 
 when the sexton, (who peradventure, on a pinch, might have 
 talked a mile, with great difficulty, in half-a-dozen hours,) 
 exchanged a remark with him about his work, the child could 
 not help noticing that he did so with an impatient kind of 
 pity for his infirmity ; as if he were himself the strongest and 
 heartiest man alive. 
 
 " I'm sorry to see there is this to do," said the child, when 
 she approached; " I heard of no one having died." 
 
 " She lived in another hamlet, my dear," returned the 
 sexton. " Three mile away." 
 
 " Was she young?" 
 
 " Ye -yes," said the sexton ; — <c not more than sixty-four, 
 I think. David, was she more than sixty-four ? " 
 
 David, who was digging hard, heard nothing of the ques- 
 tion. The sexton, as he could not reach to touch him with 
 his crutch, and was too infirm to rise without assistance, called 
 his attention by throwing a little mould upon his red nightcap 
 
 " What's the matter now ? " said David, looking up. 
 
 " How old was Becky Morgan?" asked the sexton. 
 
 " Becky Morgan ? " repeated David. 
 
 " Yes," replied the sexton; adding in a half-compassion- 
 ate, half-irritable tone, which the old man couldn't hear, 
 " You're getting very deaf, Davy, very deaf to be sure." 
 
 The old man stopped in his work, and cleansing his spade 
 37 
 
434 YOUNG LADIES ? READER. 
 
 with a piece of slate he had by him for the purpose, — and 
 scraping off, in the process, the essence of Heaven knows how 
 many Becky Morgans, — set himself to consider the subject. 
 
 " Let me think," quoth he. " I saw last night what they 
 had put upon the coffin, — was it seventy-nine?" 
 
 " No, no ! " said the sexton. 
 
 " Ah ! yes : it was though," returned the old man, with a 
 sigh. " For J remember thinking she was very near our age. 
 Yes, it was seventy-nine." 
 
 " Are you sure you didn't mistake a figure, Davy ? " asked 
 the sexton, with signs of some emotion. 
 
 " What? " said the old man. " Say that again." 
 
 " He's very deaf. He's very deaf indeed," cried the sexton 
 petulantly; " are you sure you're right about the figures?" 
 
 " Oh ! quite," replied the old man. " Why not ? " 
 
 " He's exceedingly deaf," muttered the sexton to himself. 
 "I think he's getting foolish." 
 
 The child rather wondered what had led him to this belief, 
 as, — to say the truth, — the old man seemed quite as sharp 
 as he, and was infinitely more robust. As the sexton said 
 nothing more just then, however, she forgot it for the time, 
 and spoke again. 
 
 " You were telling me," she said, " about your gardening. 
 Do you ever plant things here?"' 
 
 " In the churchyard ? " returned the sexton. " Not I." 
 
 " I have seen some flowers and little shrubs about," the 
 child rejoined ; " there are some over there, you see. I 
 thought they were of your rearing \ though, indeed, they 
 grow but poorly." 
 
 " They grow as Heaven wills," said the old man ; " and it 
 kindly ordains that they never shall flourish here." 
 
 " I do not understand you." 
 
 " Why, this it is," said the sexton. " They mark the 
 graves of those who had very tender, loving friends." 
 
 " I was sure they did ! " the child exclaimed. "lam very 
 glad to know they do ! " 
 
 " Ay," returned the old man ; " but stay. Look at them. 
 See how they hang their heads, and droop, and wither. Do 
 you guess the reason ? " 
 
 " No," the child replied. 
 
 " Because the memory of those who lie below, passes away 
 so soon. At first, they tend them, morning, noon, and night ; 
 they soon begin to come less frequently \ from once a day, to 
 once a week ; from once a week, to once a month ; then at 
 
YOUNG L.UMES' READER. 435 
 
 Jong and uncertain intervals ; then, not at all. Such tokens 
 seldom flourish long. I have known the briefest summer 
 flowers outlive them." 
 
 " I grieve to hear it," said the child. 
 
 " Ah ! so say the gentlefolks who come down here to look 
 about them," returned the old man, shaking his head, " but I 
 say otherwise. ' It's a pretty custom you have in this part of 
 the country,' they say to me, sometimes, ' to plant the graves, 
 but it's melancholy to see these things all withering or dead.' 
 1 crave their pardon, and tell them that, — as I take it, — 'tis 
 a good sign for the happiness of the living. And so it is. 
 It's nature." 
 
 " Perhaps the mourners learn to look to the blue sky by 
 day, and to the stars by night ; and to think that the dead are 
 there, and not in graves," said the child in an earnest voice. 
 
 *' Perhaps so," replied the old man doubtfully. " It may be." 
 
 " Whether it be as I believe it is, or not," thought the 
 child within herself, " I'll make this place my garden. It 
 will be no harm at least to work here day by day ; and pleas- 
 ant thoughts will come of it, I'm sure." 
 
 Her glowing cheek and moistened eye passed unnoticed by 
 the sexton, who turned towards old David, and called him by 
 his name. — It was plain that Becky Morgan's age still 
 troubled him, though why, the child could scarcely under- 
 stand. 
 
 The second or third repetition of his name, attracted the 
 old man's attention. Pausing from his work, he leant upon 
 his spade, and put his hand to his dull ear. 
 
 " Did you call 1 " he said. 
 
 " I have been thinking, Davy," replied the sexton, u that 
 she," (he pointed to the grave,) " must have been a deal older 
 than you or me." 
 
 " Seventy-nine," answered the old man, with a sorrowful 
 shake of the head, " I tell you that I saw it." 
 
 "Saw it?" replied the sexton; *'aj$ but, Davy, women 
 don't always tell the truth about their age." 
 
 " That's true indeed," said the other old man, with a sud- 
 den sparkle in his eye. " She might have been older." 
 
 "I'm sure she must have been. Why, only think how old 
 she looked. You and I seemed but boys to her." 
 
 " She did look old," rejoined David. " You're right. She 
 did look old." 
 
 " Call to mind how old she looked for many a long, long 
 year, and say if she could be but seventy-nine at last, — only 
 our age," said the sexton. 
 
436 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 " Five years older at the very least ! " cried the other. 
 
 " Five I " retorted the sexton. " Ten ! Good eighty-nine. 
 I call to mind the time her daughter died. She was eighty- 
 nine if she was a day, — and tries to pass upon us now, for 
 ten years younger. Oh ! human vanity I " 
 
 The other old man was not behindhand with some moral 
 reflections on this fruitful theme; and both adduced a mass 
 of evidence, of such weight as to render it doubtful, — not 
 whether the deceased was of the age suggested, but whether 
 she had not almost reached the patriarchal term of a hundred. 
 When they had settled this x question to their mutual satisfac- 
 tion, the sexton, with his friend's assistance, rose to go. 
 
 "It's chilly, sitting here,, and I must be careful, — till the 
 summer," he said, as he prepared to limp away. 
 
 " What 1 " asked old David. 
 
 " He's very deaf, poor fellow 1 " cried the sexton. " Good 
 by ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " said old David, looking after him. " He's failing 
 very fast. He ages every day ! " 
 
 And so they parted : each persuaded that the other had 
 less life in him than himself; and both greatly consoled and 
 comforted by the little fiction they had agreed upon, respect- 
 ing Becky Morgan ; whose decease was no longer a precedent 
 of uncomfortable application and would be no business o£ 
 theirs for half-a-score of years to come. 
 
 EXERCISE CLXXXL 
 
 A LESSON TO REFORMERS. Mrs. Child. 
 
 Great is the strength of an individual soul, true to its high 
 trust ; — mighty is it, even to the redemption of a world. 
 
 A German, whose sense of sound was exceedingly acute,, 
 was passing by a church, a day or two after he had landed in 
 this country; and the sound of music attracted him to enter,, 
 though he had no knowledge of our language. The music 
 proved to be a piece of nasal psalmody, sung in most discord- 
 ant fashion ; and the sensitive German would fain have 
 covered his ears. As this was scarcely civil, and might 
 appear like insanity, his next impulse was to rush into the 
 open air, and leave the hated sounds behind him. "But this^ 
 
437 
 
 too, I feared to do," said he, " lest offence might be given ; 
 so I resolved to endure the torture, with the best fortitude I 
 could assume ; when lo ! I distinguished, amid the din, the 
 soft clear voice of a woman singing in perfect tune. She 
 made no effort to drown the voices of her companions, 
 neither was she disturbed by their noisy discord ; but patiently 
 and sweetly she sang in full, rich tones : one after another 
 yielded to the gentle influence; and before the tune was 
 finished, all were in perfect harmony." 
 
 I have often thought of this story, as conveying an instruc- 
 tive lesson for reformers. The spirit that can thus sing 
 patiently and sweetly in a world of discord, must indeed be 
 of the strongest, as well as the gentlest kind. One scarce 
 can hear his own soft voice, amid the braying of the multi- 
 tude ; and ever and anon comes the temptation to sing 
 louder than they, and drown the voices that cannot thus be 
 forced into perfect tune. But this were a pitiful experiment : 
 the melodious tones, cracked into shrillness, would only in- 
 crease the tumult. 
 
 Stronger, and more frequently, comes the temptation to 
 stop singing, and let discord do its own wild work. But 
 blessed are they that endure to the end, — singing patiently 
 and sweetly, till all join in with loving acquiescence, and uni- 
 versal harmony prevails, without forcing into submission the 
 free discord of a single voice. 
 
 This is the hardest and the bravest task, which a true soul 
 has to perform amid the clashing elements of time. But 
 once has it been done perfectly, unto the end ; and that Voice, 
 — so clear in its meekness, — is heard above all the din of a 
 tumultuous world : one after another chimes in with its 
 patient sweetness ; and, through infinite discords, the listening 
 soul can perceive that the great tune is slowly coming into 
 harmony. 
 
 EXERCISE CLXXXII. 
 
 TWILIGHT. Mrs. Norton. 
 
 O Twilight ! Spirit that dost render birth 
 To dim enchantments ; melting heaven with earth, 
 Leaving on craggy hills and running streams 
 A softness like the atmosphere of dreams, — 
 37* 
 
488 YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 
 
 Thy hour to all is welcome ! Faint and sweet 
 
 Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet,, 
 
 Who, slow returning from his task of toil, 
 
 Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil, 
 
 And, though such radiance round him brightly glows> 
 
 Marks the small spark his cottage window throws; 
 
 Still as his heart forestalls his weary pace, 
 
 Fondly he dreams of each familiar face, 
 
 Recalls the treasures of his narrow life, 
 
 His rosy children and his sunburnt wife, 
 
 To whom his coming is the chief event 
 
 Of simple days in cheerful labour spent. 
 
 The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past; 
 
 And these poor cottagers have only cast 
 
 One careless glance on all that show of pride, 
 
 Then to their tasks turn quietly aside ; 
 
 But Mm they wait for, him they welcome home ? 
 
 Fixed sentinels look forth to see him come : 
 
 The fagot sent for, when the fire grew dim, 
 
 The frugal meal prepared, are all for him ; 
 
 For him the watching of that sturdy boy, 
 
 For him those smiles of tenderness and joy, 
 
 For him, — who plods his sauntering way along,, 
 
 Whistling the fragment of some village song ! 
 
 EXERCISE CLXXXIII. 
 
 E L Y S I U M . Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes and persona 
 who had either been fortunate or distinguished upon earth : the* 
 children, and, apparently, the slaves and lower classes, — that f 
 to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence, — were banished to th 
 infernal regions . " — Chateaubriand. 
 
 Fair wert thou, in the dreams 
 Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers 
 And summer-winds, and low-toned silvery streams, 
 Dim with the shadows of thy laurel-bowers ! 
 
 Where, as they passed, bright hours 
 Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings 
 To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things ! 
 

 YOUNG LADIES ? READER. 439 
 
 Fair wert thou, with the light 
 On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast, 
 From purple skies ne'er deepening into night, 
 Yet soft, as if each moment were their last 
 
 Of glory, fading fast 
 Along the mountains ! — but thy golden day 
 Was not as those that warn us of decay. 
 
 And ever, through thy shades, 
 A swell of deep Eolian sound went by, 
 From fountain-voices in their secret glades, 
 And low reed- whispers, making sweet reply 
 
 To summer's breezy sigh ! 
 And young leaves trembling to the wind's light breath, 
 Which ne'er had touched them with a hue of death ! 
 
 And thy transparent sky 
 Rang as a dome, all thrilling to the strain 
 Of harps that 'midst the woods, made harmony 
 Solemn and sweet ; yet troubling not the brain 
 
 With dreams and yearnings vain, 
 And dim remembrances, that still draw birth 
 From the bewildering music of the earth. 
 
 But who, with silent tread, 
 Moved o'er the plains of waving asphodel? 
 Who, called and severed from the countless dead, 
 Amidst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell, 
 
 And listen to the swell 
 Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale 
 The spirit wandering in the immortal gale ? 
 
 They of the sword, — whose praise, 
 With the bright wine at nations' feasts, went round ! 
 They of the lyre, — whose unforgotten lays 
 On the morn's wing had sent their mighty sound, 
 
 And in all regions found 
 Their echoes 'midst the mountains ! — and become ■ 
 
 In man's deep heart, as voices of his home ! 
 
 They of the daring thought ! — 
 Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied ; 
 Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths had sought 
 
449 
 
 The soul's far birthplace, — but without a guide! 
 
 Sages and seers, who died, 
 And left the world their high mysterious dreams, 
 Born 'midst the olive-woods, by Grecian streams. 
 
 But they, of whose abode 
 'Midst her green valleys earth retained no trace, 
 Save a flower springing from their burial-sod, 
 A shade of sadness on some kindred face, — 
 
 A void and silent place 
 In some sweet home ; — thou hadst no wreaths for these, 
 Thou sunny land ! with all thy deathless trees. 
 
 The peasant, at his door 
 Might sink to die, when vintage-feasts were spread, 
 And songs on every wind ! — From thy bright shore 
 No lovelier vision floated round his head ; — 
 
 Thou wert for nobler dead ! 
 He heard the bounding steps which round him fell, 
 And sighed to bid the festal sun farewell ! 
 
 The slave, — whose very tears 
 Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast 
 Shut up the woes and burning thoughts of years, 
 As in the ashes of an urn compressed, — 
 
 He might not be thy guest ! — 
 No gentle breathings from thy distant sky 
 Came o'er his path and whispered " Liberty ! " 
 
 Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, 
 Unlike a gift of nature to decay, 
 Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, 
 The child at rest before its mother lay ; 
 
 Even so to pass away, 
 With its bright smile ! — Elysium ! what wert thou 
 To her, who wept o'er that young slumberer's brow ! 
 
 Thou hadst no home, green land ! 
 For the fair creature from her bosom gone, 
 With life's first flowers just opening in her hand, 
 And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown, 
 
 Which in its clear eye shone 
 Like the spring's waking ! — But that light was past — 
 Where went the dew-drop, swept before the blast? 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 441 
 
 Not where thy soft winds played, 
 Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep ! — 
 Fade, with thy bowers, thou land of visions, fade ! 
 From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep, 
 
 And bade man cease to weep ! 
 Fade, with the amaranth-plain, the myrtle-grove 
 Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love ! 
 
 For the most loved are they, 
 Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion-voice 
 In regal halls ! — the shades o'erhang their way ; 
 The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice ; 
 
 And gentle hearts rejoice 
 Around their steps ! — till silently they die, 
 As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. 
 
 And the world knows not then, — 
 Not then, nor ever, — what pure thoughts are fled ! 
 Yet these are they, that on the souls of men 
 Come back, when Night her folding veil hath spread, 
 
 The long-remembered dead ! 
 But not with thee might aught save glory dwell : — 
 Fade, fade away, thou shore of asphodel ! 
 
 EXERCISE CLXXXIV. 
 
 THE EXISTENCE OF GOD. 
 
 Fenelon, translated by Mrs. Fallen. 
 
 Let us follow the traces of the Divinity through what are 
 called the works of nature. We may observe, at the firs* 
 glance, an All-powerful hand, that is the first mover of every 
 thing, in every part of the universe. The heavens, the earth, 
 the stars ; plants, animals ; our bodies, our spirits ; — all dis- 
 cover an order, a nice arrangement, a skill, a wisdom far 
 superior to our own, — a wisdom which is the soul of the 
 whole world, and which conducts every thing to its destined 
 end, with a gentle and insensible, but all-powerful sway. We 
 see, — if we may so speak, — the architecture of the universe, 
 the just proportion of all its parts ; and one look is enough to 
 
442 
 
 discover to us, — in an insect, yet more than in the sun, — 
 a wisdom and a power that shine forth in its meanest works. 
 
 These are views that would strike the most ignorant. 
 What would be our impressions, if we could enter the secrets 
 of the material world; if we could dissect the internal parts 
 of animals, and observe their perfect mechanism? Every 
 f hing, then, in the universe, bears the marks of the Divinity, 
 and man more than all the rest. 
 
 It often happens, that what appears like a defect to our 
 limited vision, viewed separately from the whole, gives a 
 beauty to the general design, for the perception of which we 
 do not possess that enlargement and simplicity of mind, by 
 which alone we could comprehend the perfection of the whole. 
 Does it not often happen, that we hastily condemn parts of 
 the works of men, because we have not sufficiently penetrated 
 into the whole extent of their designs? It is the same with 
 the great features of the providence of God, delineated in the 
 government of the world for so many ages. It is only the 
 whole that can be intelligible; and the whole is too vast for a 
 near view. 
 
 The hand of God is displayed everywhere, even in the 
 worm ; and weakness and nothingness are discoverable every- 
 where, even in the most sublime geniuses. Let us study this 
 visible creation as we will ; take the anatomy of the meanest 
 animal ; look at the smallest grain of corn that is planted in 
 the earth, and the manner in which its germ produces and 
 multiplies ; observe attentively the rose-bud, how carefully it 
 opens to the sun, and closes at his setting ; and we shall see 
 more skill and design than in all the works of man. What 
 we call human art, is only a feeble imitation of the great art 
 which we call the laws of nature, and which impiety has not 
 been ashamed to call blind chance. 
 
 Can we be astonished that poets have animated all nature ; 
 that they have given wings to the winds, and darts to the 
 sun ; that they have painted rivers hastening to precipitate 
 themselves into the sea ; and trees that reach the clouds, to 
 overcome the rays of the sun by the thickness of their foli- 
 age ? These figures have been adopted, even in common 
 conversation ; so natural is it for man to feel the power and 
 skill with which the universe is filled. 
 
 Poetry has only attributed to inanimate things, the design 
 of the Creator. The language of the poets gave rise to the 
 theology of the pagans ; their theologians were poets. They 
 imagined a power, a wisdom, in objects the most entirely 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 443 
 
 destitute of intelligence. With them, the rivers were gods, 
 and the fountains were naiads; the woods and the moun- 
 tains had their particular divinities ; the flowers were subject 
 to Flora, and the fruits to Pomona. 
 
 The more enlarged our minds are, when we contemplate 
 nature, the more we discover of that inexhaustible wisdom 
 which is the soul of the universe. Then do we see the Infi- 
 nite Creator represented in all his works, as in a mirror, to 
 the contemplation of his intelligent offspring. 
 
 EXERCISE CLXXXV. 
 
 CHARACTER OF FENELON. 
 
 Translated from Saint- Simon. 
 
 This prelate was a tall, spare man, of a good figure, the 
 eyes full of fire and most expressive of sense and talent. I 
 have never seen any thing like his countenance ; and having 
 once seen it, it was impossible to forget it. It was full of 
 contraries. There were gravity and gallantry, seriousness 
 and gayety ; it was as appropriate to the man of learning as 
 the bishop, to the bishop as the man ; above all, there shone 
 forth in it, as in all the rest of his person, an air of perfect 
 grace, decorum, delicacy, mind, and, more than any thing, 
 nobleness. It required an effort to take your eyes from him. 
 All his portraits are speaking, without, however, catching the 
 exact harmony which reigned in the original, or the various 
 delicate shades of character collected in his face. 
 
 His manners corresponded with his appearance ; his ease 
 communicated itself to others ; there were, moreover, an air 
 and a good taste that are only acquired by mixing with the 
 best society and the great world, which diffused themselves 
 over all his conversation ; along with which a natural elo- 
 quence, gentle yet flowery, an insinuating politeness, at the 
 same time noble and discriminative ; an elocution neat, easy 
 and agreeable : every thing appeared, as it fell from him, clear 
 and perspicuous ; even matters which in other hands would 
 have been thought embarrassed and obscure. He seemed 
 never to wish to appear a wiser man than the one he was 
 conversing with; he put himself within the reach of his 
 auditor, without letting him perceive it, so that the effect was 
 
444 Yt UNG ladies' reader. 
 
 like enchantment; and nobody could leave him, no one not 
 try to return to him. 
 
 It was this rare talent, — and he had it to the highest 
 pitch of perfection, — which all his life bound his friends to 
 him, in spite of his disgrace, and which in their dispersion 
 brought them together to talk of him, to regret him, to wish 
 for him, to attach themselves closer and closer to him, as the 
 Jews sigh for Jerusalem, and to pine for his return, as that 
 unfortunate people sigh and wait for the coming of the 
 Messiah. It was in the character of a species of prophet that 
 he had acquired that power over his followers, which, though 
 exercised in all sweetness and gentleness, yet could bear no 
 resistance. If he had returned to court, or entered the 
 council, which was his grand aim, he would not long have 
 suffered his coadjutors to remain as companions. Once at 
 anchor, once without need of the aid of others, it would have 
 been soon dangerous not merely to resist him, but not to 
 maintain a constant condition of suppleness and admiration 
 towards him. 
 
 In the retirement of his diocese, he lived with the humble 
 and industrious piety of a pastor, and with the magnificence 
 and confidence of a man who felt no pain at renouncing what 
 others might suppose him to regret. He had the art of keep- 
 ing the world at its proper distance. No man ever had the 
 passion of pleasing more than he : it extended to the servant 
 as well as to the master ; never did man carry it farther, or 
 with a more constant, regular, and continued application ; 
 and, undoubtedly, that man never lived who succeeded more 
 eminently. 
 
 Cambrai is a place of great resort and passage : nothing 
 could equal the politeness, the discernment, the charming 
 and agreeable manner, with which he received every body. 
 At first he was shunned ; he courted no one ; gradually, and 
 almost insensibly, the charm of his manner attracted a small 
 body of friends. Under favour of this little crowd, several of 
 those whom fear had kept away, were glad to come and sow 
 seeds, to be reaped in other times. From one to another 
 the fashion caught, and every body went. When the Duke 
 of Burgundy began to show himself, the prelate's court was 
 still further increased, and really became an effective one 
 when the Duke became Dauphin. The number of persons 
 whom he had welcomed, of those who had lodged with him, 
 jn passing through, the care he had taken of the sick, of the 
 wounded, who on various occasions had been brought into 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READFR. 445 
 
 the city, had won the hearts of the troops. He was assiduous 
 in his attendance on the hospitals, and among the officers, high 
 and low; he would keep invalids at his palace for many 
 months together, until they were perfectly reestablished. 
 While, in the character of a true pastor, he was vigilant in 
 the care of their souls, and ready at the call of the meanest 
 among them, and with his power of eloquence, and his 
 knowledge of the human heart, so successful in gaining 
 authority over their minds, he was not less attentive to their 
 corporal wants. Subsistence and nutriment for the sick, 
 delicacies for the fastidious, and even medicines, were 
 brought from his abode, in quantities ; and yet in all this was 
 an order, a method, and a care that each thing was the best 
 of its kind. At all consultations oil critical cases he was 
 sure to preside. It is absolutely incredible to what a point 
 he became the idol of the soldiery, and how his name re- 
 sounded into the very heart of the court. 
 
 His alms, his repeated episcopal visitations, many times in 
 the year, which made him personally known in the remotest 
 district of his diocese, his frequent preachings both in town and 
 village, his facility of access, his humanity to the lowly, his po- 
 liteness to others, the natural grace, which increased the value 
 of every thing he said and did, made him adored by the people ; 
 and the priests, whose brother and father he called himself, 
 wore him in their very hearts. And, with all this art and this 
 passion for pleasing, there was nothing low, nothing common, 
 affected, misplaced ; he was always precisely on the right 
 footing with every one. He was easy of access, and every 
 claim upon him was met with a prompt and disinterested ex- 
 pedition ; and all who held office under him, throughout his 
 extensive diocese, seemed animated with the spirit of their 
 principal. 
 
 EXERCISE CLXXXVI. 
 
 Gertrude's retreat, campbeii. 
 
 A valley from the river shore withdrawn 
 
 Was Albert's home, two quiet woods between, 
 
 Whose lofty verdure overlooked his lawn ; 
 And waters to their resting-place serene 
 38 
 
446 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Came freshening and reflecting all the scene : 
 (A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves.) 
 
 So sweet a spot of earth, you might, I ween, 
 Have guessed some congregation of the elves, 
 To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for themselves. 
 
 Yet wanted not the eye far scope to muse, 
 
 Nor vistas opened by the wandering stream ; 
 Both where at evening Alleghany views, 
 
 Through ridges burning in her western beam, 
 
 Lake after lake interminably gleam : 
 And, past those settlers' haunts, the eye might roam 
 
 Where earth's unliving silence all would seem ; 
 Save where on rocks the beaver built his dome, 
 Or buffalo remote lowed far from human home. 
 
 But silent not that adverse eastern path, 
 
 Which saw Aurora's hills the horizon crown ; 
 
 There was the river heard, in bed of wrath, 
 (A precipice of foam from mountains brown,) 
 Like tumults heard from some far-distant town ; 
 
 But, softening in approach, be left his gloom, 
 And murmured pleasantly, and laid him down 
 
 To kiss those easy-curving banks of bloom, 
 That lent the windward air an exquisite perfume. 
 
 It seemed as if those scenes sweet influence had 
 
 On Gertrude's soul, and kindness like their own 
 Inspired those eyes affectionate and glad, 
 
 That seemed to love whate'er they looked upon ; 
 
 Whether with Hebe's mirth her features shone, 
 Or if a shade more pensive them o'ercast, 
 
 (As if for heavenly musing meant alone ;) 
 Yet so becomingly the expression past, 
 That each succeeding look was lovelier than the last. 
 
 Nor guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home, 
 
 With all its picturesque and balmy grace, 
 And fields that were a luxury to roam, 
 
 Lost on the soul that looked from such a face ! 
 
 Enthusiast of the woods! — when years apace 
 Had bound thy lovely waist with woman's zone, 
 
 The sunrise path, at morn, I see thee trace 
 To hills with high magnolia overgrown, 
 And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and alone. 
 
447 
 
 Yet deem not Gertrude sighed for foreign joy ; — 
 To soothe a father's couch her only care, 
 
 And keep his reverend head from all annoy : 
 For this, methinks, her homeward steps repair, 
 Soon as the morning wreath had bound her hair ; 
 
 While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew, 
 While boatmen carolled to the fresh-blown air, 
 
 And woods a horizontal shadow threw ; 
 And early fox appeared in momentary view. 
 
 Apart there was a deep untrodden grot, 
 
 Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore : 
 
 Tradition had not named its lonely spot ; 
 
 But here, methinks, might India's sons explore 
 Their fathers' dust, or lift, perchance of yore, 
 
 Their voice to the great Spirit : — rocks sublime 
 To human art a sportive semblance bore, 
 
 And yellow lichens coloured all the clime, 
 Like moonlight battlements, and towers decayed by time. 
 
 But high in amphitheatre above, 
 
 His arms the everlasting aloe threw : 
 Breathed but an air of heaven, and all the grove 
 
 As if with instinct living spirit grew, 
 
 Rolling its verdant gulf of every hue ; 
 And now suspended was the pleasing din, — 
 
 Now from a murmur faint it swelled anew ; — 
 Like the first note of organ heard within 
 Cathedral aisles, — ere yet its symphony begin. 
 
 It was in this lone valley she would charm 
 
 The lingering noon, where flowers a couch had strewn ; 
 Her cheek reclining, and her snowy arm, 
 
 On hillock by the palm-tree half o'ergrown; 
 
 And aye that volume on her lap is thrown 
 Which every heart of human mould endears : 
 
 With Shakspeare's self she speaks and smiles alone, 
 And no intruding visitation fears, 
 To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her sweetest tears. 
 
448 YOUNG ladies' reader. 
 
 EXERCISE CLXXXVII. 
 
 THE FAMILY MEETING. Charles Sprague. 
 
 We are all 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 graveyard — some lie there ; 
 And cruel Ocean has his share : — 
 
 We're not all here. 
 
 We are all here ! 
 Even they, — the dead, — though dead, so dear, 
 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. 
 
READER. 449 
 
 We are all here! 
 
 Father, Mother, 
 
 Sister, Brother, — 
 You that I love with love so dear ! 
 This may not long of us be said ; 
 Soon must we join the gathered dead ; 
 And by the hearth we now sit round, 
 Some other circle will be found. 
 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!'* 
 
 EXERCISE CLXXXVIIL 
 THE ACROPOLIS AND THE PARTHENON. Cheever. 
 
 The Acropolis of Athens ! It is difficult to conceive the 
 perpetual and vivid interest, with which the stranger wanders 
 around its scenery, inhaling, at every step, the air of ancient 
 Athenian glory. Even now it is an object which one would 
 never be wearied with gazing at ; and in its perfection it 
 must have been a combination of natural beauty of situation 
 with the highest magnificence of art, such as would renew 
 the admiration of the mind with every day's examination. Its 
 Propylsea, its Parthenon, and its other temples, in solemn, 
 melancholy ruins, make it an altar of the past, magnificent 
 beyond description. How glorious must it have been in the 
 freshness of its early unity, and the unbroken symmetry of 
 all its outlines, — a vast white pile of fretted Pentelican mar- 
 ble, with every sculpture in the pediments and friezes of its 
 temples breathing with life ! 
 
 The Acropolis, before which we now stand, looks directly 
 towards the port of the Piraeus. Entering now the deep mas- 
 sive arched way which forms the only access to the citadel, 
 we see beneath us on our right the remains of the Theatre 
 of Herodes. Passing another dilapidated gateway, and pre- 
 senting our passport, or permit, at the door of the cell of the 
 keeper, a precaution, that, if it had been adopted at a much 
 earlier period, would have saved the ruins of the Parthenon 
 
450 YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 
 
 from many a pilferer, we are conducted to the innermost gate- 
 way, through which, amidst broken pillars and pedestals lying 
 ; n heaps around us, we pass upwards, directly in front of the 
 grand ranges of columns, which constitute the centre of the 
 Propylaea. A square marble tower, formerly crowned with an 
 equestrian statue, rises on the north ; and opposite on the 
 south, the Temple of " Victory without Wings," is still visible, 
 having been recently disinterred from the rubbish, and re- 
 stored almost completely to its ancient proportions. 
 
 Here let us step back a little nearer to the brink of the 
 massive western walls of the citadel ; and, from this point, 
 you will think it scarcely possible to conceive a design of 
 purer majesty in architecture, than the remaining splendours 
 of the Propylaea offer to the view. A huge square tower, 
 erected by the Turks, at the southern wing, encumbers and 
 disfigures the harmony of the picture ; but originally it must 
 have been a pile of surpassing magnificence and beauty. 
 
 By quoting a part of Col. Leake's accurate description of 
 the plan and execution of this work under the administration 
 of Pericles, you will have a better idea of the whole than I 
 can otherwise convey. " The western end of the Acropolis," 
 says this writer, " which furnished the only access to the 
 summit of the hill, presented a breadth of only one hundred 
 and sixty-eight feet, — an opening so narrow, that it appeared 
 practicable to the artists of Pericles to fill up the space with 
 a single building, which, in serving the main purpose of a 
 gateway, should contribute at once to fortify and adorn the 
 citadel. This work, — the greatest production of civil archi- 
 tecture in Athens, — which equalled the Parthenon in felicity 
 of execution, and surpassed it in boldness and originality of 
 design, — was begun 437 years before Christ, and completed 
 in five years. The entire building, like others of the same 
 kind, received the name of Propylaea from its forming a vesti- 
 bule to the five gates or doors by which the citadel was 
 entered." 
 
 The whole structure was entirely of Pentelican marble. 
 There were six fluted Doric columns, in front ; each five feet 
 in diameter, and twenty-nine feet high. Behind this was a 
 vestibule forty-three feet deep, with six Doric columns on 
 each side. Marble beams, twenty-two feet long, covered the 
 side-aisles. This vestibule leads to the five doors of the 
 Propylaea ; and through these you pass into the inner eastern 
 portico, with its Doric colonnade. 
 
 " Here, above all places at Athens," says Mr. Wordsworth, 
 
451 
 
 " the mind of the traveller enjoys an exquisite pleasure. It 
 seems as if this portal had been spared in order that our im- 
 agination might send through it, as through a triumphal arch, 
 all the glories of Athenian antiquity, in visible parade. In 
 our visions of that spectacle, we would unseal the long Pana- 
 thenaic frieze of Phidias, representing that spectacle, from its 
 place on the marble walls of the Parthenon, in order that, 
 endued with ideal life, it might move through this splendid 
 avenue, as it originally did of old. 
 
 " It was this particular point in the localities of Athens, 
 which was most admired by the Athenians themselves ; nor 
 is this surprising. Let us conceive such a restitution of this 
 fabric as its surviving fragments will suggest; let us imagine 
 it restored to its pristine beauty ; let it rise once more in the 
 full dignity of its youthful stature ;. let all the architectural 
 decorations be fresh and perfect, let their moulding be again 
 brilliant with their glowing tints of red and blue ; let the 
 coffers of its soffits be again spangled with stars, and the 
 marble antae be fringed over, as they were once, with their 
 delicate embroidery of ivy leaf; let it be in such a lovely day 
 as the present day of November ; and then let the bronze 
 valves of these five gates of the Propylaea, be suddenly flung 
 open, and all the splendours of the interior of the Acropolis 
 burst at once upon the view ! 
 
 ' But ye shall see ! for the opening doors I hear of the Pro- 
 pylaea ! 
 
 Shout, shout aloud of the view which appears of the old time- 
 honoured Athenee, 
 
 Wondrous in sight and famous in scng, where the noble 
 Demus abideth ! ' 
 
 Aristophanes." 
 
 But let us pass upward, through this splendid portal, to the 
 grand interior object of interest on the Acropolis, — the Par- 
 thenon in ruins. A little more than one hundred years ago, 
 this perfect temple stood almost entire. The Turks, who 
 possessed the citadel, kept their powder-magazine within its 
 chambers ; and the Venetians under Morosini, on the evening 
 of the 20th of September, 1687, destroyed by a bomb, in five 
 aiinutes, what time, and genius, and history, and poetry, had 
 consecrated ; and what time, and ignorance, and barbarism, 
 ind decay, had spared for thousands of years. And it might 
 lare stood for thousands of years longer; for its destruction 
 
452 
 
 was effected by none of the common agents of Nature in her 
 work of decay, but by elements which were not even known 
 when the fabric was erected. The middle portion of the 
 temple was entirely destroyed by the explosion ; but the 
 eastern and western portions, with their fronts, remain, 
 though the cupidity of civilized spoilers has stripped them 
 of their sculptured metopes, friezes and pediments. The 
 British Museum has been enriched at the expense of the dead 
 body of Greece ; and a sentiment of deep indignation burns 
 in the mind at the contemplation of these ruins. It seemed 
 to me, while gazing upon them, and thinking with what sort 
 of feelings a man could fix his scaling-ladders, and point the 
 levers of his workmen to wrench ofT the exquisite sculptures 
 with which the temple was adorned, — that the land-pirates, 
 who strip the corpses cast ashore from shipwreck, show scarce 
 a deeper insensibility to the sentiments of kindness and de- 
 cency. 
 
 In part of the space of that portion of the Parthenon which 
 was blown down by the explosion, a clumsy Turkish mosque 
 was afterwards erected upon its marble pavement, and still re- 
 mains, a barbarian deformity, between the eastern and western 
 portions of the temple, surrounded by huge piles of columns, 
 cornices, and blocks of marble ; a great quantity of fragments 
 of statues and sculptures have been collected from the ruins, 
 and arranged within it as a sort of museum. 
 
 In spite of every injury, the beauty of the temple as it still 
 stands, is wonderful ; and the pleasure of gazing upon its ma- 
 jestic columns, and upon the lovely scenery on every side, 
 from amidst its shattered piles, is very great. In this temple, 
 as well as in that of Theseus and Jupiter Olympius, and also 
 in the columns of the Propylsea, a singular effect of earth- 
 quakes is visible, showing at once the force of the shocks, 
 and the solidity of fabrics which could have been thus moved 
 by them and yet so little injured. The enormous grooved 
 marble blocks in the pillars are not unfrequently wrenched 
 round, notwithstanding the prodigious superincumbent weight, 
 in such a manner that the corner of the groove in one lies 
 directly in a line with the hollow or curve in the next. This 
 is observable sometimes in the very middle of a column sixty 
 feet high, and could have been produced by no other cause 
 than the shock of an earthquake. 
 
 Many excavations have been made amidst the rubbish of 
 the Acropolis, and will probably be continued as long as there 
 is prospect of any new. discoveries. It is made a question 
 
453 
 
 among the literati of the modern city, whether any attempt 
 ought to be made to restore the Parthenon with the fragments 
 that lie in such immense piles around it : the preponderating 
 opinion seems to be, that in its present situation it is an ob- 
 ject of greater beauty and interest, than it ever could possess 
 by any attempted restitution of the fabric. If the exquisite 
 fragments of art pilfered from it could be snatched back from 
 the spoilers, and replaced in their original beauty, then in- 
 deed, the effort would be desirable. But it would be difficult 
 by any means to increase its power over the imagination, as a 
 spectacle of decaying grandeur, and a memorial of past ages 
 
 EXERCISE CLXXXIX. 
 
 JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. Willis. 
 
 The wind bore on 
 The leaden tramp of thousands. Clarion-notes 
 Rang sharply on the ear, at intervals ; 
 And the low, mingled din of mighty hosts 
 Returning from the battle, poured from far, 
 Like the deep murmur of a restless sea. 
 They came, as earthly conquerors always come; 
 With blood and splendour, revelry and wos ! 
 The stately horse treads proudly, — he hath trod 
 The brow of death as well. The chariot-wheels 
 Of warriors roll magnificently on, — 
 Their weight hath crushed the fallen. Man is there, — 
 Majestic, lordly man, — with his sublime 
 And elevated brow, and godlike frame ; 
 Lifting his crest in triumph ; — for his heel 
 Hath trod the dying, like a wine-press, down ! 
 
 The mighty Jephthah led his warriors on 
 Through Mizpeh's streets. His helm was proudly set 
 And his stern lip curled slightly, as if praise 
 Were for the hero's scorn. His step was firm, 
 But free as India's leopard ; and his mail, — 
 Whose shekels none in Israel might bear, — 
 Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame. 
 His crest was Judah's kingliest ; and the look 
 
454 
 
 Of his dark, lofty eye, and bended brow, 
 
 Might quell the lion. He led on ; but thoughts 
 
 Seemed gathering round which troubled him. The veins 
 
 Grew visible upon his swarthy brow ; 
 
 And his proud lip was pressed as if with pain. 
 
 He trod less firmly ; and his restless eye 
 
 Glanced forward frequently, as if some ill 
 
 He dared not meet, were there. His home was near ; 
 
 And men were thronging, with that strange delight 
 
 They have in human passions, to observe 
 
 The struggle of his feelings with his pride. 
 
 He gazed intensely forward. The tall firs 
 
 Before his tent were motionless. The leaves 
 
 Of the sweet aloe, and the clustering vines, 
 
 Which half concealed his threshold, met his eye, — 
 
 Unchanged and beautiful ; and one by one, 
 
 The balsam, with its sweet-distilling stems, 
 
 And the Circassian rose, and all the crowd 
 
 Of silent and familiar things, stole up 
 
 Like the recovered passages of dreams. 
 
 He strode on rapidly. — A moment more, 
 
 And he had reached his home ; when, lo ! there sprang 
 
 One with a bounding footstep, and a brow 
 
 Of light, to meet him. — Oh ! how beautiful ! — 
 
 Her dark eye flashing like a sun-lit gem, — 
 
 And her luxuriant hair ! — 'twas like the sweep 
 
 Of a swift wing in visions. He stood still, 
 
 As if the sight had withered him. She threw 
 
 Her arms about his neck, — he heeded not. 
 
 She called him " Father ; " — but he answered not. 
 
 She stood and gazed upon him. — Was he wroth? 
 
 There was no anger in that blood-shot eye. 
 
 Had sickness seized him ] She unclasped his helm, 
 
 And laid her white hand gently on his brow, 
 
 And the large veins felt stiff and hard, like chords. — 
 
 The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands, 
 
 And spoke the name of God, in agony. 
 
 She knew that he was stricken, then ; and rushed 
 
 Again into his arms ; and, with a flood 
 
 Of tears she could not bridle, sobbed a prayer 
 
 That he would tell her of his wretchedness. 
 
 He told her ; — and a momentary flush 
 
 Shot o'er her countenance ; and then the soul 
 
 Of Jephthah's daughter wakened ; and she stood 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 455 
 
 Calmly and nobly up, and said 'twas well — 
 And she would die. # # * # 
 
 The sun had well-nigh set. 
 The fire was on the altar ; and the priest 
 Of the High God was there. A wasted man 
 Was stretching out his withered hands to Heaven, 
 As if he would have prayed, but had no words ; — 
 And she who was to die, — the calmest one 
 In Israel at that hour, — stood up alone, 
 And waited for the sun to set. Her face 
 Was pale, but very beautiful ; her lip 
 Had a more delicate outline, and the tint 
 Was deeper ; but her countenance was like 
 The majesty of angels ! 
 
 The sun set ; — 
 And she was dead, — but not by violence. 
 
 EXERCISE CXC. 
 
 SUBLIMITY OF WORDSWORTH. Talfourd. 
 
 To the consideration of Wordsworth's sublimities we come 
 with trembling steps, and feel, as we approach, that we are 
 entering upon holy ground. At first, indeed, he seems only 
 to win and to allure us, to resign the most astonishing tro- 
 phies of the poet, and humbly to indulge, among the beauties 
 of the creation, the sweetest and the lowliest of human af- 
 fections. 
 
 We soon, however, feel how faint an idea of his capacities 
 we have entertained by classing him with the loveliest of de- 
 scriptive poets, and how subservient the sweetest of his 
 domestic pictures are to the grandeur of his lofty conceptions. 
 He has enlarged the resources of the mind, and discovered 
 new dignities in our species. The most searching eyes 
 observe in his productions a depth of thought which they are 
 unable to fathom, — eminences rising far into an imaginative 
 glory which they cannot penetrate. 
 
 Above all others he has discerned and traced out the line 
 by which the high qualities of intellectual greatness, are 
 intimately united with the most generous exertions, and the 
 holiest principles of moral goodness. His perceptions of 
 
456 
 
 truth, derived as they are from the intuitive feelings of his 
 heart, are clear and unclouded, except by the shadows which 
 are thrown from the vast creations of his fancy. 
 
 Set before him the meanest and most disgusting of all 
 earthly objects, and he immediately traces the chain by which 
 it is linked to the great harmonies of nature, — sweeps 
 through the most beautiful and touching of all human feel- 
 ings, in order to show their mysterious connection, — and at 
 last enables us to perceive the union of all orders of animated 
 being, and the universal workings of the Spirit that lives and 
 breathes in them all. 
 
 His theories may rather be regarded as prophetic of what 
 we may be in a loftier state of being, than as descriptive of 
 what we are on earth. No man of feeling ever perused his 
 nobler poems, for the first time, without finding that he 
 breathed in a purer and more elevated region of poetical 
 delight, than any which he had before explored. — To feel, for 
 the first time, a communion with his mind, is to discover loftier 
 faculties in our own. 
 
 EXERCISE CXCI. 
 
 ODE. Wordsworth, 
 [Immortality intimated by Recollections of Childhood.] 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
 The earth, and every common sight, 
 To me did seem 
 Apparelled in celestial light, 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
 It is not. now as it hath been of yore ; — 
 Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
 By night or day, 
 The things which I have seen, I now can see no more. 
 
 The rainbow comes and goes, 
 And lovely is the rose, — 
 The Moon doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 
 Waters on a starry night 
 Are beautiful and fair ; 
 
 
457 
 
 The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
 But yet I know, where'er I go, 
 That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 
 
 Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
 And while the young lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound, 
 To me alone there came a thought of grief: 
 A timely utterance gave that thought relief,* 
 
 And I again am strong. 
 The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep, — ■ 
 No more shall grief of mine the season wrong : 
 I hear the echoes through the mountains throng j 
 The winds come to me from the fields of sleep ; 
 And all the earth is gay. 
 Land and sea 
 Give themselves up to jollity ; 
 
 And with the heart of May 
 Doth every beast keep holiday ; — 
 Thou child of joy, 
 Skout round me. let me hear thy shouts, thou happy shepherd 
 boy ! 
 
 Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make ; I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 
 My heart is at your festival, 
 My head hath its coronal, 
 The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
 Oh ! evil day ! if I were sullen, 
 While the Earth herself is adorning, 
 
 This sweet May-morning; 
 And the children are pulling, 
 
 On every side, 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
 Fresh flowers ■ while the sun shines warm ; 
 And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm : — ; 
 I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 
 — But there's a tree, of many one, 
 A single field which I have looked upon, — 
 Both of them speak of something that is gone : 
 The pansy at my feet 
 Doth the same tale repeat : 
 39 
 
458 YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 
 
 Whither is fled the visionary gleam 1 — ■ 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
 
 The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
 
 And cometh from afar ; 
 Not in entire forgetfulness, 
 And not in utter nakedness, 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 
 From God, who is our home : 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing boy ; 
 But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 
 
 He sees it in his joy ; 
 The youth, who daily farther from the east 
 Must travel, still is nature's priest, 
 And by the vision splendid 
 Is on his way attended ; 
 At length the man perceives it die away, 
 And fade into the light of common day. 
 
 Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own : 
 Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind ; 
 And, even with something of a mother's mind. 
 And no unworthy aim, 
 The homely nurse doth all she can 
 To make her foster-child, her inmate man, 
 
 Forget the glories he hath known, 
 And that imperial palace whence he came. 
 
 Behold the child among his new-born blisses, 
 A six years' darling of a pygmy size. 
 See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
 Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
 With light upon him from his father's eyes 1 
 See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
 Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
 Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ; 
 
 A wedding or a festival, 
 
 A mourning or a funeral ; 
 
 And this hath now his heart ; 
 
 And unto this he frames his song : 
 
459 
 
 Then will he fit his tongue 
 To dialogue of business, love, or strife; 
 But it will not be long 
 Ere this be thrown aside, 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The little actor cons another part; 
 Filling from time to time his " humorous stage" 
 With all the persons, down to palsied age, 
 That life brings with her in her equipage ; 
 As if his whole vocation 
 Were endless imitation. 
 
 Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 
 
 Thy soul's immensity; 
 Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
 Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
 Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — 
 
 Mighty prophet ! seer blest ! 
 
 On whom those truths do rest, 
 Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
 In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
 Thou, over whom thy immortality 
 Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
 A presence which is not to be put by; 
 Thou little child,, yet glorious in the might 
 Of heaven-born freedom, on thy being's height, 
 Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
 The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife 1 
 Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, 
 And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 
 
 Oh ! joy, that in our embers 
 Is something that doth live, 
 
 That nature yet remembers 
 What was so fugitive ! 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 Perpetual benedictions : not indeed 
 For that which is most worthy to be blest; 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
 With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast : — 
 
460 YOUNG LADIES 7 READER. 
 
 Not for these I raise 
 The song of thanks and praise ; 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things, 
 Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
 Blank misgivings of a creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realized, 
 High instincts, before which our mortal nature 
 Did tremble, like a guilty thing surprised I 
 But for those first affections, 
 Those shadowy recollections, 
 
 Which, be they what they may, 
 Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
 Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 
 
 Uphold us, — cherish, — and have power to mak® 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal silence : truths that wake, 
 
 To perish never ; 
 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,. 
 
 Nor man nor boy, 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 
 Hence, in a season of calm weather, 
 
 Though inland far we be, 
 Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 Which brought us hither ; 
 Can in a moment travel thither, — 
 And see the children sport upon the shore, 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 
 
 Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song; ! 
 
 And let the young lambs bound 
 
 As to the tabor's sound !' 
 We, in thought, will join your throng, 
 
 Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
 
 Ye that through your hearts to-day 
 
 Feel the gladness of the May ! 
 What though the radiance which was once so bmghi 
 Be now forever taken from my sig'ht, 
 
 Though nothing can bring back the hour 
 Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower : 
 
 We will grieve not, rather find 
 
 Strength in what remains behind,.. 
 
 In the primal 1 sympathy 
 
461 
 
 Which having been must ever be, 
 In the soothing thoughts that spring 
 Out of human suffering, 
 In the faith that looks through death, 
 In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, 
 Think not of any severing of our loves ! 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 
 I only have relinquished one delight, 
 To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
 I love the brooks, which down their channels fret, 
 Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 
 The innocent brightness of a new-born day 
 
 Is lovely yet. 
 The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
 Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
 That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality: 
 Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
 Thanks to the human heart by which we live ; 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears ; 
 To me the meanest flower that blows, can give ■ 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 
 
 EXERCISE CXCII. 
 PORTIA'S DESCRIPTION OF HER WOOERS. Shakspeare. 
 
 Portia and Nerissa. 
 
 Por. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is a-weary of this 
 great world. 
 
 Ner. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were 
 in the same abundance as your good fortunes are : and yet, 
 for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much, 
 as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness, 
 therefore, to be seated in the mean : superfluity comes sooner 
 by white hairs, but competency lives longer. 
 
 Por. Good sentences, and well pronounced. 
 
 Ner. They would be better, if well followed. 
 39* 
 
Por. If to do were as easy as to know what were good 
 to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages 
 princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own 
 instructions : I can easier teach twenty what were good to be 
 done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. 
 The brain may devise laws for the blood;, but a hot temper 
 leaps over a cold decree : such a hare is madness the youth, 
 to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. — But 
 this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband : 
 — O me, the word choose! I may neither choose whom I 
 would, nor refuse whom I dislike ; so is the will of a living 
 daughter curbed by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, 
 Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none 1 
 
 Ner. Your father was ever virtuous ; and holy men, at 
 their death, have good inspirations ; therefore, the lottery 
 that he hath devised in these three .chests of gold, silver, 
 and lead, (whereof who chooses his meaning, chooses you,) 
 will, no doubt, never be chosen by any rightly, but one whom 
 you shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your 
 affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already 
 come? 
 
 Por. I pray thee over-name them ; and as thou namest 
 them, I will describe them ; and, according to my description, 
 level at my affection. 
 
 Ner. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. 
 
 Por. Ay, that's a colt, indeed ; for he doth nothing but 
 talk of his horse ; and he makes it a great appropriation to 
 his own good parts, that he can shoe him himself. 
 
 Ner. Tben, is there the county Palatinate. 
 
 Por. He doth nothing but frown ; as who should say, An' 
 if you will not have me, choose. He hears merry tales, and 
 smiles not. I fear, he will prove the weeping philosopher 
 when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in 
 his youth. I had rather be married to a death's head, with a 
 bone in his mouth, than to either of these. — Defend me from 
 these two ! 
 
 Ner. How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon ? 
 
 Por. God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. 
 In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker. — But, he ! — 
 why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan's; a better 
 bad habit of frowning than the count Palatine : he is every 
 man in no man. If a throstle sing, he falls straight a caper- 
 ing : he will fence with his own shadow. If I should marry 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 HEADER. 463 
 
 him, I should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise 
 me, I would forgive him ; for if he love me to madness, I 
 shall never requite him. 
 
 Ner. What say you, then, to Faulconbridge, the young 
 baron of England? 
 
 Por. You know, I say nothing to him ; for he understands 
 not me, nor I him ; he hath neither Latin, French, nor Ital- 
 ian ; and you will come into the court and swear, that I have 
 a poor pennyworth in the English. He is a proper man's 
 picture; but, alas! who can converse with a dumb show? 
 How oddly he is suited ! I think, he bought his doublet in 
 Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, and 
 his behaviour everywhere. 
 
 Ner. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour ? 
 
 Por. That he hath a neighbourly charity in him ; for he 
 borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman, and swore he 
 would pay him again, when he was able : I think, the French- 
 man became his surety, and sealed under for another. 
 
 Ner. How like you the young German, the duke of Sax- 
 ony's nephew? 
 
 Por. Very vilely in the morning, when he is sober; and 
 most vilely in the afternoon, when he is drunk : when he is 
 best, he is a little worse than a man ; and when he is worst, 
 he is little better than a beast : an' the worst fall that ever 
 fell, I hope, I shall make shift to go without him. 
 
 Ner. If he should offer to choose, and choose the right 
 casket, you would refuse to perform your father's will, if you 
 should refuse to accept him. 
 
 Por. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, set a 
 deep glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary casket; for, if 
 the devil be within, and that temptation without, I know he 
 will choose it. I will do any thing, Nerissa, ere I will be 
 married to a sponge. 
 
 Ner. You need not fear, lady, the having any of these 
 lords : they have acquainted me with their determination ; — 
 which is, indeed, to return to their home, and to trouble you 
 with no more suit ; unless you may be won by some other 
 sort than your father's imposition, depending on the caskets, 
 
 Por. I am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable ; 
 for there is not one among them but I dote on his very ab- 
 sence, and I pray grant them a fair departure. 
 
464 YOUN-G LADIES 5 READER. 
 
 EXERCISE CXCIII. 
 
 FROST AT MIDNIGHT. Coleridge. 
 
 The frost performs its secret ministry, 
 Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry 
 Came loud, — and hark, again ! loud as before. — 
 The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, 
 Have left me to that solitude which suits 
 Abstruser musings : save that at my side 
 My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. — 
 'Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs 
 And vexes meditation with its strange 
 And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, — 
 This populous village ! — Sea, and hill, and wood, 
 With all the numberless goings on in life, 
 Inaudible as dreams ! The thin blue flame 
 Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not ; 
 Only that film which fluttered on the grate, 
 Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. 
 Methinks, its motion, in this hush of nature, 
 Gives it dim sympathies with me who live ; — 
 Making it a companionable form, 
 To which the living spirit in our frame, 
 That loves not to behold a lifeless thing, 
 Transfuses its own pleasures, its own will. 
 =& # # %■ # # 
 
 Dear babe ! that sleepest, cradled by my side, 
 Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, 
 Fill up the interspersed vacancies, 
 And momentary pauses of the thought, — 
 My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart 
 With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, 
 And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, 
 And in far other scenes ! — For I was reared 
 In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, 
 And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. 
 But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze 
 By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 
 Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds 
 Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores 
 And mountain crags ; so shalt thou see and hear 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER 465 
 
 The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 
 Of that eternal language which thy God 
 Utters, who from eternity doth teach 
 Himself in all, and all things in Himself. 
 Great universal Teacher ! He shall mould 
 Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 
 
 Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, 
 Whether the summer clothe the general earth 
 With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing, 
 Betwixt the tufts of snow,* on the bare branch 
 Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch 
 Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the eave-drops fall^ 
 Heard only in the trances of the blast, 
 Or if the secret ministry of frost 
 Shall hang them up in silent icicles, 
 Quietly shining to the quiet moon 
 
 EXERCISE CXCIV. 
 CHARACTER OF HANNAH MORE. Roberts. 
 
 This eminent woman's love of her country, and her love 
 of her species, were without any alloy of party feelings or 
 prejudices. To her sound and correct understanding, liberty 
 presented itself as including, among its essential constituents, 
 loyalty, allegiance, security, and duty. Patriotism, in this 
 view of it, should be placed in the front of her character, 
 since it really took the lead of every other temporal object. 
 
 All the powers of her mind were devoted to the solid im- 
 provement of society. Her aims were all practical ; and it 
 •would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to name a writer who 
 has laid before the public so copious a variety of original 
 thoughts and reasonings, without any admixture of specula- 
 tion or hypothesis. To keep within this tangible barrier, 
 without contracting the range of her imagination, or denying 
 to truth any advantage to which it is fairly entitled, of illus- 
 
 * The English robin retreats to the remotest seclusion, in summer, 
 and is then exceedingly shy ; but, in winter, it frequents the abodes 
 of man, and enlivens the otherwise dreary season, with its delicate 
 notes. In the stillness of a winter Sabbath morning, its voice is 
 the only audible .sound, in the suburbs and the villages. 
 
466 
 
 tration or entertainment, is a secret in the art of composition 
 with which few, if any, have been so well acquainted. Her 
 indefatigable pen was ever at work ; kept in motion by a 
 principle of incessant activity, never to stop but with her 
 pulse ; never to need the refreshment of change ; and never 
 to be weary in well-doing. 
 
 Thus to do good and to distribute was no less the work of 
 her head than of her hand ; and the rich and the great were 
 among the objects of her charity. The specific relief of 
 which they stood in need, she was ever forward to supply ; 
 and as she had passed so many of her earliest years among 
 them, she knew well their wants, and how to administer to 
 them. She was a woman of business, in all the concerns of 
 humanity, refined or common, special or general, and had a 
 sort of righteous cunning in dealing with different cases; 
 exposing without irritating, reproving without discouraging, 
 probing without wounding ; always placing duty upon its right 
 motives, and showing the perversity of error, by bringing it 
 into close comparison with the loveliest forms of truth and 
 godliness. 
 
 It was the privilege of her intellect, to work successfully 
 in the face of forbidding circumstances, — such as, in ordi- 
 nary cases, repress vigour and slacken perseverance. In her 
 early life, her powers of conversation led her into varied 
 society, and principally into those assemblies where intellect 
 is in the breath, and expires in evanescent displays, multiply- 
 ing its ephemeral products to flutter and expire ; — where a 
 mind capable of things of lasting effect and extensive benefit, 
 often lays out all its strength in thoughts that do but gild the 
 fugitive hour, and fade from the memory, like the phantoms 
 of a summer's cloud. Those who move amid such fascina- 
 tions, are seldom extensive contributors -to the treasury of 
 human knowledge. It was therefore the more remarkable 
 that Hannah More, during this part of her life, was actual- 
 ly accumulating, projecting, and accomplishing beneficial 
 schemes and purposes ; and as some rivers are said to pass 
 through large receptacles of waters, without intermixture in 
 their passage, and to roll onward, in their own course, till 
 their destination is completed; — in some such manner did 
 this single-minded woman travel through this gay medium 
 without disturbance or diversion, till, in no long time, she 
 gained a clear and uninterrupted current, dispensing beauty 
 and fertility throughout her beneficent progress. 
 
 Of the works of her pen, we may in truth aver that they 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 407 
 
 have raised for her a monument which can never fail to 
 remind her country of what it owes her. They are, for the 
 most part, elevated above criticism by the noble purposes to 
 which they were devoted, and by the decisive suffrages of the 
 moral public. 
 
 There was hardly a period of her life which was not 
 stamped with her intelligence. From her infantine days, 
 books were her playthings ; and her first discoveries were 
 their own reward. The conscious capacity of doing good 
 and making happy, seemed to possess her earliest thoughts, 
 and to prompt her first wishes and efforts. That, setting out 
 in such a course, and excited by the anticipations and pre- 
 dictions of all around her, she should* set her first foot upon 
 life's open stage, without art or enthusiasm, and with neither 
 singularity of deportment nor conceit of superiority, — that 
 she should carry with her the same consistency and sobriety 
 of character, when her powers expanded, — and terminate 
 her brilliant career, with a composure which infirmities could 
 not disturb, and a beneficence which age could not contract, 
 are truths which those who admire excellence, will delight in 
 contemplating, and those who love their country, will desire 
 to see displayed and detailed with fidelity. 
 
 EXERCISE CXCV. 
 
 FEMALE ACCOMPLISHMENTS. Hannah More. 
 
 A young 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 drawing-tables, stands, flower- 
 pots, screens, and cabinets : nay, she may dance like Sem- 
 pronia herself; and yet we shall insist, that she may have 
 been very badly educated. I am far from meaning to set no 
 value whatever 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 becom- 
 ing, but " one thing is needful." Besides, as the world seems 
 
468 YOUNG LADIES READER. 
 
 to be fully apprized of the value of whatever tends to embel- 
 lish 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 dan- 
 cers, singers, 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 were called out to exercise their pro- 
 fession, 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 hab- 
 its, 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 crea- 
 ture 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 dis- 
 course, and discriminate ; — one who can assist him in his 
 affairs, lighten his cares, soothe his sorrows, purify his joys, 
 strengthen his principles, and educate his children. 
 
 EXERCISE CXCVI. 
 
 DR. JOHNSON. Madame D'Arblay. 
 
 At an evening party at my father's, Dr. Johnson was an- 
 nounced. Every body rose to do him honour ; and he returned 
 the attention with the most formal courtesy. My father, then 
 having welcomed him with the warmest respect, whispered 
 to him that music was going forward ; which he would 
 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 469 
 
 not, my father thinks, have found out ; and placing him on 
 the best seat vacant, told his daughters to go on with the 
 duet ; while Dr. Johnson, intently rolling towards them one 
 eye, — for they say he does not see with the other, — made a 
 grave nod, and gave a dignified motion with one hand, in 
 silent approvance of the proceeding. 
 
 The doctor is indeed very ill-favoured ! Yet he has natu- 
 rally a noble figure ; tall, stout, grand, and authoritative : but 
 he stoops horribly ; his back is quite round ; his mouth is 
 continually opening and shutting, as if he were chewing 
 something ; he has a singular method of twirling his fingers 
 and twisting his hands ; his vast body is in constant agitation, 
 seesawing backwards and forwards ; his feet are never a mo- 
 ment quiet ; and his whole great person looked often as if it 
 were going to roll itself quite voluntarily from its chair to the 
 floor. 
 
 His dress, considering the times, and that he had meant to 
 put on his best-becomes , for he was engaged to dine with a very 
 fine party at Mrs. Montagu's, was as much out of the com- 
 mon road as his figure. He had a large, full, bushy wig, a 
 snuff-coloured coat, with gold buttons, (or, peradventure, 
 brass,) but no ruffles to his doughty fists ; and — not, I sup- 
 pose, to be taken for a Blue, though going to the Blue Q,ueen, 
 — he had on very coarse black worsted stockings. He is 
 shockingly near-sighted ; a thousand times more so than 
 either my father or myself. He did not even know Mrs. 
 Thrale, till she held out her hand to him, which she did very 
 engagingly. 
 
 When the duet was finished, my father introduced Miss 
 Hester Burney to him, as an old acquaintance, to whom, 
 when she was a little girl, he had presented his Idler. His 
 answer to this was imprinting on her pretty face, — not 
 a half touch of a courtly salute, but a good, real, sub- 
 stantial, and very loud kiss. Beyond this chaste embrace, 
 his attention was not to be drawn off two minutes longer 
 from the books, to which he now strided his way ; for we had 
 left the drawing-room for the library, on account of the 
 piano-forte. He pored over them, shelf by shelf, almost 
 brushing them with his eyelashes, from near examination. 
 At last, fixing upon something that happened to hit his fancy, 
 he took it down, and, standing aloof from the company, which 
 he seemed clean and clear to forget, he began without further 
 ceremony, and very composedly, to read to himself, and as 
 intently as if he had been alone in his own study. 
 40 
 
470 
 
 We were all excessively provoked ; for we were languish 
 ing, fretting, expiring, to hear him talk, — not to see him 
 read ! — what could that do for us ? 
 
 My sister then played another duet, accompanied by my 
 father, to which Mrs. Thrale seemed very attentive ; and all 
 the rest quietly resigned. But Dr. Johnson had opened a 
 volume of the British Encyclopedia, and was so deeply en- 
 gaged, that the music, probably, never reached his ears. 
 When it was over, Mrs. Thrale, in a laughing manner, said, 
 " Pray, Dr. Burney, will you be so good as to tell me what 
 that song was, and whose, which was sung last night at Bach's 
 concert, and which you did not hear ? " My father confessed 
 himself by no means so able a diviner, not having had time 
 to consult the stars, though he lived in the house of Sir Isaac 
 Newton. But anxious to draw Dr. Johnson into conversa- 
 tion, he ventured to interrupt him with Mrs. Thrale's con- 
 juring request relative to Bach's concert. 
 
 The doctor, comprehending his drift, good-naturedly put 
 away his book, and, seesawing, with a very humorous smile, 
 drolly repeated, "Bach, sir? Bach's concert? And pray, 
 sir, who is Bach ? Is he a piper ? " 
 
 You may imagine what exclamations followed such a ques- 
 tion. Mrs. Thrale gave a detailed account of the nature of 
 the concert, and the fame of Mr. Bach ; and the many charm- 
 ing performances she had heard, with all their varieties, in 
 his rooms. 
 
 When there was a pause, " Pray, madam," said he, with 
 the calmest gravity, "what is the expense for all this?" 
 " Oh ! " answered she, " the expense is, — much trouble and 
 solicitation to obtain a subscriber's ticket, — or else, half-a- 
 guinea." "Trouble and solicitation," he replied, "I will 
 have nothing to do with! — but, if it be so fine, — I would 
 be willing to give," — he hesitated, and then finished with, — 
 " eighteen pence, — ha ! ha ! " Chocolate being then brought, 
 we returned to the drawing-room ; and Dr. Johnson, when 
 drawn away from the books, freely, and with social good- 
 humour, gave himself up to conversation. 
 
 The intended dinner of Mrs. Montagu being mentioned, 
 Dr. Johnson laughingly told us that he had received the most 
 flattering note that he had ever read, or that any body else 
 ever read, of invitation from that lady. " So have I, too,'* 
 cried Mrs. Thrale. " So, if a note from Mrs. Montagu is to 
 be boasted of, I beg mine may not be forgotten." " Your 
 note, madam," cried Dr. Johnson, smiling, " can bear no 
 
YOUNG LADIES' READER. 471 
 
 comparison with mine ; for I am at the head of all philoso- 
 phers — she says." "And I," returned Mrs. Thrale, "have 
 all the muses in my train." " A fair battle ! " cried my 
 father ; " come ! compliment for compliment ; and see who 
 will hold out longest." " I am afraid for Mrs. Thrale," said 
 Mr. Seward, " for I know that Mrs. Montagu exerts all her 
 forces, when she sings the praises of Dr. Johnson." " Oh ! 
 yes ! " cried Mrs. Thrale, " she has often praised him till he 
 has been ready to faint." " Well," said my father, " you two 
 ladies must get him fairly between you to-day, and see which 
 can lay on the paint the thickest, Mrs. Montagu or Mrs. 
 Thrale." " I had rather," said the doctor, very composedly, 
 "go to Bach's concert ! " 
 
 EXERCISE CXCVII. 
 
 WASHING-DAY. 3Irs Barbauld. 
 
 The Muses are turned gossips ; they have lost 
 The buskined step, and the high-sounding phrase, 
 Language of gods. Come then, domestic Muse, 
 In slipshod measure loosely prattling on 
 Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream, 
 Or drowning flies, or shoe lost in the mire 
 By little whimpering boy, with rueful face : 
 Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded Washing-Day. 
 Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend, 
 With bowed soul, full well ye ken the day 
 Which week, smooth sliding after week, brings on 
 Too soon ; — for to that day nor peace belongs 
 Nor comfort : — ere the first gray streak of dawn, 
 The red-armed washers come, and chase repose. 
 Nor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of mirth, 
 E'er visited that day : the very cat, 
 From the wet kitchen's seared and reeking hearth, 
 Visits the parlour, — an unwonted guest. 
 The silent breakfast-meal is soon despatched ; 
 Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks 
 Cast at the lowering sky, if sky should lower. 
 From that last evil, oh ! preserve us, Heaven ! 
 For should the skies pour down, adieu to all 
 
472 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 Remains of quiet : then expect to hear 
 
 Of sad disasters, — dirt and gravel-stains 
 
 Hard to efface, and loaded lines at once 
 
 Snapped short, — and linen-horse by dog thrown down, 
 
 And all the petty miseries of life. 
 
 Saints have been calm, while stretched upon the rack, 
 
 And Guatimozin smiled on burning coals ; 
 
 But never yet did housewife notable 
 
 Greet with a smile a rainy washing-day. 
 
 But grant the welkin fair, require not thou 
 
 Who call'st thyself perchance the master there, 
 
 Or study swept, or nicely-dusted coat, 
 
 Or usual 'tendance ; — ask not, indiscreet, 
 
 Thy stockings mended, though the yawning rents 
 
 Gape wide as Erebus ; nor hope to find 
 
 Some snug recess impervious : should' st thou try 
 
 The 'customed garden walks, thine eye shall rue 
 
 The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs, 
 
 Myrtle or rose, all crushed beneath the weight 
 
 Of coarse checked apron, — with impatient hand 
 
 Twitched off when showers impend : or crossing line 
 
 Shall mar thy musings, as the cold wet sheet 
 
 Flaps in thy face abrupt. — Woe to the friend 
 
 Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim, 
 
 On such a day, the hospitable rites ! 
 
 Looks, blank at best, and stinted courtesy 
 
 Shall he receive. Vainly he feeds his hopes 
 
 With dinner of roast chicken, savoury pie, 
 
 Or tart, or pudding : — pudding he nor tart 
 
 That day shall eat ; nor, though the husband try 
 
 Mending what can't be helped, to kindle mirth 
 
 From cheer deficient, shall his consort's brow 
 
 Clear up propitious : — the unlucky guest 
 
 In silence dines, and early slinks away. 
 
 I well remember, when a child, the awe 
 This day struck into me ; for then the maids, 
 I scarce knew why, looked cross, and drove me from them . 
 Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope 
 Usual indulgences; jelly or creams, 
 Relic of costly suppers, and set by 
 For me their petted one ; or buttered toas^ 
 When butter was forbid ; or thrilling tale 
 Of ghost or witch, or murder, — so I went 
 And sheltered me beside the parlour fire : 
 
473 
 
 There my dear grandmother, eldest of forms, 
 
 Tended the little ones, and watched from harm, 
 
 Anxiously fond ; though oft her spectacles 
 
 With elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins 
 
 Drawn from her ravelled stockings, might have soured 
 
 One less indulgent. — 
 
 At intervals my mother's voice was heard, 
 Urging despatch : briskly the work went on, 
 All hands employed to wash, to rinse, to wring, 
 To fold, and starch, and clap, and iron, and plait. 
 Then would I sit me down, and ponder much 
 Why washings were. Sometimes through hollow bowl 
 Of pipe amused me, blew and sent aloft 
 The floating bubbles ; — little dreaming then 
 To see, Mongolfier ! thy silken ball 
 Ride buoyant through the clouds, — so near approach 
 The sports of children and the toils of men. — 
 Earth, air, and sky, and ocean, have their bubbles ; 
 And verse is one of them : — this most of all. 
 
 EXERCISE CXCVIII. 
 
 WOMAN, IN FRANCE. Anon. 
 
 A characteristic peculiarity in the private life of the 
 French, is the influence exercised by women in matters of 
 business. Women are entities in France ! The law assigns 
 them definite rights, and nature the inclination to maintain 
 them. Their signature being indispensable in all family acts, 
 they are consulted in the administration of matters which 
 Englishwomen have as little the power as the inclination to 
 control ; and it rarely happens that the state of a man's law- 
 suits, estates, funds, or speculations, is not better understood 
 by his wife than by himself. Book-keeping, in retail trade, 
 is invariably the province of the woman ; a shopwoman or 
 female clerk, presiding at the desk, and receiving the money, 
 while a shopman measures out the riband, or enlarges on the 
 texture of a Fernaux shawl ! At the theatres, the box-openers 
 are invariably of the feminine gender ; and a thousand mas- 
 culine avocations dependent on the exercise of shrewdness, 
 are executed by females ; while scrubbing and rubbing, bed' 
 40* 
 
474 
 
 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 making and broth-making, are assigned to the males. In 
 Paris, as we once heard an Irish gentleman observe, the foot- 
 men are all housemaids. 
 
 It may be doubted, however, whether this exemption from 
 hard labour is an enviable distinction. A woman never ap- 
 pears to less advantage than when raising her voice in pecu- 
 niary disputes ; and the sharpness with which even the 
 youngest and prettiest Frenchwoman looks after the main 
 chance, is far from a becoming accomplishment. Instinctive- 
 ly versed in the pecuniary interests of life, they reduce every 
 thing to the most matter-of-fact level: — love, matrimony, 
 gallantry, — all is matter for arithmetic. A table of interest 
 exceeds in importance the tables of the law ; and, just as the 
 chicken emerging from the egg, begins to peck about it, as 
 if hatched only to fight and feed, the young and timid French 
 bride, scarcely enlarged from the hands of the governess, 
 starts forth full-armed, like Minerva from the brain of Jupi- 
 ter, able and willing to defend her interests, to bargain, buy, 
 sell, speculate at the Bourse, or discuss the clauses of a lease. 
 A Frenchwoman is taught to regard life in the most positive 
 point of view : there is not the slightest vein of poetry in 
 her nature. 
 
 This love and knowledge of business, (which in the highest 
 class of life assumes the shape of political intrigue,) may, 
 perhaps, be, in some measure, attributable to the scantiness 
 of the mental resources supplied them by education. — A 
 Frenchwoman's measure of instruction rarely exceeds the 
 useful ; and the excess of accomplishments, and extensive 
 acquirements in modern languages, which diversify the lei- 
 sure of a well-born Englishwoman, are rarely bestowed on a 
 French girl, unless for professional purposes. Unaddicted to 
 literature, and circumscribed in household occupation, she 
 finds no better employment for her leisure than the care and 
 administration of the property in which she possesses an in- 
 alienable interest. 
 
 Frenchwomen marry young; their duties commence early 
 in life; among the middling classes, their children are reared 
 away from home, that maternal cares may not interfere with the 
 active business of life ; and constant practice, unsoftened by 
 gentler motives, qualifies a French matron, at five-and-thirty, 
 to overmaster Shylock himself in the items of a bargain ! 
 
 Nor does the narrow scale of private fortunes admit, as in 
 London, of a separate family residence, apart and at a dis- 
 tance from th "> house of business. The banker's counting- 
 
475 
 
 house is usually next to his dining-room ; and an attorney's 
 office adjoins the boudoir of his lady ; there is no Bedford 
 Square, — no citizen's "pie," to secure the rich tradesman's 
 fastidious family from the vulgar clamour of trade. The lady 
 of the wholesale dealer of the Rue des Lombards or Rue St. 
 Denis, delights, on the contrary, in the hurry and scuffle 
 which offend the nerves of the fine lady of Bishopsgate or 
 Cheapside. 
 
 It may be observed, however, that housewifery and activity 
 in business, which in England are rarely separable from 
 coarseness of manners, produce no such influence over a 
 Frenchwoman. Business may render her unamiable, but 
 rarely vulgar. After performing household duties, executed 
 in an English family by servants alone, or presiding over 
 business in England invariably assigned to a clerk, a French- 
 woman of the middle class walks, elegantly dressed, into her 
 drawing-room, receives her company with good breeding, and 
 converses with intelligence ; while one of our countrywomen 
 arriving out of the kitchen, would inevitably move and talk 
 like a cook. 
 
 EXERCISE CXCIX. 
 
 ANNA MARIA PORTER. Anon. 
 
 Miss Anna Maria Porter, though a native of England 
 was taken, an infant, to Scotland, where she was brought up. 
 Her sister's, Miss Jane Porter's little domestic introductions to 
 her works in " The Standard Novels," give several interest- 
 ing anecdotes of the plan used in the culture of their minds 
 there, by their mother, whose venerable name is not held in 
 less respect, than that of any of the most revered of our 
 British matrons ; having shown in herself the best excel- 
 lences of the female character, in a wife's, a widow's, a 
 mother's duties fulfilled. She educated her children on these 
 principles ; and, though neither of her daughters took on 
 herself the same train of woman's usual destiny, the pens of 
 both have been devoted to instil, from the parental source, 
 the precepts and example of such a character. But, perhaps, 
 her youngest daughter, the subject of this memoir, executed 
 her self-imposed task with a deeper insight, than her sister, 
 into the female heart ; and with a more intimate knowledge 
 

 476 YOUNG LADIES* READER. 
 
 of all the bearings of domestic affections, feelings, and mutual 
 sensibilities to be cherished, or gently changed from weak- 
 ness into strength, but in no instance to be designedly 
 offended. 
 
 In painting these family pictures, Miss Anna Maria 
 Porter's pen, we may venture to say, was quite at home ! 
 Her kind, delicate, and endearing spirit, delighted in all the 
 fostering amenities, all the tendernesses, and elegant courte- 
 sies of life ; and, most especially, those to be shown at the 
 domestic hearth. Of such were the wives, the mothers, the 
 daughters, the sisters, the friends, in her novels ; from that 
 sweet tale of her early youth, "The Hungarian Brothers," to 
 her yet more admired " Barony," the last of her works. 
 
 Between those novels, her prolific genius, united with her 
 earnest love of labouring in this " Eden garden of heaven's 
 own flowers " for the bosoms of her young contemporaries, 
 made her pass away her own life's spring and summer, in the 
 production of many engaging and instructive volumes of a 
 similar character. " Don Sebastian " followed " The Hunga- 
 rian Brothers" in order of time. And in the portrait of Cara 
 Azak, the faithful wife of the hero, we have a picture, which 
 several amiable and happy women we know, have since ac- 
 knowledged to have been the model whence they first sketched 
 the line to secure their own connubial bliss. " The Recluse 
 of Norway," gives us sisterly, unselfish, affection, " in honour 
 preferring each other ! " " The Village of Mariendorpt," 
 shows the perfection of filial duty. But how can we name in 
 distinctions, or rather, how divide a spirit that with one great 
 principle pervades them all ? — a spirit never weary to pro- 
 mote religious motives, blameless moral conduct, and the 
 forbearing, cherishing love, which should ever abide in the 
 human heart, with regard to all its relations, in this proba- 
 tionary existence. 
 
 But we must not leave this part of 'the subject, without 
 noticing her accurate description of fashionable manners, — 
 delightfully amusing, when found innocently gay ; but in 
 most striking warning, when they lead to pining regrets, 
 misery, and, too frequently, to ruin. Her " Honor O'Hara," 
 and especially her tale called " Coming Out," need not our 
 criticism, to show their value as beacons in this way. Miss 
 A. M. Porter was a sweet poetess : many specimens grace 
 her novels; and some of them have not less sweet airs adapted 
 to them by some of our best composers. 
 
 The year after the publication at " The Barony," the 
 
YOUNG LADIES 5 READER. 477 
 
 venerable and beloved mother of our authoress died. From 
 that period, Miss Anna Maria Porter's health, always fragile, 
 became more so ; and her sister, with a natural anxiety, 
 which held her as one of the last of her treasures on earth, 
 in the course of a few months afterwards, took her from their 
 home at Esher in Surrey, to begin a little tour for change of 
 scene and air. During March and April, they were in 
 London : and there, many friends of past times renewed the 
 pleasure of meeting one again, in their dear Anna Maria, 
 whose attaching social qualities were ever uppermost in the 
 minds which knew her best ; — so much in true value, is 
 real worth of heart beyond even first-rate talents, though 
 possessed by the same beloved person. Vanity had no 
 place in her character. She thought humbly of her own 
 talents ; and still more humbly of the unobtrusive tenor of a 
 life, which, in the retirement of her village home; she had 
 long dedicated to the Christian's silent walk of " charity with 
 all human beings, in thought, word, and deed ! " 
 
 In the course of their purposed tour, the sisters came to 
 Bristol on the 28th of May ; where their brother, Dr. Porter, 
 resides as a physician. Miss A. M. Porter was taken ill of a 
 fever on the 3d of June, which, in spite of his utmost skill, 
 and that of another professional gentleman, terminated her 
 earthly life on the 21st of the same month. But she closed it 
 in the spirit of that life's career; — an example to the " lowly 
 in heart ! " and to those who have a faithful trust in the Divine 
 Promise, that such " shall see God ! " 
 
 EXERCISE CC. 
 
 THE WOMEN OF FRANCE AND THOSE OF ENGLAND. 
 
 [Translated from Miraleau.] 
 
 Women are a subject upon which so much has been said 
 and written, by so many men of abilities, that it is not easy 
 to imagine a new light to show them in ; or to place them in 
 an attitude in which they have not already been placed. 
 But, talking of a nation, if one did not say something about so 
 considerable a part of it, the subject would appear mutilated 
 and imperfect. As " brevity is the soul of wit," I shall 
 be brief; and I shall only touch on the principal points 
 
478 YOUNG LADIES' READER. 
 
 in which the women of France differ from those of other 
 countries. 
 
 When a French lady comes into a room, the first thing that 
 strikes you, is, that she walks better, carries herself better, 
 has her head and feet better dressed, her clothes better fan- 
 cied and better put on, than any woman you have ever seen. 
 
 When she talks, she is the art of pleasing personified. 
 Her eyes, her lips, her words, her gestures, are all prepossess- 
 ing. Her language is the language of amiableness ; her 
 accents are the accents of grace ; she embellishes a trifle, 
 interests upon nothing; she softens a contradiction; she 
 takes off the insipidness of a compliment by turning it ele- 
 gantly ; and when she has a mind, she sharpens and polishes 
 the point of an epigram, better than all the women in the world. 
 
 Her eyes sparkle with spirit ; the most delightful sallies 
 flash from her fancy ; in telling a story, she is inimitable ; 
 the motions of her body, and the accents of her tongue, are 
 equally genteel and easy; an equable flow of sprightliness 
 keeps her constantly good-humoured and cheerful ; and the 
 only objects of her life are to please and be pleased. 
 
 Her vivacity may sometimes approach to folly ; but per- 
 haps, it is not in her moments of folly that she is least inter- 
 esting and agreeable. 
 
 Englishwomen have many points of superiority over the 
 French : the French are superior to them in many others. 
 I have mentioned some of these points in other places. 
 Here I shall only say, there is a particular idea, in which no 
 woman in the world can compare with a Frenchwoman ; it is 
 in the power of intellectual excitement. She will draw wit 
 out of a fool. She strikes, with such address, the chords of 
 self-love, that she gives unexpected vigour and agility to fancy, 
 and electrifies a body that appeared non-electric. 
 
 I have mentioned here the women of England ; and I have 
 done wrong. — I did not intend it when I began the letter. — 
 They came into my mind, as the only women in the world 
 worthy of being compared with those of France. To settle 
 the respective claims of the fair sex in these two countries, 
 requires an abler pen than mine. I shall not dare to examine 
 it, even in a single point, nor presume to determine, whether, 
 in the important article of beauty, form and colour are to be 
 preferred to expression and grace ; or whether grace and 
 expression are to be considered as preferable to complexion 
 ind shape. I shall not examine whether the piquant of 
 
479 
 
 France is to be thought superior to the touchant of England ; 
 or whether deep sensibility deserves to be preferred to ani- 
 mation and wit. So important a subject requires a volume. 
 I shall only venture to give a tract. 
 
 If a goddess could be supposed to be found, compounded 
 of Juno and Minerva, that goddess would be the emblem of 
 the women of this country. Venus, as she is, with all her 
 amiableness and imperfections, may stand, justly enough, for 
 an emblem of Frenchwomen. I have decided the question 
 without intending it ; for I have given the preference to the 
 women of England. 
 
 
 EXERCISE CCI. 
 INFLUENCE OF POETRY ON WOMEN. Mrs. Ellis. 
 
 It is the taste of the present times to invest the material 
 with an immeasurable extent of importance beyond the ideal. 
 It is the tendency of modern education, to instil into the 
 youthful mind the necessity of knowing, rather than the 
 advantage of feeling. And, to a certain extent, " knowledge 
 is power ; " but neither is knowledge all that we live for, nor 
 power all that we enjoy. There are deep mysteries in the book 
 of nature which all can feel, but none will ever understand, 
 until the veil of mortality shall be withdrawn. There are 
 stirrings in the heart of man, which constitute the very essence 
 of his being, and which power can neither satisfy nor subdue. 
 Yet this mystery reveals more truly than the clearest proofs, or 
 mightiest deductions of science, that a master-hand has been 
 for ages, and is still at work, above, beneath, and around 
 us ; and this moving principle is forever reminding us, that, 
 in our nature, we inherit the germs of a future existence, 
 over which time has no influence, and the grave no victory. 
 
 If, then, for man it be absolutely necessary that he should 
 sacrifice the poetry of his nature for the realities of material 
 and animal existence; for woman there is no excuse, — for 
 woman, whose whole life, from the cradle to the grave, is one 
 of feeling, rather than of action ; whose highest duty is so 
 often to suffer, and be still ; whose deepest enjoyments are 
 all relative ; who has nothing, and is nothing, of herself; 
 whose experience, if unparticipated, is a total blank ; yet, 
 whose world of interest is wide as the realm of humanity, 
 
 20067 155 
 
480 
 
 boundless as the ocean of life, and enduring as eternity ! 
 For woman, who, in her inexhaustible sympathies, can live 
 only in the existence of another, and whose very smiles and 
 tears are not exclusively her own, — for woman to cast away 
 the love of poetry, is to pervert from their natural course the 
 sweetest and loveliest tendencies of a truly feminine mind, to 
 destroy the brightest charm which can adorn her intellectual 
 character, to blight the fairest rose in her wreath of youthful 
 beauty. 
 
 A woman without poetry, is like a landscape without sun- 
 shine. We see every object as distinctly as when the sun- 
 shine is upon it ; but the beauty of the whole is wanting : — 
 the atmospheric tints, the harmony of earth and sky, we look 
 for in vain ; and we feel that though the actual substance of 
 hill and dale, of wood and water, are the same, the spirit- 
 uality of the scene is gone. 
 
 A woman without poetry ! the idea is a paradox ; for what 
 single object has ever been found so fraught with poetical 
 associations, as woman herself? " Woman, with her beauty, 
 and grace, and gentleness, and fulness of feeling, and. depth 
 of affection, and her blushes of purity, and the tones and 
 looks which only a mother's heart can inspire." 
 
 It is good, and therefore it must be useful, to see and to 
 feel that the all-wise Creator has set the stamp of degradation 
 only upon those things which perish in the using ; but that 
 all those which enlarge and elevate the soul, all which afford 
 us the highest and purest enjoyment, from the loftiest range 
 of sublimity, to the softest emotions of tenderness and love, 
 are, and must be, immortal. Yes, the mountains may be 
 overthrown, and the heavens themselves may melt away ; but 
 all the ideas with which they inspired us, — their vastness 
 and their grandeur, will remain. Every flower might fade 
 from the garden of earth ; but would beauty, as an essence, 
 therefore cease to exist 1 Even love might fail us here. Alas ! 
 how often does it fail us at our utmost need ! But the prin- 
 ciple of love is the same ; and there is no human heart so cal- 
 lous as not to respond to the language of the .poet, when he 
 Bays — 
 
 " They "sin who tell us love can die 
 
 Its holy flame forever burneth, 
 
 From heaven it came, — to heaven returneth." 
 
 347 
 
 THE END. 
 

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