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 1 
 
 2 
 
 3 
 
 1 
 
 2 
 
 3 
 
 4 
 
 5 
 
 6 
 
Ltc 
 
u^ 
 
 TBX 
 
 63,rueS!J0SLPHstlloCH 
 
 MEtEaPQLITlN 
 
 THIRD RE^i^DER: 
 
 FOR THE USE OF SCHOOLS. 
 
 Bt ▲ MSMBKR OF THB ObDIB OV 
 
 4t9M jpitmfjiMit Mnffp^^tiacu^ 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 D. * J. SADLIER & 00., 31 BAKCIAY^ ' 
 
 B06TO2r— 198 FlDKBAL-BTBEEt. 
 
 MoinmBAi.— ooKim kotu daub and n, feamcu XfLnmi iitlk 
 
 1866. 
 
 Lne 
 
iriiHE 
 
 •*: wei 
 
 I and wi 
 
 adopte 
 
 conyex 
 
 Hav 
 
 , youth, 
 
 ipublisl 
 
 the 01] 
 
 adapte 
 
 made i 
 
 and 
 
 same 1 
 
 thing j 
 
 Dr. 
 
 des<aril 
 
 Jiativ 
 
 prasset 
 
 wisht* 
 
 "Ln 
 
 as che 
 
 fishes, 
 
 nopal 
 
 themJ 
 
 i^ 'v 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 iniHE First, Second, and Foni^h books of this serioi 
 
 ■^ were published some months in adyance of this, 
 
 [and we rejoice to saj that they hare ahready been 
 
 adopted in a large number of our Oatholio coU^es, 
 
 convents, and schools. 
 
 Having had some experience in the education of 
 .youth, and haying examined most of the Beaders 
 I published, we noticed that, with the single exception of 
 the CSiristian Brothers' series, all the others are better 
 adapted for pagan than Ohristian schools. They are 
 made expressly for mixed schools, where Flrotestant 
 and Oatholic, Jew anci pagan, may read out of the 
 same book,^ widiont discovering that there is such a 
 thing as religion in the world. 
 
 Dr. Brownso% in his Beview for July, has so well 
 described what Beaders should and s^^ould not be^ 
 Jiat we will be pardoned for quoting him, as he ^• 
 presses ht more clearly than we can what we would 
 wish to say: 
 
 ** Instructions in natural history ox natural sdenee; 
 as chemistry, mineralogy, geology, quadrupeds, blrds^ 
 fishes, or bugs, may be vecy interesting, but they fin m 
 no part of education, and tend far more to i|||terti||iiw 
 the mind than to elevate it to God, and to fltoMt'iite 
 
 -Ws. 
 
 ■*«.- 
 
ramrAXJE, 
 
 moral and religious principles, which may one day 
 fmctifjr, and form a character of moral and tme reli- 
 gious worth. A book may contain much useftd in- 
 struction on nouns, adjectiyes, verbs, adyerbs, par- 
 ticiples, and other parts of speech, Very proper in a 
 grammar-book, but quite out of place in a reading* 
 bck>k ; but all these lessons bdong to the department 
 of special instruction, and either haye no bearing ob 
 education proper, or tend to giye to education a dry, 
 utilitarian, and materialistic character. . . . The 
 aim of the reading^book is not instruction, save in the 
 single art of reading, but education, the development 
 or cultiyation in the mind and in the heart of those 
 great principles which are the basis of all religion.'' 
 
 Wo have endeavored to ^ake these Beaders as at- 
 tractive in evPTy way as any series published; while 
 from a Oatholic point of view, we can oonscientiouBly 
 claim for them some degree of merit 
 
 The s^le in which the pubHshers have got up the 
 other books of this series is very creditable to tiiem; 
 but in this third book they have suipasfed themselves, 
 it is embdlished with numeroub engravings, many ot 
 them very fine, and far superior to what is generally 
 in s^ool-books. 
 
 1^ OOMPILBB. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 1. 
 
 2. 
 3. 
 4. 
 6. 
 6. 
 7. 
 4. 
 
 9. 
 10. 
 11. 
 12. 
 18. 
 14. 
 16. 
 16. 
 17. 
 18. 
 19. 
 20. 
 21. 
 22. 
 28. 
 24. 
 26. 
 26. 
 27. 
 28. 
 29. 
 80. 
 
 n 
 
 PART I. 
 loonom OR THa Fuvowui 01 BaADiadr. 11 
 
 Bftptifm 16 
 
 Th« Soaile ot LmooanGe 18 
 
 KlndWonls 19 
 
 Th« Brother! 2C 
 
 Beware of Iin{Mitience 21 
 
 The Two Ways 28 
 
 OooBiel to the Toong 26 
 
 Ob a PIctare of a Qirl leading her Blind Mother throogh the 
 
 Woods .Waiu. 26 
 
 The Honeit Shefdierd B07 28 
 
 The Wonden of a Salt Mine Toulk'$ O. iUgiaim. 82 
 
 The Starrj HeaTens 88 
 
 CafeleMMM t 86 
 
 OoBipegatloa of the Propagation of the lUth. . IMb't 0. Mag. 89 
 
 live im Something 42 
 
 Fiedominani Faadons 48 
 
 " " (aMftMMd) 47 
 
 MyBoyAbaalom :tr. ^.WUk. b\ 
 
 The Soholar'a Yidmi *64 
 
 BrChotonrSaTioar. ...DM^y«<kiiliM. 68 
 
 ▲ l^aniihAiieodote 61 
 
 Anecdotee of Dogi ifirfMMi JMsry. 62 
 
 Barial of flit John Moore Wtiff*. 66 
 
 ITfeytobeOood 66 
 
 The Qreen Mo«y Bank 70 
 
 On «he Baptismal Yowa ....iJM^^rflOSMMian. 71 
 
 TiMtitaoy 78 
 
 The agn <tf the Cross .74 
 
 The Slume Friends 77 
 
 SonciofthiB&dhroad ....O. Fl Jlritoi. 78 
 
 Yic^Mnns 89 
 
 Goaidiaa Angels.. .......,,'«. i| 
 
8 OORTBHTS. 
 
 MM I 
 
 82. UMlkinirraoUonofUieBody.... BUkBihr^, 84 
 
 88. AStorjofaMonk 87 j 
 
 84. Th* Ditotorj Soholar ( 
 
 88. BpMilihBTniiiigByinii....... Mi 
 
 86. OhrMitimngthaltoiMit 91 
 
 87. HoUdayOhUdrai 82 
 
 tm0ity^^m0^^>0^t0*0^i^t0t^0>m0>^0^00tm0t^ 
 
 PA'RT 11. ^ 
 
 1. The Draun of the OraMMl«r 06 
 
 2. ** •• «• " (Qmimti) 07 
 
 8. The Loid'e Pmjrer BiUtSMm. 00 
 
 4. Legend of the Infant Jfltos 101 
 
 6. The Do-Nothingi 102 
 
 6. Heding the Daughter of Jalnu »WUUi. 106 
 
 7. StPhiUpNeri and the Youth Bgnm. lOB 
 
 8. OonftrmaMtm 109 
 
 0. Bird! In Sammar 110 
 
 10. The Ohlldien and the Xnfimt Jeeoa 112 
 
 11. TheQfaTeof IMberlfarqnette JtkffiXmM^. 117 
 
 12. Abraham and laaao JIMfiftfary. 120 
 
 18. HohenUnden flwytrfl. 128 
 
 14. LugnageofFlowen diflmlimla. 124 
 
 16. Homeward Bound WUk, 127 
 
 16. 1007*6 Death ^.Oiflmnmtt. 128 
 
 17. Autobiography of a Boae RMOulkrk. 182 
 
 la ** " (OmikHnIi ** 186 
 
 10. Winter 188 
 
 20. Hm Snow 141 
 
 21. yiea of Water k 148 
 
 Dying COiriitlaa to hiaBonl Apt, 146 
 
 XL Flight into l^ypt ^.AUiAorte. 146 
 
 28. TheFreedBlid m9.Hmm$. 148 
 
 24. Decollation of 8i John AMAorte. 160 
 
 26. Batuiday Afternoon WOit. 162 
 
 26. T^eamlng and Aooomplialimenie not inoonriitent with Good 
 
 Housekeeping 164 
 
 27. Tieaming and Aocomplielmienie {Omtinmi) 166 
 
 28. Aneodotee of the Tiger , JIToAmI Atory. 168 
 
 20. The fountain 168 
 
 SO. Benedidt Arnold ^ 164 
 
ooMTsim. 9 
 
 in. BaMkaKllioeml AUiAorw. 106 
 
 12. Fkmtn ...* 169 
 
 18. llMHohokrolUkilioMry 170 
 
 84. • •• (Chmmmi) 172 
 
 >86. TlMlfoiithn(il»]r 176 
 
 86. The lloDth ofibrr O. TmA'a ¥i»— 1» 177 
 
 87. ThalndlMi 178 
 
 88. Oluuritj O t rnf i am . 180 
 
 80. Th« BverlMtlng Ohoroh Macmb^. 181 
 
 40. WeixnnetotlMBhlB* Omt rn . 188 
 
 41. nieBM-HlTe 186 
 
 42. llie OhUd'i Wish in Jane 187 
 
 48. The Mnrtyr'i Boj < CMiNoI W immmt. 188 
 
 44. " •* <• (OmUmitd) '* •« 108 
 
 46. Annn'i Offering of Sunael BAhSUHm. 106 
 
 46. 'llieBojMid the Child Jeiiu Btitr, 100 
 
 47. llieHolyBaohuiet BUkakHm. 201 
 
 48. TheHooMofLoretto. KKOvArk. 204 
 
 40. Bztreme Unotlon Dul^ ^ • ChrkHm. 207 
 
 60. •• Whirls that, Hotherf Daam. 209 
 
 ,61. Ohuity OHgiHti. 210 
 
 62. Aneodotet of Honae AmiUmif AmmA. 211 
 
 68. The Bettte of Blenheim JStmOuf. 216 
 
 64. TheAnnnnoietlon... JNbkaMm, 217 
 
 66. StFeUoitMendherSone Mr*.aft. 220 
 
 66. Immortnlitj 0. A, Jkmm mm. 224 
 
 67. The Widow of Naln ^.WiOa. 226 
 
 68. Monument to a Holher's Onre J,R.CImtt0r. 227 
 
 69. Adoimticpoi'theBhepheidi JWtAorte. 280 
 
 60. llie Angela! Bell Cmfkti. 282 
 
 61. The Adoration of the Magi ....AUi Aorte. 284 
 
 62. Iona....r 287 
 
 68. StOolnmbablealhigthelilee Jftwihy. 280 
 
 114. The Obeerving Jadge 241 
 
 66. *• '* •* (OmAhmO .^242 
 
 66. " «* *< (OmmIwM). 244 
 
 67. Henrj the Hermit ANriMr. 246 
 
 68. Qod li Brerywhen 240 
 
 60. Anecdote of Frederick the Oreal ^ 260 
 
 70. ABmallOatedhiim ^^....JfeOtt. 261 
 
 71. TheFMdigalBon 69iU8U>Hm. 262 
 
 72. Blanche of OtatUe 266 
 
 78. HaU Virgin of yiigina L^raOdMlm, 266 
 
 74. Legend of Daniel the Anchoret Jfra .fiwpji 269 
 
 76. «• •• (Omikmi) " 261 
 
 76. Ohndhood'iTean J^rktWkit. 262 
 
 1» 
 
10 oowrmnm 
 
 77. Brnkflwl-Tkblc BotoDM «... 20ft 
 
 78. •* •• (Omlkmd) 268 
 
 79. M •• (ONMfNdM) 272 
 
 88. TlndofPtoy WUUa. 278 
 
 81. MelrawAbbqr. Ot^ImI. 279 
 
 82. OmlaitlMBIbMl i^^CRrM/pr YMk. 281 
 
 88. AwntiyVeUoviMdtlMAM Bynm, 288 
 
 81. llMnniOniMMlc MkHmd. 286 
 
 86. The Buttle of Antlooh 288 
 
 86. VUkg«8QliooliiMiter GMmUi. 291 
 
 87. TlMBMtorofOiiigiMn.. J Mt f Baf/kn. 292 
 
 88. Th* Tlurw HomM 294 
 
 89. 8t.Prtw<Mlv«ndoiitoCPl1ion ToMtaM^mm. 296 
 
 90. The Hermit. QoUtmUk. 298 
 
 91. FbpeLM>tiieOfei^MidAttiU Briifift MikUm Bkkrf. 299 
 
 92. OhUdlModorJeras I^t^CMrM/ar IMk. 801 
 
 98. Hie Butterfly's Bell, eta Jbtto*. 802 
 
 94. TheAioeBrioa .Sibk aiorim. 804 
 
 96. TheThkiwller OoMmM. 806 
 
 96. ThellooriahWenlnSpefai 807 
 
 97. TbeMonkeofOld O.P.R.Jmmm. 809 
 
 96. TiM Beoied Ftetwee BOtkBlMim. 8U 
 
 99. Thrth in Fteeatheaee Bood. 812 
 
 100. JqwiMie Mertyn Or**. 818 
 
 101. IUnia*n«enie-Boet Baod. 817 
 
 102. nowen for the Alter (n^'^rm^ 820 
 
 1 b»T« giTen the munee of lome anthore; bat in aneogliig this Baeder, 
 mtf old«o( WM to Monre piaoee miteble for oUldivn who ware oommenoing 
 to read ntber fluently. Many of them are /ittgiUTe. I aonght rather te 
 I it pleaaent and inatmotiTo, than to oell fW>m parttoaler aathon. 
 
aof 
 
 268 
 
 278 
 
 ...WiUk. 278 
 ..OHgiMl. 270 
 M raulk. 281 
 ..Bifrm. 288 
 MMmA 286 
 •••••••., 288 
 
 OtUrnHk 2»1 
 AiyAy. 298 
 
 294 
 
 igmiM. 296 
 GIoUmiM. 298 
 IMwy- 299 
 ArliMM. 801 
 ..JbNot. 803 
 bUSMm. 804 
 GoUmnM. 800 
 
 807 
 
 ^Jmm. 809 
 UiApriv. 811 
 ...Bood. 812 
 ..OmUi. 818 
 ■ •••xModL 817 ' 
 iMflKwH 820 
 
 THE THn(D REAH 
 
 ^•» 
 
 PART FIBBT. 
 
 nsTBUonoKis oir the pmciPtES 
 
 All fhat artionlate Uuigntge can eflisct to inflaenoe others 
 b dependent npon the Toloe addnseed to the enr. A akil* 
 Ad management of it 1^ oMiaeqaentlj, of the hlgheM import- 
 ance. 
 
 Distinct articulation formi the foudation of good reading. 
 To acquire thia, the roice ihonld be flreqnently ezerdaed npon 
 the elniMitaiy aonndi of the language, botii i^ple and com- 
 bined, and claisei of worchi containing lonndB liable to be per* 
 rerted or suppreaeed in utterance, ihodd be forcibly and aeon* 
 rately pronounced. 
 
 rtUsBMKler, ■ 
 > ooBmenoing M 
 
 
 JbLHMXHTABT 
 
 YCOAL SOUSDB. 
 
 
 ght nther to ■ 
 Mthon. ■ 
 
 .r « 
 
 
 
 VowdSomdi. 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 as in 
 
 ape. 
 
 
 
 as in old. 
 
 1 
 
 
 41 
 
 arm. 
 
 
 
 " 
 
 do. 
 
 1 
 
 
 tt 
 
 ban. 
 
 
 
 " 
 
 oz. 
 
 1 
 
 
 U 
 
 mat 
 
 
 
 u " 
 
 use. 
 
 ^ 1 
 
 
 II. 
 
 Vffi,' 
 
 
 
 tt «• 
 
 tub. 
 
 1 
 
 
 II 
 
 end. 
 
 
 
 n " 
 
 fun. 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 n 
 
 ice. 
 
 
 
 oi " 
 
 voice. 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
 II 
 
 it 
 
 
 
 on " 
 
 sound 
 
IS 
 
 THE THIBD intApK It- 
 
 Oonxmant Sountb. 
 b'" as in bag. r as in rain. 
 
 d 
 
 i< 
 
 dnn. 
 
 T 
 
 II 
 
 rane. 
 
 g 
 
 J 
 1 
 
 1$ 
 it 
 
 u 
 
 gate 
 jam. 
 lore 
 
 W 
 
 7 
 
 s 
 
 II 
 II 
 II 
 
 war. 
 yes. 
 naL 
 
 m 
 
 n 
 
 it 
 
 u 
 
 moaent 
 not. 
 
 th 
 
 II 
 II 
 
 song, 
 there. 
 
 AspmATB Soinn)B. \ 
 
 The aspirate consonant is distinguished Arom the vocal fa 
 Its emrndation < the former is prononnced with a M emission 
 of breath ; the latter, by a mnrmnring sound of the yoioe. 
 
 Exercigea in ihe Aspirate Consonants. 
 
 f as fa fate. 
 
 h as m hate. 
 
 k as fa key. 
 
 p " m- 
 
 s " sign. 
 
 t " telL 
 
 ch " diann. 
 
 sh " shade. 
 
 th " thauka. 
 
 Avoid the snfqpiresdon of a syllable; as, 
 
 caVn for cabin. 
 particHar" particdar. 
 
 desolate for desolate. 
 
 memory *' memory. 
 
 Avoid the omission of any sound properly belongiiig to a 
 word ; as, 
 
 for seeing. swifly for swiftly. 
 
 seefa' 
 
 wa'mer " warmer. 
 
 government " government. 
 
 'appy " happy, 
 b'isnes^ " busfaess. 
 
 Avoid the substitution of one sound for another ; as, 
 
 wfl-ler for wiUow. tem^r-it for tem-per«te 
 
 wifrder " wfa<dow. com-prom-mise " com-pro-mise. 
 separate " sep«rrate. hol-ler " hollow. 
 
 The oommon deftot in the artionliitioB of ft^ is » want of foioe in eov» 
 l^reMinf (md opening thei qaonth. 
 
OM TBB PBINOIPLBS OF SKAUDIO. 
 
 18 
 
 EmPHAHTB Am) AOOENT. 
 
 Empluuda and Acceqt both indicate some spedal stress of 
 the voice. Emphasis is that stress of the Toioe by whidi one 
 or more words of a sentence are distingnished above the rest. 
 It is used to derignate the important words of a soitenc^ 
 without any direct reference to other words. — ^Example : 
 
 Be we menf 
 And suffer snch dishonor 7 Men, and wash not 
 The stahi away in Nood/ 
 
 Emphasis is also used in contrasting one word or dans* 
 with another; as, ^ 
 
 Beligion raises men lAove themselves. Jrrdigion sinks 
 them beneath bmtes. 
 
 To determine the emphatic words of a sentence, the rervder 
 must be governed wholly by the Sentiment to be expressed. 
 The idea is sometimes entertained, that emphasis is expressed 
 by loudnees of tone. Bat it should ]be borne in mind that the 
 most intense emphasis may often be effectively caressed even 
 by a whisper. 
 
 ACKJBNT. 
 
 Accent Is that stress of voice by which one eyUabte of a 
 word is made more prominent than the others. 
 
 The accented syllable is sometimes designated thns (') ; as, 
 in'terdict. Words of more than two syllables generally have 
 two or more of them accented. The more forcible stress is 
 called the primary accent, and the less fordble the secondary 
 accent ; as, mni'tipli caption, com'prehend". 
 
 Kote. — The change of accent on the same word often 
 dwnges its meaning ; as, 
 
 ob' ject, ultimate purpose, 
 oon' duct, behavior. 
 
 object', to oppose 
 conduct', to kinSL 
 
H THE THIRD BEADSB. 
 
 Infleotions OB Modulations 
 
 ai% those yariations of the voice heard in speaking or reading, 
 which are prompted by the feelings and emotions that the sab- 
 ject inspires. A correct modulation of the voice is one of the 
 most important things to be tanght to children. Without it 
 they cannot become good readers. If the voice is kept for 
 any length of time in one continaons key or pitch, the reader 
 and the hearers equally become weary. Whenever a habit of 
 reading or speaking in a nosoZ, shriU, harsh, or rough tone 
 of voice is contracted by the pupil, no pains should be>8pared 
 in eradicatii^ it, and in securing a clear, full, round, and flex- 
 ible tone. Three degrees of variations are usually recognized 
 in reading — the high, middle, and low. 
 
 The low is that which falls below the usual speaking key, 
 and is employed m expressing ^notions of svMimihf, atoe, and 
 reverence. 
 
 The middle pitch is what is usually employed in common 
 Conversation, and in expressing unimpassioned thought, and 
 modenUe em(^n. 
 
 The high|>itch is that which rises above the usual speaking 
 key, and L used in expressing j'oyous and elevated feelings. 
 
 The great object of every reader should be, first, to read so 
 ap to be faUy and easily understood by all who hear hun ; and 
 next, to rt^ with grace and force, so as to please and mov«' 
 his hearers." 
 
BAPTISM. 
 
 16 
 
 1. Baptism. 
 
 O-Rio'i-NAL, first, primitiye. 
 Mar'tyb-dom, death in testi- 
 mony of the true faith. 
 
 SuF-Fi'ci-BOT, enough. 
 Va-lid'i-tt, legal force. 
 Reo'is-terkd, recorded. 
 
 Our Bavloar baptised bjr Bt Johiii 
 
 rHE first of the Sacraments which we receive is baptism. 
 It was instituted by onr Lord to free ns firom original sin, 
 and also from actual sin committed before we receive it. Bap- 
 tism makes as children of God and of his holy Church; and it 
 
16 
 
 THB THIBD BKAPICB. 
 
 . 
 
 to the most necessary of all the Sacraments, because, onlesi 
 we receiye it, we cannot enter the kingdom of heayen. 
 
 2. There are commonly reckoned three kinds of baptism: 
 first, by water; second, tiutt of the spirit; and third, of blood. 
 The first only to properly a sacrament, and to admintotered 
 by ponring water on the head of the person to be baptized, 
 repeatkig at the same time these words : " I baptize thee in 
 the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy 
 Ohost.»' 
 
 8. The baptism of the spirit takes place when a])6rson has 
 a tme sorrow for hto sinS|^and an ardent desire to receive- bap> 
 tism, bnt to placed in drcomstances wherdn it to impossible for 
 him to reoeiTe the sacrament. By tbto desire ordinal and 
 actoal sin to foigiyen. The baptism of blood to that which 
 takes place when a person snffars martyrdom for the faitL 
 Hence the Hofy Innocents, pat to death by the order of 
 Herod, when that wicked Ung sought to kiU onr Lord, are 
 esteemed as mar^rs, and as hkor; baptized in their blood. 
 
 4. At what partibnlar time during the, life of onr divine 
 Lord baptism was institnted to not exactly known. Some 
 holy Fathers tUnk it Was instituted when Ohrist was baptized 
 by St John ; others, when He said, nnlesB a man be bom of 
 water and the Holy Ghost^ he cannot enter the kingdom of 
 Heaven. It to certain, however, that the oUigation b^gan 
 with the pronmlgation of Gfartotianity. 
 
 6. Baptism to performed in three ways. Fkst, by immer 
 don, that to, by plunging the person under the water. Seo 
 ondly, by infbsion, or pouring the water on the person to be 
 baptized ; and tldrdly, by aspersion or sprinkling. The prao* 
 tice now to, to pour l^e water three times on the person about 
 to be baptized, using the words, " I baptize thte, &o.,** which 
 we mentioned before. The pouring of the water once is suffi- 
 cient, as to the validity of the sacrament ; and it to not abso- ' 
 lately necessary to make the sign of the cross while pouring 
 the water, though it to usually done. 
 
 6. The ceremonies made use of in admhustering the sacra- 
 ment of baptism are impressive and instructive. The ppiiest 
 breathes upon the infant or other person to be bi^tized, to 
 
BAPTISM. 
 
 H 
 
 rignify splritaal life. It is used also to drive away the devil, 
 by the Holy Ghost, who is called the Spirit of God. The 
 person is signed with the sign of the cross, to signify that he 
 is made a soldier of Ghrist. Salt is pat into his mouth, which 
 i is an emblem of pmdenGe,and signifies that grace is given to 
 I preserve the sonl incorrupt. 
 
 V. The priest ai^lies spittle to the person's ears and nostrils, 
 ' in imitation of Christ, who used that ceremony in curing the 
 deaf and dumb. The anomting the head denotes the dignity 
 of Christianity ; the anointing the shoulders, that he may be 
 strengthened to carry his cross ; the breast, that his heart 
 may concur willingly in all the duties of a Christian; the 
 white garment in whidi the person is dothed signifies inno- 
 cence ; and the lighted candle the light of faith with which he 
 is endowed. 
 
 8. When children are baptized, they have also a godfather 
 and godmother, whose duty it is to instruct the child in the 
 duties of its reIi{^on, in case of the death or neglect of 
 parents to do it. The office of godfather or godmother is an 
 important one, and should not be undertaken without due con- 
 sideration of its responsilHlities. 
 
 0. At baptism, tibe devil and all his works are solenmly re* 
 nounced; a {Nromise is re^^stered on the altar to bear the 
 white robe of innocence without stain of dn before the throne 
 of God. Children, have you kept this promise ? \ 
 
18 
 
 THK THIRD KIADER. 
 
 2. The Smilb of Innookmob. 
 
 Tran'sibnt, passing, fleeting. MB'nM>R, a laminons, tfan- 
 Ma'ni-ao, a madman. sient bodj, floating iu the 
 
 Pen'sive, thouglitfal. 
 Plao'id, qniet. 
 En-rol', to register. 
 
 atmosphere. 
 Im'no-oence, freedom from 
 gnilt. 
 
 1. rpHERE is a smile of bitter scorn, 
 
 X Which cnrip the lip, which lights the eye ; 
 There is a emile in beanty^s mom 
 Just rising o'er the midnight sky. i 
 
 J S. Thereisasmileofyonthfnljoy, 
 
 Wl^eM^opS's blight star's the transient gnest ; 
 ThereW ' 
 
 le of i^aoid age, 
 Like snnie^ton the billow's breast 
 
 8. There is a smile, the maniac's sm3e, 
 
 Which lights the void which reason leaveiy 
 And, like the snnshinie throngfa a clond, 
 Throws shadows o'er the song she wearee. 
 
XUID WOADB. 
 
 18 
 
 4. There Is a smile of love, of hope, 
 
 Which shines a meteor through life's gloom ; 
 And there's a smile, Religion's smile, 
 Which lights the weary to the tomb. 
 
 6. It is the smile of innocence, 
 
 Of sleeping infancy's light dream ; , 
 Like lightning on a snmmer's eye, 
 It sheds a soft, a pensive gleam. 
 
 6. It dances round the dimpled cheek, 
 
 And tells of happiness within ; 
 :^ Xt smiles what it can never speak — 
 
 A human heart devoid of shi. 
 
 8. £iND Words. 
 
 Mbn'tal, relating to the mbd. I Wbath'fdl, Airious, nfpaag. 
 Mo-bo8k', sour of temper. I Dib^a-obib'a-blb, offensive. 
 
 Do not aay ttimPl for nuntd ; 'eomptiih or tioeofiiplii& for aoooiiij)IM ; 
 mIn for fMolM ; perduee kttpnAm. -.^ 
 
 rpHBY never blister the tongne or Mpe. And we have 
 A never heard of one mental trouble ailili^ flrom litlH quarter 
 Thonc^ they do not cost much, yet they aocoaiplish nrooh. 
 
90 
 
 THB THOKD BSADRR. 
 
 They help one's own good-natnre and good>wiII. Soft words 
 ■often onr own sonls. Angry words are fuel to the flame of 
 wrath, and make the blaze more fierce. 
 
 2. Kind words make other people good4iatnred. Cold 
 words Areeze people, and hot words make them hot, and bitter 
 words make them bitter, and wrathftd words make them 
 wrathfol. There is snch a rash of all other kinds of words in 
 onr days, that it seems disagreeable to giro kind words a 
 ohanoe among them. j 
 
 8. There are vain words, and idle words, and hasty words, 
 spiteful words, and empty words, and profane words, and wor^ 
 like words. Kind words also produce their own image in 
 man's soul. And a bcAutiftd image it is. 
 
 4. They soothe, i^ quiet, and comfort the hearer. They 
 shame him out of his sour, morose, unkind feeUngs. If we 
 have not yet b^n to use kind woids in abundance as th(>y 
 ought to be used, we should resolve to do so immediately. 
 
 K 
 
 4. The Bbotobbs. 
 
 Sa'obkd, holy. 
 
 XJMyrBouB'uu), not troubled. 
 
 Sound d oorreotly. Do not ny $aenid for aueni; wan for 
 a singing tone in reading poetry. 
 
 fNTfc Avoid 
 
 L TTTIBi ABB BUT TWO — ^tho othttrs sfoep 
 Tf Through death's untroubled night : 
 We axe but two>— oh, let va keq> 
 The link that bfaids m bright. 
 
 S. Heart leaps to heart— thie sacred flood 
 That warms us is the same; 
 That good <rtd man— ^ honest blood 
 Alike we ficmc^claim. 
 
BEWARB OF IMPATIBNOB. 
 
 fli 
 
 We in one mother's anns were lock'd- 
 
 Long be her lore repaid ; 
 In the same cradle we were rock'd, 
 
 Round the Muane hearth we T^fd, 
 
 4. Onr boyidi sports were all the sune. 
 Each little joy and woe : 
 Let manhood keep aliye the flame, 
 Lit np BO long ago. 
 
 6. Wk abi bot two— be that the band 
 To hold ns till we die ; 
 Bhonlder to shoulder let ns stand, 
 TQl side by ride we lie.. 
 
 5. Bbwabb ov IiiPATiBifraB. 
 
 Db-xj'oxoub, excellent to the 
 
 taste. 
 Mm'BHRT, wretchedness ; woe. 
 Abz'ious, wi^ trouble ^ 
 
 TM-M>Kr'AN0B, conaeqaence. 
 
 Ad-tibbb', to have given ad 
 
 yice. 
 PLuiraBD, thmst !n. 
 Bb-wabb', to take care. 
 Poi'scN, what is ncttions to life 
 
 or health. 
 
THS THIRD SRADBB. 
 
 THERFS many a pleasure in life wliich we might possess, 
 were it not for our impatiencd. Yoong peoj^e, especially, 
 miss a great deal of hi^^^ness, because tliey cannot wait iSl 
 the proper time. 
 
 2. A man onice gave a fine pear to hia Uttle boy, saying to 
 him, "/The pear is green now, my boy, bat lay it by for a week, 
 and it will then be ripe, and reiy deUcions.'' 4f 
 
 " Bat," said the child, " I want to eat it now, father." 
 
 " I tell yon it Js^ot ripe yet," said the father. " It wfll 
 not taste good y and, besides, it will make yoa sick." /-- 
 
 S. " No, it won% father; I know it won't, it looks so good. 
 Do let me eat it IJK 
 
 AftA a little 4aore teasing, the father consented, and the 
 child eat the pear. The conseqaence was, that the next day 
 he was taken sick, and came very near dying. Now, all Uub 
 happened becaase the child was impatient.. J 
 
 4. He conld not wait, and, acoor^ngly. Hue pear, thaljgiigfat 
 have been veiy pleasant and harmless, was the occanon of 
 seT«« illness. Thns it it tiiat impatience, in a thonsand in* 
 •taaoei^ leads oU^Fen, and pretty dd (mes too, to oonvert 
 sources of hapinnoss into adtnal misddef and misery. 
 
 5. Thcure were sol|» boyt once, who lived near a pond ; and 
 when winter eamO| t|py were nxj anxious te have it fiwesse 
 a^fekt so that theji dnld dide and skate npon the ice. At 
 last, there came 4 veryeqld night, and in the morning th* 
 
nOB TWO WATa. IP 
 
 lyi went to the pond to see if the tee would bear then, 
 leir father came by at that moment, and leeing that it wai 
 Ij thick enongli, told tie boya that it was not safe yet, 
 Id adrised them to wait poother day beflfe they yentured 
 )n it./ » u.'«''-> ].■ 1 ' 
 
 6. Bat the boyt were in a great hury t^ ,ei({6y!thepleasare 
 sliding and skatiqg.- Sorthey wa^Mdi <^ npiottiie iee ; bat 
 Btty soon it w«it craek-H9rack---'«raeht and' down they 
 
 ^ore all plunged into the water! It was not rery deep, so 
 ieygot out, though they were very ^et, and came near drown- 
 ; and all because they could not'irait. 
 
 7. Now these things, though they may seem to be trifles, 
 ^re full of instraction. They teach us to beware of impatience, 
 
 wait till the fruit is ripe ; they teach ja that the cup of 
 [pleasure, seised before the proper time, is turned into poison. 
 By show us the importance of patience. 
 
 6. Thb two Ways. 
 
 Rhine, the prindpal riyer 
 
 in Qermany. 
 OoN'scneircK, internal* or 
 
 self knowledge. 
 Galh'kkss, quietness. 
 MouBNBD, sorrowed. 
 
 lUyEN, a species of black 
 bird. 
 
 Rust'uko, slight noise. 
 
 Mis'k-rt, wretchedness. 
 
 Pab'a-blk, a fable; a simili- 
 tude. 
 
 IN a yillage on the Bhke, a schoolmaster was one day 
 teaching in his school, and the sons and daught^s of the 
 lyillagers sat around listening with jdeasure, for his toachinfl^ 
 I was fhll of interest. He was speaking of the good and 
 (bad cousdence, and of the still yoice of the heart. . 
 
 2. After he had finished speaking, he asked his pupils : 
 l« Who among you b able to tell me a parable on this mat* 
 Iter 7" One of the boys stood forth and said, " I thhdi I can 
 jteU aTMffable, but I do not know whether it be right.'' ' 
 
 " Speak in your own words," answered the nuMltar. And 
 [the boy began: "I compare the calmness of^-good exm 
 
 
TBI TUIBD SKADKB. 
 
 science and the dUiqaletude of an otH one, to two waTi on 
 which I walked once. 
 
 8. " When the enemy paiied through oar rfflage, ''> t " Id* rn 
 carried off by force my dear father and our bor m. Vt^hb<i uiy 
 father did not come bacic, my mother and all c'' a*) vept aod 
 mourned bitterly, and she sent me t' > the to\m to inquire for 
 my father. I went ; bat late at night . came back sorrow< 
 fully, for I had not foand my futher. It wm a da^'k night io 
 autumn. 
 
 4. " The wind roared and howled in the oaks and fin, and 
 between the rocks ; the night-rayens and owb were shrieking 
 and hooting ; and I thought in my soul bow we had lost my 
 father, and of the misery of my mother when she should see 
 me return alone. A strauge trembling sdnd me in the dreary 
 iu>bt, and each rnstUng leaf terrified me. Then I thought to 
 myself, — such must be the feeUngs of a man's heart who has 
 a bad conscience." 
 
 6 " My children,'' said the master, "would you like to walk 
 in the darkness of night, seeking in vain for your dear father, 
 and hearing naught but the roar of the storm, and the screams 
 of the beasts of prey V 
 
 6. " Oh ! no," exclafaned all the chQdren, shuddering. 
 
 Then the boy resumed his tale and said, "Another time I 
 went the same way with my sister ; we had been fetching 
 many nice things from town for a feast, which our father was 
 recretly preparing tor oai^ mother, to surprise bor.the next 
 day. 
 
 1 *' It was late wUea we returned ; but it was In spring ; 
 the sky was bright and clear, and aU was so calm, that we 
 could bear the gentle murmur of the rivulet by the way, and 
 on all sides tilie nightingales were singing. I was widkii^ 
 hand in hand with my sister ; but we were so delighted that 
 we hardly liked to speak ; then our good fkther came to meet 
 is. Now I thought again by myself, — such must be the alMlf 
 of the man who has done much good." 
 
 8. When the boy had finished bis tale, the master looked 
 kindly at the children, ard they said nnanimonsly, " Yes, we 
 will become good men 1" 
 
OOUNBiCL TO TUK YuUNO. 
 
 7. ConsrsBL to thb Vouno. 
 
 V7iB, net-work. 
 Trou'bli, care. 
 OHKRB'ruL, pleasant. 
 IIas'tT) impetnooB ; with 
 
 eagemeBB. 
 Mourn, to grieye. 
 
 Bub'bli, a Bmall bladder of 
 
 water. 
 TBi'rLB, a 1 latter of no im 
 
 portanoe. 
 Re-vbkob', rbtnming trll 
 
 for efU 
 
 [EVER be cast down bj trifleB. If a spider breaks his 
 
 web twenty times, twenty times will he mend it. Make 
 
 ip yonr minds to do a thing, and you will do it. Fear not if 
 
 trouble comes npon yon ; keep up your spirits, though the 
 
 ly may be a dark one — 
 
 V. 
 
 ^ TroublM never last forever. 
 "^ The darkest day will peH away. 
 
 S. If the sun is going down, look up to the stars ; if the 
 artb ia dark, k«ep yonr eyes on heaven. With God's pns- 
 Biioe and God's promise, a man or child may be oheerAil. 
 
 Kever despair when fog's la the air. 
 A sviuhiny morning will come without warning. 
 8 
 
TUB THIBD BEADBR. 
 
 8. Mind what yon ran after I Never be content with a 
 babble that will borst ; or a fire that will end in smoke and 
 darknesR : bat that which yon can keep, and which is worth 
 keeping. 
 
 Something startling that will stay, 
 When gold and silver fly away. 
 
 4. Fight hard against a hasty temper. Anger will come, 
 nt resist it strongly. A spark may set a honse on fire. A 
 
 fit of passion may give yon canse to moam all the days of 
 your life. Never revenge an ii^ary. 
 
 He that revengcth knows no rest ; 
 The meek possess a peaceful breast 
 
 5. If yon have an enemy, act kmdly to hun, and make him 
 yoor friend. Yon may not win him over at once, bat try 
 again. Let one kindness be followed by another till yon have 
 compassed yoor end. By little and little great things are 
 completed. 
 
 Water fiillin|r day by day, 
 Wears the hardest rock away. 
 
 And 80 repeated kindness will soften a heart of stone. 
 
 8. On a Pioturb of a Gibl leadino heb Buin) 
 
 MOTHBB THBOnOH THB WoOD. 
 
 1. rriHE green leaves as we pass 
 
 -L Lay their light fingers on thee unaware, 
 And by thy side the hazels closter fair, 
 
 And the low forest-grass 
 Grows green and silken where the wood-paths wind- 
 Alas t for thee, sweet mother I thou art blmd ! 
 
 2. And natare is all bright ; 
 
 And the faint gray and crimson of the dawn, 
 Like folded curtains from the day are drawn ; 
 And eveni^^s parple light 
 
cojtentwlth a 
 
 in smoke and 
 
 rfaich is worth 
 
 GIRL LEADING HER BLIND MOTHER. 
 
 Quivers in tremulous softness on the sky — 
 Alas I sweet mother I for thy clonded eye. 
 
 37 
 
 ^ .^ 
 
 
 ^i4>/ 
 
 3. The moon's new silver shell 
 
 Trembles above thee, and the stars float up, 
 In the blue air, and the rich tulip's cup 
 
 Is pencil'd passing well, 
 And the swift birds on glorious pinions flee — 
 Alas 1 sweet mother 1 that thou canst not see 1 
 
 4. And the kmd looks of friends 
 Peruse the sad expression in thy face, 
 And the child stops amid his bounding race. 
 And the tall stripling bends 
 
28 
 
 THB THIRD BEADSB. 
 
 Low to thine ear with duty nnforgot — 
 
 Alas! sweet mother 1 that thou seest them not 1 
 
 6. Bat thon canst hear! and love 
 " May richly on a hnman tone be ponr'd, 
 And the least cadence of a whisper'd n^ord 
 
 A daughter's love may prove — 
 And while I speak thoa knowest if I smile, 
 Albeit thoa canst not see my face the while I 
 
 6. Yes, thoa canst liear I and He 
 
 Who on thy sightless eye its darkness hong, 
 To the attentive ear, like harps, hath stnu^ 
 
 Heaven and earth and sea I 
 And His a lesson in oar hearts to know — 
 WUh hvi one sense the sotd may overflow. 
 
 9. Tbb Honest Shephbbd Boy. 
 
 Shxp'hbrd, one who has the 
 
 care of sheep. 
 Fru'oal, saving of expenses. 
 Crook, bold, a shepherd's staff. 
 GArr, manner of walking. 
 
 Des-ti-na'tion, place to be] 
 reached. 
 
 De-pict'ed, portrayed. 
 
 Ca-pac'i-tt, the power of re- 
 ceiving and containing. 
 
 ! 
 
 I AM going to tell yoa something which happened in Eng- ! 
 land. It is about a shepherd boy, named John Borrow. 
 It was a cold, wmtry morning when John left his home, as 
 osual, to tend the sheep of farmer Jones. In one hand John 
 carried his fhigal meal, and in the other he held a shepherd's 
 crook. He walked briskly along, whistling as he went — now 
 tossing with his feet the still untrodden snow, and then, occa- 
 sionally, running back to slide where his own feet had made a 
 way. Had you looked into the bright, sunny face of John 
 Borrow, you would not have been surprised at his cheevful 
 
THE HONEST BHBPHEBD fiOT. SW 
 
 lit. - ]^is countenance bore the impress of a happy disposi- 
 )n, and a warm, confiding heart. 
 
 2. John had been carefolly brought up by his only surviv* 
 \g parent — a poor mother ; he was her only Ron, and though 
 ^e had many little daughters to share her maternal care, still 
 ^e seemed to think that her first-bom, the one who was to 
 
 the stay and support of the family, needed the most of her 
 Mchful loYe. 
 
 3. Hitherto John had not disappomted her— he was beloved 
 ly all for \d$ open, firank manners, and his generous, honest 
 leart; and he promised fair to become all that his mother 
 lad so earnestly prayed he might be. 
 
 N, place to be 
 
 4. But while I have been telling you a little about our young 
 triend, he, in spite of his playing a little by the way, has reach- 
 \A his destination. He first deposits his dumer in the trunk 
 |)f an old oak, which always serves him for a closet ; and then 
 lie begins to feed the poor sheep, who do not seem to enjoy 
 
 lie cold weather so much as himself. 
 
 5. John manages to spend a very happy day alone in the 
 leadows with his sheep and his dog. Sometimes he tries how 
 Pepper likes snow-balling ; sometimes he runs up to the wind- 
 lill, not far off, to see if he can get any other little boys to 
 lome and play with him. This morning, however, he had a 
 jittle more business to do than usual ; he had to take the sheep 
 
 another fold, where they would be more sheltered from the 
 
80 
 
 THE THIBD READEB. 
 
 irind. And just as he is in the act of driving them throaglii 
 the large field-gate, he sees farmer Jones coming towards him.i 
 
 6. "John/' exclaimed the farmer, as he came up to the other] 
 side of the gate, "have you seen my pocket-book about any- 
 where? I was ronnd here about half an hour ago, and must I 
 hfiye dropped it." 
 
 "No, sir; I have not seen any thing of it, but I'll look] 
 about, if you like." 
 
 7. " That's a man, John. Be quick, for it's got money in 
 it, and I don't at all wish to lose it. We will hunt together." 
 
 Whereupon they both separated, one gomg one way, and 
 the other another, with their eyes on the ground, searching for 
 the missing treasure. 
 
 Presently John heard Mr. Jones calling him in a loud voice ! 
 from the other side of the field. 
 
 8. John, thinking the book was found, came running with 
 great alacrity ; but, as he drew near the old ock where farmer 
 Jones stood, he was taken somewhat aback to see the look of ! 
 anger depicted on his master's face ; and still more was he | 
 surprised when he saw the missing book lying open by the 
 side of his own dmner, and Mr. Jones pointing to it. 
 
 "Well, 8u>, what does this mean?" ezdumed the indignant 
 farmer. " I thought yon told me you did not know where it 
 was ?" 
 
 9. John, whose amazement at the strange circumstance was 
 very great, and who-'e sense of honor was no less so, felt the 
 color mount to his cheeks, as he replied : 
 
 " Yes, sir, and I spoke the truth." ' 
 
 " Then, how do yon account for my finding it open in the 
 
 trunk of an oak, close to your dinner ?" 
 " That I cannot say ; this, only, I knt>w : that I did not 
 
 put it there." 
 
 10. But Mr. Jones would not be convinced — ^the fact seem* 
 ed to bun so clear and so self-evident ; for John acknowledged 
 he had not seen any one else about there this morning ; so, 
 after severely reprimanding the poor boy, he dismissed him on 
 the spot from his employment. 
 
 1 1. It is easier to imagine than to describe the feelings of poor 
 
THB H0NB8T SHEPHERD BOT. 
 
 91 
 
 it, but ru look 
 
 m in a load voice : 
 
 John, as he slowly found his way home that evenbg. To be 
 
 fepriTed of the means of assisting his dear mother was bad 
 
 lough ; but to be suspected of lying and stealing, was, to 
 
 iple, honest John, ahnost too hard to bear. He consoled 
 
 Limself, however, with the thought — "Mother will believe 
 
 ft 
 
 le; 
 
 12. Yes, and his mother did believe hun, and told him no 
 feel angry with fanner Jones, for appearances were certain 
 against him, and he did not know hii^ as well as she did. 
 
 p Besides," she added, "truth must come out some time or 
 )ther.» 
 And so it did, though it was months afterwards ; and I 
 tell yon how. 
 
 13. John had long been seeking another situation, but no 
 )ne would take him, on account of the aj^parent blot on his 
 character. This cost John many a tear and many a sigh, but 
 lie trusted that God would right him, and he was not discour- 
 iged. 
 
 14. One day he went to see a gentleman who had inquired 
 jTor a lad to work in his garden. As us>!«l, John told his stoiy 
 lust as it was, and his face brightened as the gentleman sud, 
 " Then that must have been your dog I saw with a book hi 
 
 mouth. I was riding through the field you mention, one 
 lay, some months dnce, and I saw a dog with a book in his 
 lonth, run and put his head in the trunk of an old oak." 
 
 15. John clapped his hands^for joy, ezclainung : " I knew the 
 truth would come out. Then Pepper — ^poor Yeppet I it was 
 
 kindness to me that caused all the trouble ; he thought it 
 ras mine, and he took it to where I always keep my dmner, 
 ad then, I suppose, in dropping it into the hole. It came 
 jpen." 
 
 16. John lost no time in acquainting farmer Jones witk 
 these droumstances, who was very sorry for his suspicions, 
 
 id wanted to take him back ; but John, who saw some chance 
 )f promotion in the gentleman's garden, declined the favor. 
 
 It. John remained some time with his new master as gBO- 
 len>boy, but he became so great a favorite, both among the 
 Ifamily and servants^ that he was afterwards taken ipto the 
 
32 
 
 THK THIRD KhiADEB* 
 
 house, where he remained in the capacity of confidential swi 
 yant to his kind master, until his death. He never married—] 
 in order that he might be better able to support lus widow* i ! 
 mother and his four sisters. 
 
 See, my dear children, how true it is that all things wop 
 together for good to those who love God. 
 
 10. Thb Wonders of a Sal' 
 
 Mink, a pit from which min- 
 erals are dug. 
 
 Oa'blb, a large, strong rope. 
 
 Mi'neb, one who works in a 
 mine. 
 
 Oat'ebn, an opening under 
 ground. 
 
 Vault, a connhned arch, a] 
 
 cellar. 
 I'ci-CLBS, ft hanging mass of| 
 
 ice. 
 lN-HAB'n)>ANT, a pcrsou who] 
 
 resides in a place. 
 Com'pobbd, formed. 
 
 rf a country of Eurqm called Poland, there is the largest! 
 salt mine in the world. It is quite a little town, into 
 which there are eight openings, six in the fields, and two in a 
 Ufim called Oracow, near which thd mine is situated. At the 
 top of each of these openings is a large wheel with a cable, by 
 which persons are let down, and sometimeiB as many as forty 
 persons descend together. They are carried slowly down a 
 narrow, dark well, to the depth of 600 feet, and as soon as ! 
 the first person touches the ground, he steps fiK)m the rope, , 
 and the rest do the same in turn. 
 
 2. The place where they land is quite dark, but the miners i 
 strike a light, by means of which strangers are led through a 
 number of whiding ways, all slo^^ng lower and lower, tiU they | 
 come to some ladders, by which they descend again to an im« 
 mense depth. 
 
 8. At the bottom of the ladders the visitors enter a small, I 
 dark cavern, i^parently walled up on all sides. The guide 
 now puts out his lamp as if by accident, and catching the yja- 
 \tm i^ tiie hand, dn^ him through a narrow cleft into the 
 
TUB STABRT HEAVENS. 
 
 88 
 
 at all thingg wo^ 
 
 )dy of tho mine, where there bursts npon his sight a view, 
 ie brightness and beanty of which is scarcely to be imagined* 
 
 4. It is a spacious plain, containing a little world under- 
 round, with horses, carriages, and roads, exhibiting all the 
 istle of bushiess. This town is wholly cut out of one vast 
 ed of salt, and the space is filled with lofty arched vaults, 
 ipported'by piUars of salt, so that the building seems com- 
 )8ed of the purest crystals. 
 
 5. Lights are continually burning, and the blaze of them 
 eflecting from every part of the mine, gives a more splendid 
 
 ;ht than any human works above ground coidd exhibit. The 
 lit is, in some places, tinged with all the colors of predons 
 [tones, blue, yellow, purple, red, and green ; and there are en« 
 I columns wholly composed of brilliant masses of such colors. 
 
 6. From the roofs of the arches, in many parts, the salt 
 |iangs in the form of icicles, exhibiting all the colors of the 
 
 imbow. • 
 
 In various parts of this spacious plain stand the huts of the 
 liners and thehr families, some single, and others in clusters 
 re villages. The inhabitants have very little, communication 
 ith the world above ground, and many hundreds are bom 
 id end their lives there. 
 
 t. A stiream of fresh water runs through the mine, so that 
 the inhabitants have no occasion for a supply fh)m above : and 
 Vbovo all, the Almighty Creator of all these wonders is not 
 Forgotten ; they have hollowed out a beautiful chapel, in whicli 
 phe Adorable Sacrifice is offered ; the altar, crucifix, ornaments 
 of the chapel, with statues of our Blessed Lady and several 
 lints, are all of the same beautiful material. 
 
 11. The Stabby Heavens. 
 
 ^ir'ua-ment, the heavens. 
 i^Ro-CLADi', announce. 
 ?LAN'rr, a celestial body re- 
 volving about the sun. 
 U'oi-ANT, bright. 
 
 Ter-bes'tsi-al, relating to the 
 
 earth. 
 Bea'son, the faculty of 
 
 judging. 
 Qlo'ri-ous, ilhistrious. 
 
 «» 
 
84 
 
 TUB TIIIBD KEADKlt. 
 
 m 
 
 
 1. rpHE spacious firmament on high, 
 X With all the bine, ethereal sky, 
 And spangled heavens, a shining frame. 
 Their great Original proclaim. 
 
 2. Th' nnwearied sun, from day to day. 
 Does his Creator's power display, 
 And publishes to every land, 
 
 The work of an Almighty hand. 
 
 3. Soon as the evening shades. prevail, 
 The moon takes up the wondrous tale, 
 
OAUULUSSMESa. 
 
 8ft 
 
 And nightly to the listenbg earth 
 Repeats the story of her bhrth ; 
 
 4 While all the stars that round her bom, 
 And all the planets in their tnm, 
 Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
 And spread the truth from pole to pole. 
 
 5. What thongh in solemn silence all 
 Move ronnd this dark, terrestrial ball, — 
 What thongh no real voice nor sound 
 Amid their radiant orbs be found ? 
 
 6. In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
 And utter forth a glorious voice, 
 Forever singing as they shine, 
 
 " The hand that made us is divine.'' 
 
 12. Gabelessness. 
 
 ^ual'i-tt, an attribute. 
 [iOven'u-ness, untidiness ; 
 carelessness. 
 riELo'iNG, giving up. 
 
 Frao'ment, a small portion. 
 A-void'ed, shnnned. 
 Sur-prise', wonder suddenly 
 excited. 
 
 'ARY BELL was a little girl who, thongh she had 
 
 many good qualities. Was also, like most persons, pos- 
 
 pssed of some very bad one4^ Oi}e of her worst faults 
 
 [as her negligence and carelessness, which showed itself in 
 
 my matters, and especially in her dress. 
 
 2. She was affectionate, kind-hearted, and good-natured ; 
 
 [ways ready to assist others, even when by so doing she 
 
 )d in the way of her own pleasure. But, alas I her sloven- 
 
 ness. 
 
 " Like a cloud beforo the gkiei, '' 
 
 Hid all her better qiwliUua." 
 
36 
 
 THE THIRD RRADEB. 
 
 8. This trait in Mary's character gave her mother a 
 deal of trouble. She did not want her little girl to be vaiiil 
 of dress, which is very foolish as well as wicked, but 8h(| 
 wished to see her neat and carefnl. Mary sometimes suffered] 
 mnch inconvenience f^om her carelessness. She would often, 
 when preparing for a walk or ride, waste half an hour in look- 
 ing for a missing glove or ctocking, and when found, the'arMcli 
 was generally so much out of repair, as hardly to be wcn^ 
 with decency. t 
 
 4. But she had got the habit of throwing her tidngs aboad 
 and letting them go nnmended, and it seemed impossible tol 
 break her of it. So true it is that children should be veijl 
 careful how they form habits that may cling to them throughj 
 life, and, if bad, cause them much trouble. 
 
 5. About half a mile from Mrs. Bell's there lived a verjl 
 nice old T7omaru who had formerly been a housekeeper in thej 
 family, and who was very fond indeed of little Mary. Mary,} 
 in return, loved Mrs. Brown, as the old woman was called,! 
 and was always delighted to be the bearer of the little delicar] 
 cies which her mother often sent to her. 
 
 6. One Saturday momhig Mrs. Bell called Mary to her,! 
 and told her that as she had been a good girl, and learned all] 
 her tasks that week very well, she might go over and spend] 
 the day with Mrs. Brown, adding, that when she was dressed,! 
 she would find a pitcher of broth on the dudng-table, whicli| 
 she wished her to take with her. Mary was delighted witbl 
 the permission, and ran up-stairs as fast as possible to get! 
 ready. 
 
 t. As usual, half the articles she wanted to wear were miss-l 
 faig, and no two in the sauB place, so that a long time wail 
 consumed in looking for them. One of her shoes was in heil 
 bedroom, but where the other had gone was a mystery whicli| 
 no one in the house could solve. The servants were callcdl 
 from their work to know if they had seen it, but none of theiii| 
 knew any thing about it. * 
 
 8. After wasting a long time in this way, Mary happenedl 
 to recollect that the night before she had pilled it ofT, on a&l 
 count of its hurting her, and tlirown it under the parlor lounge,! 
 
OAKRLK88ME88. 
 
 87 
 
 (here it was foand. The string was out , bat being by this 
 
 le in a great harry, Mary concluded it would stay on with* 
 
 it one, and put it on as it was. In changing her dress, she 
 
 )ticed a snudl rent in the skirt, which her mother had told 
 
 ir of some days before, but which she had forgotten to mend. ' 
 
 9. " Never mind," thought she, " it will not be noticed, and 
 can sew it up when I come home." One gloye was in her 
 )cket, and the other, after some search, she found in her ret- 
 
 Bule. These required mending also, but were thrust on with- 
 
 kt it. The string of her bonnet was ripped off, and being in 
 
 }o much haste to fasten it properly, she merely stuck a pin 
 
 it, hoping that this would answer the purpose. Being at 
 
 ist ready, Mary took the pitcher, which was a very handsome 
 
 |>ne, and started on her journey. 
 
 10. It wa:> a lovely day, and she went on for some distance 
 |n high glee, notwithstanc^g her shoe kept slipping up and 
 lown in a most uncomfortable manner. She was thinking. 
 Iiow much pleased Mrs. Frown would be to see her, and get 
 the nice broth, when, in crossing a stile, the comer of one of 
 the steps caught in the rent in her dress, and tore a hole in 
 pe thin lawn nearly a quarter of a yard wide. 
 
 11. Poor Mary could have cried heartily at seeing her pret- 
 |;y frock spoiled, but remembering that crying would not rc- 
 sair the injury, she forced back her tears, and pinned it up as 
 rell as she could. After hav&g done this, she took up her 
 pitcher and went on, though not quite so gayly as before, for 
 Bhe was afraid of receiving a scol^g from her mother ; and 
 she felt that she deserved one for not having mended her 
 Iress, as she was told to do. 
 
 12. Her troubles had hardly ^gun ; for she had not gone 
 luch farther when the pin came out of her bonnet-string, and 
 
 gast of wind carried away her bonnet, and sent it flying 
 icross the field. Mary sat down her pitcher and ran after it 
 fast as she could ; but every time she got near to it, 
 [another puff of wind would take it far out of her reach, until 
 iat last it was blown into a sort of marshy place at the bottom 
 lof the field. 
 
 13. In her efforts to regain it, her foot sank deep into tha 
 
88 
 
 TIIK TUIBO BJfiADKJC 
 
 loft, yielding earth, and when she got it oat, the shoe whielk 
 had no string to Iceop it on was left behind. Poor BCary wai ] 
 almost heart>broken at the loss of her shoe ; and her bonnet— . 
 which was floating in a mnd-puddle — was a mere mass of wet ' 
 ribbons and dirty straw. She stood crying for some thno, 
 when happening to remen* oer the pitcher which she had left at 
 the end of the field, she started to look for it. 
 
 14. The stones and sticks were so painfbl to her nnprotect* 
 ed foot, that she was abnost lame before she reached the spot, ^ 
 Here, alas t another ndsfortone awaited her. A dog happen- ^ 
 big to come along during her absence hcd smelled the soup, 
 and endeayored to get it. In so doing he had knocked the i 
 pitcher over against a stone, and there it lay, broken hi a j 
 dozen pieces. This was too much for Mary. 
 
 16. She sat down on the ground by the fragments, and ' 
 ' cried as though her little heart would break. Poor child I 
 she was hi a sad dilemma indeed. She could not go to Mrs. i 
 Brown's hi this plight — without her bonnet, with but one| 
 shoe, her hair tangled and matted, and her frock soiled and 
 torn ; and she was afraid, if she went home, her mother would ' 
 be oflbnded at the results of her carelessness. She thought 
 how easily all this could have been avoided by a little care 
 and a few stitches. 
 
 16. She was still sitthig sobbhig, when -she heard a voice 
 behind her exclaun m a tone of surprise, " Mary, is it possi- 
 ble 1 Why, what can yon be doing here V* Mary turned, 
 and saw through her tears her father's face looking khidly 
 but wonderingly upon her. As well as her sobs would per- 
 mit, she told Urn the events of the mondng exactly as they 
 had occurred. 
 
 17. " Well, Mary," said her father, when she had finished, 
 *'I am sorry to see yon in so much trouble ; but your mother 
 has often warned yon of the effects which must result from 
 your extreme carelessness ; but dry your eyes now, and come 
 home with me ; this is no place for you." " Oh ! papa, how 
 can 1 7 Ma will be so angry with me for losmg my bonnet 
 and shoe, and breaking her pitcher." 
 
 18. " Never mind, my poor child ; come with me, and I do 
 
PBOPAOATIOll OV TUB PAFrH. 
 
 80 
 
 thiuk yoar mother will poniih yon, if ihe leei how sony 
 
 are for your carelessness ; come 1" 
 
 [ra. Bell was surprised at Mary's appearance ; bat when 
 
 heard her story, and saw how distressed she really was, 
 
 did not scold her, bnt merely told her she hoped her mom- 
 
 f 8 adventares would teach her to be more oarefal in fatnre. 
 
 L9. I am happy to be able to tell my little readers, that 
 
 ry has learned wisdom by experience, and is now all that 
 
 parents can desire. 
 
 1. OoNOBEOATION GW THE PbOPAQATIOK OF THB FaiTH. 
 
 -pRBm', highest and great- 
 
 lest. 
 
 ^'oAN, a heathen, an idola- 
 ter. 
 -per-in-tknd'bnck, act of 
 
 loverseehig. 
 
 iN-sTi-Tu'noK, system estab* 
 
 lished. 
 Ap-pro'pri-at-ed, applied to 
 
 some pnrpose. 
 Ses'sion, stated meetbg of a 
 
 public body. 
 
 th me, and I do 
 
 'OW many have heard of the Gongregation for the Prop 
 agation of the Eaith, and of the famous College of the 
 janda, at Rome f but how few, even among Catholics, 
 ^ow any thing about the history of the Gongregation, or the 
 ject of the College 1 We propose, in the following pages, 
 i give our young readers a short account of the origin of the 
 i>Dgregation, and the designs for which the College was in- 
 Itnted. 
 
 [2. The Pope, the successor of St. Peter, is the supremo 
 )ntiff or chief bishop of the Catholic world. He is the 
 
 innel through which the missionary receiireB his commission 
 
 carry the light of the gospel to pagan nations. To send 
 brgymen to the remotest puts of the <rrth ; to direct, snp- 
 krt, and assist them in theur' apostolic labors, is one of the 
 ^iof objects of the pastoral solicitude of the Bishop of B«me. 
 
 this, however, he is assisted by the Sacred College of Car> 
 Inals ; and to a portion of their number, called the Sacred 
 
40 
 
 TUB TUIKD KEADEB. 
 
 then! 
 
 Congregation de Propaganda Fide, is committed the snperi 
 tendence of the Catholic missions. 
 
 8. This body owes its or^ to Pope Gregory the Fifteeni 
 who, in the year 1622, formed the institution and supplied 
 with the necessary fnnds for its support. His successor, Uii 
 ban the Eighth, in a special manner favored the institutioi 
 and appropriated a large sum of money for its success. 
 
 4. In view of the great advantages derived from it, 
 sources of the institution were greatly increased by privati' 
 donations. By these means, the palace in whi0h the Couj 
 gation holds its sessions, was erected. 
 
 5. The body intrusted with the management of the institi 
 tion consists of eighteen cardinals, and a large number of coi 
 suitors, selected from among the prelates and different religioi 
 orders. The chief officers are the Prefect, the Prefect 
 Economy, and the Secretary. They hold frequent meetini 
 for the transaction of business, and the result of their delil 
 ations are transmitted to the Holy Father for his approvi 
 In the archives are preserved all original letters and the 
 swers returned ; all decrees and resolution, apostolic rescripi 
 briefs, &c. 
 
 6. The printing establishment connected with the institutioi 
 is, without exception, the most valuable in the world, in thi 
 variety of its types and the foreign languages :l^ which il 
 publications are issued. # 
 
 7. It is furnished with types, or characters, of forty-eigll 
 different languages, by means of which the Holy Scriptures' 
 works of instruction, and other books, may be printed in thai 
 number of languages. This greatly facilitates the missioui 
 in the labor of spreading the truth of the gospel among fore! 
 nations. 
 
 8. But the most important department of tiia institution iil 
 the College of the Propaganda, as it is usually called. Thu 
 famous literary establishment was founded by Pope Urban the 
 Eighth, in the year 162t, and may justly be considered as thej 
 seminary of the universal Church. The design of this institu 
 tion is to educate for the priesthood young men from all tbe 
 nations of the earth. 
 
PROPAGATION OF THE FAITH. 
 
 41 
 
 Here may be found Chinese, Greeks, Arabians, Ethio- 
 is, Syrians, Bolgarians, Turks, Italians, French, English, 
 Bh, Scotch, Americans, Dutch, Germans, Flemish, Spaniards, 
 frtuguese, Poles, Bnssians, with the inhabitants of various 
 ier portions of the globe-^representing, in all, between forty 
 
 fifty tribes and nations of the earth. 
 
 [10. These are taught gratuitously all the branches of sacred 
 
 Id profane learning, and thus prepared, when raised to the 
 
 fly order of priesthood, to enter upon the duties of their 
 
 ssion in their native countries, or to bear the light of Chris- 
 
 ity to pagan nations. 
 
 11. Each year, within the octave of the Epiphany, it is 
 lual for the students of the College of the Propaganda to 
 flebrate the festival by a solemn academical exhibition. A 
 
 itin prose composition is first read, and this is followed by a 
 splay of poetical talent in the various languages. In 1841 
 lie poetical and oratorical compositions delivered on the occa- 
 >n, were in forty-four differenj^anguages. 
 
 12. In this diversity of languages are beautifully typified 
 le catholicity and the unity of the Catholic Church. Com- 
 
 ssioned to teach all nations, she trains her ministers and 
 Missionaries for every clime and every condition of life. They 
 into all countries to discharge their sacred and benevolent 
 ice. 
 
 13. No dissunilarity of language or custom can arrest their 
 egress. By means of the College of the Propaganda, they 
 
 enabled to speak to the various tribes of the earth in their 
 itive tongue, and in this manner are more effectually spread 
 )ng them the divine truths of the Gospel. 
 
A2 
 
 THB THIRD READEB. 
 
 14. LlVB FOB SOMETHINO. 
 
 Eic-PLOT'MENT, occupatioii. 
 Selp'ish, regarding one's own 
 
 interest solely. 
 Op-pressed', burdened. 
 
 Stu'pa-tht, compassion, fc^ 
 
 low-feeling. 
 Wka'bt, fatigued. 
 Foun'tain, a jet of water. 
 
 1. T lYE for something ; be not idlo; — 
 Xi Look about thee for employ ; 
 Sit not down to useless dreaming — 
 
 Labor is the sweetest joy/ 
 Folded hands are ever weaiy, 
 
 Selfish hearts are never gay, 
 Life for thee hath many duties — - 
 
 Active be, then, while you, may. ^ 
 
 8. Scatter blessings in thj pathway I 
 
 Gentle words and cheering smiles 
 Better are than gold and silver, 
 
 "With their grief-dispelling wiles. 
 As the pleasant sunshine falleth • 
 
 Ever on the gratefhl earth, 
 So let sympathy and kindness 
 
 Ohulden well the darken'd hearth. 
 
PBEDOmMANT PAEN3I0NS. 
 
 48 
 
 8. Hearts there are oppress'd and weary ; 
 
 Drop the tear of sympathy, 
 Whisper words of hope and comfort, 
 
 Give and thy reward shall be — 
 Joy onto thy soul returning 
 
 From this perfect fountain-head ; 
 Freely, as thou freely givest, 
 
 Shall the grateful light be shed. 
 
 15. Pbbdohinant Passiovb. 
 
 3bn'den-ct, superior influ- 
 
 ace. 
 
 sebn'i-blb^ evident. 
 
 ^PEN'si-rr, Inclination, ten? 
 
 ency. 
 
 HAuaH'n-NXBS, an overbearing 
 
 manner. 
 DicKtnsT'iNe, exciting dislike, 
 
 odious, hateful. 
 €on'tbiift, act of despising. 
 
 is not usual, that in young persons, whose characters have 
 
 liot taken any settled form, any vice should have gamed so 
 
 led an ascendency, as to enable themsdvee or others to 
 
 em clearly the nature of their predominant passion. Gen- 
 
 ^y speaking, they should be more anxious to correct all 
 
 faults, than to find out the chief among them ; as that 
 
 ^ot discernible until they are placed amid the busy scenes 
 
 tie world. 
 
 Still, as they cannot be made acquainted too early with 
 |evil consequences of vice, it would be advisable for them 
 their dispositions occanonally lest any evil propen- 
 may take root in their hearts, thereby become the princi- 
 {of their actions, and frustrate the ends proposed in Chris- 
 education. 
 
 The predominant passion of most persons is Pride, which 
 fails to produce not only thoughts of pride and vanity, 
 also such haughtiness of manner and selfHSufficiency, as to 
 l«r them absolutely disgusting and ridiculous. 
 Incessantly endeavoring to attract admiration, and bo* 
 
 *=S#?(^k... 
 
\, 
 
 44 
 
 THB TUIKD BBADKB. 
 
 come the sole object of attention, they spare no pains to oil 
 others, to set themselves off, and by their conceited airs, tl| 
 forwardness, their confidence in their own opinion, and neg 
 or contempt of that timid, gentle, retiring manner, so ai 
 ' and attractive, particularly in youth, they defeat their 
 purpose, and become as contemptible as they aun at being | 
 contrary. 
 
 5. Many are so little sensible of the awfiil duties imf 
 oy Christian charity, as to be ever ready to blame, criticj 
 and condemn all who come under their observation, 
 one of the most dangerous propensities, as the occasional 
 manifesting it occur incessantly, and frequently lead to 
 tal sin. The persons thus uncharitably disposed, talk conl| 
 ually of the faults of others, which they are always incli 
 to exaggerate, though often those defects exist only in 
 detractor's emblti^cred imagination, which represents othenl 
 so unfavorable a pomt of view, as to subject their actions [ 
 the most unkind censure. 
 
 6. To this may be added a satirical propensity, which 
 icises and turns every thing and every person into ridid 
 sparing neither superiors, friends, enemies, nor even the mil 
 sacred characters, such as clergymen. This disposition nei| 
 fails to make numerous enemies; and, though occasioi 
 encouraged by laughter and smiles of approbation, it nev 
 theless is generally as hated as it is hateful. 
 
 7. Those whose temper is violent and unrestrained, 
 be ignorant that anger is their predominant passion — ^tl 
 frequent, unreasonable, and impetuous sallies of anger, on • 
 slightest occasions, render intercourse with them as unsafe I 
 it would be with a maniac. Such dreadful and melanchd 
 consequences have followed from even one fit of passion, as | 
 render any family truly unhappy, who may possess a memb 
 with a violent temper. 
 
 8. Those who feel inclined to this passion, should, wh 
 young, use all their efforts to overcome so dangerous a < 
 position. Reason, affection for their family, consideration f^ 
 all those with whom they may be connected, and, above 
 religion, furnish powerful motives and means for reducmg i 
 
PREDOMINANT PASSIONS. 
 
 45 
 
 f, however violent, to the standard of Christian meek* 
 
 The chief among thoss means is prayer, and the next, 
 
 ,ps most efflcacions, is absolute sUePce under all emotions 
 
 ger. ^ 
 
 There are many other persons who, though they do not 
 
 among the passionate, are nevertheless the pests of so- 
 
 \, — ^particularly of domestic society. Their predominant 
 
 Ion is a certain iH-humor, fre^iUneaa, peevishneaa, and 
 
 JlaMity, which pervades their words, manners, and even 
 
 and it is usually brought into action by such mere tri> 
 
 I as liBave no chance of peace to those who live in the house 
 
 them. 
 
 Childron and servants are not the only butts of their 
 
 Bn ; but even their best friends, their superiors themselves, 
 
 [not always secure from their ill-tempered sallies and their 
 
 ssont complaints. In a word, their sourness, their cBssat- 
 
 1, discontented manner, effectually embitters every society, 
 
 throws a gloom over the most innocent amusements. As 
 
 luckless disposition is peculiarly that of women, young 
 
 |ions cannot be too earnestly recommended to combat in 
 
 th any tendency thereto, lest they become, when older, the 
 
 itest torment of that society they are certainly intended 
 
 [>less and ornament. 
 
 |1. Sloth, which is the predominant passion of many per< 
 
 B, is also one of those vices most difficult to correct. It 
 
 rs itself by habitual indolence, and such negligence and 
 
 [thy, that 1*0 duty, however serious, can rouse a person of 
 
 character to exertion. Days, weeks, and even years, pass 
 
 'Without any account of how they have passed ; for though 
 
 muolent form many projects of amendment, yet those 
 
 ^ects are never executed, because procrastination is the 
 
 ;hter of sloth. 
 
 L2. Any time but the present appears calculated for the 
 jsharge of duty, precisely because the most heroic efforts in 
 Ispect cost less than a single actual exertion. Thence it 
 >ws, that spiritual duties are so long neglected and defer* 
 that the torpor, which in youth could easily have been 
 ^ken off, gains such an ascendency as to.become almost un< 
 
16 
 
 THE THIBD BEAOEE. 
 
 oonqnerable, and at longth reduces the soul to that dread 
 state generally called tepidity, which is only another word| 
 sloth in spiritual matins. 
 
 18. Then it is tha^^^ety social and personal daty is ab 
 doned ; children, servants, aflkirs, spuritnal and temporal, or 
 cleanlmess, every thing is neglected, and permitted to run u| 
 snch disotuer and confusion, as to render the persons de^ 
 by this vice, no less a disgrace to themselyes than to tli| 
 friends and to society. In a word, there is no passion iktU 
 leads more certainly to misery hereafter ; for, after all, the I 
 anhnate victim of sloth, who has lived without energy, withi 
 sentiment, abnost without a soul, will at last be effectnaf 
 roused by death, whose approach is terrible indeed to thij 
 who lead a useless, inactive, idle, and consequently most t 
 ful life. 
 
 14. Those whose predominant passion is deceit, are 
 quently not considered dangerous characters, until they hij 
 given many persons cause to repent having had any mtercou 
 with them. Their manners are generally as insmuatmg as tlif 
 motives are base and interested. They are usually dist 
 ed by a total disregard for truth ; a base system of appeaiil 
 to coincide with every one, the better to gain thas confidej 
 which they only intend to abuse ; deceitful expressions — et| 
 nal manoeuvring— equivocations — and so great an oppositi 
 to candor and plain dealing, as to adopt jft thousand nnderhaj 
 means for carrying on their most simple and ordinary trail 
 tions, thereby ragagmg themselves and others in tk l^b} 
 of dincnlties, and spendhig their whole lives in perplszli 
 entanglement, and chance. \ . 
 
 15. Independently of religion, the natural desire we all 
 for happhiess and security, should be motives enough for i 
 efforts to counteract every tendency to this mean vice. 
 jHTOves in general, sooner or later, its own punishment ; f| 
 itotwithstanding the deep-laid schemes, the cunbing and 
 fices .of those who seem to Uve for the purpose of deceit 
 their felloWMSreatnres, yet the depravity and meanness of tb 
 motives hi all theur actions, are seen through much clearer i 
 more frequently than they are aware. Besides, one lie or 1 
 
PBEOOMINAMl TASSIONS. 
 
 47 
 
 reqnires many more to prop its crazy saperstmcture, and 
 brent these their mind most be incessantly on the rack ; 
 [as their craft is generally discoyered, they are exposed to 
 contempt and distmst as deprive them of all credit. 
 I. Even when by chance they intend to deal fairly and 
 ly, they are carefully shunned, because a long habit of 
 inlation has so indelibly stamped their character with the 
 of iosincerity and knavery, as t'^ render truth and false- 
 eqnally disbelieved from their lips. In a word, they are ' 
 riably, in the close of life, so hated, despised, and distrust* 
 to become outcasts in society, a burden to themselves, 
 {almost as degraded and unhappy, even in thij life, as they 
 .76 to >»e. 
 
 16. Fbsdominanx Passions — continued. 
 
 Be-puo'nanok, feeling of dislike. 
 Ob'sta-olx, that whfch hinders. 
 
 ,m-^ 
 
 cai^tal fault of some persons is inordhate, ungovenu 
 
 ^le ouriosiiy, a vice which is a certun road to many rins, 
 
 Dhurly in youth. It should, howev sr, be observed, that 
 
 I are two kinds of curiosity, one allowable, and even com* 
 
 Etble, the other dangerous and sinful They may be eaai^ 
 
48 
 
 THK THIUD KKADKR. 
 
 distinguished, one from the other, by their different elTec 
 That species of cariosity which is innocent and deshrable,! 
 pecially in yoong persons, consists in a laudable desure of 
 fnl information ; this thirst after knowledge, when well re| 
 lated, produces emulation, application to study, patience i 
 perseverance in difficulties, good employment of time, an^ 
 love for the society and conversation of the learned. 
 
 2. The vice of curiosit;, on the contrary, is the bane I 
 ttSdful acqmreraeut, because it consists chiefly m an eager ( 
 sire to hear and see every insignificant trifle that passes, i 
 gives persons so much to do with the concerns of c I/hers, as| 
 leave them no time to attend to their own. Curious per 
 are always on the look-out for what is termed news ; and| 
 that levity and shallowness of mind which produces misg 
 curiosity, creates also a <aste for unnecessary talk, they i 
 never so well satisfied as when they have discovered a nnmlj 
 of incidents to circulate among their frient^ and acquaintaoj 
 
 3. Their inquisitive air, — their prying and intrusive 
 ners, — ^their incessant questions, — their eager impatience to| 
 informed of every incident that takes place, and minute mqv 
 into the affairs of. others, would lead to the idea that tlj 
 were commissioned to investigate the origin, ancestors, nan 
 tempers, fortunes, and faults of every individual who falls | 
 their way. Even the secrets of families, which curiosity iti 
 should respect, are not too impenetrable for the inquisitive,! 
 are the most insignificant domestic occurrences below tb 
 notice. 
 
 4. On the contrary, to gun such information, they do 
 hesitate descending so low as to ques^on children and sd 
 ants ; thereby givii^ occasion to innumerable crimes 
 charity, often i^ainst truth. Another propensity of curitj 
 persons is a desire to hear and see precisely those things wb 
 they have been told were dangerous, and to read every i 
 of publication which they have been recommended to avd 
 or know to be exceptionable. This contemptible dispont^ 
 can only be rectified by many years' strict attention to 
 short rule of never interfering in what does not concern j 
 cxcepi when charity or duty dictates the contrary. 
 
rKKIX>MIMANT PASSIONS. 
 
 49 
 
 There are few persons, even among the best Christians, 
 
 bare not had occasionally to regret offending with the 
 
 jue; bnt the faalis committed and mischiefs occasioned 
 
 those whose nnbridled passion for talk is their predom- 
 
 it failing, can scarcely be estunated. This propensity gen- 
 
 )y characterizes persons of weak heads, vacant minds, and 
 
 low understandings, who seem absolutely incapable of one 
 
 int's serious reflection, and know not what it is to think 
 
 minutes, even before they undertake to decide upon un- 
 
 int matters. Those who talk always, cannot hope always 
 
 dk sense, consequently their least material faults are ab 
 
 random opinions, giddy, inconsistent expressions, and 
 |uent faults against politeness and good-breeding ; for the 
 ability of great talkers never allows others to deliver an 
 ^ion, or finish any sentence without helping them out. 
 
 Their laughable and disgusting egotism, perpetual rela* 
 ^s of their own unimportant adventures, ideas, or opinions, 
 :h they are too frivolous to perceive are interesting only 
 |heir own eyes ; then: system of laughing, whispering, and 
 Buling, generally mark out great talkers as persons of little 
 ko intellect, though they often do not want sense, if they 
 bd bnt prevail on themselves to be silent, and reflect ever 
 fttle on the necessity of making use of that gift. ^ 
 
 But those, however, are the least serious faults produced 
 kzcessive love of talk. Sins agamst charity, breaches of 
 Menj^, dibcovery of the secrets of others, indiscreet com- 
 Scation of their own afbirs and those of their families to 
 
 untances, strangers, even to servants; remarks on the 
 Bts of others, breachei of truth, habitual exaggeration, 
 
 of time, dissipation and levity, are all the infallible con- 
 
 ences of a passion for talking ; besides the dreadful evils 
 |h unguarded repetition of stories has be«)n known to pro- 
 
 m society, by disuidting the members of families, Irntar 
 [ and disgusting friends, breecUng disturbances, Ae. : ev^It 
 are much easier occasioned than removed. 
 
 Could those useless beings, whose occnpati<m 
 the mischief they may occasion, even hf 
 ih often escapes their tongue and merooiQrlill 
 
60 
 
 THE THIRD RKADKiU 
 
 time, how bitterly woald they regret the dearly bought pie 
 are of talking 1 how carefally would they study the virtue 
 silence and prudent restraint I and thus spare themselves tlj 
 regret of having unfeelingly published faults too true to I 
 contradicted, and stories too mischievous in their effects to I 
 easily remedied ; thus inflicting wounds they cannot afterwan 
 heal. 
 
 9. There are some persons who possess many amiable quo| 
 ties, yet destroy the effect of them all by one predomina 
 failing, a fund of caprice and inconstancy. Those peno^ 
 rarely succeed in gaining one sbcere friend ; on the contraii 
 they seldom fail to disgust those whom they had at fiij 
 attracted, because they frequently receive with marked reser 
 one day, those whom they treated with kindness the day befo | 
 On one occasion these changeable bemgs will scarce alloi 
 others to join in a conversation — the next, they ^ not byj 
 single word manifest a desire to please. 
 
 10. Their projects or undertakings are as variable as thi| 
 ideas, and are never pursued with such steadiness as woq 
 encourage any rational person to join in them ; nor cu^ it evj 
 be co1\jectured, flrom the projects of one day or hour, wh 
 those of the next may be. They eagerly seek one moment aftj 
 those objects which the next they desinse ; and ara one da 
 dissolved in vain joy, another oppressed with melancholy. BJ 
 what is infinitely worse than all is, that this hrrational cap 
 ciousness, besides rendering them the jest of others, and a bd 
 den to themselves, materially endangers their eternal salratioj 
 
 11. Their ideas and feelings on spiritual matters are just { 
 variable as on all other occasions ; thoir plans of amendnuj 
 and regularity, though fluently mtered on with ardor, ' 
 as frequently abandoned ; consequently there can be no 
 sons so little likely 1o gam a crown, which' is prcnnised onI;| 
 perseverance. 
 
 12. Se^ishness U a common failing, and ft pecnliarly 
 miable one, when it predmninates in a character. Tlioj 
 
 persons who make se^tiidr idol, are firom morning till n^ 
 occupied in providing for their own hkdividaal gratification! 
 pleasure, and in taking measures for warding off from tli 
 
PRKDOMINANT PASSIONS. 
 
 dl 
 
 jcB erory thing in the shape of trouble, inconvenience, prov« 
 |tion, &c.; thus they become almost the sole objects of 
 
 own thoughts, solicitudes, and exertions. 
 [3. They generally manifest their predominant failing to 
 least attentive observer, by an habitual inattention or 
 liTerence when the gratification of others is in question, by 
 [unfeeling hiseusibility for the misfortunes of their fellow- 
 itures, and by being the last to make an exertion for their 
 bf. They seem almost incapable of taking part in the pains 
 Pleasures of others ; every species of misfortune or gratifi- 
 |on pleases or grieves them, precisely only in as much as 
 
 perceive it is likely to affect them individually. 
 [4. A propensity to extravagant partialitiea its a fault which 
 inently predominates in some warm, impetuous characters, 
 ^se persons are distinguished by a precipitate selection of 
 )rites in every society ; by an ovei^ow of marked atten- 
 to the objects of their predilection, whose mterests they 
 )uae, whose very faults they attempt to justify, whoiiio 
 lions they support whether right or wrong, and wLose 
 they defend often at the expense of good sense, chanty, 
 leration, and even common justice. 
 |5. Woe to the person, whether superior or inferior, who 
 tures to dissent from them in opinion concerning the objects 
 leir admuation ; that alone exposes them to aversion and 
 lure. The friendship or affection of such characters does 
 [deserve to be valued, fbr it results not tcom discernment 
 \ent, but bUnd prejudice ; besides, they are remarkable for 
 ]>ymg those whom they think proper to rank among their 
 frites, both by expecting to engross their whole attention 
 )nftdence, and resenting every mark of kindness they may 
 proper to show to others. However, as their affections 
 In general as short-lived as they are ardent, no one person 
 ^ely to be tormented long with the title of their friend. 
 
 The foregoing are the chief among those passions to 
 
 ^h the generality of mankind are subject. There nre also 
 
 riety of other shapes, in which the capital sins generally 
 
 }minate in different <;haracter8. It would not be easy to 
 
 lorate them, but you will not find it difficult, aided by the 
 
•f 
 
 TMK lillKI) RKADKK* 
 
 gr«ce of Ood, to discover your capital enemy, provided ;| 
 ordevitly beg that grace and light, and are sincerely deHiru 
 to overcome it to the utmost of your power. 
 
 17. The following marks by which you may discern p 
 roling passion, are pointed out by St. Chrysostom, and 
 assist your examination on this important point: 1st. Yo 
 predominant passion is that propensity, disposition, or fuilii| 
 which is the ordinary cause of your faults and sins. 2d. Ill 
 that which chiefly disturbs the peace of your soul, and oul 
 sions yott most remorse and uneasy reflections. 8d. That I 
 which yon are obliged to accuse yourself most frequentljj 
 confession. 
 
 18. 4th. That which gives occasion to the greatest conflid 
 in your soul, and which you fee\most repugnance to overcoi 
 5th. That which usually influences your deliberations, inU 
 tions, or projects, and which is the chief motive of all ytj 
 actions ; that, in a word, which is most untractable and dei 
 ly rooted in your heart ; for if, when wounded on that poi^ 
 you feel sensibly hurt, it is an evident mark that there is jq 
 predominant passion, your capital enemy, tho greatest obstii 
 to God's grace, and to your eternal salvation. 
 
 17. My Bot Absalom. 
 
 Pulse, the motion of the 
 
 blood. 
 Tress'es, knots or curls of 
 
 hair. 
 
 Reed, a hollow knotted st 
 
 a pipe. 
 Pall, a covering thrown 
 
 the dead. 
 
 1. A LAS 1 my noble boy 1 ihsA tbon shonldst die I 
 ■^ Thou, who wcrt made so beautifully fair 1 
 That death should settle in tby glorious eye, 
 
 And leave his st31ne» in this clustering hair t 
 IIow could he mark thee far tb.o silent tomb I 
 My prouil boy, Absalom I 
 
MY BOY ABSALOM. 
 
 enemy, proTltled ;l 
 are sincerely deHiro| 
 »wer. 
 
 rou may discern ]^ 
 Chrysostom, and 
 ant point : 1st. Y(^ 
 disposition, or fuilitj 
 \M and sins. 2d. Iij 
 your soul, and okI 
 ections. 8d. That! 
 elf most freqnentljj 
 
 the greatest confliij 
 tugnance to overcoij 
 r deliberations, inti 
 3f motive of all yij 
 untractable and da 
 tunded on that 
 ^rk that there is ]i 
 
 the greatest obstai 
 ation. 
 
 " Cold is tliy brow, my son I and I am cU311, 
 As to my bosom I have tried to preiw th»e I 
 
 How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill. 
 Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, 
 
 And hear thy sweet ' mxjfatherV from these dumb 
 And cold lips, Absalom t 
 
 ^^ 
 
 
 >>^ 
 
 hollow knotted at 
 
 .^;a^- 
 
 " But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush 
 Of music, and the voices of the young ; 
 
 And life will pass me in the mantling blush. 
 And the durk tresses to the soft wmds flung ;— 
 
 But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shall come 
 To meet me, Absalom ! 
 
 " And oh I when I am stricken, and my heart, 
 Like a bruised reed is waiting to be broken, 
 
54 
 
 TMJfi THIKI) RKAI>FJK. 
 
 How wiU its love for thee, as I depart, 
 Team for thine ear to drmk its last deep token 1 
 
 It were so swCet, amid death's gathering gloom, 
 To see thee, Absalom 1 ■ 
 
 6. " ^nd now, farewell I 'Tis hard to give thee np, 
 With death so like a gentle slumber on thee ;~- 
 
 And thy dark sin I — Oh ! I could drink the cup, 
 If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. 
 
 May God have calPd thee, like a wanderer, home^ 
 My lost boy, Absalom I" 
 
 6. He covered up his face, and bow^d bunself 
 A moment on his child ; then, giving him 
 A look of melting tenderness, he clasp'd 
 His hands conTularely aa if in prayer ; 
 And, as if strengtb were given him of God, 
 He rosQ up calmly, and composed the pall 
 Firmly and decently — and left him there— 
 As if his rast had been a breathing sleep. 
 
 18 Thb Sgholab's YiBioir. 
 
 Vis'ioN, supematoral appear- 
 
 ance. 
 Gen'tu-rt, a hundred year». 
 Stu-pid'i-tt, extreme dnlness. 
 
 Tub'bu-lbnt, tnmnltnous, di» | 
 
 orderly. 
 Sup-pobt'ed, aided, assisted. 
 Con-ckal'ino, hiding. 
 
 AMONG the students of the TJniversity of Padua during I 
 the early part of the thirteenth century, there was aj 
 scholar by the name of Albert de Groot, a native of Lawingen [ 
 a town of Swabia, now fallen into decay. Albert was remark 
 able for his stupidity and the dukess of his intellect, and waij 
 at once the object of ridicule to his companions, and the vie*! 
 tim of his teachers. 
 
 2. In addition to his mental defects, he was timid and shy,} 
 and without any powers of speech to defend bunself agninsi 
 
THE BCROLAK'S TI3ION. 
 
 55 
 
 tanntg and jeers of his schoolmates. Even his diminutiye 
 for one of his age, being then fifteen years old, did not 
 
 ipe the keenness of their satire. 
 
 Albert was not insensible to their raillery, and more than 
 ^e would have listened to the temptation of despair, had it 
 
 been for the care of Us virtnons mother, the ardent piety 
 ^h which she had inspired his youthful nund, and his tend<r 
 
 lively devotion to the Blessed Virgin. 
 If he felt it hard to endure the jeers and ridicule of his 
 
 apanions, yet, when he considered that he had neither read- 
 
 ss, memory, nor mtelligence, he thought within hunself that 
 ftbably he deserved all their reproaches ; and that the career 
 [science, which he so ardently desired, was not his vocation. 
 Deeply influenced by this conviction, at the age of six- 
 ^n, he applied, for admission into the Dominican Order, thmk- 
 
 that if he did not shine among the brilliant men who were 
 
 glory, yet at least he might the better save his soul. The 
 ^neral of the Order, who was of his own country, gave him 
 dnd welcome, and received him into the convent to complete 
 
 studies. 
 |6. But, alas ! he found m the cloister the same sorrows he 
 sought to avoid. His slow wit and dull intellect could 
 ke in nothing, or express nothing ; and though he found 
 ^re charity among the novices than among «;he turbulent 
 
 ients of the univeiL;7ity, yet he saw clearly that ho was 
 ^ked upon as the lowest in the house. 
 
 r. His piety and humility for a long time suj^rted him ; 
 
 courage did not fail ; he looked forward mih hope to the 
 
 when his perseverance would surmount all obstacles and 
 ^ak the bonds which held him captive. He took the habit, 
 became a monk ; but still his backwardness as a scholar 
 |i tinned. 
 
 After two years <^ patience, he began to be thoroughly 
 
 couraged ; he thought he had been mistaken ; that perhaps 
 
 had yielded to an impulse of pride in ent«ring an order 
 lose mission it was to preach to the people, and to proclaim 
 ]the world the faith of Christ; and which, eonseqiumtly, 
 
 (ht to be dictinguiihed for science as well as for vbtae : 
 
56 
 
 1UK rtllRD RBADKR. 
 
 and considering that he should never be able to master eitlj 
 lof^ic or eloquence, he resolved to fly fh)m the convent. 
 
 9. Concealing the matter from every human being, he 
 fided the subject of his departure to the Blessed Vii^n, I 
 consolation in all his trials. On the night fixed for his ( 
 partnre he prayed longer than usual, then, after waiting ti\U 
 the convent was asleep, he went from his cell, gained witho 
 noise the walls of the garden, and fixed a ladder against the 
 But before he ascended, he knelt again and prayed to God i 
 tu .condemn the step he was takmg, for that nevertheless I 
 would serve him, and belong to him, and to him alone. 
 
 10. As he was about to rise, he beheld four majestic la 
 advancing towards him. They were surrounded b} ^ 
 radiance, while their dignity tempered with sweetm ^i . 
 renity, inspired him with confidence and respect. Two of thei 
 ]daced themselves before the ladder, as if to prevent him fro^ 
 ascending. 
 
 11. The third drawmg near, asked him kindly why he thJ 
 departed, and how he could desert his convent and tlurow hq 
 self without a guide into the dangers of a wicked world, 
 bert, without rising fh)m the ground, pleaded as an excuse 
 obstinate incapacity, which resisted iJl the efforts of his 
 severance. 
 
 12. " It is," sud the lady, " because you seek in the me 
 human strength of your own intellect, the light wldch coi 
 only fh)m God. Behold your Mother," pointing to the four 
 lady, " your amiable protectress, who loves you tenderly ; 
 her for the gift of knowledge ; implore her with confideiice| 
 our intercession shall second you." 
 
 18. The scholar recognised in the fouHh lady the Immao 
 
 (ate Queen of Heaven, and bending his face to the ground, i 
 
 tsked her in all the fervor of his heart for the light of scieno 
 
 as heretofore he had only prayed for the graces which tendc^ 
 
 c salvation. 
 
 II. "Science, my son," answered the amiable Virgin, "I 
 "ul^ of dangers ; but your prayer shall not be rejected. If 
 philosophy, which you so much desire, beware of pride ; 
 not your heart be pnffod up. Long shall yon possess the 
 
THE 8CH0LAB b VISION. 
 
 M 
 
 bience ; and I promise yon, as a rewaijl of jova piety, that 
 
 ^ght shall be withdrawn from yon the moment it becomes 
 Brons to yon." 
 
 . The vision disappeared, bnt Albert remained for an 
 on his knees thanking God, and pouring forth the most 
 
 ent devotions to the Qaeen of Angels, who had so kmdly 
 )8ed in his behalf. He then removed the ladder and 
 
 ed to his cell. 
 
 ). The next morning the whole convent was surprised at 
 (extraordinary change that had come over Albert ; m his 
 
 Bes he astonished both the teachers and scholars. His 
 
 ler heavmess had given way to the liveliest and most subtle 
 |lligence; he understood every thing; the most difficult 
 
 )lems were solved with a clearness that astonished all. 
 \1. No one, however, was aware of the vision, for the 
 ible scholar kept it a secret. So rapidly did he advance 
 lis studies, especially in philosophy, that in one year ho 
 Bed all his companions, and even eclipsed his teachers. 
 
 piety and humility increased with his learning, and he ever 
 liained inaccessible to the seductions of the world and vain 
 
 18. The scholar, who obtamed this extraordinary gift 
 [knowledge, as the reward of his tender devotion to the 
 ^ssed Virgin, was the celebrated Albertua Magnus, who 
 
 so distinguished during the thirteenth century. For fifty 
 ^rs he astonished all Europe by the vastness of his learning 
 the profoundness of his teaching. 
 
 19. Whenever he spoke, crowds gathered to hear him ; and 
 I ^scourse always produced the most salutary results : yet 
 I to the age of seventy-five, he had never experienced the 
 ^htest movement of vanity. 
 
 iO. It happened, however, on a certun occasion as he wtm 
 ^aching at Oologne, and seeing the immense audience eleo- 
 led at his discourse, he lifted his head with an air of dignity 
 
 was about to indulge in a thought of self-admiration, when 
 [stopped suddenly in the middle of a learned sentence, and 
 pcended firom the pulpit without being able to finish it. He 
 
 lost his memory. \ 
 
88 
 
 TIIR TIIIKD RKADKR. 
 
 SI. Hie Holy Tirgin, tbrongh whose intercession he 
 obtained the g'ft of knowledge, appeared to hhn and deprifi 
 him of it at the moment when it was about tc become dangJ 
 ons to him. He fell back iato the state oT dnlness which ( 
 had deplored at Padna. He understood the warning, ai 
 devoted all his thoughts to prepare himself for a holy deal 
 irhich took place two years after, on tl.e 15th of >j 
 /ember, 1282. 
 
 22. Let children learn from this example, to place tli(| 
 studies under the patronage of the Queen (f Hearen, andi 
 ceive with the ^ft of knowlevige, those Tirtmes which 
 render them ornaments of society, and worthy candidates i 
 heaven. 
 
 19. BiBTH OF OUB SaYIOUB. 
 
 Gbn'sub, an enumeration. 
 Naz'a-reth, the vUIage in 
 
 which our Saviour lived. 
 Bkth'le-hev, the village in 
 
 which our Saviour was bom. 
 
 Ma'oi, wi-ie men of the East] 
 Ad-mis'sion, admittance. 
 Pur'chased, bought. 
 Mes-si'ah, name given to on 
 Saviour. 
 
 Bead deliberately, and pnuM to take breath and compress your lip 
 Give t its proper sound. Do not Mjpukhm (or purehoie; Mesiiarin^ 
 Muriah. 
 
 AUGUSTUS G^SAR having commanded a census to 1 
 taken .of all the population of the empire, Joseph au 
 Mary went fh)m Nazareth to Bethlehem, whence their faniil;9 
 had its origin. There it was that, m the year of the worU[ 
 4004» the Son of Qod came into the worlds at the dead hon 
 of night and in a poor stable, the poverty of Joseph being lo 
 great to pay for admission to an inn. 
 
 2. His bhrth wai speedily announced by the angels to soml 
 shepherds who were watching their flocks by night. " Olor^ 
 to Ood" sang the heavenly messengers, making known tb 
 joyful tidings, " Olory to Ood in 0\e higheai, and on ear(i| 
 peace to men of good will!" 
 
 i. Eight days aftei his birth be was cirenmdsed, and oil 
 
bikth of ouk saviour. 
 
 B» 
 
 snmeised, and oil 
 
 same day the Blessed Virgin and St. Joseph, conforma- 
 tbe command which they had received from Qod by an 
 \\, gave him the name of Jesua, which signifies Saviour, 
 [use he came to save all men, and to deliver them from sin 
 Ihell. 
 
 To 'the name of Jeavs has been added that of Christ, 
 ^h means sacred or anoiiited, not that he was visibly con- 
 ited by hands, but by reason of his hypostatical union 
 the Father. 
 
 fe also caU Jesus Christ Our Lord, because he has a par> 
 lar claim on all Christians, whom he has redeemed and 
 Chased at the price of his blood. 
 
 A few days after Jesus was circumcised, he was recog^ 
 
 ^d as God and as king by three Magi, who, guided by a 
 
 came from the East to adore him. Having reached 
 
 salem, they lost sight of the star, and went about inquir' 
 
 i for the new-bom king of the Jews. 
 
 The doctors of the law, being interrogated by Herod, 
 
 of Galilee, made answer that the Messiah was to be bom 
 
 {ethlehem. Herod, being alarmed by this announcement, 
 
 already meditating the death of the divine infant, engaged 
 
 Magi to return and acquaint him with the place where the 
 
 Id wcs to be found, falsely saying that he, too, would wish 
 
 idore hun. 
 
 The Magi, resumiig their journey, found the child, to 
 
 )m they presented gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh ; 
 
 being warned by an angel that Herod only sought to kill 
 
 ) infant, they returned by another way to their own country. 
 
 Forty days after the birth of Jesus, the Blessed Virgin 
 
 St. Joseph took him to the temple, to present him to God, 
 
 )rding to the custom of the Jews, he being the .first-born. 
 
 Blessed Vir^ at the same time fulfilled the law of puri 
 
 ition, and offered what the laV ordained, that is to say, 9 
 
 lb for her son, and for herself, a pair of doves, being th« 
 
 ts usually maae by the poor — what examples of humility, 
 
 ~ of obedience to the law I 
 
 ). Herod, seeing that the Magi refeurocd no mere, conodved 
 design of putting to death all children under two yiun 
 
do 
 
 TIIK 'rilllcn KKAhKB 
 
 of age, whom he could find in Bethlehem or its vicinity, 
 ing thua to make sure of destroying the Saviour. But! 
 Joseph, apprised of this design by an angel, fled into Eg 
 with Jesus and Mary, where he remained till after the dc 
 of that barbarous prince. 
 
 10. He then returned to Judea, and again took up 
 Ijode in Nazareth of Galilee ; hence Jesus was called, throi^ 
 ontempt, the Nazarene. 
 
 The gospel tells us that at the age of twelve years Je 
 was taken to Jerusalem to celebrate the festival of the Pa 
 according to the custom of the Jews, when he remained I 
 hmd in the temple unperceived by his parents. 
 
 1 1. When they found that he was not with thorn, they son^ 
 him in vain for a whole day, whereupon they returned to . 
 rusalem, where they found him in the temple, seated amid til 
 doctors, listening to them and proposing to them questions | 
 a manner so astonishing that all who heard hun were surpiij 
 ed by his wisdom and his answers. 
 
 12. At the age of thirty years, Jesus Ohrist was baptii/ 
 by St. John the Baptist in the river Jordan ; at which tii 
 the Holy Ohost descended upon him in the foni) of a doij 
 and the eternal Father declared from the highest li^vens th 
 Jesus Christ was indeed his beloved Son. 
 
 18. Soon after this, Jesus Christ waS conducted by 
 Holy Ghost into the desert, where he fasted forty days, 
 is in honor and in commemoration of this fast of Jesus CI 
 that the Church has instituted the fast of Lent. 
 
 Our Lord at that time permitted himself to be tempted 1 
 the devil, in order to teach us not to fear temptation, and al^ 
 the manner in which we must resist it, so as to rendeV it eTtj 
 meritorious for our souls. 
 
 14. ExAMPLB. A certain mother whose piety was as 
 8 her faith was enlightened, recommended to her- children 
 
 pass no day without asking the child Jesus for his blessii 
 "When," said she, "yon are at your mormng and evenioj 
 
 tirayers, picture to yourself the Blessed Virgin, carrying i 
 ler anps the infant Jesus. 
 
 15. "Bow down respectfully before her. and say with 
 
SI'ANISII ANHCDOTK. 
 
 61 
 
 d again took up 
 ua waa called, throa 
 
 Bible fenror ; 'O Marj ! deign to extend over me the hand 
 \hj divine Son, so that being blessed by him, I may avoid 
 
 evil which is displeasing to him, and practise the good 
 ^ch is agreeable to him ; that I may imitate him in his obe* 
 nee and in all his other vittnes, so that I may become wor^ 
 
 of possessmg him with thee in heaven I' " 
 
 20. A Spanish Aneodotb. 
 
 B-rxo'TO-BT, a diidng^room in 
 (convents and monasteries. 
 -ron'o-mitx, a monk. 
 is-oebned', descried, seen. 
 
 Fa*mil'iar, intunate, wd^ 
 
 known. 
 Eo'sTA-sT, rapture, trance. 
 Va'oakt, empty. 
 
 1. TT was a holy usage to record 
 
 -L Upon each refeotory^t side or end 
 The last mysteriou supper of oar Lord, 
 That meanest aiqpetites might upward tend. 
 
 2. Within the convent-palace of old Spun, — 
 
 \ Rich with the gifts and monuments of kings, — ^ 
 Hung such a {ucture, 8a'4 by somd to reign 
 The soyreiga glory of those wondrous things. 
 
 8. A painter of far fame, in deep delight, 
 
 Dwelt on each beauty he so weU disoemM ; 
 While, in low tones, a gray Geronomite 
 This answer to his ecstasy returned : 
 
 4. " Stranger 1 J hare received my ^ly meal 
 In this good company now threescore years ; 
 And thou, whoe'er thou art, canst hardly feel 
 How time these lifeless images endears. 
 
 6. "Lifeless I ah, no, while in my heart are stored 
 Sad memories of my brethren dead and gone, 
 
e^ 
 
 TIIK 'tlllKD KKADKR. 
 
 Familiar places vacant round onr board, 
 And still that silent supper lasting on 1 
 
 6 " While I review my youth, — what I was then,— 
 What I am now, and ye, beloved ones all, — 
 It seems as if these were the livmg men. 
 And we the color'd shadows on the wall.'' 
 
 21. Anbodoteb of Doos. 
 
 Keek'nkss, sharpness. 
 
 Lrr^ER-A-TURB, learning, ac- 
 quaintance with books. 
 
 S^A-GAo'i-TT, quick discernment 
 in animals. 
 
 Giv'iL-izBD, reclafaned flronf 
 
 barbarism. 
 Do-mks^i-oa'tiok, the aict ol| 
 
 making tame. 
 Em-phat'ic, forcible. 
 
 I^HE dog stands to man In the relation both of a yalnable 
 . servant and an engaging companion. In many employ- 
 ments, especially those of shepherds and herdsmen, he perfonns 
 services of great importance, such as could not be supplied 
 without him In those sports of the field, such as hunting and 
 
ANKODOTKS OK IM>G8. 
 
 «% 
 
 ag, which mauy persons pursue with such eogerucss, the 
 mce of the dog is essential, to success. 
 [By his keenness of scent he discovers the game, and by 
 nftness of foot he runs it down. There is no period of 
 recorded by history in which we do not find tlie dog the 
 and the servant of. man; nor is there any literature 
 does not contain some tribute^to his faithfulness au« 
 tity. 
 
 : The savage, roaming over the pathless wilderness, and 
 
 ident upon the animals in the forest and the fish in the 
 
 IS for his daily food ; and the civilized man, dwelling in 
 
 ifortable honse in a town or village, agree in the attacb- 
 
 they feel for their fonr-footed friends. Many men of 
 
 eminence in literature and science have been remarkable 
 
 ^eir fondness for dogs ; and more than one poet has Bnug 
 
 |>raises of particular specunens of the race. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott was strongly attached to them, and 
 
 me or more of them about him at all tunes during his 
 
 In one of his works he thus speaks of them : " The 
 
 jighty, who gave the dog to be the companion of our 
 
 Bures and our toils, has invested him with a nature noble 
 
 [incapable of deceit. He forgets neither friend nor foe ; 
 
 )mbers, and with accuracy, both benefit and injury. 
 
 " He has a share of man's intelligence, but no share of 
 
 f s falsehood. Ton may bribe a soldier to slay a man with 
 
 bword, or a witness to take life by false accusation, but 
 
 [cannot make a dog tear his benefactor. He is the friend 
 
 m, save when man justly incurs his enmity.'' 
 
 A long course of domestication, and peculiar modes of 
 
 img and rearing, have divided the canine race into nearly 
 
 iindred varieties ; many of which shoW marked difference in 
 
 and appearance. The savage bnlldog seems hardly to 
 
 bg to the same race as the delicate lapdog, that sleeps on 
 
 rug, and is washed and combed by its fair mistress almost 
 
 ^arefully as an infant. 
 
 The swift and slim greyhound looks very little like the 
 ^dy and square-built mastiff. Bat there are cwtiiin traits 
 Character, which, in a greater or less degree, are cuinmon 
 
64 
 
 TUB TillKl) UKADBR. 
 
 to all the kinds. Sagacitj, docility, benevolenoe, a oaj 
 to receive instraction, and attachment to his master's per 
 are qualities which belong to the whole race. Many anecdotj 
 are to be found in books, illostrating the Tirtnes and intelj 
 gence of the dog, Arom which we hare made a selection for tl| 
 entertainment of our young readers. 
 
 8. Many instances have been recorded in which per 
 have been saved firom drowning by dogs, especially by tho 
 of the Newfoundland breed, which have a natural love of tlil 
 water. A vessel was once driven on the beach by a storm ii 
 the county of Kent, in England. Eight men were calling f({ 
 help, but not a boat could be got off to their assistance. 
 
 9. At length a gentleman came on the beach aocompaDiei 
 by his Newfoundland dog. He directed the attention of tU 
 noble animal to the vessel, and put a short stick into 
 mouth. The intelligent and courageous dog at once undo 
 stood his meamng, and sprang into the sea, fighthig his m\ 
 through the foaming waves. He could not, however, 
 close enough to the vessel to deliver that with which he wii 
 charged, but the crew joyfully made fast a rope to ai otbd 
 piece of wood, and threw it towards him. 
 
 10. The sagacious dog saw the whole business in an instantj 
 he dropped his own piece, and immediately seized that whid 
 had been cast to him ; and then, with a degree of strengtlj 
 and determmation ahnoet incredible, he dragged it through tb 
 surge, and delivered it to his master. By this means a line ( 
 communication was formed, and every man on board saved. 
 
 11. A person, while rowing a boat, pushed his Newfoo 
 land dog into the stream. The anunal followed the boat foi| 
 seme time, till probably finding himself fatigued, he endeavor 
 to get mto it by placing his feet on the eide. His ownei 
 repeatedly pushed the dog away ; and in one of his eflforts i 
 lo so, he lost his balance and fell into the river, and wouldj 
 probably have been drowned, had not the affectionate 
 generous animal immediately seized and held him above water| 
 till assistance arrived from the shore. 
 
 12. A boatman once plunged into the water to swim witii| 
 another man for a wager. His Newfoundland dog, mistakiufj 
 
ANKClwrrKS OV D()08. 
 
 6» 
 
 purpose and snpposing that his master was in danger, 
 knged after him, and dragged him to the shore by his hair, 
 the great Aversion of the spectators. 
 [13. Nor are the good oiBces of dogs to man displayed only 
 the water. A young man in the north of England, while 
 was tending Ids father's sh^p, had the misfortune to 
 |i and break his leg. He was three miles firom home, in 
 unfrequented spot, where no one was likely to approach ; 
 lening was fast approaching, and he was in great pain from 
 le flracture. In this dreadful condition, he folded one of his 
 |oves in a pocket handkerchief, fastened it around the dog's 
 ck, and then ordered him home in an emphatic tone of voice. 
 
 14. The dog, convinced that something was wrong, ran 
 )me with the utmost speed, and scratched with great violence 
 
 the door of the house for admittance. The parents of the 
 )ung man were £preatly alarmed at his appearance, especially 
 [ben they hod exammed the handkerchief and its contents, 
 stantly cotaclnding that some accident had befallen their son, 
 ^ey did not delay a moment to go in search of him. The 
 )g anxiously led the way, and conducted the agitated parents 
 the spot, where their suffering son was lying. Happily, he 
 Iras removed just at the close of day, and the necessary assist- 
 |nce being procured, he soon recovered. 
 
 15. On one of the roads leading Arom Switzerland to Italy, 
 [ailed the Pass of St. Bernard, is a convent situated at more 
 
 lan eight thousand feet above the level of the sea. In the 
 iter tine, when the cold is mtense and the snows are deep, 
 [ivellers are eicposed to great danger ; and the inmates of the 
 )nvent, when storms are raging, are in the habit of going 
 ^broad to assist such wayfarers as may need their services. 
 
 16. They are accompanied by their dogs, a noble breed of 
 Itnimals, who are called by the name of the convent where they 
 ire kept. They carry food and cordials fastened at their nocks, 
 lud are able to pass over snow-wreaths too light to bear the 
 ireight of a man. They are aided by the acuteness of their 
 icent in finding the unfortunate persons who have been buried 
 
 |q the snow, and many men have owed their lives to the timelj 
 Buucoi afforded by these ft)ar-footed philanthropists. 
 
66 
 
 THE TIIIHD BBADKR. 
 
 17. One of them, which senred the convent fur twelve ye 
 Is said to have been instramental in saving the lives of f» 
 individuals. He once found a little boy, who had become I 
 numbed by the cold, and fallen down upon a wreath of sno^ 
 By licking his hands and face, and by his caressen, he induct 
 the little fellow to get upon his back, and cling with his an 
 around his neck ; and in this way he brought him in triuni|| 
 to the convent. 
 
 18. This incident forms the subject of a well-known picti 
 When this dog died, his skin was stuffed and deposited in I 
 museum at Berne ; and the little vial in which he carried | 
 cordial draught for the exhausted traveller still hangs ab 
 jis neck. How many men have there been, endowed 
 reason and speech, whose lives were less useful than that i 
 this noble dog I 
 
 22. The Burial op Sir John Hoorr. 
 
 RamVart, the wall of a fort- 
 ress. 
 \[ar'tial, military. 
 
 Ran'dom, done without aig 
 
 left to chance. 
 Beck, care, mind. 
 
 Do not Bay ubbraid for upbraid. 
 
 1. lyrOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
 1^ As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 
 Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
 
 O'er the grave where our hero was buried. 
 
 2. Wo buried him darkly at dead of night. 
 
 The sods with our bayonets turning ; 
 By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
 And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 8. No useless coiBn inclosed his breast, # 
 
 Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound hun. 
 
v: 
 
 THE BOKIAL or 81 K JollN MOOKK. 
 
 But he laj like a warrior taking his rest, 
 With his martial cloak around him. 
 
 Few and short were the prayers we said, 
 And we spoke not a word of stfrrow ; 
 
 But we steadfastly pnKcd on the face of the deod, 
 And we bitterly thought of the mo'Tow. 
 
 67 
 
 Wc thoujrht as we hollow'd his narrow bed, . 
 
 And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, 
 That the foe and the stranger v«rouId tread o'er his head, 
 And we far away on the billow. 
 
 Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
 
 And o'er his cold ashes npbraid him ; 
 But little he'll reck, if they let hun sleep on 
 
 In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 
 
 But half of our heavy task was done 
 "W hen the clock toU'd the hour for retiring ; 
 
as 
 
 TUB TIIIKI) RKADKR. 
 
 And we heard the distant and randum gun 
 That the foe was sullenly firing. 
 
 8. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 
 We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, 
 But we left him alone in his glory. 
 
 23. I TRY TO BB Good. 
 
 Vbx-a'tion, canse of trouble. 
 Dia-couR'AOB-MBin', that which 
 abates conrage. 
 
 Wabn'ino, previous notia 
 
 caution. 
 Ob'bti-na-ot, perversenesa.! 
 
 I TRY to be good,'' said Emily, "but I have so many vei 
 tions, that I find it difficult to do as I wish ; for whenei 
 I feel pleased and happy, something will happen to give i 
 h(?avy heart." " But, child," said her mother, " you should i 
 ubove these little trifles ; a sincerely virtuous endeavor, | 
 ^ceding from right principles, enables one to overcome liU 
 diRcouragements. It was but last evening I was readiDg| 
 story illustrating this veiy sentiment. 
 
 2. " It was the confession of a man who had severe strog 
 with a bad temper. He said that when he was a little cm 
 
I TUY T«» UK G<H)n. 
 
 69 
 
 JArCT, penrewenesi 
 
 fas noted for obstinacy, one of the worst faults of man or 
 
 He had an indulgent mother, who kindly softened his 
 
 jippy hours by devising various ways for his entertainment : 
 
 t/ said he, ' if she did not succeed in the plan, I was sure 
 
 ^ear a sullen face.' 
 
 " But, to teach him how unjust and insensible he was to 
 
 kindness, his mother was taken ill, and died. It was 
 
 he felt how much he owed to her ; and bitter was his 
 
 (f that he could not, by future acts of love, repau: the nn- 
 
 )iness he had caused her. But now that her warning 
 
 be could not visit him, he was left to go on more nnre- 
 
 led: 'And,' stud he, 'until I began to see this trait of 
 
 tinacy manifested in my own children, I never began in 
 
 lest to correct it in myself.' 
 
 " Let this, Emily, be your warning," said her devoted 
 Ither. "The little trials of life were designed to uiswer the 
 le purposes ui diildren, that heavier ones are to people of 
 |turity ; and jnst in proportion as we bear them now, shall 
 be fitted to endnre life's future ^sdpline. It is not a small 
 ^ter, if an evU temper Is permitted to be indulged under 
 ery disappointment. 
 
 |5. "Do yon remember, Emily, that ugly-shaped tree, that 
 
 |u desired the gardoner to remove the other day, because it 
 
 ew so diq)roDortioned ; and you remember tbat he told you 
 
 reason of its being so Hi-shaped, was because it was not 
 
 led as it grew up." 
 
 6. " Yes, mother," said the smiling ^^1 ; " and just so it 
 
 be with me : if I do not watch over my evil temper now, 
 
 -I suppose you mean to say, — that like that tree, I shall be 
 
 eformed m mind, which yon always told me was a much 
 
 Bater blemish than a deformed body. I will endeavor to- 
 
 |korrow to be cheerful all day." "And if yon desire to be 
 
 )od," added her mother, " the vurtaons attempt will be attend* 
 
 with saocess." 
 
70 
 
 TBK TIM kit KKACRR. 
 
 24. Tub Gkekn Mossy Bank. 
 
 In'fan-cy, the first period of 
 
 life. 
 Wan'der, to rove, to ramble. 
 Stream, numing water. 
 
 Mr, 
 
 Sprat, water driven byi 
 
 wind. 
 But'teb-cup, a smah yelj 
 
 flower. 
 
 
 zyj 
 
 mm 
 
 .IV^;. 
 
 1. AH, my thoughts are away where my infimcy flew, 
 V/ Near the green mossy banks where the butter 
 
 grew. 
 Where the bright silver foantain eternally play'd. 
 First laughing in sunshine, then sighing in shade. 
 There in my childhood, I've wandered in play. 
 Flinging up the cool drops in a shower of spray, 
 Till my small naked feet were all bathed in bright dew, 
 As I play'd on the bank where the buttercups grew. 
 
 2. How softly that green tmnk sloped down from the hill, 
 To the spot where the fountain grew suddenly still ! 
 How cool was the shadow the long branches gave, 
 As they hung from the willow and dippM in the ware i 
 
ON THE BAFTIBMAL VOWS. 
 
 Tl 
 
 Ind then each pale lily that slept on the stream, 
 986 and M with the wave as if stirr'd by a dream. 
 
 lie my home 'mid the vine-leayes rose soft on my view, 
 Ls I play'd on the bank where the bnttercnps grew. 
 
 le beantifol things ! how I watch'd them unfold, 
 ['ill they lifted their delicate vases of gold. 
 )h 1 never a spot smce those days have I seen, 
 
 rith leaves of such freshness and flowers of such sheen ; 
 [ow glad was my spirit, for then there was nanght, 
 fo harden its wing, save some beantifol thought, 
 breaking np from its depths with each wild wmd that blew 
 Vet the green mossy bank where the buttercups grew. 
 
 le paths I have trod, I would quickly retrace, 
 ?ould I win back the gladness that look'd from my face, 
 Ls I cool'd my warm lip in that fountain of love, 
 
 rith a spirit as gentle as that of a dove, 
 yould I wander agun where my forehead was starr'd^ 
 
 rith the beauty that dwelt in my bosom unmarr'd ; 
 ind calm as a child, in the starlight and dew, 
 i'all asleep on the bank where the buttercups grew. 
 
 25. On the Baptismal Yows. 
 
 I-CI-PATINO, 
 
 r'l-nED, confirmed. 
 >el'i-tt, faithfulness. 
 
 3E3'SAMT-LT, withOttt CCaS- 
 
 •FBs'sioN, avowal. 
 
 A-pos'ta-st, renouncing oiw't 
 faith or solemn promises. 
 
 Pre'cefts, commandments. 
 
 Thiul'dom, bondage. * 
 
 Vi'o-LATB, to transgress, to 
 break. 
 
 liTe each vowel its sound. Do not say 'potlaty for apodasy ; Jiiddelil§ 
 "'"'fi kwammUy for metuanUy, 
 
 ^HEN presented to the Church to receive holy baptinaa, 
 we were asked if we believed in God, if we wookllivi 
 ording to the precepts of the gospel, and if we renomiced 
 
72 
 
 THK TUIKS) KKADKR. 
 
 with all oar heurt the devil and his pomps, the W'>rld an 
 maxims ; and it was only when a formal and affirmative i 
 had been returned, that we were admitted amoi^ the chO 
 of God. 
 
 2. It was, therefore, in the face of heaven and earth, inl 
 presence of God and his holy angels, that we promised! 
 Qher the law of Christ, and to practise it in its fullest extt 
 
 8. It is true we had not the use of reason at the tin 
 our baptism ; but it was for us and in Our name that I 
 promises were made ; we have since ratified them as oftol 
 we made a public profession of Christianity ; we also con 
 ed them every day by making on ourselves the sign ofi 
 cross, by reciting the Lord's prayer, assisting at the holyi 
 rifice of the mass, and by participating in the sacraments. 
 
 4. We are not, therefore, our own property, but belongj 
 God,^ur soul, our body, and all are his. To follow I 
 maxuns of the world, to seek after its vanities, to love I 
 pomps of the devil, to be ashamed of the gospel, would bel 
 renounce the character of a Christian, violate our engagemea 
 trample on the blood of Jesus Chi^, outrage the Holy Ghoj 
 and shamefully expel hun from our hearts. 
 
 6. Let us, then, never forget that these vows are writtes| 
 the book of life, that God has account of them in heavi 
 and that we shall be judged by them at the hour of d« 
 On our fidelity in fulfilling them depends our salvation andc 
 eternal destiny. 
 
 6. In order to keep them in our minds we ought oftenj 
 renew them, and incessantly to thank the Lord for haii 
 snatched us from the thraldom of the Bvil One, and called] 
 
 • to the kmgdom of his Son. 
 
 7. We read m the history of the Church that a holy i 
 con, named Murrita, having answered at the sacred font for| 
 young man named Elpiphodorus, had the misfortune to i 
 him become an apostate and a persecutor of the Christians.] 
 
 8. One day, when he was publicly tormenting some Gli 
 tians in the midst of an immense crowd, the holy deacon 
 denly appeared ; he had preserved the white robu wherei 
 Elf^phodoms had been covered at his baptism ^ presentij 
 
THE LITANY. 
 
 78 
 
 him, he cried in a loud voice : " Behold the witness of 
 apostasy ; this will bear testimony against thee at the 
 
 lent-seat of God. 
 
 " Look upon this white garment wherewith I clothed 
 
 at the sacred font ; it will call for Tengeance npon thee, 
 [it shall be changed into a robe of fire to bom thee for all 
 
 ity." The spectators were moved to tears by this ad 
 bs, and Elpiphodoms withdrew, covered with confusion. 
 
 26. The LrrAmr. 
 
 TLE, cunnmg. 
 
 ^nL'cHRAL, relating to the 
 smb. 
 
 To Lurk, to he m wait. 
 LrTANY, a solemn form of 
 prayer. 
 
 I tills lesson slowly and pronounce the consonants distinctly. 
 
 I. 
 
 BY thy birth and early years ; 
 By thy human griefs and fears ; 
 By thy fasting and distress, 
 In the lonely wilderness ; 
 By thy victory, in the hour 
 Of the subtle tempter's power — 
 Jesus 1 look with pitymg eye, 
 Hear our solemn litany. 
 4 
 
74 
 
 THK riilBD RKiVT:)K«. 
 
 S By th*-! ayiQpa/hy tl t wepi 
 
 O'er the (ipraTe where Lazaros slept $ 
 By thy bitter tears that flow'd 
 Over Salem's lost abode ; 
 By the troubled sigh t -.at t( Id 
 Treajion Inrk'd vrithm thy fold— 
 Jesus I look m itJ T^itymg eye, 
 Hear onr eolemn liuuiy. 
 
 8. By thme hour of dark despair ; 
 By thine agony of prayer ; 
 By the purple robe of scorn ; 
 By thy wounds, thy crown of thorn, 
 Gro»fl and passion, pangs and cries ; 
 By thy perfect sacrifice — 
 Jesus I look with i^tying eye, 
 Hear our solemn litany. 
 
 i By thy deep ez{nring groan ; 
 By the seal'd sepulchral stone ; 
 By thy trinn^ o'er the grave ; 
 By thy power from death to save — 
 Wf^ty God 1 ascended Lord I 
 To tihy throne in heaven restored ; 
 Prince and Saviour I hear thetiy 
 Of our solemn litany. 
 
 27. ThB SiOK 07 THB C^088.. 
 
 DisHn'puB, a follower, a learn* 
 
 er. 
 Mts'tk-bt, something unez- 
 
 phuned. 
 
 Oow'abd-iok, hfll>itnal 
 
 ity. 
 Ohkst, the breast 
 Ix-poBr'Airr, momentous. 
 
 Do not mfptrfeubm fmpnfmtion; bm or bemi tmbtm(t/ba) ; Aorj! 
 tOtAeirfaUh; an ueeompttA fat md meon^Utk; wUh th$ aiilmct ^ tkt 
 tofytatwOhthi attktanet tfthe Mad Bofy. 
 
THB SIGN OF 'I UK CK()88 
 
 n 
 
 loz, habitual tin 
 
 make profesaion of our faith is one of our most essential 
 dnties, for Jesos Ohrist yiSi not recognize as his disciples 
 
 Be who haye been ashamed of belonging to him, and slirank 
 declaring their faith openlj. 
 
 S. One of the best means of showing that we are Christians, 
 ^g in that title, is to make rehgionsly npon onrselves the 
 st sign of the cross. 
 
 ). There are two ways of making the sign of the cross : 
 first is by making a cross with the thumb on the forehead, 
 
 ith, and bosom ; it is thus that the priest makes it daring 
 mass, when he begins to read the gospels, and all the 
 
 (hfol shonld do the same. 
 
 1. We make the sign of the cross on onr forehead, to show 
 
 |t we are Christians, and not ashamed to act as such ; on 
 month, to testify that we are ever ready to make profes- 
 of believing in God and iu Jesns Christ ; and on the 
 st, to show that we love the cross of Christ, and heartily 
 
 teve what we profess. 
 
w 
 
 THE THIRD AKADER. 
 
 5. The second method of makmg the sign of the cross isl 
 placing the right hand on the forehead, then on the chij 
 then on the left shoulder, and afterwards on the right, say 
 " In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the 
 Ghost." 
 
 6. When making the sign of the cross we profess the niii 
 of God by saying these words In the name, in the smgii| 
 namber ; the Trinity of persons, by naming each in torn ; i 
 mystery of the Incarnation and that of the Redemption 1 
 making the form of the cross on which the Son of God nuj 
 man died for us ; and the mystery of grace, by carrying i 
 hand from the left side, which is the figure of sin, to the 
 which represents the grace merited for us by Ghrist. 
 
 7. The words " In the name of the Father," signify ag 
 " I am going to perform this action by order of the }i\ 
 Holy Trinity; I will obey it fidthfolly, and accomplish! 
 will; I do this in honor of the Blessed Trinity, desiring | 
 render it all the homage of which I an capable. 
 
 8. "I am about to perform this action with the assistance] 
 the Most Holy Trinity ; acknowledging that I can do noth 
 without the strength which comes from the Father, the { 
 which the Son has merited for me, and the light which 
 ceedd from the Holy Ghost." 
 
 9. We should not fail to make the sign of the cross at lei 
 mormng and erening, before and after meals, at the beg 
 and end of our prayers, and when setting about any impor 
 action ; it is a great means of drawing down upon oorseiij 
 and our u! iertakings the blessing of God. 
 
 10. We should also make it, at least on our heart, whenj 
 find ourselves exposed to danger or temptation, to the 
 that we may be delivered therefrom, and preserved fi^ 
 offending God. 
 
 11. A young girl blushed while making the sign of the ( 
 on an ocMsion when it is usual to make it, and that 
 
 stranger was present. This was noticed by a certain pioj 
 person, who soon made her ashamed of her cowardice, 
 want of love for Jesus Christ. 
 
 12. "What!" said he, '* Jesus was not ashamed todiej 
 
TDK THREE FSTENDS. 
 
 w 
 
 {cross to redeem yoa, yet yon blush to form on yonrself the 
 
 ist sign of your redemption I" He added, " I hope that 
 
 iture V (1 will glory in belonging to your adorable Master. 
 
 the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost bless yon, throngh the 
 
 ^ion and death of Oar Lord Jesos Christ 1'' 
 
 28. The Tf.beb Friends. 
 
 ftusT, confidence, reliance). 
 I^Ris'oK, a jail. 
 
 Wor'tht, deserving. 
 Heed, care, attention. 
 
 t ashamed to diet 
 
 ITJST no friend whom yon have not tried. There are 
 > more of them at the festive board than at the prison door. 
 \. A man had three friends ; two of them he loved mnch, 
 
 for the third he cared little, though he was well worthy 
 lis affection. This man was once sommoned before the 
 ^e and strongly accused of a crime of which he was really 
 scent. " Who among yon,^ said he, ** will go with me, and 
 
 evidence in ny behalf? For I have been accused with- 
 
 canse, and the king is angry." 
 
 I. The first of his friends excused himself unmediately ; say- 
 [that he could not go with him on account of other busi- 
 The second accompanied him to the door of the hall 
 
 istice ; there he turned round and went back, throngh fear 
 Ihe angry judge, lltie thurd, on whom he had least depend- 
 [went in, spoke for him, and testified so fully to his inno- 
 
 g, that the judge dismissed him unharmed. 
 1. Man has three friends in this world. How do they be- 
 te in the hour of death, when God calls him to judgment? 
 |. The gold, the friend he loves best, leaves him first, and 
 
 not go with hun. His relations and friends attend him 
 the gate of the grave, and return to thehr homes. The 
 
 i, of whom in life he took least heed, is represented by his 
 (d works. They attend nim to the throne of the Judge ; 
 
 go before hun, plead for him, and find morcy and grace 
 [hun. 
 
78 
 
 TBK tfrrlKD RRADSJI. 
 
 29. SOMQ OF TUB EaILROAD. 
 
 Brakk, a place overgrown 
 
 vrith fom, a thicket. 
 AiiiVK'nvcT, n channel for 
 
 carrying water, supported 
 
 bj«8oaie atmcture. 
 l(f ar'oin, the water's edge, the 
 
 shore. 
 
 Mould, fine, soft earth. 
 Goal, the point set to aniT; 
 
 at, the end of the journoj. 
 Ex-PAN'siON, the state of beiij 
 
 expanded or btretched onij 
 Geasb'lxss, without a stopo 
 
 pause. 
 
 *^ :aT' .r. T r., TLi-- ,„ 
 
 1. rpHROTTGH the monld and through the clajj 
 JL Through the com and through the hay, 
 By the margin of the lake. 
 O'er the river, through the brake. 
 O'er the bleak and dreary moor, 
 On we hie with screech and roar 1 
 
 Splashing! flashing! 
 Crashing! dashing! 
 
 2. Over ridges. 
 Gullies, bridges ! 
 By the bubbling rill, 
 
 And mill — 
 Highways, byways, 
 Hollow hill— 
 
BONO OF THB RAtLROAD. 
 
 It 
 
 Jumping — bomping— 
 Booking — roaring 
 
 Like forty thoasaud giants snoHugl 
 B7 the lonelj hat and mansion, 
 By the ocean's wide expansion — 
 Where the factory chimnej smoke, 
 Where the fonodry bellows croak — 
 Dash along 1 
 Slash along I 
 Crash along ! 
 Flash along ! 
 On I on t with a jump, 
 And a bomp, 
 And a roll I 
 Hies the fire-fiend to its destined goal! 
 
 t. Over moor and over bog, 
 On we fly with ceaseless jog ; 
 Every instant something new, 
 No sooner seen than lost to view ; 
 Now a tavern — now a steeple — 
 Now a crowd of gaping people — 
 Now a hoUow — now a ridge — 
 Now a cros^way — now a bridge— 
 Grumble, stumble, 
 Bumble, tumble — 
 Church and steeple, 
 Qaping people — 
 Quick as thought are lost to dew I 
 Every thing that eye can survey, 
 Turns hurly-buriy, topsy-turvy I 
 Each passenger is thnmp'd and shaken. 
 As physio is when to be taken. 
 
 4. By the foundry, past the forge. 
 
 Through the plain, and mountain gcnrge, 
 Where cathedral rears its head, 
 Wlwre repose the silent dead ! 
 
 -"^gSk^k- 
 
80 
 
 THK TIIIKD KRADRR. 
 
 Monnmcnts amid the grass 
 
 Flit lilce spectres as yoa pass I 
 
 If to hail a friend inclined — 
 
 Whisk I whirr I ka-HSwash I— he's lefc boLin 
 
 Rnmble, tumble, all the day, 
 
 Thus we pass the hours away. 
 
 80. ViOTOEINUB. 
 
 pRi>-n'oiBN-oT, adviuicement, 
 improyement gained. 
 
 Ez-PLAN'A-'ro-RT, Containing 
 explanation. 
 
 To EX-AS'PER-ATB, tO XOX, tO| 
 
 provoke. 
 Ad-iiin'is-t£rkd, managed,! 
 supplied. 
 
 Do not my pemouneed tor pronouneed ; peifeuion impn^ftuiimi rtipttji 
 ihet(melyqfth»plae$fi>tn»p0(i/orth»mmetUy<ifth«plaet. 
 
 TTIOTOBINTJS, a celebrated orator, had been professor o 
 V rhetoric at Borne ; he had passed his life in the stndyt 
 the liberal sciences, and had attained a great proficiency in i 
 of them. He had read, examined, and explained ahnost 
 the writings of the ancient philosophers, and had had tin 
 honor of instmcting all the most distinguished of the Bos 
 senators. 
 
 2. He had, in fine, foiiowed his profession so sncces 
 that a statue had been erected to his honor in a public sqnanj 
 of Borne, a distinction then considered the highest that 
 could attain. Yet he was still a pagan, an adorer of idoltl 
 and not only that, but he employed all his eloquence in pc^| 
 Buading others to adore them as he did. 
 
 8. What extraordinary grace did it require to touch anjl 
 convert such a heart ! Behold the means which Qod employdl 
 hi doing so. Yictorinns began to read the Holy Scripturc^l 
 and having for some time applied himself to that study, toj 
 gether with other books explanatory of the Christian religioij 
 he said one day to St. Simplician : " I have sometUng to 
 you which will interest you very much : I am a Christian "-I 
 
TIOTORlNin. 
 
 PBR-ATE, to TWt, tol 
 
 \o not believe a word of it," replied the Saint, " nor ghall 
 ^lieve yon, until I see you in the church where the faithful 
 [wont to assemble." 
 " What then," exclaimed Yictorinns, " is it only within 
 iDclosure of four walls that one is a Ohristian f" So it 
 ^t on for some time, as often as Yictorinus protested that 
 fM a Christian, Simpliciati made him the same reply, and 
 other- always put it off with a. laugh and a Jest. 
 The truth was, that he feared to exasperate his pagan 
 ^uds, \t. their anger and opposition would be sure to crush 
 i; if once called forth, and this rislc he could not bring hbn- 
 to incur. 
 Bnt after a time courage and generosity were given him 
 fm above because of his close application to the study of 
 Sgion, and the docility with which he opened his heart to its 
 ^ths, and he became convinced that it would be an enormous 
 10 to blush for believing the mysteries of Jesus Christ, 
 ^ile appearing to glory in the sacrilegious superstitions oJF 
 ^anism. 
 
 1*7. No sooner did he obtain this conviction than he hastened 
 I tell St. Simplician, at a time, too, when that holy man was 
 St expecting him : " Let us go to the church," said he, " I 
 resolved to show myself a Christian, nor content myself 
 nger with being one in heart." Simplician, transported with 
 f, immediately took him to the church, aad had his name 
 Itered on the list of those who demanded baptism. 
 1 8. All the city of Eome was struck with admiration and 
 tonishment ; and the hearts of the faithful were filled with 
 ly, because of the celebrity and high reputation of that great 
 |an. At length the happy day arrived when he was to make 
 profession of faith, in order to be baptized. 
 9. It was then the custom in the Roman church to make 
 Ills profession hi a regular foiciula of words which the cate- 
 lomen learned by heart, and pronounced aloud before all the 
 Boplo. The priests, through respect, would have waived this 
 istom, and permitted Yictorinus to make his profession in 
 ivate, a privilege which was sometimes granted to timid per- 
 ms ; but Yictorinus declined, declaring that he would pro- 
 
THE THIltD liKADRR. 
 
 claim alond, in presence of the whole assembly, his belief] 
 those doctrines which were to gaide him to endless happine; 
 
 10. No sooner had he appeared in the tribune than a suddj 
 transport of joy seized all hearts, and nis name was echo* 
 aloud from month to month, and although each one restraioij 
 his joyful emotion through respect for the sanctity of the plai 
 and the sacrament about to be administered, yet all arouiJ 
 was heard the murmured exclamation : It %» Victorintia! Il\ 
 Victorinus! 
 
 11. But every sound was speedily hushed, in order to 
 mit him to speak ; whereupon, he with holy fervor, repeatf 
 in a clear, distinct voice, his belief in the truths which fon 
 the basis of our faith. Willingly would the people have take] 
 him and carried him around in triumph, for every heart ovej 
 flowed with the joy of beholdmg him a Christian. 
 
 12. This splendid conversion had great consequences, 
 when St. Augustine was informed of it by St. Simplician, 1 
 acknowledged that he felt strongly moved to follow the cxd 
 pie of Yictorinus ; this intention he soon after carried inlj 
 execution under the ministry of St. Ambrose, to whom 
 Simplician had been a father from his baptism. 
 
 Em'a-nat-in6, issuing, or floi 
 ing from. 
 
 31. Guardian Anoels. 
 
 Sub-ser'vi-ent, serviceable. 
 Wayward, unruly, perverse, 
 
 Do not say moles for moulds. 
 
 1. rVH. I he may brave life's dangers, 
 \J In hope and not in dread, 
 Whose mother's prayers are lighting 
 
 A halo round his head. 
 For wheresoe'er he wander. 
 
 Through this cold world and dark. 
 There white-wiug'd angels follow. 
 
 To guard life's wayward bark 
 
 2. Go, let the scoffer call it 
 
 A shadow and a dream. 
 
OUABDIAM ANGELS. 
 
 88 
 
 3sembly, his belief] 
 to endless happine 
 tribune than a suddJ 
 iis name was echo 
 h each one restrain 
 I sanctity of the plaJ 
 ;ered, yet all arouij 
 ! ia VictorimisI III 
 
 lied, in order to 
 loly fervor, repeat«| 
 e truths which fon 
 tie people have takej 
 for every heart ova 
 hristian. 
 tt consequences, 
 )y St. Simplician, I 
 i to follow the cxi-tii 
 n after carried loll 
 brose, to whom 
 )tism. 
 
 Those meek, subservient spuritsf 
 Are nearer than we deem. 
 
 Think not they visit only 
 The bright, enraptured eye, 
 
 Of some pure sainted martyr, 
 Prepared and glad to die ; 
 
 NO, issuing, or floi 
 1. 
 
 I. 
 
 jgers, 
 
 ighting 
 
 d dark, 
 
 ow, 
 
 rk 
 
 Or that the poet's fancy. 
 Or the painter's magic skill. 
 
 Creates a dream of beauty, 
 And moulds a work at will 
 
84 
 
 THE TUIBD UKADUB. 
 
 ( 
 
 8. They live, they wander round xu, 
 
 Soft resting on the cloud, 
 Although to human vision, 
 
 The sight be disallowed. 
 They are to the Almighty 
 
 What rays are to the sun, 
 An emanating essence, 
 
 From the great finpemal One. 
 4. They bend for prayers to listen, 
 
 They weep to witness crimes. 
 They watch for holy moments. 
 
 Good thoughts, repentant times; 
 They cheer the meek and hnmble. 
 
 They heal the broken heart. 
 They teach the wavering spirit 
 
 From earthly ties to part. 
 6. Unseen they dwell among us, 
 
 As when they watch below, 
 In spiritual anguish. 
 
 The sepulchre of woe. 
 And when we pray, though feeble 
 
 Our orisons may be. 
 They then are our companions. 
 
 Who pray eternally. 
 
 82. Thb Bbsxtbbbotion of the Body. 
 
 In-ook-ceiv'a-blk, not to 
 
 conceived. 
 Cor-rup'tion, decay. 
 
 Mont'DKR, to rot. Im-pas'si-blb, not subject 
 
 Es-tab'lishxd, fixed. 
 Be-sus'ci-tatb, to bring to life. 
 Om-mip'o-tence, unlimited 
 power. 
 
 Oive itg proper sound. Do not say cotuerlation for eoiuolatkn ; fg 
 for together; t'o-eate for to enate. 
 
 IT is an article of fdth < 'rit our body shall one day rise agab 
 All men shall dio, and they shall rise agam with the 8bd 
 bodies they Had in this life. The body, laid in the earth, sh 
 
THE RKSUKRKCmON OF THE BODY. 
 
 85 
 
 drongh the process of corruption, and moulder into dust ; 
 
 rhat changes soever it may have undergone, its ashes shall 
 
 [day be gathered together and reanimated by the breath 
 
 bd. Life is but a dream, and death a sleep; but the 
 
 rection will be the beginning of a life which shall never 
 
 " The day will come," said Jesus Christ, " when aU who 
 the grave shall hear the voice of the Son of God, and 
 who have done good works, shall rise and live forever ; 
 they who have done evil shall rise to be condenmed." 
 a moment," says St. Paul, " in the twinkling of an eye, at 
 [sound of the last trumpet, the dead shall arise to die no 
 ." 
 
 That resurrection shall be general ; all shall arise, the 
 
 it and the small, the just and the wicked, they who have 
 
 before us from the beginning of the world, they who are 
 
 on the earth, they who shall come after us, all shall die, 
 
 rise agam at the last day with the same bodies they had 
 
 this life. 
 
 It is God who will work this prodigy by his Omnipotence. 
 [ he has drawn all things from nothln^r by his will alone, so 
 ^11 he with as much ease, gather together our scattered 
 ibers, and reunite them with our souls. It is not more 
 Icdt for the Afanighty to reanimate our bodies than it was 
 I hun to create them. Nay, ve have under our eyes, every 
 r, a figure of this resurrection. 
 
 , Are not the trees, as it were, dead during the wmter, 
 do they not appear to resuscitate in the spring? The 
 ^in and other seed which is cast into the earth, decays there- 
 f only to come forth again fairer than at first : it is the same 
 p our body ; which, like a seed, is laid in the earth for a 
 Bon, to come forth again full of life. 
 The bodies of the just shall not then be solid, heavy, and 
 :^T)tible, as they now are ; but they shall shine like the sun, 
 fhall be free from all sorts of pain and inconvenience, full 
 - sf rength and agility, such as was the body of our Lord 
 
 his resurrection, 
 p. The just, who are hi« children, sanctified by his grace, 
 
86 
 
 THB THIRD KEADKK. 
 
 nDited and incjrporated with him by faith, shall arise 
 onto himself; Jesus Christ shall transform theu" mean andi 
 ject bodies, and render them like nnto to his own — glori(j 
 and impassible. 
 
 8. The body, which htis had its share in the good done] 
 the soul while they were joined together, shall participate i 
 in its happiness. The wicked shall, indeed, rise again, 
 their bodies shall have none of these glorious qualities ; tl^ 
 shall arise, but only to be given up to torments endless in tb 
 duration, and inconceivable in their greatness. 
 
 9. " AH the multitude of those who sleep in the dust oft 
 earth," says one of the prophets, " shall awake, some for 1 
 eternal, and others for endless ignominy and disgrace." 
 
 What a spectacle shall then meet our eyes I what sentimemj 
 will arise in our hearts, when we hear the sound of the tm 
 pet, and when that dreadful voice shall echo over the eartlj 
 " Arise, ye dead I and come to judgment I" — ^when we sh 
 see all mankind assemble, without any other distinctioA tb 
 that made by their own works I 
 
 10. In the reign of Antiochus, the seven young Mac^abe( 
 and their mother generously suffered the most cruel tortneoij 
 rather than violate the law of God, because they hoped i 
 the resurrection. The first had his tongue cut out and til 
 skin torn off his head, and he being still alive he was cas* inij 
 a caldron over a huge fire. The second, when expu'ing, sa 
 to the king : " You now put us to death ; but the Rule" 
 the world shall one day raise us up to life everlasting." 
 
 11. The third said with confidence : " I have received tb«!si 
 members from Heaven, but I now hold them as nothing 
 defence of the laws of God, because I hope that they slitl 
 be one day restored to me." The fonrtkoij^^e in these tennsl 
 " It is better for us to be slam for obeying God, than to pr«| 
 serve oar lives by disobeying him ; we hope that in the resnrj 
 
 ection, God will render glorious these bodies which we w| 
 ceived from him." 
 
 12. The others marafested sunilar courage and intrepidit;,! 
 Nevertheless, the youngest still remained ; and Antiochus txm 
 to shake his purpose by caresses and the hope of reward ; lul 
 
A STORY OF A Mf)NK. 
 
 87 
 
 lent him to his mother, hoping that she 'would persuade 
 
 sacrifice to the idols. 
 
 But that generous mpther said to her son ; " Look up 
 
 [aven! raise thine eyes to God, who hath created all 
 
 B, and thou shalt not fear these torments, but will follow 
 
 rethren to death I" Antiochus, more than ever enraged, 
 
 \d out all his wrath on the boy, and caused the mothe 
 
 Icrgo the same torments as her sons. 
 
 33. A Story of a Monk. 
 
 z, a member of a religious 
 
 mnity of men. 
 3'ter, a convent or mon- 
 tery inhabited by nuns or 
 }nkc. 
 
 ^OT, the head of a commu- 
 ^y of monks. 
 
 Stu'oi-ous, given to books or 
 
 learning. 
 CnRON'i-cLE, to record, to 
 
 write down. 
 Cuu'ci-Fix, an image of our 
 
 Saviour's body fastened to 
 
 a cross. 
 
 tANY years ago, there dwelt fai a cloister a monk 
 
 named Urban, who was remarkable for an earnest and 
 
 rat frame of mind beyond his fellows, and was therefore 
 
 isted with th» key of the convent library. He was a 
 
88 
 
 TUB TIIIKD UKADKB. 
 
 carefol guardian of its contents, and, besides, a stndionsi 
 of its learned and sacred volumes. One day he read iaj 
 Epistles of St. Peter the words, " One day is with the '. 
 as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day ;" | 
 this saying seemed impossible in his eyes, so that he 
 many an hour in musing over it. 
 
 2. Then one morning it happened that the monk desceil 
 from the library into the cloister garden, and there he saJ 
 little bird perched on the bough of a tree, singing sweetly, ( 
 a nightingale. The bird did not move as the monk apprt^ 
 ed her, till he came quite close, and then she flew to anotlj 
 bough, and again anotber, as the monk pursued her. 
 singing the same sweet song, the nightingale flew on ; andi 
 monk, entranced by the sound, followed her on out of I 
 garden into the wide world. 
 
 3. At last he stopped, and turned back to the cloister ; I 
 every thing seemed changed to him. Every thing had be 
 larger, more beautiful, and older, — ^the buildings, the ga 
 and in the place of the low, humble cloister church, a lol 
 minster with three towers reared its head to the sky. 
 seemed very strange to the monk, indeed marvellous ; bntj 
 walked on to the cloister gate and timidly rang the bell, 
 porter entirely unknown to him answered his summons, i 
 drew back in amazement when he saw the monk. 
 
 4. The hitter went in, and wandered through the chu 
 gazing with astonishment on memorial stones which he mi 
 remembered to have seen before. Pr^ently the brethrentj 
 the cloister entered the church ; but all retreated when tli^ 
 saw the strange figure of the monk. The abbot only (bnti 
 his ubbot) stopped, and stretching a cm^sifiz before him, (I 
 claimed, " In the name of Christ, who art thou, spirit or ngj 
 tal ? And what dost thou seek here, conung from the dei 
 among us, the living?" 
 
 5. The monk, trembling and tottering like an old man, ( 
 bis eyes to the ground, and for the first time became avii 
 that a long silvery beard descended from his chin over I 
 girdle, to which was still suspended the key of the libp 
 To the monks around th'i stranger seemed some maryelloi 
 
THE DILATOKT SCHOLAR. 
 
 89 
 
 Eirance ; and, with a mixtnre of awe and admiration, they 
 to the chair of the abbot. There he gave to a young 
 the key of the library, who opened it, and brought out a 
 Inicle wherein it was written, that three hundred years ago 
 jmonk Urban had disappeared, and no one knew whither 
 gone. 
 
 " Ah, burd of the forest, was it then thy song?" said the 
 
 Urban, with a sigh. " I followed thee for scarce three 
 
 ites, listening to thy notes, and yet three hundred years 
 
 passed away 1 Thou hast sung to me the song of eter- 
 
 which I could never before learn. Now I know it ; and, 
 
 myself, I pray to God kneeling in the dust.'' With these 
 
 he sank to the ground, and his spirit ascended to heaTen. 
 
 34. The Dilatoby Soholab. 
 
 jin'obb, to delay, to be dil- 
 Itory. 
 iPbo-test', to declare. 
 
 Satoh'el, a little bag used by 
 
 schoolboys. 
 At'las, a book of maps. 
 
 ononnoe distinctly. Do not ^j breakm for breaking; nothm foi 
 ; plmfin iatplaymg. 
 
 OH I where is my hat? it is taken away. 
 And my shoestrii^ aB« all in a knot 1 
 I can't find a thing w Mp rit should be to-day. 
 Though I've hunteppivcry spot. 
 
 |. My slate and my pencil nowhere can be found. 
 Though I placed them as tafe as could be ; 
 While my books and my maps are all scatter'd around. 
 And hop about just like a flea. 
 
 Do, Bacbel, just look for my atlas upstairs j 
 
 My Virgil is somewhere there, too ; 
 And, sister, brush down these troublesome hairs, — 
 
 And, brothtr, just fasten my shoo. 
 
90 
 
 TUS THIRD BEADKR. 
 
 A.nd, mother, bog father to write an excuse ; 
 
 But stop— he will only say " Na," 
 And go on with a smile and keep reading the news, 
 
 While every thing bothers me so 
 
 6. Sif iwwibcl is heavy and ready to fall ; 
 1 bis o(d pop-gun is breaking my map ; 
 I'll have nordng to do with the pop-gun or ball,- 
 Therc's no piaying for such a poor chap ! 
 
 6. The town-clock will strike in a minute, I fear ; 
 Then away to the foot I must sink : — 
 ^here, look at my history, tumbled down here t 
 And my algebra cover'd with ink ! 
 
 35. Spanish EysNiNO Htmit. 
 
 Wva'kt, tbed, fatigued. Watoh-firb, a fire used as a sig 
 
 Sound the aspirated h. Do not say $ailor zim for sailor'* hj/mn i /roil 
 if for from his ; foutiiun sealing tovfoxoU utuecHmg. 
 
 1. 'ft/rOTHEB I now let prayer and music, 
 ITL Meet in love on earth and sea I 
 Now, sweet mother I may the weary, 
 Turn from this cold world to thee I 
 
CHRIST STTLLINO TliJC TRMPKST. 
 
 91 
 
 d. From the wide and restless watera, 
 Hear the sailor's hymn arise ; 
 From his watch-fire 'mid the mountains, 
 Lo ! to thee the shepherd cries ! 
 
 8. Yet, when thus full hearts find voices^ 
 If o'erburden'd souls there be, 
 Dark and sOent in their angolsh, 
 Aid those captives, set them fteet 
 
 4. Tonch them, every fonnt unsealing, 
 Where the firozeu tears lie deep ; 
 Thou, the mother of all sorrows, 
 Aid, oh ! aid to pray and weep I 
 
 36. Christ stxlmno thk Trmpest. 
 
 ^t the Hhip wan now in the niidi^t of the Heu, to<w«d with waves; tot 
 ad was contrary." — Matthew xiv. 24. 
 
 [lows, waves. 
 feATH'tEss, out of breath. 
 
 Kioht'e-ous, Jnst, npright. 
 Man'dates, commands. 
 
 |nounce each toord distinctly. Do not say rottin 'igh an' dark foi 
 ' high and dark. 
 
 1. THEAB was within the tossing bark, 
 J- When stormy winds grew lond ; 
 And waves came rolling high and dark. 
 And the tail mast was bow'd. 
 
 9. And men stood breathleBs in their dread, 
 And baffled lu their skill— 
 But One was there, who roBe and said 
 To the wUd sea, " Be stUI I" 
 
 3 And the wind ceased— it ceased 1— tlifl). word 
 Pass'd through tlie glnora? sky ; 
 The troubled billows know tlielr Lord, 
 
 And sank beneath his eyu. . 
 
 % 
 
TilK TllIRO RKADKR. 
 
 i. And Blumber settled on the deep, 
 And silence on the blast, 
 As when the ' 'ghtcoos fall asleep, 
 When dea s fierce throes are past. 
 
 6. Thon that diust rnle the angry hour, 
 And tame the tempest's mood — 
 Oh I send thy spirit forth in power, 
 O'er oar dork souls to brood I 
 
 6. Thou that didst bov/ the billow's pride ! 
 Thy mandates to fulfil — 
 Speak, speak, to passion's raging tide, 
 Speak and say — " PcLce, be still I" 
 
 87. Holiday Children. 
 
 Christ'mas, the day our Sa- 
 viour was bom. 
 
 Mu-se'um, a repository of cu- 
 riosities. 
 
 CoAx'iNO-LT, flatteringly. 
 Scutoh'eon, the ground I 
 
 which a coat of omi 
 
 pamted. 
 
 ONE of the most pleasing sights at thie festive season, isj 
 group of boys and girls returned from school. Go wt! 
 you will, a cluster of their joyous chubby faces presents ih 
 selves to our notice. In the streets, or elsewliere, our elb 
 are constantly assailed by some eager urchin whose eyes jij 
 peep beneath to get a nearer view. 
 
 2. I am more delighted in matching the vivacious workid 
 of their ingenuous countenances at these Christmas shows, titJ 
 at, the sights themselves. 
 
 3. From the first joyous huzzas, and loud-blown horns wli 
 announce their arrival, to the faint attempts at similar : 
 on their return, I am interested in these youngsters. 
 
 4. Observe the line of chaise's with their swarm-like loai 
 hurrying to tender and exulting parents, the sickly to be chd 
 
HOLIDAY CiniJ)KK!l7. 
 
 93 
 
 merotis demands; her 
 '^r in, her patience 
 trn and toss oror 
 aoop is their choice, 
 
 the strong to be amused ; in a few mornings you shall 
 
 lem, new clothes, warm glores, gathering around their 
 
 jer at every toy-shop, claiming the promised bat, hoop, 
 
 [or marbles; mark her kind sm ' ^ at their ecstasies ; her 
 
 BQt shake of the head at t 
 
 jual yielding as they couxt' 
 
 their whims and clamor >v 
 
 slaythings, as now a sword, u 
 
 like their elders, the possesBion of one bauble does but 
 
 [e them sigh for another. 
 
 View the fond father, his pet little gkl by the hand, his 
 
 walking before, on whom lus prond eye rests, while am- 
 
 ^us views float over his mind for them, and make hun bnt 
 
 attentive to their repeated inquiries ; while at the musemii 
 
 |h6 pictm'e-gallery, his explanations are interrupted by the 
 
 ture of discovering that his cliildren are already well ac- 
 
 linted with the diiferent subjects exhibited. 
 
 p. At no season of the year are their holidays so replete 
 
 pleasures ; the expected Ohristmas box from grand-papa 
 
 grand-mamma; plum-pudding and snap-dragon, with 
 
 adman's-bnff and forfeits ; perhaps to witness a jnvenUe play 
 
 Lcarsed and ranted; galantee-show and drawing for twelftb- 
 
 ^e ; besides Ohristmas gambols in abundance, new and old. 
 
 I. Even the poor charity-boy at this season feels a transient 
 
 ^w of cheerfulness, as with paJe blue face, frost-nipped hands^ 
 
 ~ thin scant clothes, from door to door he timidly ^splays the 
 
 blotted scutcheon of his graphic talents, and feels that the 
 
 ice bestowed are hia own, and that for once in his life he 
 
 i,y taste the ofieiit-desired tart, or spin a top which no one 
 
 snatch from him in capricious tyranny. 
 

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 HiolDgraphic 
 
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 23 WIST MAIN STUIT 
 
 WIBSTIt,N.Y. MStO 
 
 (716) •72-4503 
 
 
 v\ 
 
f:^ 
 
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PABT SECOM 
 
 A WOED TO TEAOHEBS. 
 
 I^ «•« papa. ^ „d ™il th,^ ^''• 
 •«'' Je«o. befo„ «™.»^ ^-•* •' toe ^ 
 
 » t l-rf for tU. ttd, h^a^"^ *»** *••« -h 
 QoMHom OB tie 8aU«it of th. i 
 
 r 
 
THE DRBAM OF TBB OBUSADKB. 
 
 95 
 
 1. Thb Dbbak of thb Obusadeb. 
 
 TTTHEN OhriBtian mendid 
 YV hear aghast, 
 The soU that Christ had 
 trod 
 Was in the might of P&ynim 
 men, 
 Who scorned the Son of 
 God} 
 
 2. Arose there then through 
 Ohiistendom 
 One aniver^ cry, 
 To wrest that land from snch 
 ft grasp- 
 To win it or to die. 
 
96 
 
 THB THIKD READKR. 
 
 8. That ciy went forth through Europe's r. 
 From one end to the otherf 
 
 ^r;f„^5e the thunder' voice 
 That naught on earth can smotW. 
 
 *. And France's fairest chiTahy 
 
 p3*T?«'»»* at that loud ci, 
 
 I^mKormandytatoR.oyrc; 
 If one tarried in his halL 
 
 *^* ®T^n? ^''^ ^ fast-flowing Loir^ 
 And others ftom the Rhone^ T* 
 
 The banks of the Garonne. '^^ 
 «. One common badge they aB do 
 
 ol^"^?^«''««»>hi«>n'db«lriit 
 On each left ann and breast. 
 
 ^*^FniS''^*^*Wood.redc««. 
 Fpnused as for ft sign. ^^ 
 
 And animating an ^.'IJ^t 
 With thoughts , Jestine. 
 
 8. And day by day they fought their «>• 
 StiU o:;rards from thelel ^ "^ 
 
 With <3auntless constancy. 
 
 *' ^mn*^?^^^»oWeN8ht. 
 
 ^-^^^^ 
 
THB DBBAM OF THB OBDBADEB. 
 
 97 
 
 [2. The Dream of the Obusadeb — carUintted, 
 
 1. One early morn, the aim as yet 
 
 Was scarcely in the sliy, 
 He begg'd the priest to shrire him then, 
 And make him fit to die. 
 
 2. He wished to take the sacrament 
 
 As soon as he was shriren, 
 That he might dare to meet his Qod 
 With hopes to be foxgiren. 
 
 8. Now all did manrel at his words, 
 For he was fresh and well ; 
 And why he deemed that he should die^ 
 No mortal man conld tell. 
 
 4. Bnt good Sir Anselm with grave uden 
 Thus spake— ''My race is ran 1 
 Ere yonder snn shall set again, 
 life's jonraey win be done. 
 
 6. My friend, Ingolram of St. Pol, 
 Who fell at Maura's fight. 
 And whom we all lamented so, 
 Fve seen in the past night. 
 
 h. This very night he came to me. 
 And stood beside my bed ; 
 'Twas not'a dream — ^I was awake, 
 And heard each word he said. 
 
 t. I asked him, ' Whither comest tho^ 
 And why so bright and fair? ^ 
 
 For thou wert kQl'd at Maara, 
 And we interr'd thee there.' 
 
 8. He was so Inight and beantifnl, 
 And mild each placid feature ; 
 
*,, 
 
 98 TUB IHIBD BKADKB, 
 
 He was not like a mortal man, 
 Bat some angelic creatnre. 
 
 9. He answered me, 'I am so fair, 
 And beantiftd and bright, 
 Because my dwelling shineth so 
 With aU-respIendent light. 
 
 10. And this to me my Qod hath giyen, 
 
 Because I serf ed him well ; 
 for laying down my life for him 
 Against the InfideL ^ 
 
 11. And it hath been lereal'd to me, \ 
 
 That snch a dwelling-place, 
 Bat br^hter still, awaiteth thee, 
 Throngh God's great soTerdgn gnm, 
 
 13. And I am come to bring to thee 
 
 These tidings glad and sweet ; 
 Thy dwelling it is wondrons fair- 
 To-morrow there we meet I' " 
 
 18. Again Ihey went to fight thdr way 
 gUJl onwards from the sea ; 
 They charged upon the Infidel 
 With wonted oonstam^. 
 
 14. The Paynhn men advance again, 
 
 To drive them to the sea. 
 Bat on them rosh'd the rednsross men 
 With all their chiTahy. 
 
 15. And when the day's hard strife was o'er, 
 
 The son went down apace. 
 The good Sk Ansdm he was missed 
 At his aocostom'd place. . 
 
 16.>'They sought him on the battltf-field, 
 They found him 'midst the dead : 
 A stone, by some huge engine huri'd, 
 Had struck him on the httid. 
 
THB LOBO'S PBAYEB. 
 
 99 
 
 8. Thb Lobd'b Pbatbb. 
 
 [UR Lord hu himself taught us what we are to beg of 
 God, and the order in which it is to be asked. He has 
 
 en TonchsDtfed to draw up the petition which we are to pre- 
 
 it to the Father in his name, and to leave ns an excellent 
 of prajer, which is thence called The LorcPa Prayer. 
 
 Jesaa Ohrist," says St. Qyprian, ''among other salutary 
 |yice8 and precepts which he hath given to his people in 
 
 ier to gnide them to salvation, has prescribed a formula of 
 
 Btyer, to the end that we may be the more readily heard by 
 ^e Father, by addresnng him in the very words which his 
 
 on hath tai^t ns. 
 
 1 3. " Let ns, therefore, V^j" ^^dds this holy doctor, " as 
 
 'master and onr God hath directed ns; that prayer mnst be 
 
 ^eanng to God which comes from himself, and strikes his ear 
 
 }ngh the words of Ohrist; let the Father recognize in onr 
 
 lyer the words of his divine SoA. 
 
 3. " Since Jesus Ok^t is onr Advocate with his I'sther, kt 
 
 ■% 
 
 «i^ 
 
 ■ *rSs;: 
 
 ?W <:. 
 
100 
 
 THE TUIRD UKADKB. 
 
 OS make use of the very words of oar Me^ator; he 
 US that the Father will grant whatever is asked in his 
 how mnch more willingly if asked, not only in his name,| 
 in his own very words!" The Ohurch, accordingly, 
 continual nse of that divine prayer; by it she begins and! 
 all her offices; she introdnces it particularly in the holyj 
 rifice of the mass. The faithftal should recite it daily, mon 
 and evening, and recall it often to their minds thronghl 
 course of the day. 
 
 4. The Lord's Prayer is composed of a short preface,! 
 seven petitions or requests, of which the three first relattl 
 God, and the other four concern ourselves; it contaimi 
 that we can desire and ask of God; it is the rule by 
 we are to form our sentiments and our desires. Wei 
 indeed, make use of other words in our prayers, but vej 
 to ask nothing of God save what is contained in this mo 
 any request that is not consistent with it would be unwoil 
 a (Xbistian, and could not be agreeable to God. 
 
 5. The preface consists of these words: "Our Father, \ 
 art in heaven ;" Jesus GhrLst has thrown into these few m 
 all that is most capable of engaging God to hear us, and| 
 inspiring within ourselves senthnents of respect, confide 
 and love. ^ . 
 
 6. We call God our Father, for so has Gmrist instmctedj 
 to do. God is indeed our father by creation, smce he 
 given us life, and formed us to his own image; he is still 
 our father by the grace of regeneration, seeing that in ^\ 
 tism lie adopted us as his children in Christ Jesus, 
 sidef;" says the Apostle St. John, "what love the Father! 
 had for us, cdnce he would have us call^ his children, i 
 really be sol" "Because ye are children," adds St. Fii 
 " God has sent into your hearts the sjMt of his Son, i 
 ffig 'My Father, My Father P" Oh, name full of sv 
 ness and delight! what love, what gratitude, and what i 
 fidence should it excite in your heart I 
 
 7. If it be true that God is your Father, can you fear tli 
 your prayer will be ng'ected when you remind hiin of a i 
 by whi(^ he takes pleasimre hi hearing us address him ? 
 
LBGEND OF THB INFANT JBBUS. 
 
 lOj 
 
 I he not grant to a child who prays to him, after he has 
 red him into the number of his children by a grace which 
 ^pated his prayers and desires. 
 Fear only that by yonr disobedience yon may render 
 self unworthy to be called the child of Ood; that alone 
 [obstruct the flow of his grace and the effect of your 
 rers. Each of us says, when addressing God: "Our 
 » and not My Faihetf because hayhig all the sajne 
 Bf, and expecting ttom. him the same inheritance, we 
 jnot only to pray for ourselyes, but for all the faithful, 
 are our brethren. By that we understand that it is not 
 own name we pray, but in that of Jesus Christ, and in 
 ^n with the whole body of his Church, whose members 
 re. 
 
 We add; " Who art in heaven," for although God is 
 
 rhere in his immensity, we neyertheless consider heaven 
 
 lie throne of his glory; it is in heaven that he puts forth 
 
 [his magnificence, and reveab himself Mty to his ikect 
 
 liout the shadow of a dond to obscure his brightness. 
 
 to heaven that we ourselves are called; "heaven is our 
 
 itry, and the inheritance destined for us by our Father. 
 
 |ien we kneel, then, in prayer, let us raise our thoughts and 
 
 desires to heaven; let us unite with the society of blessc ! 
 
 ^ts, and excite in our hearts the hope and the desire of 
 
 sessuig God. 
 
 4. Lbobnd of THB Infant Jestth. 
 
 1. pOME, chUdren, all whose joy it ia 
 V/ To serve at holy mass. 
 
 And hear what once, in days of faith. 
 In England came to pass I 
 
 2. It chanced a priest was journeying 
 
 Through dark and gloomy wood» 
 And there, where few came i)as8ing by, 
 A lonely chapel stood. 
 
102 TRB THIRD BSADBB. 
 
 8. He Btay'd his feet, that pilgrim jHrieit, 
 His morning mass to say, 
 And put the sacred yestments on 
 Which near the altar lay. 
 
 4. Bat who shall serve the holy mass, 
 For all is silent here? 
 He kneels, and there in patience wait! 
 The peasant's hour of prayer. 
 
 6. When lo I a child of wondrous grace, 
 Before the altar steals. 
 And down beside the lowly priest, 
 The infant beanty kneels. 
 
 6. He serres the maar; his voice is sweety 
 lake distant mnsic low, 
 With downcast eye and ready hand, 
 * And footfaU hnsh'd and slow. 
 
 f . " Et yerbnm caro factom est,'' / 
 
 He lingers till he hears. 
 Then turning he to Mary's shrine, 
 In glory disappears. 
 
 8. So round the altar, children dear. 
 Press gladly in God's name. 
 For once to serve at holy mass, 
 The Infant Jesus came. 
 
 5. Thb Do-NoTHmos. 
 
 THE Do-Nothmgs are a very numerous family : some mem- 
 bers of it are found in all parts of the country ; and there 
 are very few sdiools in which some of them are not in attend- 
 ancis as pupils. They are known by their slow and listleBS 
 steps, their untidy appearance, and the want of animation acd 
 
THE 00-NOTHINOt. 
 
 108 
 
 Brest in their faces. They do not do any tUng, whether 
 
 9r]c or play, with a hearty goodrwill. 
 
 1 2. Their hair is apt to be in disorder ; their hands and faces 
 
 not always clean ; their clothes look as if they had been 
 
 pat on. They are always in a hnrry, and yet always 
 
 bhindhand. They are sometimes absent from school, and 
 
 BD tardy; bnt for erery neglect of duty they always havt 
 
 Dme sort of an ezcose. 
 
 8. A ghrl of this family gets np in the morning late, dresses 
 Braelf in a harry, and comes down-stairs a little oat of hamor 
 [)m the feeling that she has began the day wrong. The 
 lily breakfast is oyer, and she is obliged to tisJce hers alone ; 
 rhich does not improve her temper. She knows that she has 
 French lesson to learn before school ; bnt she is attracted 
 |>y a new pictnre-book which had been bronght home the day 
 Bfore for one of her little brothers, and she takes it ap, mean* 
 Qg only to look oyer the pictares. Bat she becomes interest- 
 in the story, tarns oyer one leaf after another, and at last 
 ne o'clock strikes before she is aware of it. 
 4. She hnddles on her shawl and bonnet, and hastens to 
 chool as fast as possible ; bat she is late in spite of her harry, 
 land is marked for tardiness. It takes her some time to get 
 [seated at her desk, and to recover from the heat and flarry of 
 |comiog to school so fast. She at first proposes to learn the 
 {French lesson, which she ongV^ to have done at home; bat 
 [after stadying a few moments, she finds some leaves missing 
 [ from her cUctionary. She tries to borrow one from a neigh- 
 bor, bat in vain ; so she becomes discoaraged, and thinks she 
 will do a few sams in arithmetic. 
 
 6. So she takes oat her slate, and be^^ to wash it ; spend- 
 iig mnch more time in this process than is necessary. She 
 tries a som and cannot do it, and thinks it the fanlt of the 
 peocQ. So she proceeds to sharpen that with great delibera- 
 tion, making everybody around her nneasy with the disagree- 
 able, grating sound. When this operation is over, she looks 
 at the dock, and sees that it will soon be thne to recite in 
 geography, of which she has not learned any thing. 
 6. She pats np her slate, pencil, and arithmetic, and takes 
 
104 
 
 TIIR TIIIKD UKADKB. 
 
 ont her geography and atlas. By the time these are op 
 and spread before her, she hears a band of mosio ioi 
 street Her seat is near the window, and she wastes 
 precious minutes in looking at the soldiers as they paaal 
 Bhe has hardly made any progress in her study of geog 
 when she is called up to recite. She knows very little of I 
 lesson, girei wrong answers to the questions put to her, i 
 gets a bad mark. 
 
 t. Soon after this, the chus in French to which she beloij 
 goes up to recite. TUs lesson she has only half learned, i 
 she blmiders sadly when called upon to answer. She goes 
 to her desk in an unhappy state of mind, and takes up 
 arithmetic once more. But she feels dissatisfied with he 
 and cannot fix her attention upon her task. She comes to i 
 conclusion that she has got a headache, which is a rery ooi 
 mon excuse with her, and that she cannot study. So she p 
 a oorer upon one of her books, and writes a note to one of 1 
 young fHends about gohig to a concert ; and when this is onr] 
 the bell for dismissal rings. 
 
 8. And this half day may be taken as a fair sample of tin] 
 whole school-life of Misi Do-Nothing. It is a long sucoesnoil 
 of lessons half learned, of sums half done, of blotted copj^ 
 books, of absences and tardinesses, of wasted hours and' 
 lected opportunities. Most of the annoyance which teadienl 
 suffer in the dischaige of their duties, comes firom boys vAl 
 girls of this family. They haye two secnningly opposite traits:! 
 they are always idle and yet always restless. They moT6 
 about on their seats, and lean upon their desks in a great 
 variety of postures. They talk with their fingers ; and keep 
 up a constant whispering and buzzing with their lips, which { 
 disturbs scholars and teachers alike. 
 
 9. The boys are very expert in catching flies, and moul^g I 
 pieces of paper into the shape of boats or cocked hats. Tliej ' 
 draw figures upon their slates, and scribble upon the fly-leaTei 
 of their books. In summer they are alBicted with a constsDt 
 thirst, and in winter their feet and hands are always cold. 
 Both boys and girls are apt to be troubled with drowsiness in 
 the daytime ; and yet they are very reluctant to go to bed 
 
BBAUSfO TIIIC DAUOIITKB OF JAIRU8. 
 
 105 
 
 fen the proper hoar comei. They are fond of laying the 
 lit of their own indolence upon the weather ; they would 
 re learned their leison if it had not been lo hot, lo cold, or 
 ! rainy. 
 
 J 10. There ii one remarkable pecnUarity abont tUs family i 
 lery boy and girl that chooeei can leare it, and Johi the Do- 
 Wethings ; the membeiv of which are alwayi glad to wel- 
 Ime deserters flrom the Do-Nothings. The boys and girls of 
 ^e Do-SometUng family are always bosy, always cheerfiil ; 
 }rking heartily when they work, and playing heartily when 
 |iey play. They are neat in their appearance, and pnnctnal 
 attendance upon school ; erery thing is done in proper order, 
 ad yet nothing is harried ; they are the Joy of tiieir parents, 
 ad the delight of their teachers. 
 
 11. My yonng fHends into whose hands this book may fall, 
 
 which of these two famiUes do yoa belong? Remember 
 
 liat the oseAilness and happhiess of your whole lires depend 
 
 ^pon the answer to this qaestion. No one can be trnly hi^y 
 
 rho is not oseftil ; and no one can be nseftal who is idle, care> 
 
 and negligent. 
 
 6. Hbalzno TH8 Dauohtbb of Jaibub. 
 
 1 . pRESHLY the cool breath of the coming ete 
 •1^ Stole through the lattice, and the dying girl 
 Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain 
 Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance— 
 Her thin pale fingers dasp'd within the hand 
 Of the heart-broken Ruler, and her breast. 
 Like the dead marble, white and motionless. 
 
 2. The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips. 
 And, as it stirr'd with the awakening wind. 
 The dark lids lifted from her languid eyes. 
 And her slight fii^^ers moved, and heavily 
 She tum'd upon her pillow. He was there — 
 The same loved tireless watcher, and she look'd 
 Into his face until her sight grew dim 
 
 6* 
 
106 
 
 THIS THIRD READER. 
 
 With the fast-falling tears; and, with a sigh 
 Of tremnlons weakness mnrmnring his name, 
 She gently drew his hand npon her lips, 
 And kiss'd it as she wept. The old man sunk 
 Upon his knees, and in the drapery 
 Of the rich curtains buried up Ms face; 
 And when the twilight fell, the silken folds 
 Stirr'd with his prayer, but the slight hand he held 
 
 Had ceased its pressure — and he could not hear, 
 In the dead, utter silence, that a breath 
 Game through her nostrils — and her temples gave 
 To his nice touch no pulse — and, at her mouth, 
 He held the lightest curl that on her neck 
 Liy with a mocking beauty, and his gaze 
 Afibcd with its deathly stillness. 
 
HEALING TUB DAUQUTBK OF JAIKUS. 
 
 107 
 
 8 AU was still. 
 
 The echoing vestibule gave back the slide 
 Of their loose sandals, and the arrowy beam 
 Of moonlight, slanting to the marble floor, 
 Lay like a spell of silence in the rooms, 
 As Jaims led them on. With hushing steps 
 He trod the winding stair; but e'er he tonch'd 
 The latchet, from within a whisper came, 
 " TrouMe the Master not— for she is dead /" 
 And his faint hand fell nerveless at his side. 
 And his steps falter'd, and his broken voice 
 Choked in its utterance; — ^but a gentle hand 
 Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear 
 The Saviour's voice sank thrillingly and low, 
 " She is not dead — hut deepeth." 
 
 4. ' Like a form 
 
 Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she lay— 
 The linen vesture folded on her breast. 
 And over it her white transparent hands. 
 The blood still rosy in their tapering nails. 
 A Ime of pearl ran through her parted lips. 
 And in her nostrils spiritually tUn, 
 The breathing curve was mockingly like life; . 
 And round beneath the faintly tinted skin 
 Ban the light branches of the azure veins; 
 And on her cheek the jet lash overlay, 
 Matchmg the arches penciled on her brow. 
 
 6. Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose 
 Upon her pillow,' hid her small round ears 
 In curls of glossy blackness, and about 
 Her polish'd necb^ scarce touching it, they hung 
 Like airy shadows floating as they slept. 
 'Twas heavenly beautiful. The Saviour raised 
 Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out 
 The snowy fingers in his palm, and said, 
 " Maiden f Arise !" — and suddenly a flush 
 
108 
 
 THB THIRD RBADEIU 
 
 Shot o'er her forehead, and along her lips 
 And through her cheek the rallied color ran; 
 And the still outline of her graceful form 
 Stirr'd in the linen vesture; and she clasp'd 
 The Sayiour's hand, and fixing her dark eyes 
 Full on his beaming countenance — ^abosbI 
 
 7. St. Phh.tp "Nebi akb tbb Youth* 
 
 ST. Philip Neri, as old readmgs say, 
 Met a young stranger in Bome's streets one day ; 
 And being ever courteously inclined 
 To give young folks a sober turn of mind, 
 He fell into discourse with him ; and thus 
 The dialogue they held comes down to us. 
 
 St. Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome? 
 
 F. To make myself a scholar, sir, I come. 
 
 iSK. And, when you are one, what do you intend f 
 
 Y. To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the end. 
 
 St. Suppose it so— what have you next in view? 
 
 T. That I may get to be a canon too. 
 
 St. Well ; ana how then ? 
 
 Y. Why, then, for aught I know, 
 
 I may be made a bishop. 
 
 St. Be it so— 
 
 What then? 
 
 Y. Why, cardinal's a high degree — 
 
 And yet my lot it possibly may be. 
 
 St. Suppose it was, what then? 
 
 Y. Why, who can say 
 
 But I've a chance of being pope one day ? 
 
 St. Well, having worn the ntoe and red hat, 
 And triple crown, what follows after that? 
 
 Y. Kay, there is nothing further to be sure. 
 Upon this earth that wishing can procure ; 
 When I've enjoy'd a dignity so high. 
 As long as Qod shall please, then, I must die. 
 
CONFIRMATION. 
 
 109 
 
 ',. What, must yoa die, fond youth? and at the best 
 )at wish, and hope, and may be all the rest I 
 Take my advice — ^whatever may betide, 
 Tor that which most be, first of all provide ; 
 Dhen think of that which may be, and indeed, 
 Then well prepared, who knows what may succeed? 
 
 jBat you may be, as you are pleased to hope, 
 
 I Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope. 
 
 8. OONFIBMATION. 
 
 ^UR young readers have learned from their little catechism, 
 that confirmation is the sacrament by which they are ele- 
 cted to the dignity of soldiers of Jesus Christ ; that, as by 
 aptism they were made children of God, so by confirmation 
 lieir names are inscribed in the army of the faithful followers 
 ff oar divine Lord, and they receive strength to battle agunst 
 m, the world, and the deidl, which they had so solemnly re- 
 pnnoed at the baptismal font. 
 
 2. Oonfirmation is conferred by a bishop, who first imposes 
 Ills hands on those to be confirmed, invoking upon them the 
 
 [oly Ghost, with his sevenfold gifts ; he then signs the fore- 
 bad of each with chrism in the form of the cross, saying at the 
 same time : " I sign thee with the sign of the cross ; I con* 
 lirm thee with the chrism of salvation, in the name of the Far 
 |ther, and of the Son, atad of the Holy Ghost. Amen." 
 
 3. The bishop concludes the ceremony by giving the person 
 I confirmed a slight blow on the cheek, to signify that as fol- 
 lowers of Jesus Ohrist, we must bear trials and persecutions for 
 
 I his sake. 
 
 4. The chrism used in confirmation, is an ointment made oi 
 the oil of olives and balm. The oil signifies the effiact of this 
 holy sacrament, namely, spuitual strength and purity of heart, 
 and preservation from the rust of sin ; and the sweetness of 
 bahn, the odor of a good and virtuous life. 
 
 6. Oonfirmation can only be received once, hence it is a 
 
110 
 
 THU THIRD JiBADBB. 
 
 great misforttme not to receive it with the proper dispositioj 
 Formerly it was the custom to confirm children immediatj 
 after baptism, bat now it is generally delayed until after i 
 have made their first commnnion. It is not a sacrament ah 
 lately necessary for salvation, bat it woald be a grievoiuj 
 to omit receiving it throngh contempt or neglect. 
 
 6. Children oaght to look forward with a longing desircj 
 the moment when they shall have the happiness to receive tij 
 holy sacrament, and daily ask of Almighty God the grace i] 
 receive it worthily, and as often resolve to live np to the ob^ 
 gations it imposes, when they shall have received it. 
 
 9. BiBDB IN SUMMBB. 
 
 1. TJOW pleasant the life of a bird most bc^ 
 XL Flitting aboat in each leafy tree ; 
 
 In the leafy trees so broad and tall, 
 
 Like a green and beaatifal palace hall, 
 
 With its aury chambers, light and boon,* 
 
 That open to son, and stars, and moon ; 
 
 That open onto the bright bine sky. 
 
 And the firolicsome winds as they wander by ! 
 
 2. They have left their nests on the forest bongh ; 
 Those homes of delight they need not now ; 
 And the yonng and die old they wander oat, 
 And traverse their green world ronnd aboat ; 
 And hark I at the top of this leafy hall, 
 How one to the other in love they call I 
 
 « Gome np I come ap I" they seem to say, 
 "Where the topmost twigs in the breezes sway. 
 
 8. " Come up, come up I for the world is fair ■ 
 Where the merry leaves dance in the sammer air." 
 
 * Boon, pleaaant. 
 
BIKD8 IN SDMMKR. 
 
 Ill 
 
 And the birds below give back the cry, 
 « We come, we come to the branches high.'' 
 How pleasant the lives of the burds must be, 
 Living in love m"& leafy tree I 
 And away throngh the air what joy to go, 
 And to look on the green, bright earth below I 
 
 4. How pleasant the life of a bird must be, 
 Skimming about on the breezy sea ; 
 Cresting the billows like silvery foam. 
 Then wheeling away to its cliff-bmlt home t 
 What joy it most be to sail, upborne 
 By a strong, tree wing, throngh the rosy mom t 
 To meet the young sun face to face. 
 And pierce like a shaft the boundless space ; — 
 
 5 To pass throngh the bowers of the silver cloud ; 
 To sing in the thunder halls alond ; 
 
11^ TBK TUIHD RBADBB. 
 
 To spread out the wings for a wild, free flight 
 With the apperKdoad winds, — Oh, what delight I 
 Oh, what would I give, like a bird, to go 
 Bight on through the arch of the snn-lit bow, 
 And see how the water-drops are kiss'd 
 Into green, and yellow, and amethyst ! 
 
 6. How pleasant the life of a bird must be, 
 Wherever it listeth there to flee ; 
 
 To go when a Joyfiil fancy calls, ^ 
 
 Dashing adown 'mong the waterfalls ; « 
 Then to wheel about with their mates at play, 
 Above, and below, and among the spray, 
 Hither and thither, with screams as wild 
 As the laughing mirth of a rosy child ! 
 
 7. What Joy it must be, like a fiving4)reeze, 
 To flutter about 'mid the flowering trees ; 
 Lightly to soar, and to see beneath 
 
 The wastes of the blossoming purple heath, 
 And the ydlow furce, like fields of gold, 
 That gladdened some fairy region old I 
 On mountain tops, on the billowy sea. 
 On the leafy stems o^ the forest tree. 
 How pleasant the life of a bird must be I 
 
 10. Thb Childbbn and thb iNTAirr Jesus. 
 
 A T the time that the celebrated Egidius was provincial of I 
 u\. Spun, he gave the habit of the order to a young Gascon I 
 named Bernard, who was received into the convent of Santa- 
 rem, and became distinguished among that suntly commumtj | 
 for the holy simplicity of his life. 
 
 2. The circumstances attending his death, attested by &!■ j 
 most all tJj^ writers on the history of the order, are of pecoliat 
 beauty. Bernard filled the office of sacristan in the convent 
 
TUB OUILDRBM AND THB INFANT JflSUB. 
 
 118 
 
 Santarem ; an ofiBce, the exercise of which was peculiarly 
 fUghtfol to him, from the many opportnnities it gave him of 
 lalging his deyotion unseen by any one but his Lord, whom 
 
 loved to honor by a reverent care of the altar and every 
 jiing belonging to the Divine mysterieci. Besides this employ- 
 fent, his spare thne was occupied in the education of two 
 liildren, the sons of a neighboring gentleman, who sent them 
 rery day to the convent, where they remahied until evening, 
 [nly sleephig at their father's house. 
 
 3. These two boys were permitt«d to wear the novices' 
 Lbit of the Friars-Preachers, bebig probably desthied for the 
 krder, although not as yet received into the community ; and 
 Iheir innocence and goodness of disposition rendered them pe- 
 culiarly dear to Blessed Bernard. It was his custom, when 
 busy in the sacristy, to allow them to remain in a chapel, then 
 dedicated to the Holy Eiogs, on the right of the high altar, 
 rhere they used to sit on the altarsteps, reading or writing 
 ^heir exerdses ; spinding their time happUy until their master's 
 
 etom. Here also they were accustomed to spread out the 
 Idinners which they brought with them from home, which they 
 Itook together in the same place, as soon as they had finished 
 [their daily lessons. 
 
 4. On the altar of this chapel, which was seldom used for 
 [the purpose of saying mass, there was an image of the Blessed 
 I Virgin, holding her Divine Son in her arms; and the two 
 ' children came to look on the Holy Infant almost as a com- 
 I panion, and were wont to talk to him, as he seemed to look 
 
 down on them from his mother's arms, with the simple fa 
 miliaril^ of their age. One day, as they thus sat on the altar- 
 steps, one of them raised his eyes to the image of the little 
 Jesos that was just above hun, and sold, " Beautiful child, 
 hew is it you never take any dinner as we do, but always re- 
 main without moving all day long ? Come down and eat some 
 dinner with us, — ^we will give it to you with all our hearts." 
 
 5. And it pleased God to rewarid the innocence and simple 
 faith of the children by a wonderful miracle ; for the carved 
 form of the holy child became radiant with life, and commg 
 down from his holy mother's arms, he sat with them on the 
 
114 
 
 THE THIBD ByAniq^ 
 
 gronnd before the altar, and took some of their dfainer ^ 
 them. Nor need we wonder at so great a condescension,^ 
 membering how he came onhiTlted to be a gnest with Zaoch 
 who was a sinner, and that the two whom he now consenlj 
 to treat as his hosts, were clothed in that pure robe of 
 tismal innocence which makes ns worthy to recciye him no 
 our roof. 
 
 6. Now this happened more than once, so tliat the neglecti 
 chapel became to these two children fall of the Joy of heaTei| 
 and by daily conrerae with their Divine Lord they grew in i 
 fervent love towards him, that they wearied for the ho^ 
 when they might have him with them ; caring for nothing eli 
 than this sweet and familiar interooorso with the Lord 
 heaven. And their parents perceived a diange in them, 
 how their only pleasure was in hastening to the convent, as ! 
 it contained a secret source of happiness which had not 
 revealed before. They therefore questioned them closely ; anil 
 the children told them every thing without reserve. 
 
 7. But the tale seemed to those who listened, nothhig bntl 
 an idle invention, or perhaps an artifice in order to obtain i] 
 larger quantity of food ; and they therefore took no notice ol[ 
 what they said beyond reproving them for their folly. 
 
 But when they repeated the same story to Bernard, hel 
 listened with very different feelings; for he knew the holjl 
 hearts of his two little disciples; and he felt, moreover, tbt^j 
 there was nothing unworthy of belief in the fact that he who, 
 being God, became a little child, should condescend to give a 
 mark of favor to those of whom he himself has said, that 
 " of such is the kingdom of heaven." When, therefore, after 
 many inquhries, he had satisfied himself of the truth of the tale, ' 
 he bade them give glory to God for his goodness ; and then I 
 considered whether there was no way in which these circam- 
 stances might be made to serve yet further to the happiness 
 «nd sanctification of his pupils. 
 
 8. And hearing how they in their childish way expressed a 
 wonder that,, after they had so often invited the child to eat 
 some of thdjfdinner, he had never brought any food with him 
 to share with them, he bade them, the neit time he came, ask 
 
THK OHILDBBN AMD TUB INFANT JK8DS. 
 
 116 
 
 I bow this was, and whether he would not ask them aome 
 
 to dine with him in his Father's honse. The boys were 
 
 ;hted with this idea ; and they failed not to do as they 
 
 I directed the next time that they were alone in the chapel. 
 
 ^n the child smiled on them graciously, and said, " What 
 
 say is very jost ; within three days I inrite yon to a ban* 
 
 ^t in my Father's honse :" and ?^th this answer they re 
 
 aed fall of Joy to their master. 
 
 He well knew the meaning of this invitation ; the chaifge 
 ^t had gradually appeared hi his two beloved disciples had 
 been unmarked by him ; he had seen them, as it wnre 
 jfore their time, gro^rhig ripe for heaven ; and he understood 
 it it was the Divine pleasure, after thus trahdng them for 
 iveu in a marvellous way, that they should be transplanted to 
 I angelic company, before their hearts had once been touched 
 the knowledge df siii or the contamination of the world. 
 1 10. Tet he sighed to think that they should thus bo granted 
 pass to Christ in their happy infancy, while he, who had 
 [>wn old in the spiritual warfare, was to be left behind ; and 
 olving to make one more trial of the condescension which 
 been so bounteously lavished on his pupils, he bade them 
 back to the chapel, and tell the Divhie child that since they 
 [ore the habit of the order, it was necessary for them to ob* 
 lerve the rules ; and that it was never permitted for novices to 
 cept of any invitation, or to go to the house of any person, 
 ^xcept in their master's company. "Betum, then, to your 
 laster," said the Holy Child, " and bid hun be of the com- 
 einy; and on Thursday morning I will receive you all three 
 ogether in my Father's house." 
 
 11. Bernard's heart bounded with emotion when he heard 
 
 these words. It was then the first of the Bogation days, and 
 
 jthe day which had been appointed was therefore Ascension 
 
 [day. He made every arrangement as for his approaching 
 
 death, and obtained leave on that day to say his. last mass,— ^ 
 
 his two disciplefi servkg during the celebration, and receiving 
 
 I communion from his hands. Doubtless it would be hard for 
 
 OS to realize his feelings of devout and joyful expectation 
 
 daring those moments. 
 
 J'r^ 
 
k" 
 
 116 
 
 TUB THIRD BBADBR. 
 
 12. And when mass was ended, he knelt before the 
 altar with the children, one on either side, and all three 
 mended their souls to QoQ, as though thej knew their 
 hoar was come, and the altar-steps were to be their deati 
 And it was even so. An hoar after, some of the bretl 
 found them still kneeling thus before the altar, Bernard ti 
 a8 for mass, and the two boys in their serving^robes. 
 
 18. But they were quite dead : their eyes were closed, 
 their/aoes wore a sndle of most sweet tranquiUity; and it 
 evident that there had been no death-struggle, but that 
 souls had passed to the presence of God while in the very 
 of prayer. They were buried in the chapel of the Holy 
 which had been the scene of so many of our Lord's visits 
 the two children ; and a picture was hung over the spot, 
 resenting them seated on the altarnstep, with the Divine c1 
 between them. 
 
 14. This was the only monument to mark the place of t1 
 burial ; and in the course of years the memory of it was 1< 
 and the chapel became disused and neglected as before, 
 of the succeeding priors of the convent, wishing to find soi 
 further record of the ancient tradition, dug down beneath t1 
 spot indicated by the picture ; taking care to have two a] 
 tolic notaries and the vicar-general of the diocese present, t»| 
 gether with other authoritieB of distinction and credit. 
 
 16. At a little distance beneath the surface a carved stoail 
 sarcophagy was found, which being opened, the church W 
 immediately filled with an odor of surpassing sweetness ; and 
 on removing the clothes that lay on the top, the remains of 
 three bodies were discovered, which they could not doubt wen' 
 those of. Blessed Bernard and his novices ; for the bones ol 
 the middle skeleton were the size of a grown man, while those 
 on either side were small and delicate. 
 
 16. From the great number of years that had passed, most 
 of them were reduced to mere dust ; but some portions oi 
 white doth showed that they Lad been buried in the habit oi 
 the order. The memory of this history has been preserved 
 even up to our own times ; for A'om the time of this solemn 
 translation of their bodies, a mass of the ascension was oelo' 
 
 everyl 
 
 ;bem, 9SiA 
 
 ^hom tl 
 
 ilr death ] 
 
 year 131 
 
 U. 
 
 1. 
 
 -m- 
 
THB OBAVK OW FATHER MARQUETTB. 
 
 m 
 
 eyery Thondaj, in thankBgiring for the graoes granted 
 Ithem, and a confraternity of the Infant Jesus established, 
 (whom the onstody of the ancient image was intmsted. 
 eir death is supposed by Sosa to have taken place about 
 I year 127t. 
 
 11. Tab Gbatb of Father MABQUETxa. 
 
 1. rpHERE is a wild and lonely dell, 
 •L Far in the wooded West, 
 Where never summer's sunbeam fell 
 
 To break its long, lone rest. 
 Where never blast of wmter swept, 
 
 To ruffle or to chill, 
 ' The calm, pellucid lake that slept, 
 O'erhung with rock and hill. 
 
 2. A woodland scene by hills inclosed. 
 
 By rocky barriers curb'd. 
 Where shade and silence have reposed. 
 
 For ages undisturbed. 
 Unless when some dark Indian maid. 
 
 Or prophet old and gray, 
 Have hied them to the solemn shade. 
 
 To weep alone or pray. 
 
 8. One mom, the boatman's bugle note. 
 
 Was heard vdthin the dell. 
 And o'er the blue waves seem'd to float, 
 
 Like some unearthly swell. 
 A skiff appears, by rowers stout 
 
 Urged swiftly o'er the tide. 
 An aged man sat wrapp'd in thought, 
 
 Who seem'd the hehn to guide. 
 
 4. He was a holy Capuchin, 
 
 Thin locks were on his brow ; 
 
118 TBS TBWO RBADKll. 
 
 HIi eye, that bright and bold had beel^ 
 With age wm darkened now. 
 * From diatant landa, beyond the lea, 
 
 The aged pilgrim came, 
 To combat base idolatry, 
 And spread the holy name. 
 
 6. From tribe to tribe the good man went, 
 
 The lacred cross he bore. 
 And sarage men on slanghters bent, • 
 
 Would listen and adore. 
 Bat worn with age, his ndssion done, 
 
 Earth had for him no tie. 
 He had no farther wish, saye one,— 
 
 To hie hhn home and die. 
 
 A. The oarsman spoke, " Let's not delay, 
 
 (iood father, in this dell ; 
 "lis here that sayage legends say, 
 
 Their sinless sjririts dwell. 
 The hallowed foot of prophet sere, 
 
 Or pore and spotless maid. 
 May only dare to yentnre here. 
 
 When night has spread her shade." 
 
 7. " Dispel, my son, thy gronndless fear, 
 
 And let thy heart b" ()>!*], 
 For (!ee, npon my breenL I hinr^ 
 
 The consecrated goivL ^>^- v, 
 The blessed crqss that long hath been 
 
 Companion of my path, 
 Presenred me in the tempest's din. 
 
 Or stayed the heathen's wrath, 
 
 $ '* Shall goard US from the threatened ham, 
 
 What form soe'er it tske, 
 '' The hurricane, or sayage arm. 
 
 Or spirit of the lake." 
 
TBI OSATI Of rATBBB MAKQUBTTB. 
 
 U9 
 
 ** Bat fAther, ih«U we neTer ceue, 
 Through MTtge wildi to rounf 
 
 My heart If yeunlDg for the peftce, 
 Thftt imilM for na at home. 
 
 9. 'We're traced the riTer of the Weat, 
 
 From aea to fomitain-head, 
 And lail'd o'er broad Bnperior'a breaat^ 
 
 B7 wild adTentore led. 
 We've slept beneath the oyprem ahade^ 
 
 Where noisome reptile hj, 
 We've chased the panther to his bed, 
 
 And heard the grim wolf bay. 
 
 10. " And now for sonny France we iic^ 
 
 For qniet and for home ; 
 Then bid na pass the vallej bj, 
 
 Where on^ spirits roam." 
 " B>epine not, son ! old age is slow. 
 
 And feeble feet are mine; 
 This moment to my home I go, 
 
 And thou shali go to tUne. 
 
 11. " But ere I qdt this Tale of death, 
 
 For realms more bright and foir, 
 On yoft green shore my feeble breath, 
 
 Womld rise to Heaven in prayer. 
 Then high on yonder headland's brow. 
 
 The holy altar raise ; 
 Ulffear the cross, and let as bow 
 
 With hamUe hearts in praise." 
 
 12. Tin ayd, ^ cross was soon npreaFd, 
 On that lone, heathen shore, 
 
 When new Ohristiaa roioe was heard 
 In prayer to Ck>d befbre. 
 
 The old man knelt, his head was bare, 
 His arms crosi'd <m his breaat ; 
 
lac 
 
 THK THIRD BEADBB. 
 
 
 He pray'd, bat none could hear the prayer 
 His withered lips expressed. 
 
 13. He ceased, they raised the holy man, 
 
 Then gazed in silent dread, 
 Chill throngh each vein the life-blood ran,-- 
 
 The pilgrim's soul had fled. 
 In silence pray'd each voyager, 
 
 Their beads they coxmted o'er, 
 Then made a hasty sepulchre, 
 
 On that lone ravine's shore. 
 
 14. Beside the altar where he knelt, 
 
 And where the Lord released 
 His spirit from its pilgrimage. 
 
 They laid the holy priest. 
 In fear and haste, a brief adieu 
 
 The wondering boatmen take, 
 Then rapidly their course pursue 
 
 Across the lonely lake. 
 
 15. In after years, when bolder men 
 
 The vale of ^spirits sought. 
 O'er many a wild and wooded glen 
 
 They roam'd, but found it not. 
 We oidy know that such a priest 
 
 There was, and thus he fell, 
 But where his saintly relics rest, 
 
 No living man can tell. 
 
 12. Abbaham. 
 
 ISMAEI/S banishment restored peace to Abraham's fanuljJ 
 and left Isaac the indisputable heir of his father's foi 
 Isaac was growing up in the full promise of early youth, whei 
 God was pleased to make trial of Abraham's faith, in a poiDtl 
 
the prajer 
 
 man, 
 hblood ran,^ 
 
 ABBAHAM. 
 
 121 
 
 most decisive ; ne orderea him to take that very Isaac, his 
 loved SOD, and to offer him in sacrifice upon the mountain 
 should show him. 
 
 ?* i:{ , 
 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 - ilk 
 
 m^3 
 
 : m 
 
 ' Jk^'j^^^^^I 
 
 Ja^ 
 
 ';»' -^^ 
 
 r 
 
 '^^ 
 
 ^*^> 
 
 b 
 
 2. Abraham had always looked upon his son as a special 
 <ft from God, and, therefore, did not hesitate a single moment 
 to give him back in the manner that God required. He had 
 been assured that his posterity should one day become as ' nu- 
 merous as the sands upon the shore, or as the stars in heaven. 
 
 A 
 
122 
 
 THE THIBO K£AD£B. 
 
 ^ \ 
 
 Steadfast, therefore, in that belief, and nnshaken in his hop 
 Abraham stifled every doubt he might otherwise have formij 
 of the repeated promises God had made him ; he rose early J 
 the morning, and keeping his secret to himself^i went silentlj 
 OQt with Isaac and two servants. 
 
 3. He carried with him the wood necessary to consume thtl 
 holocaust, and directed his way towards the mountain. Fbcedl 
 in his resolution he went on for two days, and on the tbirdl 
 came in sight of the destined place of sacrifice. He told hia] 
 servants to remain at the bottom of the hill, while he with 
 son should go up co adore their God. Inflexible to the sug-l 
 gestions of flesh and blood, he took in his hand the fire andl 
 the sword, and gave to his son the wood that was intended] 
 for the sacred fire. 
 
 4. Charged with his load, Isaac proceeded up the hill, a I 
 lively representation of him who was afterwards to ascend the | 
 mount of Calvary loaded with a cross, on which he was to 
 consummate the great work of our redemption. As they were 
 goii^ on, Isaac asked his father where the victim was ? The 
 question was too interesting not to awaken aU the tenderness 
 of a father's love in such circumstances ; Abraham dissembled 
 the secret feelings of his heart, and with a manly firmness an- 
 swered, that God would provide the victfan. 
 
 5. Being come to the appomted spot, he erected an altar, 
 and laid the wood in order upon it ; then having bound and 
 placed his son Isaac thereon, he took up the sword, and 
 stretched out his hand to strike. The firm obedience of the 
 father, and the humble submission of the son, were all that 
 God reqmred of them. An angel at that moment was dis- 
 patched to stop the father's arm, and to assure him that God 
 was satisfied with the readiness of his obedience. The angel 
 called aloud on Abraham ; Abraham answered the voice, and 
 looking round saw a ram with his horns entangled amid th 
 brambles, which he took and offered a holocaust for his son. 
 
 6. This history, which is so mysterious, and in almost everp 
 circumstance so resembling the passages of our Saviour's pas- 
 sion, is, according to the holy fathers, an mstruction for all 
 parents to consult the will and implore the aid of God, before 
 
 I 
 
pien in Ms hor^ 
 T'WMe have fo J 
 
 » *® rose earJj J 
 ^^K went silenti] 
 
 I - *o consame t J 
 "•onntain. p J 
 
 H on the t J 
 
 I^JJehewithJ 
 .exiWe to the suJ 
 
 [hand the fire a/d 
 *»' was intendedj 
 
 ;? op the hill, af 
 
 «8 to ascend the 
 '^«J ie was to ' 
 
 \,^^ they Were 
 jtimwas? The 
 
 "the tenderness 
 7»n» dissembled 
 ''Jfinnnessan. 
 
 pcted an altar 
 'DfiT bound and 
 '^.«^ord, and 
 Joience of the 
 ^ere an that 
 ?ent iras dis- 
 ^ that God 
 The angeJ 
 I® voice, and 
 «d amid th 
 >r his son. 
 hnost every 
 poor's pas. 
 'ion for alJ 
 H before 
 
 HOHEN LINDEN. 
 
 las 
 
 iej presume to dispose of their children. Nothing less than 
 ^e eternal welfare of their souls, and the service of Almight; 
 (od, ought to guide their intention, and regulate their con- 
 juct in this respect. 
 
 7. Saint Chrysostom more at large deplores the misfortune 
 )f those parents who, notwithstanding their Christian profes- 
 sion, sacrifice their children, not to God as Abraham did, but 
 \o Satan, either by engaging them in the pursuits of a vain 
 rorld, or by drawing them from the practice of a virtuous 
 fe. " Abraham is the only one," says he, " who consecrates his 
 [son to God, while thousands of others turn their children over 
 to the devU ; and the joy we feel in seeing some few take a 
 'christian care of then: little ones, is presently suppressed with 
 ' grief at the sight of those greater numbers, who totally neg- 
 lect that duty, and by the example they give, deserve to be 
 considered rather as parricides, than the parents of their 
 children." * 
 
 1. 
 
 2. 
 
 13. HOHBNLINDBN. 
 
 ON Linden, when the sun was low, 
 All bloodless lay the untrodden snow : 
 And dark as winter was the flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 But Linden saw another sight. 
 When the drum beat at dead of night, 
 Commanding fires of death to light 
 The darkness of her scenery. 
 
 8. By torch and trumpet fast array'd, 
 Each horseman drew his battle-blade ; 
 And furious every charger neighed 
 To join the dreadful revelry. 
 
 4. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
 Then msh'd the steed to battle driven, 
 
124 
 
 THE TUIBD KHADER. 
 
 :f 
 
 ! 
 
 And loader than the bolts of heaven 
 Far flash'd the red artillery. 
 
 6. Bat redder yet that light shall glow 
 On Linden's hills of stained snow, 
 And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 6. 'Tis mom ; but scarce yon leyel sun 
 Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
 Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
 Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 
 
 1. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
 Who rush to glory or the grave 1 
 Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, 
 And charge with all thy chivalry i 
 
 8. 
 
 Few, few shall part where many meet I 
 The snow shall be their winding sheet ; 
 And every turf beneath their feet 
 Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 
 
 14. Language of Flowers. ' 
 
 /^ OOD news ! joyful news 1" cried the happy voice of Alice 
 VJ Telford, running in with a huge bunch of roses in her 
 hand. "Gome, Gattie I come. Honor I we are to go to help 
 Sister Theresa in the sacristy, — oh, I do so love that I The 
 great candlesticks are out, and the new branches, and such a 
 lovely veil for the tabernacle I I was peeping in with one 
 eye, after I had helped to clean the chapel, and Father Ash* 
 urst said, ' Gome here with me ; I see what you want ;' and 
 be went into the nuns' sacristy, and told Sister Theresa there 
 was a poor beggar outside who wanted to speak to her ; and 
 when she came out, he did so laugh I and then Sister Theresa 
 told me to fetch all the girls to help to dress the sanctuary." 
 
 the sac 
 Jcodd not 
 [labor, and 
 ■marked o\ 
 4. "Yc 
 "Do I 
 [them at w 
 "Whic 
 "Inev^ 
 
 I but all tb 
 
 "True. 
 
 5. "Y 
 
 I but I an 
 
 j They sa^ 
 
 "Whi 
 
 "The 
 
 thought 
 
 melhas, 
 
 They w 
 
 Can yo 
 
 6. " 
 
 pore V 
 
 Heart 
 
 blood 
 
 Bweet< 
 
 1. 
 "and 
 laugli 
 
^NOUAOB OF FL0WBH8. 
 
 123 
 
 ireo 
 
 oice of Alice 
 foses in her 
 o go to help 
 that I The 
 ,^ and such a 
 *« with one 
 Father Ash- 
 '«^ant;' and 
 leresa thcFe 
 her ; and 
 ier Theresa 
 wctaary." 
 
 2. She was still speaking, when all the children began to 
 here and there, to gather np their flowers, vases, and 
 
 trings ; bat the lay sister, who was darning stockings at the 
 table, qoietly collected her work into her basket, and with a 
 few cahn and controlUng words stilled the excitement, and 
 |ooD reducing the scattered elements into order, a quiet pro- 
 
 ressive movement was effected towards the convent. 
 
 3. They found Lucy Ward and Magdalen in the nuns' sac- 
 hsty. The former was silently arrangmg a large basket of 
 ^xqnisite hot-house flowers in tall fairy-like white vases ; and 
 
 the sacristan glanced at those which were finished, she 
 coald not but marvel at the faultless taste which guided the 
 llabor, and breathe a fervent prayer for the soul that seemed 
 |marked out by God for some special grace. 
 
 4. " You love flowers, Lucy ?" 
 "Do I not love them, sister?" replied Lucy ; "I dream of 
 
 I them at night, — ^I shotld like to die looking at them." 
 
 "Which do you love best ?" 
 
 " I never coidd quite tell. They speak such different words , 
 but all that they say makes music." 
 
 " True, Is that why you love them ?" 
 
 5. " Yes, sister ; I get very tired of hearing people talk, 
 but I am never tired of the silent words of my dear flowers. 
 They say so much." 
 
 " What do they seem to say to you this evemng ?" 
 " They all seem to whisper something new," replied Lucy 
 thoughtfully, and as if to herself. " Look at these white ca- 
 mellias, and side by side with them these blood-red ones. 
 They seem to me to mean so much, but I cannot read it. 
 Can you, sister ?" 
 
 6. "Yes," replied the nun, gently. "The sight of that 
 pare white and blood-red reminds us always of the Sacred 
 Heart of Jesus that was pierced for us. Look, here are the 
 blood and water that flowed out for us. They speak the 
 sweetest music to our hearts." 
 
 T. "That is beautiful 1" said Lucy, hangbig on the words ; 
 " and you understand the floweis too. Everybody has always 
 laughed at me if I spoke about it, except Matthew. Dear 
 
126 
 
 THK THIKO BKADEB. 
 
 I 
 
 Matthew — he never langhs at me but he shakes his he 
 and says I have wild talk, and he can't make it oat.' 
 *' You love Matthew ?" 
 
 8. " Oh, I love him in my deep heart 1" said Lucy, lie| 
 wax-like cheek and brow flushing with a thrill of feeling. 
 
 " You have, then, two hearts ; and you love sometiniol 
 with one and sometimes with the other ?" 
 
 " Yes, sister, I have an outer heart for everybody ; but nol 
 one is in my inside heart but Matthew and — " she stopped) 
 short. 
 
 9. " And our Lord, now, Lucy ?" 
 " I can't tell," replied Lucy, returning to her old reseneJ 
 
 " No, I think my inside heart is very empty. Let us talk abonti 
 the flowers again. Look at these roses, sister ; their heads! 
 are quite bowed down with their weight ; they cannot keep! 
 in their sweet smell ; it seems as if it burst out from their great I 
 cups. That says something beautiful, but I don't know what." I 
 
 10. " I think it does," replied the nun : " it says that thej , 
 are a faint poor type of that great One who said, ' I am the] 
 Rose of Sharon ;' and whose thorn-crowned head was bo 
 bowed down with his weight of love on the cross, that the < 
 ort^^rflowing scent of it converted first the poor thief, and 
 aft«*rwards thousands of miserable sinners. Let it draw you, 
 raj child, till yon run after those most precious odors, and | 
 mfke them yours forever." 
 
 11. Lucy was quite silent for a few minutes, and then draw- 
 ing out a rich cluster of geraniums, she turned her large eyes 
 full on the nun and said, " These I love best of all, but I 
 never could make out what they said. They all seem to sing 
 together a very rich song that goes through my heart, like a 
 hymn I heard the Spanish sailors sing down on the Parade 
 last summer at night. Can you read these ?" 
 
 12. "Perhaps not in a way that you can understand 
 These may represent the 'royal and special gifts which God 
 bestows on the friends he has chosen to himself. They are 
 set apart and separated from other gifts. They are oidy to 
 be bought at a great price, nay, they aro often of priceless 
 Vjftluo. They cost labor, and pains, and watchmg ; but when 
 
 (i 
 
HOMEWABD BOUND. 
 
 127 
 
 pes bis he* 
 
 kid Lacy, 
 feeling. 
 «^e sometinij 
 
 ^7; butnol 
 slie stoppcdl 
 
 oM reserve,! 
 »« talk aboati 
 
 their headsl 
 cannot keepl 
 « their great I 
 £nowwhot."l 
 YB that the; J 
 t 'lamthej 
 Jad was sof 
 ss, that the j 
 
 thief, and] 
 ' draw you, 
 odors, and 
 
 then draw- 
 large eyes 
 aU, but I 
 •w to sing 
 *rt, like a 
 e Parade 
 
 ierstanA 
 ich God 
 rhey are 
 ' only to 
 priceless 
 at when 
 
 [e work is done, where can we find its like ? Those who 
 Assess them will be the brightest jewels iu his crown at the 
 St day." 
 
 13. " And who can win these gifts ?" said Lucy, breath- 
 8sly awaiting the answer. 
 
 "Those who lorie," replied the nun, and her words seemed 
 
 Lacy the solemn voice of God. 
 
 The teais rushed to her eyes, and she mormnred to herself, 
 [When shall I know hun? When will he JUl my inner 
 
 keafv 
 
 »» 
 
 ■Hi*i li 
 
 1. 
 
 15. HoMEWABD Bound. 
 
 OH I when the hoar to meet again 
 Creeps on — and, speeding o'er the sea, 
 My heart takes np its lengthen'd chain. 
 
 And, link by link, draws nearer thee — 
 When land is hail'd, and from the shore, 
 Gomes off the blessed breath of home, 
 With fragrance from my mother's door, 
 Of flowers forgotten when I come— 
 
128 
 
 THE THIRD READElt. 
 
 
 When port is gaia'd, and, slowly now, 
 The old familiar paths are pass'd, 
 
 And, ent^ing — unconscions bow — 
 I gaze cpon thy face at last, 
 
 And ran to thee, all faint and weak, 
 
 And feel thy tears upon my cheek. 
 2. Ohl if my heart break not with Joy, 
 
 The light of heaven will fairer seem ; 
 And I shall grow once more a boy : 
 
 And, mother ! — 'twill be like a dream, 
 That we were parted thus for years — 
 And once that we have dried our tears. 
 How will the days seem long and bright — 
 
 To meet thee always with the mom. 
 And hear thy blessing every night — 
 
 Thy " dearest," thy " first-bom I" 
 And be no more, as now, in a strange land forlorn? 
 
 16. Luot's Death. 
 
 HOW is Lucy?" asked Mildred of Gattie, as she softljl 
 entered the children's class-room on the morning of the 
 eve of the Octave of the Assumption; " have you seen her J 
 Cattie?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, I have been with Magdalen to talk to her, and 
 to say our office," replied Cattie ; " Magdalen thmks she will 
 die very soon, but I cannot believe it. Oh, she does look bo 
 bright and beautiful—just like an angel I" '' 
 
 2. '* That's why I think she's going to die," replied Mag 
 dalen, who now followed Gattie into the room with her office- 
 book in her hand. "Lucy looks much too beautiful to live; 
 I mean not commonly beautiful, but she has such a wonderful 
 look. Her eyes seem as If they had seen our Blessed Lady 
 already ; and she smiles every now and then to herself, as ii 
 the angels were talking to her." 
 
 3. " So they do, and our liord, too, I am sure," added 
 
LUCY 8 DEATH. 
 
 129 
 
 « she 80% I 
 
 'On seen her, | 
 
 to hep, and 
 nks she will 
 oes look 60 
 
 plied Mag 
 heroflSce. 
 fnl to hve; 
 '^fonder/icl 
 Med Lady 
 raelf, as' if 
 
 Pattio ; "for she said when nobody was speaking, ' Tes, that 
 qaito true — jea, dear Lord ;' Jast as if onr Lord were sitting 
 hj the coach. Oh, I hope we may go again soon and see 
 lerl" 
 
 4. " Sisf ^ayier said we might sit np part of to-night," 
 kplied Magdalen ; " we four are to take it in tarns, and I am 
 ^0 glad we may. Bat now we mast go into school, for the 
 bell is jast going to ring." 
 
 5. The said bell accordingly did ring before Cattle had 
 dished washing her hands; and the half-sad, half-rejoicing 
 
 Igronp in the class-room was dispersed by its well-known sonnd. 
 We shall take the opportanity of walking np to the convent, 
 land into the cool infirmary dormitory, where Lacy lay upon a 
 [large coach, with dear Sister Xavier i)y her side. 
 
 6. The dormitory was long and high, and refreshingly 
 [shaded by outside awnings from the scorching san, so that the 
 
 breezes blew in cool and fhigrant over the garden and from 
 ' the sea beyond. The tnrfy downs oatside the walls looked 
 now green and bright, and now shadowy, as the cloads flew 
 over them ; and beyond, the castle-crowned hill, and distant, 
 pictoresqne old town, the chalk' cliffs washed by the waves, the 
 far-off fleet of fishmg-boats, and the wild everlasting sea,— > 
 coold all be seen by Lacy, as in some lovely Italian landscape, 
 exqaliitely painted. 
 
 i. Bat though at times her eyes were fixed apon the bine 
 sky or bluer sea, her thoughts were not of them. Beaqtiful 
 as was the world without, — ^the glorious " earth-rind" of the 
 external works of God, — ^there were far lovelier visions floating 
 before the eyes of the pure and lo ving soul that was bidduig 
 earthly beauty farewell for her eternal home. 
 
 8. For now, indeed, Lucy was dying. The longing desire 
 of heaven, and the face of her Licamate God, had s0 firetted 
 the frail body, which already inherited the most rapid form of 
 decline, that thread after thread of the delicate frame had 
 snapped, or, as it were, been consumed by the ardent fire within. 
 
 9. A careless observer might have been even now deceived ; 
 bat to a practised eye, the alabaster temples, the starting 
 azare vems, the bright cheek and lips, and the deep, glittering 
 
180 
 
 THE YHISD READER. 
 
 brightness of the eye, told that in a few hours the thirsty 
 soul would be at rest. 
 
 10. ** Sister," whispered Lucy, " will Father Ashnrst cod 
 sopn ?" 
 
 " Very soon, dear child ; it is not three o'clock yet. Jkl 
 you feel worse?" 
 
 " I feel well," replied Lucy, speaking with difficulty, " quiii 
 well ; but oh, I see such lovely things, and I want to get thcre| 
 very much." 
 
 11. The sister listened with breathless attei)i.ion, while LncjJ 
 as if from a heavy dream or half ecstasy, in broken sentencei| 
 continued — 
 
 " No words can tell what they are like .... white shapes,! 
 all snow-white, with gold dew-drops on their wings .... and! 
 they bow down softly all together, like white lilies when the! 
 wmd blows over them. They are going up and up, such 1 1 
 glorious place .... and they (ao me with them .... but! 
 
 where I cannot see There is one there who sits like t 
 
 king, but I cannot see his face ; he says it is not time." 
 
 12. Two sisters at the moment came softly into the dormi- 
 tory, one of whom whispered something to Sister Xavier ; the I 
 other was Mother Begis, the novice-mistress, whom Lucy bad I 
 always greatly loved. But now she did not perceive her ; and 1 
 as they quietly sat down behind the couch, she again cpoke : 
 
 13. "And now, I think, it would be time, if Father Ashurst 
 were to come and bring me my last food. I think if he were 
 here, I could beg him so much that he could not leave me be- 
 hind. Dear Sister Xavier, will you ask Father Ashurst to 
 come now?" 
 
 14. "He is coming, my child," replied the sister, softly 
 rising, and bending over her ; " but, Lucy, you promised to 
 be very good and patient." 
 
 " Yes, sister, I was wrong. Indeed I will be good. I will 
 wait ; but every moment seems a year. I cannot think hov 
 you can be always so patient when you see those shapes, and 
 see his face so often, and hear his voice. Now I see them 
 going up again. 
 
 15. " Oh, how many, many thousands, with their hands to 
 
LUCY 8 DKATII. 
 
 131 
 
 nher, and their long, long wings, and their snow-white robes I 
 [nd there are more, more, with bare heads, /tnd crunson 
 fosses on their breasts, and bright armor, and cloaks all 
 fashed in the blood of One. Oh, let me go with theml 
 |)iow me thy face, and let me live 1" 
 16. Sister Xavier rose and glided away ; bat she soon re* 
 limed with a religious, at the sight of whom the sisters 
 Dse, and removed farther from Lacy's couch. It was the 
 lotber Superior, who quietly took her place beside Lucy's 
 lillow, and wiped the death-drops that now stood thickly on 
 fcr transparent brow. 
 
 " Reverend mother,'' said the child, catching hold of her 
 
 [and, and kissing it with joyful respect, " where am I ?" Then 
 
 aediately she relapsed into her former dreamy state. 
 
 n. "There is one sitting by his side. She is coming soon 
 
 jfor me, for her hands are spread out towards me. O Mary ! 
 
 I Mother ! Mary, lead me to Jesus 1 . . . . Gome quickly, dear 
 
 Hesus; I am very tired of waiting. Oh, let me see thee I 
 
 lioa art sweeter than honey and the honeycomb. Thou 
 
 rt calling me to be crowned on the mom^tains. How long 
 
 bare I cried to thee to come !...." Lucy sank back, gasp- 
 
 |iog on the pillow ; her breath coming thick and thicker from 
 
 ber laboring breast, while the drops stood on her forehead like 
 
 irain. Her eyes opened, and their depths seemed deeper than 
 
 lerer. " Food ! food !" she gasped, " the end is coming." 
 
 18. At that moment the faint sound of a distant bell was 
 [heard coming along the corridors. It was borne so famtly at 
 
 first, that the sisters did not observe it; but the first sound 
 
 I was enough for the ear of the listener. To her it was the 
 
 " cry of the voice" of the Beloved. She sprang up from the 
 
 lows, clasped her hands together, and gazed at the door of 
 
 the dormitory with her whole soul in her eyes. 
 
 19. Sister Xavier immediately perceiving that the blessed 
 sacrament was approaching, went out with Mother Regis to 
 meet it. The little altar had been freshly prepared by the 
 infirmarian with large bouquets of flowers, and was now lifted 
 by tho other sister to the foot of Lucy's couch, at a little dis- 
 tance from it. Nearer and nearer came the bell. The acolytes 
 
132 
 
 TIIK TIlIliD KKADRB. 
 
 entered, two and two, with lighted candles ; then all the i 
 ten ; and lastly came Father Ashnrst, in sarplice, Tell, i 
 Btole, bearing the blensed sacrament in the ciborlom, from 
 chapel. The " children of Mary" stole in behind. 
 
 20. Lucy's glorious eyes were upraised to the Sacred Hoi 
 and fixed with such adoring love as filled the witnesses withi 
 iiwful joy. "Jesus," she said, and the clear tones of 
 young voice sounded through the breathless stilhiess lilce ty 
 voice of an angel, — " Jesus, my food, my strength, my lift! 
 come to my thirsty soul. Now I see thy face. It is enoug)i( 
 I come into thy precious, precious wounds !" 
 
 21. She received the bread of life, the strength and helpfoJ 
 her last Journey, and immediately sank back on the pillonl 
 Her hands were clasped ; her deep eyes fixed : a bright, beai-| 
 enly smile flitted across her face. "Jesus, O Jesus! novl| 
 see thee I Jesus, Mary, come 1" 
 
 22. The long, level rays of the evening sun streamed npoiil 
 the conch, g^dhig the angelic face and shining waves of hair, 
 the smile yet lingering, the lips yet apart, the hands still geih( 
 tly clasped upon the breast. 
 
 The pilgrim was gone on her way ref^hed ; the wanderaj 
 was at home. 
 
 17. Atjtobioobapht of a Boss. 
 
 ON a fine morning in June, I opened my eyes for the firsts 
 time on as lovely a scene as could be imagmed. I was in 
 the heart of a most beautiful garden filled with flowers. 
 Fuschsias, geraniums, jasmmes, tulips, and lilies were my 
 companions. I saw them all wide awake, and smilmg throagh 
 the dew upon their bright lids ii^oyouB greeting to the moro- 
 ing sun. A gentle breeze would sometimes wander by, and 
 then the tears of rejoicing would fall upon the delicate blades 
 of grass at our feet. 
 
 2. The dew made the robes of my neighbors as bright as ii 
 covered with diamonds, so that I cast a look npon my own 
 pink vesture, to see if I were likewise adorned with the same 
 
AUTOBIi ORAPUY Of A ROSE. 
 
 188 
 
 r 
 fth and help fi 
 >n the piUowJ 
 * bright, hea J 
 Jesual nowjl 
 
 » for the firstl 
 ^' I was in 
 'ith flowers, 
 es were mj 
 ling throogh 
 ;o the mora- 
 der by, and 
 icate blades 
 
 Hory. As I bowed my head to Inspect myself, a few drops 
 If the crystal water, condensed at nightfall, fell upon the gmsa 
 It my feet, and Arom this I learned that I was indeed gifted 
 ]rith as beantifal gems as were those around me. 
 8. Let me describe to you one of the little community of 
 irhich I was a member — a sister rose-bud growing at my side, 
 kt is trae that she bad not opened her glowing heart to the 
 jfresh breezes and to the sunshine, as I had done, bat the 
 bcaaty and fragrance thus concealed were so sweetly promised, 
 that I am sure nothing could be more lovely. 
 
 4. Spreading tenderly, her calyx held her heart, bursting 
 jwith the wealth of its own beauty, lest the wooing winds 
 jshoold call forth her fragrance prematurely ; and two sister 
 
 baby rose-buds rested their little heads almost upon her cheek. 
 Pretty twins, these baby rose-buds I The tellrtale zephyr told 
 me that they would be as beautiful as the one I am now de> 
 I scribing, when she, poor thing, had faded away. 
 
 5. Now, you see, my heart first tasted sorrow ; for hereto- 
 fore I had not heard of decay or death ; and the emotion 
 aronsed by this thought agitated me so violently, that my dew- 
 diamonds were almost all cast, like worthless bubbles, to the 
 ^onnd. This joy, this sunshine, this fragrance, this beauty, 
 was bom to fade— or rather we flowers, who love all these, 
 and treasure them in our hearts, toe must fade, and so the joy, 
 and fragrance, and beauty must die. But my beautiful sister 
 was lovely enough to be immortal — and I shut my heart 
 against the story of the zephyr, determined not to believe in 
 clouds till clouds should overshadow me. 
 
 6. The bright green leaves spread their glittering palms to 
 catch the sunshine for the fair creature they were ho proud to 
 enckcle, and every motion of the parent stem brought a flood 
 of smiles to the face of my peerless sister. 
 
 7. A beautiful creature, endowed with wings, and with a 
 throat colored like the rainbow, only with hues more soft, 
 played about her like an embodied breeze ; now darting, with 
 a motion that made it invisible, up into the air, and in j. mo- 
 ment swaymg, with a musical hum of wings, around my rose- 
 neighbor, and making her sunny vesture tremble with the 
 
134 
 
 TUK THIRD HEADER. 
 
 happy emotions of her heart ; then, with kisses and care 
 on my sister's stainless brow, the wonderful creatare was loi 
 in the air above me, and I think that the hnmmmg-bird mn! 
 have gone to a place where there is no death. I think it J 
 with the breath of these beautiful beings that the rainbow i 
 colored, and with their brightness that the stars are lighted. 
 
 8. I saw strange, lai^e beings, with power in every motioij 
 bending over ns, and afterwards learned that they were called 
 men. They held dominion over us, and though some scorneil 
 our gentle natures, they who were pure and good among theoj 
 were very tender to us, and could not bear to see us wonndei 
 
 9. At noon of my first day, when the shadow of the mon 
 tain-ash waving over our heads completely hid me from 
 sun, for which kindness I was deeply grateful, as the rays, sol 
 cheering in the morning, were almost scorching now, one oil 
 the daughters of men, rob^ in white, came and kneeled besidel 
 me, and laid her pure cheek close to mine, and then with heij 
 eyes she talked to me. 
 
 10. " Rose,'' said she, " beautiful rose, thou art an emblem { 
 of my blessed mother," and here a dew more pure and sweet 
 than the drops I had sacrificed in the morning at the thought 
 of death and decay, floated along the dark fringes of her M, 
 and I could not hear the voice from her eyes until those pee^ 
 less gems had faUen upon my bosom. Then it seemed to ma | 
 tliat I could hear and see thmgs more wonderful than were 
 ever given to rose before to hear and see. 
 
 11. ** Beautiful rose 1'' she continued, "lift thy royal head, 
 and look eastward; thou beholdest there a buil^g most 
 sacred to our hearts, for it contains the King of Heaven — th« 
 Creator of the world — ^the Author of my being and of thine. 
 Lovely flower, ages and ages ago, longer ago than thou or I 
 can think to measure, in the glorious country beyond the stars 
 —in heaven — ^where stands the eternal throne of our King, a 
 beautiful angel, a being of power and light, rebelled against 
 his God, and was cast out of his holy home forever. Then 
 the world was created. 
 
 12. " It was made as perfect and delightful as our Heavenly 
 Father could frame it, and there was neither sin, nor team, 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A K08K. 
 
 185 
 
 [es and care, 
 ■eature wag Ju 
 ling-bird mu 
 I think it [ 
 the rainbowi 
 ^re %hte4 1 
 every motion 
 'ey were called 
 some scomail 
 •d among thei^ 
 '6 as woonde 
 of the moo 
 me from . 
 M the rays, i 
 S now, one ofl 
 Reeled besidel 
 then with herl 
 
 "^ an emblem i 
 are and Bweet 
 t the thought i 
 « of her lids, 
 '^ those pee^ I 
 eemed to ma 
 ul than were i 
 
 royal head, 
 lilding most 
 [eaven— tho 
 id of thine. 
 "» thou or I 
 id the stars 
 ►nr King, a 
 led against 
 wr. Theu 
 
 ' Heavenly 
 nor tears, 
 
 Seath, nor sorrow there. In this garden of Otod was man 
 [created. He was formed holy, sinless, and pure, hnt free 
 las the bright angel who, with bis brethren, cAose to ques- 
 ] the power of the Onmipotent. The name of this angel 
 ] Lucifer, and his dominion was established in oiUer dark- 
 \, far away from the eternal fountain of all light. 
 
 " Beautiful rose," said the maiden, " thou who art nur 
 
 by, and wouldst die but for the light, thou canst not 
 
 Iseive of this outer darkness — but it exists, and the fallen 
 
 bis seek to blacken the universe with its gloom. The firi^t 
 
 sankind, who were to enjoy eternal light so long as they 
 
 I obedient to God, were discovered by the prince of dark- 
 
 ^, and he took the form of a reptile, and tempted them to 
 
 the truth of the Almighty Father. They believed his 
 
 |tle words and fell, and were banished from the garden as 
 
 cifer had been banished from heaven." 
 
 18. Atjtobiogbaphy of a Eobb — contintced. 
 
 WE^T rose, I dare not ' tell thee the wretchedness this 
 disobedience brought upon man. There came sickness, 
 
 id sorrow, and sighing — there came hatred, crime, and death. 
 
 lur Heavenly Father saw this wretchedness ; saw the triumph 
 Lacifer and his rebel army, and he so loved the world that 
 sent his only-begotten Son upon earth to be a man — ^to 
 
 iffer poverty, to 8u£fer temptation, to suffer ignominy and 
 
 |eatb — ^that thus man might be saved from eternal death. 
 
 2. "This God, hicamate in humanity, was bom of a spotless 
 irgin— spotless and perfect as thou art, O Rose, and thus art 
 ihoa in thy beauty her emblem, just as one little fleeting sun- 
 leara is a type of the innumerable hosts of snns and worlds 
 that revolve in the heavens. 
 
 3. " This God-man, whose name was Jesus, was slain cruelly 
 by those whom he came to save. He died on the cross ; but 
 Ibofore he left the world, he gave to man his body and blood, 
 Ms divine humanity, as food to nourish his soul. By this 
 
136 
 
 THE THIRD BEADEB. 
 
 means he unites himself to ns, and we who love hii4 delig 
 offer what is richest and dearest in return for his unbon 
 love ; for by his death he has snatched us from the poi 
 the prince of darkness, and in exchange has given ns aj| 
 inheritance with him in heaven, where there is no deatl 
 decay." 
 
 4. The white-robed daughter of men ceased speali 
 rather her gentle eyes, that told this all to me, were tn 
 away eastward, to where the dome of the palace, where i 
 the King of kings, glittered calmly in the sun. 
 
 5. She looked long and lovingly ; and the ^fiw, so pria 
 and sweet, flowed in two pearly streams down her fair f J 
 and I came near worshipping her, becaase so great tendeq 
 seized my heart as thus I gazed upon her. But the speal 
 eyes turned once more, and said, "What shall we offer?" 
 from the inmost depths of my heart swelled the fragrant ( 
 that the twilight had stored there. " What shall / offerl* 
 repeated ; '' I who am so poor in treasure ; I who have notli 
 but my beauty, my freshness, and my unsullied purity? . 
 
 6. "What can I offer to God for his generous love tol 
 race, beautiful maiden? He gave the life of a Man-Ood. 
 bear me to his presence I I can do no more than give m^ 
 to him I Take me, then, dear maiden — I would lie at his fij 
 Mayhap he may accept the odor of my sacrifice, and beari 
 in his bosom, where there is no decay or death 1 Hasten, i 
 his love draws me, and I would tarry here no longer 1" 
 
 1. The young lover of Jesus severed me gently from : 
 companions, and clasping me to her heart, bore me to the fee 
 of her Saviour. As we passed forward to the sanctuary, f 
 made the sign of the cross — ^because Jesus died upon the en 
 — ^by passing her hand from her forehead to her breast, and tin 
 from shoulder to shoulder ; but before she did this, she dipp 
 the tips of her fingers in holy water, and some of it fell up 
 me, and I experienced sensations I had never before ima^ci| 
 
 8. As I rested there at the foot of the altar, it seemed t 
 me that more life came to me from those sunple drops tbai 
 had ever been bestowed by the heaviest -shower or gentlei 
 rain before. The maiden now bent over me, and her eyes ven 
 
AUTOBIOOSAI'HT OF A BOSE. 
 
 137 
 
 tenderly upon me, and again her voice nvhispered to my 
 
 ;: 
 
 " humble, gentle, mnocent rose," said she ; " thou who 
 ; so soon to pass away, let me learn from thy devotion, and 
 elj give to my God aZ2 that he has so freely bestowed upon 
 ,; however little, however much, sweet rose, thou hast 
 bght me to offer all as the just due of my Creator I'' Then 
 white hand veiled her eyes, and her bosom heaved, and, in 
 |e great tear that fell upon me, I saw her beautiful soul mir- 
 red. I saw what I had never dreamed of before. 
 J 10. Lucifer, the fallen angel, was striving to lure this noble 
 [ing to disobedience, that she might be diSven from the par- 
 se of her Redeemer's love. This was why the tears fell ; 
 was why her bosom heaved. Then I saw an angel of 
 ^ht with his powerful wings sweep through the ahr, and the 
 Lys from his glorious brow dazzled the eyes of the prince of 
 arkness, and he reeled away from the presence of the weepmg 
 ttnghter of earth. 
 
 11. Oh t then what an ocean of sweetness flowed over that 
 ^mpted soul, and bore her unresisting to the eternal fountain 
 ' all sweetness. She pressed her cheek once more to mine in 
 ^or of the mother of her Saviour, and music issued from her 
 \ low and soft as the voice of a night-bird. 
 
 12. " Thou gavest thy life to God, dear flower, unquestion- 
 Thou hadst no assurance of immortality in return. In 
 
 be name of the Fiither, and of the Son, and of the Holy 
 
 }host, I bless thee, beautiful flower, for I have learned of 
 [bee a lesson that, by the grace of God, will earn for me life 
 ktemal. Be my witness, humble Hose 1 be my witness, angels 
 |i07ering near me I I give my life, my love, my bemg through 
 
 I tirnea to thee, my bleeding, suffering, patient Jesus ! Hold 
 t to my pledge, dear Saviour, by the might of thy tenderness 
 and let me never swerve from the integrity of my purpose, 
 
 ound this day toith my heart to thy dear cross!" 
 
 13. Night fell over us both, and I slept with the sweet mur* 
 Imor of that voice still vibrathig the chambers of my soul. 
 iThrough the season of my freshness, I daily caught the incense 
 lof this maiden's devotion arising before the altar ; and, by a 
 
138 
 
 THR THIRD READER. 
 
 seeming chance, after my leaves had withered and fadei 
 was concealed from the sight of the sacristan, and eveni 
 months lay happily at the feet of the Redeemer of the wo^ 
 Thus I witnessed the formal consecration of this maiden to I 
 will of her chosen one. 
 
 14. She was arrayed in white, and her brow was crov 
 with bads from the rose-tree that gave me birth. She ! 
 not that I beheld her then, but I felt that my image had neij 
 faded from her heart. The pure folds of her snowy yeili 
 over her shoulders like the plumage of wings at rest ; 
 remembered the angel who had put to flight the prince of i 
 ness, and I was sure he was near her ; for her face had becod 
 like his, and I think it was because he was so constantly! 
 her side, and because she loved hun so. I think she was I 
 earthly mirror of l;he heavenly bemg who protected her fro 
 danger, and that her face and bearing reflected his beantji 
 grace, as the tear-drop that feU upon me from her eyes i 
 fleeted her soul at that moment. 
 
 15. I never saw this maiden more ; but I thmk her 
 will lead her to heaven. Yesterday, as I lay here, a litl 
 wilted remnant of a rose, the sacristan raised me in her fin 
 and supposing me to be a particle of incense that had fa 
 she placed me m the censer. Thus, when the benediction i 
 this evening is pronounced, I shall have fulfilled my miss 
 and shall ascend upon the gentle clouds that then will ov 
 shadow the tabernacle of the Most High. 
 
 19. Winter, 
 
 rpHE scenes around us have assumed a new and chillmg ap 
 X pearance. The trees are shorn of their foliage, the hedges 
 are laid bare, the fields and favorite walks have lost theiti 
 3harms, and the garden, now that it yields no perfumes and I 
 offers no fruits, is, like a friend in adversity, forsaken. The I 
 tuneful tribes are dumb, the cattle no longer play in the mcad-l 
 ows, the north wind blows. '' He sendeth abroad his ice-liue| 
 
WINTKR. 
 
 139 
 
 bis: who can stand before his cold?" We rush in for 
 
 pr. 
 
 I But winter is not without its uses. It aids the system 
 
 and vegetation ; it kills the seeds of infection ; it refines 
 [)lood ; it strengthens the nerves ; it braces the whole 
 Snow is a warm covering for the grass ; and, while it 
 ^ds the tender blades from nipping frosts, it also nourishes 
 
 growth. When the snow thaws, it becomes a genial 
 are to the soil into which it sinks ; and thus the glebe 
 blenished with nutriment to produce the bloom of spring 
 the bounty of autumn. 
 
 
 p. Winter has also its pleasuies. I love to hear the roar- 
 
 of the wind ; I love to see the figures which the frost has 
 
 ated on the glass ; I love to watch the redbreast with his 
 
 Dder legs, standing at iae window, and knockmg with his 
 
 1 to ask for the crumbs which fall from the table. Is it not 
 
 [asant to view a landscape whitened with snow ? To gaze 
 
 on the trees and hedges dressed in such sparkling lustre ? 
 
 behold the rising sun laboring to pierce the morning fog, 
 
 gradually causing objects to emerge from it by little and 
 
 |tle, and appear in their owr forms ; while the mist rolls up 
 
 I side of the hill and is seen no more? 
 
140 
 
 THK THIRD KEADRB. 
 
 4. Winter is a season in which we should feci graJ 
 for our comforts. How much more temperate is our ci( 
 than that of many other countries ! Think of those wli 
 within the polar circle, dispersed, exposed to beasts of] 
 then* poor huts fumishmg only wretched refuge 1 
 dure months of perpetual night, and by the absence oil 
 almost absolute barrenness reigns around. But wef 
 houses to defend us, and clothes to cover us, and fires to^ 
 us, and beds to comfort us, and provisions to nourish ns, ! 
 becoming, in our circumstances, is gratitude to God I 
 
 5. This season calls upon us to exercise benevolence, 
 we are enjoying every comfoi't which the tenderness of '. 
 dence can aJQTord, let us think of the mdigent and the i 
 Let us think of those whose poor hovels and shattered ] 
 cannot screen them front the pierdng cold. Let us tli 
 the old and the infirm, of the sibk and the diseased. OliJ 
 ** the blessmg of them that are ready to pOrish come nponj 
 Who would not deny himself superfluities, and somel 
 more, that his bounty may visit " the fatherless and thei 
 ows m their affliction." 
 
 6. This season Is instructive as an emblem. Here M 
 picture of thy life : thy flowery spring, thy summer strenj 
 thy sober autumn, are all hastemng into winter. Decay i 
 death will soon, very soon, lay all waste 1 What proT 
 hast thou made for the evil day? Hast thou been laying | 
 treasure in heaven ? hast thou been laboring for that wea 
 which endureth unto everlasting life ! 
 
 7. Soon spring will dawn agam upon us with its beauty a 
 its songs. And "we, according to his promise, look fori 
 heavens and a new earth wherein dwelleth righteousness." 
 wjmter there ; but we shall flourish in perpetual spring, in eij 
 ess youth, in everlastmg life t 
 
 ■I 
 
THE SNOW. 
 
 141 
 
 .^'>:f-^. 
 
 20. The ^'now. 
 
 1. rpHE snow I the snow I 'tis a pleasant thing 
 J- To watch it falling, falling 
 Down npon earth with noiseless wing 
 
 As at some spirit's callmg ; 
 Each flake is a fairy parachute, 
 
 From teeming clouds let down; 
 And eai'th is still, and air is mnte, 
 
 As frost's enchanted zone. 
 
 8. The snow ! the snow ! — behold the trees 
 
 Their fingery boughs stretch o it, 
 The blossoms of the sky to seize, 
 
 As they duck and dive about ; 
 The bare hills plead for a covering, 
 
 And, ere the gray twilight, 
 Around their shoulders broad shall cling 
 
 An arctic cloak of white. 
 
142 
 
 THE TIIIBD BEADEK. 
 
 t\ 
 
 8. The snow 1 the snow ! — alas I to me 
 
 It speaks of far-ofif days, 
 When a boyish skater, mingling free 
 
 Amid the merry maze ; 
 Mothinks I see the broad ice still, 
 
 And my nerves all jangling feel, 
 Blending with tones of voices shrill 
 
 The i-ing of the slider's heel. 
 
 4. The snowl tke snow I — soon dnsky night 
 Drew his morky curtains round 
 
 Low earth, while a star of lustre bright 
 Peep'd from the blue profound. « 
 
 Tet what cared we for ^1^'^g leaf 
 
 Or warning belt ««r^/ *ui,ei 
 With shout and^ery r -Iuj^ j& by, j 
 
 And found the biiM "We sought. 
 
 I» The snow I the snow I — 'twas ours to wag«^ 
 
 How oft, a mimic war. 
 Each white ball tossingin wild rage, 
 
 That left a gorgeous scar ; 
 While doublets dark were powdw'd o'er, 
 
 Till darkness none 'could find, ' 
 And valorous chiefs had wounds before, 
 
 And caitiff chiefs behind. 
 
 5. The snow I the snow I — I see him yet, 
 
 That piled-up giant grim, 
 To startle horse and traveller set, 
 
 With Titan gurth of limb. 
 We hoped, oh, ice-ribb'd Winter bright I 
 
 Thy sceptre could have screen'd him ; 
 But traitor Thaw stole forth by night. 
 
 And cruelly guillotined him t 
 
 7. The snow ! the snow I — Lo I Eve reveals 
 Her starr'd map to the moon, 
 
USES OV WATBB. 
 
 148 
 
 And o'ei hush'd earth a radiance steals 
 More bland than that of noon ; 
 
 The fur-robed genii of the Pole 
 Darce o'er oar mountains white, 
 
 Chain up the billows as thej roll, 
 And pearl the caves with light. 
 
 8. The snow ! the snow 1 — It brings to mind 
 
 A thousand happy things; 
 And but one sad one — 'tis to find 
 
 Too sure that Time hath wings I , 
 Oh, ever sweet is sight or sound. 
 
 That tells of long ago, 
 And I gaze around with thoughts profound, 
 
 Upon tl^and' '^'" ""®'^* 
 
 21. TTsss OF Water. 
 
 I OW common, and yet how beautiful and how pure, is a 
 drop of water I See it,^ as it issues from the rock to sup- 
 |the spring and the stream below. See how its meander- 
 through the plams, and its torrents over the cliffs, add 
 Jthe richness and the beauty of the landscape. Look into 
 factory standing by a waterfall, in which every drop is 
 fal to perform its part, and hear the groaning and rust- 
 [of the wheels, the clattering of shuttles, and the buzz of 
 B, which, under the direction of their fair attendants, 
 I sapplymg myriads of fur purchasers with fabrics from the 
 ^ton-plant, the sheep, and the silkworm. 
 Is any one so stupid as not to admire the splendor of 
 nunbow, or so ignorant as not to know that it is pro- 
 Iced by drops of water, as they break away from the clouds 
 |ich had confined them, and are making a quick visit to our 
 th to renew its verdure and increase its animation ? How 
 JBfol ia the gentle dew, in its nightly visits, to allay the 
 brching heat of a summer's sun I 
 |3. And the autumn's firost, how beautifoUy it bedecks tb4 
 
144 
 
 THE THIRD RKAU£B. 
 
 trees, the shrubs, and the (^rass : though it strips them of i 
 summer's verdure, and warns them that they must boon 
 ccive the buffetings of the winter's tempest ! This igi 
 water, which has given up its transparency for its beai 
 whiteness and its elegant crystals. The snow, too, — vbj 
 that but these same pure drops, thrown into crystals by I 
 tcr's icy hand? and does not the first summer's sun re| 
 them to the same limpid drops ? 
 
 4. The majestic river, and the boiuidless ocean, — what] 
 they? Are they not made of drops of water? Hovl 
 river steadily pursues its course from the motmtain'sl 
 down the declivity, over the cli£f, and through the plain,! 
 ing with it every thing in its course I How many ni^ 
 ships does the ocean float upon its bosom I How manyf 
 sport in its waters 1 How does it^Srma a lodging-place] 
 the Amazon, the Mississippi, the Da£be.^ the Rhine, the I 
 ges, the Lena, and the H<nii^ Ho f 
 
 6. How piercmg are these pure limpid drops ! How < 
 they find their way into the depths of the earth, and ctchiI 
 solid rock I How many thousand streams, hidden from ( 
 view by mountain masses, are steadily pursuing theur com 
 deep from the surface which forms our standing-place for 
 few short days 1 In the air, too, how it diffuses it: 
 Where can a particle of air be found, which does not m 
 an atom of water ? I 
 
 6. How much would a famishing man give for a few of tb 
 pure limpid drops of water I And where do we use it in < 
 daUy sustenance ? or rather, where do we not use it ? TVii 
 portion of the food that we have taken during our lives, 
 not contain it ? What part of our body, which limb, vlii 
 organ, is not moistened with this same faithful servant ? E(j 
 
 s our blood, that free liquid, to (jrculate through our veif 
 without it ? 
 
 7. How gladly does the faithful horse, or the patient o!,| 
 his toilsome journey, arrive at the water's brink ! Andi 
 faithful dog, patiently followng his master's track,— tow e 
 gerly does he lap the water from the clear fountam he me< 
 in his way I 
 
THB DTINO CHRISTIAN TO UI8 HOUL. 
 
 145 
 
 ^ean,— what 
 er? Howl 
 lountain's 
 the plain J 
 many mijj 
 ow m&njt 
 ^ging-place] 
 ihine, thei 
 
 »psl Hoirl 
 hi and erall 
 dden fronn 
 f their com 
 ng-place fo^ 
 diffuses Hi 
 >es not com 
 
 a few of tli 
 B use it in i 
 >it ? Wii 
 our lives, ( 
 h limb, wlii 
 viint? H(| 
 gh our Tfli 
 
 Whose heart ought not to overflow with gratitude to 
 abundant Giver of this pure liquid, which his own hand 
 deposited in the deep, and diffused through the floating 
 and the solid earth ? Is it the farmer, whose fields, by 
 gentle dew and the abundant rain, bring forth fatness ? 
 lit the mechanic, whose saw, lathe, sphdle, and shuttle are 
 J>Tcd by this faithful servant ? 
 
 [9. Is it the merchant, on his return firom the noise and the 
 plexities of business, to the table of his family, richly sup- 
 ped with the varieties and the luxuries of the four quarters 
 the globe, produced by the abundant rain, and transported 
 ^rosB the mighty but yielding ocean ? 
 10. Is it the physician, on his admmistering to his patient 
 bme gentle be*, erage, or a more active healer of the disease 
 htch threatens t Is it the priest, whose profession it is to 
 ake others feel — and that oy feeling himself, that the slight- 
 st favor and the richest blessing are from the same source, 
 Dd from the same abundant andconstant Giver ? Who, that 
 till has a glass of water and a crumb of bread, is net uu- 
 Ettefnl to complain ? 
 
 The Dying Chbistian to bis Soul. 
 
 1. TTITAL spark of heavenly flame, 
 
 T Quit, oh, quit this mortal fhtme 1 
 T^mblii^, hoping, lingermg, flying, 
 Oh, the pab, the bliss of dying 1 
 Oease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 
 And let me languish into life. 
 
 2. Harkt they whisper; angels say, 
 Sister Spirit, come away ; 
 What is this absorbs me quite T 
 Steals my senses, shnts my sight, 
 Drowns my sphits, draws my breath : 
 Tell me, my soul, can this be death 7 
 
 7 
 
146 
 
 TUB THIRD BKADSS. 
 
 8. The world recedes ; it diBsppeara f 
 Heaven opens on my eyes I my ears 
 
 "W ith sounds seraphio ring. 
 Lend, lend your wings ; I moont, I Qy % 
 Grave t where is thy victory! 
 
 Death I where is thy sting t 
 
 22. H'lioht into Eotpt. 
 
 HEROD was impatient for the sages' return Arom Beth 
 hem, till finding they had slighted the charge he gari 
 them, and were gone home another way, he was hurried intti 
 a transport of anger, which deluged the country with innoceul 
 blood. By an act, the most inhuman that ever was done hj, 
 the worst of tyrants, he has shown the world what his inten-l 
 tion was, when he so diligently interrogated the sages, and so] 
 strictly ordered them to bring him back an account of the child] 
 they were in quest of. 
 
 2. But God, who laughs at man's presumptuous folly, si- 
 lently defeated the tyrant's malice, and made his bloody craeltj | 
 instrumental to the glory of the innocent. An angel in the I 
 night informed Joseph of the murderous design that Herod ' 
 had upon the child's life, and admonished him to save both 
 hiiA and tme mother by a speedy flight into Egypt. Joseph 
 in thii iMtance is a perfect model of that prompt obedience 
 whicb «H>ry Ghnstian owes to the commands of God. He 
 was coamiMMled to rise that moment, to leave his native conn- 
 try, and iy off with the child and his mother, not towards the 
 sages, <^ to any friendly nation, but into Egypt, aiudst the 
 iddatro; ^ 9aA natural enemies of the Jewish people. 
 
 .3. The tender a^e of the infant, the delicate compleslon of 
 the virgin mother, seemdd to require every comfc^ that his 
 own pri\ ate dwelling could have afforded. But titat sleadei 
 comfort wui to be giv«a up ; it was dark nii^t, and bo time 
 
 \, Herod bege 
 Atened by di 
 It would have 
 L« for every ' 
 [t years, in an 
 jrbarous shifta 
 lliticsl An I' 
 lembie upon W 
 tt,hodrenwhe« 
 >iiB destructi* 
 
 mm of ^**^ 
 
 koymcnt of » 
 
 6. But no 1 
 
 al enjoymeni 
 
 ^hile it opem 
 
 loke: nor c 
 
 !t it ; amids 
 
 lone escaped 
 
 1 No mal 
 
 lecrces of ( 
 
 )\ease8 to d 
 
 rhole world 
 
FLIGHT INTO K0T1»T. 
 
 147 
 
 ! lost in making provisioD for a long and laborious Journey. 
 
 J faithful guardian of the Word Incarnate rone upon the 
 
 [notice that was given him, punctually fulfilled every tittle 
 
 be order, took the child and bis mother, and set off for 
 
 pt, uncertain when or whether he should ever return or 
 
 The love he bore to Jesas, the desire he had of serving 
 
 I to the extent of his power, softened every hardship, and 
 
 je him forget the labors of an unexpected banishment. 
 
 1. The divine Jesus might have rendered himself invisible, 
 
 \j a visible exertion of his power might have disarmed 
 
 hd, as he did Pharaoh in ancient times ; but he chose to 
 
 [for the encouragement of those who were afterwards to 
 
 br banishment for his sake ; by his own example he would 
 
 [met bis followers, that in the heat of persecution they 
 
 laudably fly to save their lives, in hopes of some future 
 
 Herod began to rage with all the violence that Jealousy, 
 
 ;htened by disappointment, could inspire. With a cruelty 
 
 |it would have shocked the miA«t savage barbarian, ho gave 
 
 jm for every male child tWat had been bom within the two 
 
 ft years, in and about I9«t)ilehem, to be killed. To such 
 
 irbarous shifts was t^ admbitious monarch driven by his 
 
 (litics! An innocent) babe, be knew not who, made him 
 
 emble upon lus tluN«e ; he tried his utmost skill to find hun 
 
 ht, ho drem;hed tlw country with harmless blood to make sure 
 
 rjiis destruction, he filled the air with the shrieks and lamen- 
 
 pons of diaoonaolate mothers, that he might draw out the 
 
 pjojment of a crown to a somewhat greater length. - 
 
 6. But DO honors purchased by such crimes could give any 
 al enjoymrat. His cruelty heaped confusion upon himself, 
 
 ^hile it opened the gate of happiness to those who felt its 
 oke : nor ooold it n^ beyond the bonuds that God had 
 et it ; amidst the thousands of slaughtered innocents. He 
 done escaped, who alone was aimed at. 
 
 7. No malidous efforts of the wicked can ever frustrate the 
 decrees of God; their hatred or their love become, as he 
 pleases to direct, the instruments of his holy designs; the 
 rhole world, combined with all the powern of darkness, can 
 
148 
 
 THB TIIIKU RKADKR. 
 
 DOTer stop the execution of what an omnipotent Frovij 
 has once decreed. 
 
 8. If once assured of the divine will, we have but toi 
 it without fear : if in the station of our duty we have anytj 
 to suffer, we suffer for justice* sake. Herod's cruelty I 
 the glory of the innocents : his sword could hurt their 1 
 only ; their souls were sanctified by the effusion of their ]^ 
 their memory through every age is celebrated on earth; I 
 reign eternally with God in heaven. 
 
 14. Alas, all 
 
 Whyl 
 
 "Wert til 
 
 Whei 
 
 33. The Fbekp Bird. 
 
 1. "p ETURN, return, my bird I 
 
 Xv I have dress'd thy cage with flowers, 
 
 'lis lovely as a violet bank 
 In the heart of forest bowers. 
 
 2. " I am free, I am free, — I return no more I 
 The weary time of the cage is o'er I 
 Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high, 
 The sky is around me — the blue- bright sky I 
 
 8. " The hills lie beneath me, spread far and dear. 
 With their glowing heath-flowers and bounding deer, 
 I see the waves flash on the sunny shore — 
 I am fipee, I am free, — I return no more 1" 
 
 "From 
 Through 
 And its < 
 Sigh'dfc 
 
 1. Wasi 
 Tel 
 Ihavi 
 In5 
 
 "Itflasi 
 With tl 
 With tl 
 Woo ID 
 
 I9. "Myt 
 Mykii 
 Andtl 
 Andt 
 
 10 Fai 
 
 ] 
 
 An 
 
 111. "If^ 
 Thoi 
 The; 
 Toi 
 
THB FREED BIBD. 
 
 149 
 
 14. Alaa, alas, my bird I 
 
 Why seek'st thoa to be free? 
 Wert thou not blest in thy little bower, 
 When thy song breathed nanght bnt glee? 
 
 " Did my song of summer breathe nanght bnt gleet 
 Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee? 
 Oh 1 hadst thou known its deep meaning well, 
 It had tales of a bummg heart to tell. 
 
 "From a dream of the forest that music sprang, 
 Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang ; 
 And its dying fall, when it soothed thee best, 
 Slgh'd for wild flowers and a leafy nest." 
 
 7. Was it with thee thus, my bird? 
 
 Yet thine eye flash'd clear and bright I 
 I have seen the glance of the sudden joy 
 In its quick and dewy light. 
 
 " It flash'd with the flre of a tameless race. 
 With the soul of the wild wood, my native place I 
 With the spirit that panted through heaven to soar-— 
 Woo me not back — I return no more I 
 
 1 9. " My home is high, amidst rocking trees. 
 My kindred things are the star and breeze. 
 And the fount unchecked in its lonely play. 
 And the odors that wander afar — away I" 
 
 10 Farewell, farewell, thou bud 1 
 I have calPd on spirits gone, 
 And it may b9 they joy like thee to part, 
 Like thee that wert all my own. 
 
 1 1. " If they were captives, and pined like me. 
 
 Though love might calm them, they joy'd to be ftee ; 
 They sprung from the earth with a burst of power. 
 To the strength of their wings, to their triumph's hour. 
 
150 
 
 THE IHIRD READER. 
 
 I 
 
 12. 
 
 " Gall them not bock when the chain is rlren, 
 When the way of the pinion is all through heaven. 
 Farewell ! With my song through the clouds 1 8oii;| 
 [ pierce the blue skies — I am earth's no more !" 
 
 24. Deoollatioit of St. John. 
 
 ALTHOUGH the doctrine of our blessed Saviour wa8( 
 pure in its prindples, so conformable to reaM)n, so i 
 8ru!cd by miracles, and so pleasing in its promises of eten 
 glory, yet few embraced it. A general increduUty and ob 
 r&cj of heart prevailed in the cities of Judea, and in no i 
 more than in that of Nazareth. 
 
 2. It was natural to imagine that the Nazarenes woil 
 have thought themselves in some sort honored by the fame^ 
 one who had lived and grown up among them, and that tb 
 would have cherished him as the most valuable of their i 
 zens. Their behavior was diametrically the opposite. Tbi}] 
 had seen and conversed with him from his youth ; they 
 no leammg that he had acquired ; in his figure they discoven 
 nothmg that set him above the common level ; in his motb 
 and relations they beheld no title that distinguished him fron| 
 the poorer class- of the people. 
 
 3. To his doctrine, therefore, they would give no credit, not) 
 would they allow his miracles which they had not seen. The! 
 great reputation which Jesus had acquired among othen] 
 made them jealous, and their jealousy grew into a violent! 
 antipathy against him. 
 
 4. They laid hands upon him, and led him to the steep point I 
 of the rock on which their town was built, with an intention I 
 to throw him headlong down. But the hour for Jesus to die| 
 was not yet come, and no hum{i,n malice could advance it. 
 He slipped out of their hands, and walked away thipugh the | 
 midst of them. 
 
 5. This perverse incredulity of the Nazarenes hindered Jeuoi I 
 from working any miracles among them, excepting the cure o( 
 
DECOLLATION OF ST. JOHN. 
 
 161 
 
 ae of their sick, which he did by imposing his hands upon 
 
 em. On his return from Nazareth, he was informed of John 
 
 ! Baptist's death. 
 
 1 6. A short time before this St. John had been cast into 
 
 (isoQ on account of the reprimand he gave to King Herod, 
 
 his incestnons connection with Herodias, the wife of his 
 
 other Philip. Herodias had often solicited the king to hav 
 put to death, and the king as often refused to consent 
 |)t only from a principle of esteem for the holy man, but like- 
 from a fear of the people's resentment, for they venerated 
 b Baptist as a wonderful prophet. 
 
 7. Eh - iVa imprudence betrayed hun soon after to com- 
 mit the b?<t.' eed. He celebrated his bu*thday with great 
 
 th and magnificen<!e ; a grand entertainment was prepared, 
 Dd the chief men of Galilee were invited to attend ; the 
 anghter of Herodias was introduced before the company, and 
 
 sired to dance. 
 
 S.'^The manner of her performance so pleased the king, that 
 ^e rashly promised upon oath to give whatsoever she should 
 sk, though it were half his kingdom. The girl immediately 
 bft the room to consult her mother what she should ask. 
 I' Go and ask for thi& head of John the Baptist,'' replied the 
 Mteress. 
 
 9. The girl ran back to Herod, and desured that he would 
 forthwith give her on a dish the head of John the Baptist. 
 Strack at the unnatural request, the king was sorry for the 
 
 [rash promise he had made, but, out of respect to the company, 
 [resolved to keep his oath, not to displease the daughter of 
 Herodias. He therefore ordered an executioner to go forth- 
 with to the prison, and cut off the Baptist's head. The head 
 was given in a dish to the girl, and the girl presented it to 
 I her mother. 
 
 10. Thus was the great precursor of our Lord impiously 
 I slain in the vigor of life; thus was John murdered by the 
 
 sword oi*Herod, who had always admired and esteemed him 
 for his purity of doctrine and sanctity of morals. Herod fell 
 not all at once into the enormity of guilt ; by gradual steps he 
 had advanced towards the depth of crime ; one excess had 
 
152 
 
 THK THIKI) KEADKR. 
 
 led liim on to another ; a lur.tful passion opened the mil 
 incest, and incest plrmged him into morder 
 
 11. Herod was permitted to take away the life of St. Jii 
 the Baptist, greater than whom no prophet had ever i^ 
 among the sons of women. 
 
 12. The life of that holy man was sacrificed to the capridgj 
 revenge of a wicked woman ; it was sacrificed for a 
 Ilonce we see, says St. Gregory, in what light we are to ( 
 sider this mortal life, which is so liable to misfoi tunes, and J 
 miserably harassed by the suspicions, by the hatred, and I 
 slanders of wicked m^x 
 
 13. It is to a-future life that we should constantly looki 
 a life which neither the tongue of sktnder, nor the sword i 
 persecution can affSBct. Tyrants may rage and threaten ; 
 may crumble these mortal bodies into dust; but a 
 death will open us an entrance into that heavenly kingdoi 
 where the blessed know no change and fear no decay. 
 
 25. Satubdat Aftbbnoon. 
 
 1. T LOYE to look on a scene like this, 
 JL Of wild and careless play, 
 
 And persuade myself that I am not old, 
 And my locks are not yet gray; 
 
 For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, 
 And makes his pulses fly. 
 
 To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 
 And the light of a pleasant eye. 
 
 2. I have walk'd the world for fourscore years : 
 
 And they say that I am old. 
 That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, 
 
 And my years are well-nigh told. 
 It is very true ; it is very true ; 
 
 I'm old, and " I 'bide my time :" 
 But my heart will leap at a scene like this, 
 
 And I half renew my prime. 
 
 8. PM 
 II 
 
 led 
 
SATURDAY AFfEUNoCN. 
 
 158 
 
 |>Penod the wa;j 
 
 JelifeofStjJ 
 9t had erepi 
 
 J *o the caprijj 
 M for a dm 
 pt we are too, 
 fijbi tones, and j 
 'hatred, and I 
 
 wtantljlook, 
 ^' tie sword, 
 » threaten; 
 ; bnt a p^ 
 
 ^^e% fangd, 
 
 8. Play on, play on ; I am with you there, 
 In the midst of your merry ring ; 
 I can feel the thrill of the daring jump. 
 And the rush of the breathless swing. 
 
 .WVM. 
 
 Mr^ 
 
 
 fieart, 
 
 Jars: 
 th, 
 
 l^^^< 
 
 I hide with you in the fragrant hay, 
 And I whoop the smother'd call, 
 
 And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 
 And I care not for the fall. 
 
 4. T am willing to die when my time shall come. 
 And I shall be glad to c:^ : 
 
t54 
 
 THK TIITKD KKADRK. 
 
 For the world at best is a weary place, 
 
 And my pulse is getting low ; 
 But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 
 
 In treading its gloomy way ; 
 And it wiles my heart from its dreariness. 
 
 To see the yonng so gay. 
 
 26. LbABNINO and AoCOMPLISHHENTB not INOONSISIOn] 
 WITH QOGD HOUSBKBBFINO.' 
 
 [Biiplanatorjf NoU. — ^Mr. Benny tells this story; Marcella Is Mr. Ben-I 
 ny'a wife ; Clnra is their daughter. Justin and Laura are Mr. and Un.| 
 Hubert, who haye just oome ou a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Benny, anil 
 Mary is their daughter. Aunt Bobert is the aunt of Mr. and Mn,| 
 Benny.] 
 
 MABY has accompanied her parents ; her first appearance 
 gives a punfol impression. She is small, thm, and very 
 sallow : almost ugly. Lanra and Jnstin presented her to me 
 without a word, and during the first two days, I took scarcely 
 any notice of her ; but the other morning, I heard her con- 
 versing in German with her father ; and I know that she i<i 
 acqnunted with the English and Spanish languages.* 
 ' 2. Marcella obliged her to seat herself at the piano ; and 
 we soon perceived that she has already far outstripped her 
 mother. She has also learned all that can be taught to one 
 of her age, of geography, and natural and political history. 
 Clara is in a state of bewilderment at such an amount of 
 learning, and I am still more surprised at so much modesty. 
 
 8. The latter, however, does not soften Aunt Bobert ; who, 
 when she was informed of the number of Mary's acquirements, 
 only shook her head. Aunt Bobert's prejudices, on that 
 point, are not to be overcome. She is suspicious, almost to 
 hoHtility, of all those who are, what she styles, learned women. 
 A ecording to her, literary studies are perfectly ^reconcilable 
 with household duties. No one can understand orthography 
 
 ^ backstitch I 
 
 jtherto"8*®' 
 14 ««0h,ye8' 
 
 Ld to Marcel] 
 
 ;,ina with theij 
 
 innot uudersta 
 
 ith accoriusy t 
 
 nowbowtotij 
 
 [y dear girl; * 
 t-epers to the 
 5. Notwithsl 
 [aiy like everj 
 imiliar klndnj 
 lorny goosew 
 and a few set 
 6. For the 
 [he young fff 
 rhims, and la 
 i footstool, 
 toad of her. 
 
 ieally is i^^ 
 [been taught n 
 
 1. Consequ 
 
 Ifeel the incoi 
 
 vited us to d 
 
 Mary to con 
 
 spite the ire 
 
 ' given, it wat 
 
 8. Aunt 
 
 of the little 
 
 .ng royalty 
 
 with ati an 
 
 busy makija 
 
 9. Now 
 
 piimacle of 
 
 She bee 
 
 to her the 
 
 wi 
 
LEARNING AND A0GOMPLISUMI£NTS. 
 
 155 
 
 loesg, 
 
 >« Mr. and Mm 
 "•Benny, anj 
 
 *"^' wid Mn, 
 
 * appeaniDce 
 N» and Teiy 
 « her to me / 
 'Ook scarcely ! 
 ^rd her coii^ f 
 that she « 
 
 piano ; anj 
 Wpped her 
 ight to one 
 al history, 
 amoant 0/ 
 lodesty. 
 ert; who, 
 lirements, 
 on that 
 ilmost to 
 1 women, 
 oncilable 
 'ograph^ 
 
 backstitch too, or speak ai^ other language bat onr 
 
 )tber tongae, and saperintend a roast. 
 
 1 4. "Oh, yes ! I have seen yoor little prodigies before," she 
 
 a to Marcella, yesterday, "who talk aboat revolutions in 
 luina with theur stockings in holes ; who read poetry, and yet 
 Innot Qoderstand the receipt of a padding ; who will describe 
 jith accuracy the costume of the African savage, and do not 
 
 now bpw to trim a cap ! do not talk to me of such women, 
 ly dear gurl ; the very best they are good for, is to be lodge- 
 ^•epers to the French Academy. 
 
 5. Notwithstanding these strong prejudices, she treats 
 
 [ary like everybody else ; that is to say, with her usual rude, 
 
 uuiliar kindness; for Aunt Bobert compares herself to a 
 
 [horny gooseberry bush : to get at the fruit, people must not 
 
 lind a few scratches. 
 
 6. For the rest, these peculiarities do not seem to disturb 
 |he young girl in the least : she laughs at the old lady's 
 rhims, and is the first to offer to carry her bag, or fetch her 
 
 footstool. I have reason to believe the good aunt is very 
 k'ond of her. "After all," she said, the other day, "there 
 really is good in the child, and it is not her fault it she has 
 [been taught more grammar than cookery." 
 
 1. Consequently, she has been very anxious to make her 
 |fet;l the inconveniences of her education. Yesterday she in- 
 vited us to dine with the Huberts at her house, and begged 
 ^Mary to come early and assist her in her preparations. De- 
 spite the ironical manner in which the latter invitation was 
 'given, it was accepted. 
 
 8. Aunt Robert was determmed to display before the eyes 
 of the little blue-stocking all the splendor of her house-kecp- 
 .ng royalty ; and Mary found her enveloped in a large apron 
 with an ample bib, her sleeves turned up above her elbows 
 biisj making a favorite dish. 
 
 9. Now in the opinion of the best judges, this dish was the 
 pinnacle of glory in Aunt Roberts' culinary art. 
 
 She beckoned tc Mary to approach, and after explaining 
 to her the particular merits and difficulties of her dish, pro* 
 ceeded with her cookery. 
 
156 
 
 THE TIIIRl) READKK. 
 
 10. "Yoa see, my dear," mixing, in her oiotherl7iH.iQQa,t? yo 
 moral precepts and practical explanations, "one of the dHfBabell" 
 daties of a woman is to make the most of every thiii|V n j^ is a f) 
 (Keep the whites of the eggs for another occasion. )--Li{(H^ ^q long 
 made for something more than learning to coi^agate the tqH g « Fad('' 
 I vxdk, or I talk; to assure to those around us Stealth iH^^w, "K 
 comfort — (don't put in too much lemon juice) ; — when (H^^jg^t they m< 
 makes it a principle to be useful — (the crust is beginning^, ^^ ^)iat 
 rise), — it is sufficient to keep peace and a good consciem 
 (we put the whole into a mould), — and we live happily-(| 
 the Dutch oven)." 
 
 11. Maiy smUmgly looked on, not a little bewildered by 
 odd mixture of philosophy and cookery ; and this tune, 
 the first most certainly injured the second ; for a thing unhi 
 of before, just when Aunt Robert, being of opinion 
 it was done enough, with serene confidence opened the o 
 door, intending to display before her pupil's eyes her sparklii 
 pyramid, she found nothhig but a crumbled ruin blackened bj^ 
 the fire ! 
 
 12. The disappointment was the greater, because complete-] 
 ly unexpected. Besides, dinner-time was drawing near, uj 
 the dish would have taken more time to make again thaa m 
 could ipare. 
 
 27. Lbarnino and Aooohplishments — continued. 
 
 AUNT ROBERT had to go out and make several purchaser, 
 to look after the servant, a new hand Whose experience 
 she more than doubted, in uncovering the drawing-room furni- 
 ture and laymg the cloth. She was speaking with resigned 
 repugnance of resorting to the direful extremity of applying to 
 the neighboring pastry-cook, when Mary quietly proposed to 
 replace the missing dish with one of her own making. 
 
 2. Aunt Robert actually started with surprise. 
 
 ** What ! my dear child 1 do you know what you are say 
 ing?" she asked ; " is it possible that you can make any tbinn 
 
 ith any ing^^ 
 
 4. Bat " 
 
 ^boatitwith< 
 
 . ibert retur 
 indaing read; 
 6. Its app( 
 After examii 
 [little nod of i 
 its looks," Ba 
 tastes; for y 
 the eating.* 
 vithottt caps 
 6. But a 1 
 of tl- 8 china 
 remained oi 
 Bobert, ace 
 do nothing 
 mother was 
 humble cot 
 their meani 
 garden, wl 
 which she < 
 by the mis 
 1. The 
 fashioned 
 
 were all 
 
 MaTyad( 
 
 the elegfl 
 
 ehells to 
 
 but she 
 
LBARNINO AND AOOOMPLISDMBNTS. 
 
 167 
 
 tr motherlj 
 lone of the 
 K every thL 
 
 Jugate then 
 M 08 health 
 
 fee);— when 
 is beginnlDp 
 |od conscienc 
 We happijjr-./J 
 
 5wildered hji 
 this time, al 
 a thing anhe 
 >f opinion 
 pened theovi 
 Jsherspariia 
 
 sanse compfc J 
 ^g near, ai^f 
 >Sain than M 
 
 ontintied. 
 
 alpurchaswj 
 
 8 experience! 
 >room furni- 
 tth resigned! 
 aj^ljing to 
 ►roposed to j 
 
 a are m 
 
 ' any thin« 
 
 to eat? yon, who can speak all the langnages of the Tower 
 Babel 1" 
 
 "It is a family padding, which always sncceeds, and does 
 lot take long to make," replied the yonng ^1. 
 
 3. " Padding 1" repeated Aant Robert a little contempt* 
 onsly. "Ah I I understand; it is some foreign dish, like 
 bat they make in England. Very well, Miaa Hnbert 1 let 
 
 see what yon will prodnce ; the servant shaU supply you 
 ith any ingredients you may require." 
 
 4. But Mary assured her she had all she wanted, ahd set 
 iboat it without more delay. Half an hour after, when Aunt 
 
 ibert returned fh)m making her purchases, she found the 
 indding ready for the table. 
 
 5. Its appearance was such as to strike the eye of a judge. 
 After examining it well, and inhaling the odor, she gave a 
 little nod of satisfaction. "There is nothing to be said against 
 its looks," said she. " I should only like now to see how it 
 tastes ; for you know ' that the proof of the pudding lies in 
 the eating.' However,* I see, my dear child, you are not 
 without capabiUties ; now come and help me with the dessert." 
 
 6. But a firesh trouble arose. The servant had broken, one 
 of the china baskets, indiroensable to the service ; and there 
 remained only the broken pieces on the sideboard. Aunt 
 Robert, accustomed to the old-fashioned arrangement, could 
 do nothing without her basket ; but Mary, who with her 
 mother was obliged to resort to all sorts of e3q)edients in their 
 hnmble cottage, where the richness of taste hid the poverty of 
 their means, dedared she could arrange it all. She ran to the 
 garden, whence she gathered leaves, flowers, and fruits, with 
 which she dressed the table, and hid the discrepancy occaaoned 
 by the missing basket. 
 
 7. The fine damask, Aunt Robert's especial pride, the old- 
 fashioned crystal, iae many-oolored china, and antique plate, 
 were all most elegantly and tastefully arranged; and then 
 Mary added all the graceful fancies which impart so much to 
 the elegance of a well-arrang^ table, down ftom the butter in 
 shells to bouquets of radishes. Aunt Robert was bewildered *, 
 but she was still more so, when all the dishes, being served at 
 
158 
 
 THR TIIIBD BBAOBR. 
 
 oncc^ coTered the table, and, ub she said, " tramiformed 
 homely dinner into a Belshazzar's feast." 
 
 8. " Ah, you sly Uttle puss !" she exclaimed, as, thorough! 
 conquered, she warmly embraced her ; " who would ban 
 thought there was all this hidden in you 1" The pudding vii 
 unammonsly pronounced excellent ; and Aunt Robert did i 
 fail to relate the history of her favorite dish. 
 
 9. From this moment, her opinion of Mary underwent il 
 strildng change. She owned to me m a half whisper at dti-l 
 sert, fhat she had been too severe ; and that our friend I 
 not neglected the "essential" as much as she had at 
 imagined. Still she was strongly opposed to " the gift oil 
 tongues," which she maintained, could be available only to thil 
 Apostles. 
 
 10. At last we rose ftom the table, and adjourned to thel 
 little sitting-room; where, while waiting the advent of tea,! 
 each lady brought out her sewmg or embroidery, and Aontj 
 Robert sought the mittens she was knitting. Unfortunately, 
 they had not escaped the general disturbance ; a needle had | 
 fallen out, which was one of the little domestic miseries ooi ' 
 worthy aunt felt most acutely. She uttered a slight exclamar 
 tion of despair, and went off in search of her spectacles ; bat | 
 on her return she found her knitting in the hands of Mary. 
 
 11. " Ah I you little puss, what are you about there?" s 
 cried in alarm. Mary returned her the mitten with a smile, I 
 and, on looking, she found the stitches taken up, and the pat- 
 tern continued. 
 
 She regarded Mary with a stupefied look^ then turning to 
 me, she exclaimed 4n a tone of the highest admiration, " She 
 can kmt, too I Ah, my friend, I retract my judgment; there 
 If nothing wanting ; her education is complete." ■ 
 
ANE0DOTK8 OF TUE TIGER. 
 
 15» 
 
 H 
 
 
 
 28. Anecdotes of the Tiger. 
 
 IKE otaer voracions beasts, nothing will deter tbe tiger 
 from attempting to obtain his prey when hungry, however 
 ipareDt may be the danger he risks. A Scotchman, who 
 a soldier in India, assured ns, that while the army was on 
 march, in broad day, an enormously large tiger sprang from 
 jungle which they were passing, and carried off one of the 
 len in his mouth, with as much ease " as a cat would carry 
 a mouse," and was oni of sight before any effort could be 
 le for the recovery of the poor man, so quick and nnex* 
 cted was the whole occurrence. 
 
 2. The postmen of India, who are called dawks, and who 
 irarel on foot, are frequently seized by these creatures, as are 
 
 who escort them ; nor can any thing be more dangerous 
 Ihau for individuals to venture, unless in well-armed bodies, 
 ithin their blood-stained neighborhoods. 
 
 3. In 1819, an official report was presented to the Indian 
 ovemment, in which it was stated that eighty-four persons 
 ad been seized and carried off by tigers, from one district only, 
 II the course of the preceding year. It may be supposed how 
 
 ucb the possessions of the East India Company most have 
 
 ? 
 
160 
 
 TIIU TIIIKD READKB. 
 
 been infested with these depredators, when the amount il 
 miums bestowed on those persons who slew them in the|[ 
 1808, is stated to have been $16,000. 
 
 4. Like most other animals, the tigress is attached stn 
 to her jonng. In the " Oriental Field Sports," Captain 1 
 liamson tells ns that some peasants in India had found I 
 •uhs in the absence of their mother, and brought him i 
 which he placed in a stable. After howUng for several niid 
 the tigress approached and responded to them ; and it i 
 deemed pmdent to let them oat, lest their mamma ih 
 break in ; the next morning she carried them off. 
 
 5. The tiger, like all animals when brought under the( 
 trol of man, will evinoe sig^ of partiality towards his ke 
 or others accustomed to treat him kindly. Still, we thioic^ 
 familiarities of keepers are sometimes carried too far, as t!i 
 are times when the natural instinct of savage brutes will i 
 paramount, in despite of their training. 
 
 6. The impropriety, however, of strangers attempting 
 take any freedom with such creatures, caunot be too oil 
 nor too deeply impressed upon the minds of our readers— «!« 
 from inattention to it, how many fatal accidents have occu 
 A schoolmaster went to see a menagerie, where, admiring I 
 beauty of the tiger, he offered it an apple. The creature seii 
 his hand, dn^ging it into the cage ; and although, by thee 
 forts of the keepers the brute was compelled to let it go, ] 
 it was so dreadfully lacerated that amputation became ne< 
 sary; and, in a few days afterwards, the poor man was a cor 
 
 7. The Orientalists have a very great partiality for witn 
 ing the combats of wild and savage ammals ; and we 
 now ^ve our readers, not only an illustration of their Ba,^ 
 tastes, but also the Invincible courage of their fellow-beii 
 who run the risk of a dreadful death in its gratification, 
 statement from which we are about to quote is narrated bjj 
 gentleman who was invited by the rajah of Goorg to becon 
 a spectator of his cruel and terrific amusements. Goorg is j 
 principality of Hindostan, which our youthful readers 
 discover upon their maps, situated in the western Ghaut men 
 tains of that vast region. 
 
ANECDOTES OF TUB TIOKB. 
 
 161 
 
 •nioont ofi 
 |hem in tij 
 
 18. The n\)ah, with true Asiatic vanitj, prided himself upon 
 
 nnmber of savage beasts be possessed ; having, it was said, 
 
 ij lions and tlgen which had been brought to perfect sab* 
 
 ion, besides others which were kept for combating. 
 
 On the appointed day of the exhibition in question, the n^ah 
 
 th his court, and other persons, were seated in a gallery, 
 
 low which was an arena of a hundred yards square, wh' re 
 
 le sports commenced. After some engagements of inferior 
 
 mals bad ended, a man entered the arena almost naked, 
 
 Ting on a pair of trowsers only, that Just covered his hip.; 
 
 id reached scarcely half way down his thighs. 
 
 9. He was tall, and though slight, yet muscular, strong, 
 d active. His body glistened with the oil with which it had 
 n robbed to add to the pliability of his limbs ; and in his 
 
 land he held what is called a Ooorg-knife, somewhat in shape 
 
 ike a plough-share, about two feet long, three or four inches 
 
 ide, and tapering a little towards the handle : it is heavy, 
 
 md first swung round the head by the person who uses it, by 
 
 hich means a blow is inflicted with a force that is truly won- 
 
 lerful. The Hindoo, who now appeared, had volunteered to 
 
 Ifight with a tiger; and, having brandished his weapon, 
 
 I" the expression of his countenance," says the writer, "was 
 
 jabsolately sublime when he gave the signal for the tiger to be 
 
 [let loose ; it was the very concentration of moral energy — the 
 
 [index of a single and settled resolution I" 
 
 10. Men, who were placed above, at his dgnal raided the 
 I bars of a cage from which an bnmense royal tiger sprang before 
 
 him with a halfHstifled growl, and waving its tiiii, upon which 
 it erected the hair as a cat does when she is angry. It looked 
 at its antagonist, who met it with his eye, and then at all 
 around ; bat uneasy at its novel situation, it leaped again into 
 its cage, from which the keepers above not being able again 
 to force it, let fall the bars by which it was secured. 
 
 11. Some crackers were tied to the creature's taU, which 
 projected through the bars ; to these the man applied a lighted 
 match that had been handed to him, and the bars were again 
 drawn up. The tiger now bounded out of its den in a state 
 of frantic excitement, until the crackers having exploded, it 
 
 t. .1 
 
tea 
 
 THB THIBD BBADKB. 
 
 •onched gnarling in a comer, like a cat when she is annoyei 
 the ban of its cage had been let down ; and the brave Hii 
 who had been watcliing its motions, now slowly and resolntt 
 advanced towards it. 
 
 12. Thus ronsed, the hairs of its body became erect, i 
 tail (like the tail of an angry cat) twice its osnal size ; yet,i 
 the man slowly advanced, it again retreated, koeping its froij 
 towards its brave opponent, who still advanced with the m 
 slow and measured step as before. Suddenly he stopped ; i 
 now paced steadily backwards, his eyes still fixed on his enein]| 
 which, as he thus retreated, raised itself to its extreme 
 lashed its tail, and arched its back, preparatory to making^ 
 spring. The Hindoo still moved gently backwards, and vba 
 the tiger could no longer see tJte expression of his e^%\ 
 bounded towards him with a growl. 
 
 13. With the swiftness of lightning, however, he sprang oil 
 one side, whirled his ponderous knife around his head, aDil 
 when the animal's feet reached the ground, it felt the full force , 
 of the irresistible blow designed for it, just above the joint o( 
 the hmder leg, the bone of which it completely snapped in two. 
 
 14. The Hindoo retired a few paces, and the wounded beast, | 
 disabled from making another spring, roaring with pam, rushed | 
 towards him upon its three 1^ (the other hanging by the i 
 only) in a state of reckless excitement, while its courageom I 
 foe stood calm and determined, awaiting the shock, poising | 
 his trusty weapon above his head, and which, when his antag- 
 onist had got within his reach, he struck with such force into ' 
 its skull, as severed it from ear to ear, and the conquered 
 brute fell dead at his feet. He then calmly drew his knife 
 across the tiger's skin to cleanse it of the blood ; made a 
 dignified " salaam," or bow, to the rajah, and, amidst the load 
 plaudits of the spectators^.withdrew. 
 
she is annoyiK 
 the brave Hind 
 ^17 *nd resolat, 
 
 ime erect, andii 
 snal size; yet,, 
 
 '''^epingitsfroi 
 5d with the gain 
 he stopped • aoi 
 ^edonhisened 
 ' extreme heigj 
 ory to making J 
 ^ards, and wh J 
 ^ of his eyejj^ 
 
 JFf he sprang oil 
 I his head, aii«, 
 Jit the full for(» 
 ^ve the joint ol( 
 snapped in two. I 
 »^ounded beast, 
 *h pain, rashed 
 ingbytheskiD 
 its courageoM 
 shock, poising 
 hen his antag- ' 
 inch force into I 
 he conqaered 
 ^w. his knife 
 )od ; made a 
 tidst the load 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 29. Tbb Fountain. 
 
 1. TNTO the sunshine 
 , i Full of Ught, 
 Leaping and flashing, 
 From mom to night ; 
 
 8. Into the moonlight 
 Whiter than snow, 
 Waving so flower-liko 
 When the. winds blow* 
 
 8. Into the starlight, 
 Bushing in spray, 
 Happy at midnight 
 Happy by day ; 
 
 4. Ever in motion 
 
 Blithesome and cheery. 
 Still climbing heavenwaidy 
 Never aweary ; 
 
 6. Qlad of all weathers 
 Still seeming best. 
 Upward or downward 
 Motion thy rest ; 
 
 6. Fall of a nature 
 
 Nothing can tave. 
 Changed every moment, 
 Ever the same ; 
 
 t. Ceaseless aspiring, 
 Ceaseless content. 
 Darkness or sunshine 
 Thy element • 
 
 168 
 
ie4 
 
 THK THIRD BKADBB. 
 
 8. Glorioas fountain I 
 Let my heart be 
 Fresh, changeful, constant, 
 Upward like thee. 
 
 80. Benediot Abnold. 
 
 THERE was a day when Talleyrand arrived in Havre 
 from Paris. It was the darkest hoar of the French 
 olntion. Fursned by the bloodhonnds of the Reign of Tei 
 stripped of every wreck of property or power, Talle; 
 secured a passage to America, in a ship about to sail, 
 was a beggar and a wanderer to a strange land, to earn 
 bread by daily labor. 
 
 2. " Is there an American staying at your house ?" he asl 
 the lacdlord of the hotel. " I am bound to cross the wal 
 and would like a letter to a person of influence in the ^eifl^B. "Who i 
 World." W^ the next re 
 
 The landlord hesitated a moment, then replied, " There isfl a-j^y name 
 gentleman up-stairs, either from America or Britain, bfl ^^y ^\a,n. joy i 
 whether an American or an Englishman, I cannot tell." 
 
 He pointed the way, and Talleyrand, who in his life 
 bishop, prince, and prime mmister, ascended the stairs, 
 miserable suppliant, he stood before the stranger's dooi, 
 knocked, and entered. 
 
 3. In the far corner of the dunly-lighted room, sat a mai 
 of some fifty years ; his arms folded, and his head bowed on 
 his breast. From a window directly opposite, a flood of light 
 poured over his forehead. His eyes looked from beneath thil 
 downcast brows, and gazed on Talleyrand's face with a pecu- 
 liar and searching expression. His face was striking m ontr 
 line ; the mouth and chin indicative of an iron will His fonn, 
 vigorous, even with the snows of fifty, was dad in a dark, but 
 rich and distinguished costume. 
 
 4. Talleyrand advanced, stated that he was a fugitive, and, 
 under the impression that the gentleman before him was an 
 American, he solicited his kind and feeling offices. He ponied 
 
 edict Arnold 
 
 Hewa8g< 
 
 words, " An: 
 
 1. Thus, 3 
 
 with the wai 
 
 eluded room 
 
 and forced 
 
 infamy. 
 
 The last 
 from whose 
 the page ol 
 
 8. The 1 
 cannot do 
 pursued hi 
 and that 
 canker at 
 try, what 
 
BENKDIUT ARNOLD. 
 
 166 
 
 nsef"heaslj 
 ross the watt, 
 »ce inthejfei 
 
 n, sat a u„ 
 'ad bowed oJ 
 flood of JigJ 
 1 beneath the! 
 with a pecn-l 
 iking in onJ 
 - His form, I 
 a dark, but! 
 
 |)rth bis history in eloquent French and broken English ; " 1 
 < a wanderer and an exile. I am forced to fly to the New 
 hM, without a friend or a home. Yon are an American I 
 |fire me, then, I beseech you, a letter of yours, so that I may 
 I able to earn my bread. I am willing to toil in any manner ; 
 Ihe scenes of Paris haye seized me with such horror, that a 
 life of labor would be a paradise to a career of luxury in 
 France. You will give me a letter to one of your friends? 
 gentleman like yourself has doubtless many friends." 
 5. The strange gentleman rose. With a look that Talley- 
 and never forgot, he retreated towards the door of the next 
 Ichamber ; his eyes looking stQl firom beneath his darkened 
 Ibrow. He spoke as he retreated backwards : his voice was 
 [full of meaning. "I am the only man born in the New World , 
 ■who can raise his hand to God and say, I have not a friendi;^ 
 {not one, in all America !'' Talleyrand never forgot the over- 
 Ivhebning sadness of the look which accompanied these words. 
 L 6. "Who are yon?" he med, as the strange man retreated 
 I to the next room ; " yonr name ?" 
 
 " My name," he replied, mth a smile that had more mock- 
 I ery than joy in its convulsive expression, — " my name is Ben* 
 ! edict Arnold 1" 
 
 He was gone ; Talleyrand sank into his chaur, gasping the 
 words, " Arnold, the TRArroR I" 
 
 7. Thus, you see, he wandered over the earth, another Gam, 
 with the wanderer's mark npon his brow. Even in that se- 
 cluded room, in that inn at Havre, his crimes found him out, 
 and forced him to tell his name : that name the synonym of 
 infamy. 
 
 The last twenty years of his life are covered with a cloud, 
 from whose darkness but a few gleams of light flash out upon 
 the page of history. 
 
 8. The manner of his death is not exactly known ; but we 
 cannot doubt that he died utterly friendless ; that remorse 
 pursued hun to the grave, whispering John Andr6 1 in his ear ; 
 and that the memory of his course of glory gnawed like a 
 canker at his heart, murmuring, forever, " True to your coun- 
 try, what might you have been, oh I Arnold, the TRAtron I" 
 
 * ] 
 
166 
 
 THE THIRD READER. 
 
 31. EcTH AND NoEia. I 
 
 rHE short, but interesting story of Both, happened under 
 the Judges, and makes a book of itself. The fiacred 
 writer tells ns, that at the time when the land of Israel was 
 sorely vexed by famine, a certain man, by name Elimelech, oi 
 the town of Bethlehem, retired with No6mi his wife and two 
 sons into the country of the Moabites, not to Rtafve in his own 
 
RUTH AND NOEHI. 
 
 167 
 
 \, After his death, No€mi married her two sons to two 
 Dg women of that coantry, whose names were Arpha and 
 Jth. Tbey lived ten years together, bnt no issne came from 
 U of the tWo marriages ; the two brothers died, and left 
 ts disconsolate mother in a childless widowhood. Having 
 IcoDsolation to expect in the land of Moab, NoSmi resolved 
 I return into her own country, where the famme was no 
 ger felt. 
 
 I She commnnicated her design to Arpha and Bnth ; they 
 jth desired to accompany her to Bethlehem. She begged 
 fj would not think of accompanying a friendless widow, 
 |m whom they had neither fortune nor comfort to expect, 
 return to their relations, from whom they might meet 
 Itb both; she represented to them, that by going with 
 r, they would but throw themselves into fresh miseries ; 
 |it her present distress was sufficient without any other 
 Idition; that to see them suffer on her account would in- 
 pase her pun; and that their sufferings would be more 
 bictlng to her than her own. 
 
 U. Arpha yielded to Nodmi's reasons, tenderly embraced 
 fr, and returned to Moab. Buth was too much attached to 
 rmotheri>in-law to think of leaving her; with the greatest 
 aess she begged that they might be never separated from 
 ch other. " I will accompany you," said she, " wherever you 
 all go, and with you I will forever dwell ; your people shall 
 I my people, and your God shall be mine ; in the same land 
 ^th you I will live and die, and nothing but death shall ever 
 ftrtns." 
 
 5. NoSmi could not refuse so affectionate and so resolute a 
 > ; she consented to Buth's going with her, and they 
 
 oth came to Bethlehem. It was then harvest time, and 
 |lath desired leave of her mother to go into the neighboring 
 elds, where she might glean some relief in their scanty 
 jircnmstances. Kind Providence conducted her into a field 
 elonging to Booz, a near relation of Elimelech, No^mi's for 
 tier husband. 
 
 6. Her remarkable diligence drew the eyes of the reapers, 
 Dd Booz, from the favorable account he had received from 
 
188 
 
 THB THIUID MEAOlilB. 
 
 his overseer, of Bath's dutiful behavior to her mot;ier,( 
 of her diligence at work, ordered q'?tj kindness and dvilitj 
 be shown her. H« bade his reapers scatter the com on | 
 pose, and leave Eutli a snfiBcient qnantity to reqnito h :- 
 for the pams she took ; if she i«honld be willing to a 
 told them not to hinder her, and insisted upon L«¥ eating i 
 drinking with his servants. 
 
 t. This goodness of Booz to E.nth has been considered! 
 the ho) J fathers as an emblun of that which Jesns Christ ( 
 since shown to his Church. Booz did not disdain to 
 notice of a poor stranger ; neither the present meanness of I 
 appearance, nor the past errors of her religions sentimentsj 
 eluded her from the acts of hie bomanity. 
 
 8. Buth's steady attachment to No€mi is an example | 
 that unshaken fidelity which every Christian owes to Ja 
 £!hrist and his Chorch. He that loves his father, mother,! 
 toB kindred, more than me, says our blessed Saviour, is i 
 worthy of me. Whoever will come after me, let him da 
 oimself, take up his cross, and so follow me. 
 
 9. If in following Jesns Christ, worldly advantages iiiii| 
 be sometimes given up, and hardships undergone, an apri 
 mind and a peaceful conscience will confer an inward satisi 
 tion, which, without virtue, no riches can purchase, and i 
 power bestow. 
 
 10. Nofimi's poverty was to Buth of more advantage th 
 the wealth of Moab ; and they who, by a firm and generi 
 attachment, stand steady to the principles of duty, will 
 receive their reward in the end. They may suffer, they i 
 be oppressed for a time ; the hour of their delivery hastens ( 
 an eternity of joys is ah^y prepared to console their ; 
 «mI to crown their patience. 
 
FLOWEUS. 
 
 169 
 
 82. Flowsss. 
 
 1. AH, they look, upward in every place 
 U Through this beautiful world of ours, 
 And dear as a smile on an old friend's face 
 Is the smile of the bright, bright flowers ! 
 They tell us of wanderings by woods and streams ; 
 
 They tell us of lanes and trees ; 
 But the children of showers and sunny beams 
 Have lovelier tales than these— 
 
 The bright, bright flowers t 
 
 8. They tell of a season when men were not, 
 When earth was by angels trod. 
 And leaves and flowers in every spot 
 
 Burst forth at the call of God ; 
 When spirits, singing their hymns at even, 
 
 Wandered by wood and glade ; 
 An(S^the Lord look'd down from the highest heaven 
 And bless'd what he had made — 
 
 The bright, bright flowers. 
 
 8. That blessing remainetn upon them still. 
 Though often the stomhclond lowers. 
 And frequent tempests may soil and chill 
 
 The gayest of earth's fair flowers. 
 When Sin and Death, with their sister Grief, 
 
 Made a home in the hearts of men, 
 
 The blesoog of God on each tender leaf 
 
 Preserved in their beauty, then, — 
 
 The bright, bright flowers. 
 
 i. The lily is lovely as when it slept 
 On the waters of Eden's lake ; 
 The woodbhw breathes sweetly as when it orepk» 
 In Eden from brake to brake. 
 
 8 
 
170 
 
 THB TUIBO UKADKM. 
 
 They were left as a proof of the loTeluen 
 Of Adam and Eve's first home ; 
 
 They are here as a type of the Joys that bleat 
 The jast in the world to come — 
 
 The bright, bright flowenk 
 
 ■V I I 
 
 83. The Soholab of the Bosabt. 
 
 IN a certain district in the south of France, there liveii| 
 noble lady, who governed her household and family in i 
 holy discipline, and who was among the first to join the i 
 fraternity in honor of the mother of God, on its re-establi 
 ment in that conntry. 
 
 2. She had an only child, named Bernard ; a boy whose i 
 position was as noble as his birth, although indeed be n 
 rather distinguished for the angelic innocence of his life thao] 
 for the endowment of his mind. He was sent by his motb 
 to study at a school in the neighborhood, whence he 
 wont to return home every evening, for she coulc'iot resold 
 to trust him away from her own care while he was still n| 
 young a child. 
 
 3. It does not seem that Bernard was in any way deficiei 
 in abiUty ; and he even made considerable progress in some oil 
 his studies, especially in granmiar ; but he was wanting l&l 
 quickness and vivacity of imagination ; and the composition) 
 of French and Latin verseid, which was one of the common j 
 school-tasks of his class, became an insurmountable difficulty. 
 
 i. One evening when he returned home, after a day of nn- 1 
 usual trouble, he sat down in disconsolate mood on the stops 
 eading into the garden, and leaning his head on his hand, be 
 gave himself up to very sorrowful reflections. He knew bow 
 much his mother wished that he should grow up a learned | 
 man, and then he was at the bottom of his class, with the rep- ! 
 ntation of being the dunce of the school ; and ail because be ! 
 was not bom a poet : it was certainly a little hard. 
 
 5. Poets, as all know, are bom, not made ; and it seemed 
 
THE 80IIOLAB OP THK KOSAUY. 
 
 173 
 
 it him 
 )we». 
 
 there lived, 
 l»d family in 
 to join % 
 its re-€8tab!ii 
 
 boy whose « 
 indeed he wa 
 of his life ti 
 
 by his motl 
 i^h^nce he w, 
 ol<J*JOt resell 
 »e WIS still al 
 
 ' waj deficie_. 
 ess in some of I 
 w wanting inl 
 > composition 
 the common I 
 le difficnitj. 
 adayof nn-i 
 on the stops 
 his hand, k 
 e knew how 
 P a learned I 
 ^th the rep- 
 becaase be 
 
 ! it seemed 
 
 easonable thing to spend so many a long day in trying 
 come what natnre had not made him. 
 [Bernard," said his motho^ —and at the sound of that gen« 
 Toice the poor boy started to his feet — "what is the mat- 
 
 Yonr hair is hanghig abont yonr eyes, yooj* cap is on 
 I ground, and I see something very like tears on those white 
 
 I. Bernard hung his head, but did not say a iford. " Do 
 
 not speak, my child ?" continued his mother : " you were 
 
 cr wotot to hide your sorrows thus ; or is it, indeed, that 
 
 have fallen hito some grieyous fault at school, and fear to 
 
 laroit tome?" 
 
 !"No, mother," replied Bernard, "they call me dunce, and 
 I, and they speak truly : but though now I could cry, as 
 ugh my heart would break, it is for no fault that you would 
 m a grievous one ; it is that I am not a poet." And with 
 le words, Bernard hid bis face on his mother's knee, and 
 
 ibbed aloud. 
 
 7. " A poet, child 1" said his mother ; " is that yonr only 
 able? Heard you ever that poets were happier or better 
 in other men, that yon should crave a gift that brings little 
 
 Lse, and ofttimes less of grace: covet the better gifts, Bernard; 
 ir this is hardly worth yonr tears ; a holy heart and a spotless 
 ith were fitter things to weep after." 
 
 8. " But, mother," replied Bernard, earnestly, " you know 
 t how the case stands with boys : we have to learn so many 
 ings yon would marvel to find the use for ; and among them 
 there is none so strange to fit a meaning to as the making 
 
 if these verses. 
 
 9. " And yet Master Roland says I am a duiice if I do not 
 e them ; and shall abide as I am, the laglast of the school, 
 
 ill I better know how to scan my lines, and have learnt the 
 ference between a trochee and a spondee: and that," he 
 jidded, with a heavy sigh, "I shall never learn." 
 
 10. " Bernard," said his mother, " I do not think I ew^ help 
 to mend your verses, but I may chance to be able to ttend 
 yonr courage. It was but the other day that liaatet Jl^ 
 told me of a student whose books were as grievous to him as 
 
 "'i: 
 
173 
 
 THE 'iillUU UKADKR. 
 
 Tm 
 
 
 ftoy versefl of yoms cad be. and yet lie found the way notlfonnd it &11 in 
 to read them, but to write them too ; and died a great doKe soon becai 
 and professor in the nnircrsity." Si'the title, as 
 
 11. "And what was his way?'' asked Bernard. "PeiiKarr. 
 
 his book» were written in prose ; it might have been diff^K]^ Every one 
 if they had Ixien poetry." H, the head o 
 
 " His way waa a very simple one," replied his mother ; 'Banls of leardi 
 atiked our dear Lady's help, and every day said the rosarAth that delica^ 
 her honor. I think there is little to hinder you from di 
 the same. 
 
 12. "Master Alan has given yon a rosary, though I see 
 that you often use it ; take it before her altar, every moi 
 before you go to school, and say the prayers as he has tai 
 you ; and remember that no one ever prayed to Mary ^tl 
 obtaining relief." 
 
 13. Bernard was not slow in following his mother's co 
 and not content with saying part of the rosary, he ever; 
 recited the entire fifteen mysteries on his knees before 
 image on our lady's altar. 
 
 14. Nor was it long before a singular change was obseni 
 in the boy ; not only did his former dulness and heaviness 
 capacity gradually disappear, but a certain depth of feeling 
 gracefulness of unagery was displayed in his school-vei 
 that placcKl them very far above the ordmary standard of 
 productions. i 
 
 34. Ths Soholab of the Bosaay — continued. 
 
 iding, he mig 
 the doctor's 
 4. But their! 
 the scholar c 
 in store. C 
 an aching pai 
 ition had incr 
 light, and w 
 lere, spite of < 
 mess could b 
 5. For two 1 
 .dually assuB 
 iftus desired t! 
 ,in lus room, 
 jhtest object 
 ;rictly obeyed 
 6. Neverthe 
 ithvng preven 
 Every d( 
 |he rosary, aw 
 ilie blindness 1 
 me which ne« 
 ily the famil 
 
 leck. 
 1. Alasl b 
 
 THE masters marvelled at the change, and said many learni 
 things about the development of the understan<^g ; t1 
 scholars wondered also, and soon cmne to beseech Bernard ti 
 help them in their tasks ; as for the boy himself, the ligl 
 Lis soul had stolen into it with such a soft and quiet gentle'Bo dread ; it 
 ness, that he hardly knew the change. Batal form, w 
 
 * 2. When they praised and qnestioned him as to whence biHiard was to 
 drew his thoughts and imagery, ha was wont to answer, witlAiiayed taileni 
 a wondering simplicity, that any one might do the same, forHad been so 
 
THE SCHOLAH OF THE ROHABT. 
 
 178 
 
 Ifoand it all in the rosary. This reply, which he constantly 
 k soon became talked about among the rest, and gained 
 
 the title, among his companicos, of the Scholar of the 
 
 ary. 
 
 3, Erery one now predicted great tUngs of Bernard ; he 
 
 h the head of his class and of the school ; the high.:.t 
 
 fanl? of learning, he was told, were now within his grasp ; 
 
 ]th that delicate and subtle fancy, and that solidity of unde^ 
 
 knding, he might aspire to any thing ; the professor's chau 
 
 jthe doctor's cap would never sorely be denied him. 
 
 14. But their hopes and expectations were not to be realized ; 
 
 rthe scholar of Mary a higher and Tory different distinction 
 
 I in store. One day he came home as usual, and complained 
 
 [an achmg pain in his eyes ; before the moinhig the inflam- 
 
 ^tion had increased to such a degree that he could not bear 
 
 I light, and was obliged to keep his bed in a darkened room, 
 
 here, spite of every care and remedy which his mother's ten- 
 
 kroess could bestow, he suffered the extremity of pain. 
 
 5. For two months he lay in this state, while the disease 
 iaally assumed a more dangerous character. The physi- 
 
 ^ans desired that every ray of daylight should be excluded 
 om his room, and the utmost care taken to preserve the 
 lightest object from irritating the eye ; an order which was 
 jtiictly obeyed. 
 
 6. Nevertheless, in spite of his pain and increasing weakness, 
 Dthing prevented Bernard from fulfilling his customary pray 
 
 Every day, as usual, he recited the fifteen mysteries oi 
 llie rosary, and comforted his mother, when she grieved ovoi- 
 llie blindness that threatened him, by saymg his devotion was 
 bDe which needed neither book nor daylight to help it, but 
 billy the familiar touch of those dear beads that never left his 
 beck. 
 
 I Alas! bUndness was before long not the only evil she had 
 to dread ; it was soon evident that the malady had reached a 
 fatal form, which no human skill could avail to remedy. Ber- 
 
 ard was to die ; all the great hopes excited by his newly dis* 
 blayed talents vanished into thin au:; and those whose tongues 
 Bad been so busy with his precocious genius were now loud in 
 
 i^ 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 i 
 
 -•^Qte**- 
 
174 
 
 TIIR THIKD KBADKR. 
 
 deploring the loss of one from whom so brilliant a career mini 
 have been expected. 
 
 8. Hir mother entered the room to prepare him fori 
 coming of the priest ; and as she did so, she desired the atttoj 
 ant to bring a candle into the still-darkened chamber. 
 
 " What need of a candle?" said the boy ; " tell them tli^ 
 it JH not wanted." 
 
 0. " It is for the priest, my child," she replied. " Tou i 
 try and bear the light for a few minutes ; for the good fatbi 
 has come to hear your confession, and he could not see i 
 enter without a light." 
 
 " But there is light," he replied ; "the room is full of l| 
 and has never been dark to me. I wonder that yon do not i 
 it." 
 
 10. " What light?" asked the priest, who was by this tii 
 bending over him. " Tour mother and I are standing be 
 but to our eyes the room is darkened still." 
 
 " It is from our Lady," replied the boy; "she is here by 1117 j 
 bedside, and the rays are shinhig from her, and make it di 
 There has never been darkness here since I have been ill." 
 
 11. The priest felt an awe stealing over him, and inTolniyl 
 tarily bowed his head towards the spot indicated by the ch 
 
 "And does that light hurt your eyes?" he asked; "yon] 
 could not bear the daylight." 
 
 "It is joy," answered Bernard, faintly; "joy and glory;] 
 the sorrow is all gone now !" and the priest saw that in I 
 lost words he was still thinking of the rosary. And so he 
 died ; and those whom he left needed not the evidence of mir- 
 acles to assure them that the scholar of Mary had been taken I 
 to the fulness of that glory, something of whose radjance had 
 thus rested over his dying bed. 
 
 i! 
 
fMK VKlNin or MAT. 
 
 175 
 
 ^ career Qinl 
 
 Wm fort. 
 ed theatk^ 
 nber. 
 |teil them i 
 
 "Yoa, 
 
 |« good fath 
 
 lot see I 
 
 is full of i 
 00 do not i 
 
 by this th 
 anding hen 
 
 ' here bjinj 
 
 fnakeitda/.f 
 >eenill.» / 
 
 »nd involiiii.| 
 
 •7 the e i... 
 
 ked; "jool 
 
 md gloiy..] 
 'hat in 
 ^nd so hel 
 >ce of inir. ] 
 >een taken I 
 jaoce had 
 
 35. The Momre of Mat. 
 
 THIS is the sweet, the balmy month of May t — ^the season 
 when nature comes forth in all her gayest attire, robed 
 in violet and green, her brow encircled with garlands of 
 flowers. To children, it is a season of mirth } — to all a time 
 3f gladness. 
 
 Daring this month the Ghnrch, in a special manner, invites 
 her children to honor and invoke the patronage of the immac- 
 nUte Qneen of Heaven, in that beautifol devotion of " tha 
 Month of Mav." 
 
176 
 
 THE THIRD BEADEB. 
 
 I' 
 
 2. As this devotion in honor of the holy Yirgin is now 
 aniversally practised, we give the following sketch of it'^ 
 for the instmction and edification of onr joong readers : 
 
 3. Daring the early part of the sixteenth centnry, Fatl 
 Lalomia, a professor in one of the Jesuit colleges in Ital] 
 proposed to the pupils of his class to perform each day di 
 the month of May, some special devotion to the mother 
 (}od. The happy suggestion was joyfully seconded by his 
 pils, and accordingly, a statue of the blessed Yirgin was pi* 
 upon a table at .the end of the clas^'room. Before this hombl 
 altar, which they fervently decorated with flowers, the venei 
 ble father and his pupils daily assembled and recited certi 
 prayers in honor of Mary, and made a short meditation on tlie| 
 virtues of her life. 
 
 4. The fathers of the college remarked with much gratifica-l 
 tion the fervent piety which, from that period, distingoisiied 
 the members of Father Lalomia's dass^ — an evidence hovl 
 pleasing this devotion was to the mother of God. On the re- 
 turmng May, the devotion which ccnnmenced in a smgle 
 was extended to the whole college. The effect was most re- 
 markable. 
 
 5. Boys who had been heretofore nntractable, now became 
 models of obedience and docility ; those who had been remis^ 
 in the practice of theur religion, now flew to the confessional; 
 the slothM and indolent became examples in the punctual and 
 faithful discharge of their scholastic duties ; the praises of 
 Mary were heard from every tongue, her statue was daily 
 crowned, and her altar strewed with flowers. 
 
 0. The fathers, seeing the good effects which the devotion 
 of the month of May produced in this single college, immedi- 
 ately introduced it into all their colleges in Italy, and in other 
 countries of Europe ; and as they went forth from these insti- 
 tutions on the mission, they established the devotion among 
 he faithful, and thus it spread from church to church until it 
 has at length become almost universal. 
 
 T. Let our young readers, during this month, join in this 
 beautiful devotion. Let them go forth every morning and 
 crown the statue of their heavenly Queen, strew her altar with 
 
 sb-gathered flc] 
 
 leortB : 
 
 Gv 
 
 T 
 
 TheiJ 
 And^ 
 Then 
 
THE MONTH OF MABY. 
 
 177 
 
 ion iMM.-^-'- 
 
 A oo V to her in aU the fervor of their 
 .sbgathered flowers, and say to her m 
 
 ^'^''' Dearest tnotbor I on thy altar. 
 
 Guide tby children "Wal^r 
 
 Sftfely through thta valeot aea 
 To thy Mcred heart devot^ 
 
 Thou on us bestoirest P««« ' 
 Blnclle<l to Heaven we p^t^ 
 Till this dangerous Ufe snau ow»» 
 
 36. The Moiith of Mabt. 
 , ,TOOTGM.y comes torfh taker flowery ate*. 
 '•YC™,e,Je30ie.ta*.^U,«^. 
 
 ^:^?^'t.of^.b-<^J-^i^. 
 Prepare the wreath for her tesxw j 
 
 To crave a boon from the spouc 
 I,.g,„wi.ghe«^^.*7»o^^^^^ 
 - mhttoe»aoni'ayo»rch»pletbe.i. 
 
ns 
 
 TUB THIKD HEADER. 
 
 37. The Indian. 
 
 Here lived and loved anathl^^^''Shia hole unscar,^ 
 foed thepMting deer; g»2u>» „„,!,' " ^'^ '■"Mer p„r. 
 
 paddled their light ^ l'"" "^S^ Wtes, aS now .t' 
 jarred; the Xl^^^SllZS"' '"^^^ ^ 
 death^ong, all were here • aid tl.,?^ «»??'«. the defyS 
 he"- curled the ™„ke of'jj:^' *" "« «ger strife w«ZT 
 
 not written his kws fn, *k *''® ^^eat Spirit ITn k ? 
 
 traced them o„ the" b^'trth" • ?"" »' «'»«rbat^: Li 
 -ature knew „„t a, ™^ »' *^ hearts. The i^or chfld „^ 
 
 » verse he acW,edl:d' i^^.r ^ l"' '»« GodTth"i 
 
 *• He beheld him in f),« * Y "^'"^ around. 
 'o->7 dwelling, t,^:j-»;hataa^^^^ 
 
 ttoat flamed on hin, ft-o^ 
 
Tfra IKDIAN. 
 
 179 
 
 '"^led With 
 ' rani this. 
 5 onscared. 
 'Oeath the 
 inter pur- 
 ^at smiles 
 
 I mid^day throne ; in the flower-that snapped in the mormng 
 
 breeze ; in the lofty pine that defied a thonsand whirlwmds ; 
 
 lin the timid warbler that never left its native grove ; in the 
 
 [fearless eagle, whose nntired pinion was wet in clonds ; in the 
 
 vorm that crawled at his foot; and in his own matchless 
 
 form, glowing with a spark of that light, to whose mysterious 
 
 |Soarce he bent in homble, though blind adoration. 
 
 5. And all this has passed away. Across the ocean came 
 I a pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and death. The for- 
 1 mer were sown for yon ; the latter sprang up in the path of 
 
 the sunple native. Two hundred years have changed the 
 character of a great continent, and blotted forever from its 
 face a whole peculiar people. Art has usurped the bowers of 
 nature, and the anointed children of education have been too 
 powerful for the tribes of the ignorant. 
 
 6. Here and there, a stricken few remain ; but how unlike 
 their bold, untamed, untamable progenitors 1 The Indian, 
 of falcon glance, and lion-bearing, the theme of the touching 
 ballad, the hero of the pathetic tale, is gone I and his degraded 
 offspring crawl upon the soil where he walked in muj osty, to 
 remmd us how miserable is man, when the foot of the con- 
 queror is on his neck. 
 
 1. As a race, they have withered from the land. Their 
 arrows are broken, their springs are dried up, their cabins are 
 in the dust. Their councU-fire has long since gone out on the 
 shore, and their war-cry is fast dying to the untrodden West. 
 Slcflrly and sadly they climb the distant mountains, and read 
 their doom in the setting sun. They are shrinking before the 
 mighty tide which is pressing them away; they must soon 
 hear the roar of the last wave, which will settle over them 
 forever. 
 
 8. Ages hence, the inquisitive white man, as he stands by 
 some growing city, will ponder on the structure of their dis- 
 turbed remams, and wonder to what manner of person they 
 belonged. They will live only in the songs and chronicles of 
 their exterminators. Let these be faithful to their rude vir- 
 tues as men, and pay due tribute to their unhappy fate as ft 
 oeople. 
 
ISO 
 
 THE TIIIllD READER. 
 
 38. CHAErrY. 
 
 1. pHARITY was a Uttle chad, 
 ^ Blue-eyed, beantifnl and mild, 
 Eoll of loye and fnll of light, 
 As the moon is to the night ; 
 Tiny foot and snowy hand — 
 Little carved ivory wand — 
 Little osier basket white- 
 Little vase of something bright 
 Hid in her dress qnite cunningly, 
 Had the sweet chUd, Charity 1 
 
 S. Where the aged totter'd on. 
 
 Weak and haggard, cold and waiH- 
 Loit'ring in the cheering sun, 
 Shivering in the rayless moon, 
 Wrinkled o'er by icy time. 
 Moaning for his faded prime, 
 Wrapp'd in rags and wretchedness, 
 Lying down in hopelessness : 
 With vase and basket there would be 
 The beautiful child. Charity I 
 
 8. Where the sick were4ike to die. 
 Unheeded all by human eye. 
 Parching with the bleeding mouth, 
 Gasping with the burning drought. 
 Sleepless — ravmg — sore oppress'd. 
 Staring eye and heaving breast. 
 Deserted, sad, and comfortless, 
 In that lone and last distress : 
 With vase and basket there would be 
 The beautiful child. Charity I 
 
 4. Where the starving peasant cried, 
 Looking at his wasting bride — 
 
 L( 
 
 c 
 
 Ci 
 T 
 Q 
 
 6. 
 
 6. 
 
 THER 
 stitut' 
 Catholic 
 
THK KVKRLASTING CHURCH. 
 
 181 
 
 Looking at his yonnglings bright 
 Fading away before his sight, 
 Crying, poor man I — bitterly. 
 Crying, the helpless sight to see- 
 Then a little voice he'd hear 
 Go ansinging in his ear : 
 With yase and basket there wonld b« 
 The beautiful child. Charity I 
 
 6. Where the blind man stray'd aside 
 From the roadwsy high and wide, 
 And felt for his I'>st path agam 
 'Mid the jeers of heartless men. 
 Just as stumbling to his knees, 
 A little hand is put in his, — 
 A gentle voice sings up to him, 
 Soothes his heart, and nerves his limb,- 
 For there with pitying care would be 
 The beautiful child, Charity I 
 
 6. Ah 1 the sweet child, Charity I 
 It does one's heart a good to see ! 
 In her milk-white simple dress — 
 In her meek, bright, loveliness — 
 With her ever-giving hand — 
 With her peace-enchanting wand— 
 With her osier basket white — 
 With her vase of something bright 
 Hid in her dress quite cunnmgly : 
 God-loved— pure child — Charity I 
 
 39. The Everlasting Chubch. 
 
 THERE la not, and there never was, on this earth, an in. 
 stitntion so well deserving of examination as the Roman 
 Catholic Church, The history of that Church joins together 
 
 ■^ 
 
182 
 
 TUB THIKD READER. 
 
 the two great ages of civilization. No other institution bk 
 left standing which carries the mind back to the time wLetl 
 the smoke of sacrifice rose from the Pantheon, and vhe&l 
 camelopards and tigers bounded in the Flavian amplii.] 
 theatre. 
 
 2. The proudest royal houses are but of yesterday, when] 
 compared with the line of the Supreme Pontiffs. That line | 
 we trace back, in an unbroken series, from the pope y 
 trowned Napoleon in the nineteenth century, to the pope who I 
 crowned Pepin in the eighth ; and far beyond the tin^e of Pe* | 
 pin does this august dynasty ejEtend. 
 
 3. The republic of Yenice came next m antiquity. Bnt 
 the republic of Yenice was modem when compared with the 
 papacy ; and the republic of Yenice is gone, and the papacy 
 remains, not in decay, not a mere antique, but full of life and 
 youthful vigor. The Catholic Church is still sendii^ to the 
 farthest ends of the world missionaries as zealous as those 
 who landed in Kent with St. Augustin, and still confronting 
 hostile kings with the same spirit with which she confronted 
 Attila. 
 
 4. The number of her children is greater than in any for- 
 mer age. Her acquisitions in the New World have more than 
 compensated her for what she has lost in the Old. Her spiritual 
 ascendency extends over the vast countries which lie between 
 the plains of Missouri and Cape Horn ; countries which, a 
 cent ; '7 hf nje, may not improbably contain a population as 
 large as that which r»aw inhabits Europe. The members of 
 her communion are certainly not fewer than two hundred mil- 
 lions. Nor do we see any sign which indicates that the term 
 of her long dominion is approaching. 
 
 5. She saw the commencement of all the governments and 
 of all the ecclesiastical establishments that now exist in the 
 world, and feels no assurance that she is not destined to see 
 the end of them alL She was respected before the Saxon had 
 set foot in Britain, before the Frank had passed the Rhine, 
 when Grecian eloquence still flourished at Autioch, when idols 
 were stiU worshipped in the temple of Mecca ; and she may 
 stUl exist in undiminished vigor, when some traveller from 
 
WKLCOMK TO YIIK RHINK. 
 
 188 
 
 jstitatioQ «Bfew Zealand shall, in the midst of a yast solitude, take his 
 ^une wheiBand opon a broken arch of London Bridge, to sketch the 
 and wlieiiBDing of St. Paul's. 
 
 «y, whea 
 
 That line I 
 
 [pope wliof 
 
 pope who! 
 
 ^e of Pe. I 
 
 %. ] 
 
 with the 
 
 he papacj 
 
 •f life and 
 
 ng to the 
 
 as those 
 
 •nfronting 
 
 onfronted 
 
 40. Welcome to the Bhime. 
 
 The Oemuui urmj of lib«r»ton, on their return from Fnmoe, an takd to 
 IhkTe bunt into a iMtional chant of welcome to the Bbme, on coming in 
 [ light of that celebrated river. 
 
 The ohcras of this song is well adapted for the purpose of simultaneons 
 
 I neding in class. 
 
 SINGLE YOIOK. 
 
 IT is the RUno ! onr moontfdn vineyards laving, 
 I see the bright flood shine 1 
 Sing on the march, with every banner waving— 
 Sing, brothers, 'tis the Bhine ! 
 
 SI 
 
 ^t 
 
 I any for. 
 lore than 
 spiritnal 
 between 
 which, a 
 ition OS 
 ibers of 
 red mil- 
 ie term 
 
 its and 
 in the 
 to see 
 >nhad 
 Jhine, 
 1 idols 
 t may 
 from 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 The Bhine ! the Bhine I our own imperial river ! 
 
 Be glory on thy track ! 
 We left thy shores, to die or to deliver ; — 
 
 We bear thee Freedom back t 
 
 m 
 
 SINGLE VOICE. 
 
 Hail I hail I my childhood knew thy rush of water, 
 
 Even as my mother's song ; 
 That sound went past me on the field of slaughter, 
 
 And heart and arm grew strong 1 
 
 CHOBUS. 
 
 Roll proudly on t — ^brave blood is with thee sweepings 
 
 Pour'd out by sons of thine, 
 Where sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping, 
 
 Like thee, victorious Bhine ! 
 
 ,**.• 
 
184 
 
 TDK TIIIUI) UKAUKIt. 
 
 f 
 
 SINGLE VOIOB. 
 
 Home 1 — hom() ! — thy glad wave hath a tone of grcethig, 
 
 Thy path is by ray home : 
 Even now my children count tlie hours till meeting. 
 
 Oh, ransom'd ones, I come I 
 
 CH0RV8. 
 
 Go, tell the seas that chain shall bind thee never, 
 
 Sound on by hearth and shrine I 
 Sinp: through the hills that thou art free forever — 
 
 Lift up thy voice, O lUiine ! 
 
THE BICE iirVF;. 
 
 18ft 
 
 41. Xbx Bse-uivs. 
 
 NATUEE affords bnt few more striMi^ evidences of thft 
 wisdom and benevolence of the Creator, than may be ob- 
 served in the labors of bees. The observer is at a loss which 
 to admire most, the wonderful manner in which these insects 
 are adapted to their circumstances, or the unity, industry, 
 I loyalty, and sagacity which prevail among them. 
 
 2. When they begin to work in their hives, they divide 
 themselves into four companies ; one of which roves the fields 
 in search of materials ; another employs itself in laying oat 
 I the bottom and partitions of their cells ; a third is employed 
 ia smoothing the walls ; and the fourth company brings food 
 for the rest, or relieves those who return with their respective 
 burdens. 
 
 3 But they are not kept constantly at one employment | 
 they oft on change the tasks assigned tliem ; tlioso that have 
 been at work, being pertnilind to go abroad, and thuse that 
 have been in the fields take 1 heir plnces. 
 
 4. They seem even to have signs by which they iiiiilerstaiid 
 each other ; for when any of them wants food, he holds out 
 his trunk towards the bee from which he expects it. The 
 latter, understandmg the desire of his companion, |pi||}e4illl'P)| 
 
 -'I 
 
 • Si- 
 
 ii'. 
 
 f I 
 
186 
 
 TUB TQISD READKR. 
 
 TH 
 
 deposits for his ase a small qaantity of honey. ThoirdlligeQ 
 and labor are so great that in a few dayp ey are enabled 
 make cells snfBcient for several thonsaui ees. In the pk 
 and formation of these cells they display t fonderful sagacitjj 
 6. The danger of being stong by bees, may be in a greaj 
 measure prevented by remaining qnlet. A thonsand bocs wlij 
 fly and bozx about a person without hurting hiin, if he stati 
 perfectly still and does not disturb them even if they are neal 
 his face. It is said that a person is in perfect, safety in thj 
 midst of a swarm of bees, if he is careful to shut his montl^ 
 and breathe gently through his nostrils. 
 
 6. Many amnsfaig stories are told about the effect "oroduce* 
 by the sting of bees. In 1825, a mob attacked the honse oj 
 a gentleman in Germany. He endeavored in vain to dissua 
 them firom their des^pis ; at length when every thing else h 
 failed, he ordered his servants to bring a large bee-hive wludl 
 he threw into the midst of the enraged multitude. The resuil 
 answered his expectations. The mobites, stung by the bal 
 immediately fled in all directions, and thus gave the gcDtleinaii| 
 time to escape from their fury. 
 
 7. Bees have one fault common to bad boys, they areui-] 
 clmed to fight among themselves. Quarrels and combats m\ 
 frequent among them. Sometimes it seems that their contests! 
 are commenced in the hive, as the combatants may ofteu bel 
 seen coming out in the greatest fury, and joining in the deadly I 
 strife the moment they reach the door of the hive. In somtl 
 cases a bee {>;aceably settled on the outside of the hive is rude-j 
 ly jostled by another, and then a fierce struggle is commenced,] 
 each endeavoring to obtam the advantage of the position. 
 
 8. They turn, dance about, throttle each other, and such is I 
 their bitter eagerness, that a person can approach near to them | 
 without theu* perceiving it. Other times, the combat take 
 place in the hive, and in those cases the contest usually con 
 tlnues until one kills the other ; then the victor takes up the 
 dead body of his antagonist and carries it outside the hive. 
 
 9. Bees are remarkable for their industry, and those among I 
 them that will not, or cannot work, are driven from the hire I 
 «nd not permitted to return. 
 
 42. T 
 
 Look, d< 
 Langiud 
 
 2. See, ho^ 
 Look, h 
 Even th 
 And sea 
 
 3. Poor T 
 And th 
 And pa 
 WithotJ 
 
 4. There f 
 But vei 
 Andhc 
 That s< 
 
THB OHILDS VflHU IN JUNK. 
 
 187 
 
 42. The Child's Wish in Jcn 
 
 1 Tl/r OTHER, dear mother, the wu 
 lYl. Prithee, let me be idle to-day : 
 Look, dear mother, the flowers all Ho 
 Langoidlj, under the bright blae skj. 
 
 2. See, how slowly the streamlet glides ; 
 Look, how the violet roguishly hides ; 
 £vea the botterfly rests on the rose. 
 And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes. 
 
 3. Poor Tray is asleep in the noonday snc, 
 And the flies go about him one by one ; 
 And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace, 
 Without ever thinking of washing her face. 
 
 i. There flies a bird to a neighboring tree, 
 But very lazily flieth he. 
 And he sits and twitters a gentle note, 
 That scarcely ruffles his little throat. 
 
 5. Yon bid me be busy ; but, mother, hear 
 How the humdrum grasshopper soundeth near ; 
 And the soft west wind is so light in its plaj, 
 It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray. 
 
 6. I wish, oh, I wish I was yonder cloud, 
 That sails about with its misty shroud ; 
 Books and work I no more should see, 
 
 And I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee 
 
 Tl 
 
 ti'V 
 
 T!J.' 
 

 IMAGE EVALUATION 
 TEST TARGET (MT-3) 
 
 Lili 
 
 11.25 
 
 itt Uii 12.2 
 
 lit 
 
 Bt 
 
 IS 
 
 14^0 
 
 
 - 6" 
 
 
 % 
 
 .V 
 
 
 
 y: 
 
 7 
 
 Photographic 
 
 Sciences 
 
 Corporation 
 
 23 WIST MAIN STMIT 
 
 WIBSTIR,N.Y. 14SM 
 
 (716)«72-4S03 
 
 4^ 
 
4u 
 
 1 
 
188 
 
 THE TH1BP BBA.DEB. 
 
 h 
 
 43. The Mabtyb's Bot. 
 
 WE have a tale to tell our yonng readers, of Borne in^ 
 early days of Christianity. 
 
 In the third ^ntnry after Christ, towards the dose ot| 
 mild September day, in one of the most hnposing pm 
 boildings, dwelt a noble Roman matron. 
 
 At the time that we discover her she is bnsily engaged i 
 a piece of work, which evidently has no persoiud 'tue. Uiii 
 a long rich strip of gold cloth she is embroidering with 
 richer gold thread ; and occasionally she has recourse to 
 or another of several el^ant caskets npon the table, : 
 which she takes out a pearl, or a gem set in gold, and inti 
 duces it into the design. It looks as if the predons on 
 ments of earlier days were being devoted to some 
 purpose. 
 
 3. But as time goes on, some little uneariness may be < 
 served to come over her calm thoughts, hitherto absorbed, t 
 aU appearance, in her work. She now occasionally raises 
 . eyes from it towards the entoanoe ; sometimes she listens I 
 footsteps, and seems disappointed. She Iboks up towards i 
 sun; then perhaps tarns her glance towards a ciepsydnt 
 water-dodE, on a bracket near her ; but Jns^ as a feeling i 
 more serious anslety begins to make an impression on 
 countenance, a cheerftd rap strikes the honse^loor, and 
 bends forward with a radiuit look to meet the welcome visiti 
 
 8. It is a youth (tall of grace, and sprighi^iness, aAd candoi^ 
 that comes forward with light and buoyant steps across tbi 
 atrium, towards the inner hall ; and we shall hardly find tin 
 to sketch him before he readies it. He is about foorteal 
 years old, but tall for that age, with elegance of form 
 manliness of bearing. His bare neck and limbs are well devdrl 
 oped by healthy exercise ; his features display an open 
 warm heart;* whfle his lofty forehead, round whid) his brotnl 
 hair naturally curls, beams with a bright intelligence. A bnit>| 
 die of papers and vellum rolls fastened together^ and carnedj 
 
THE MABTYB 5 DOT. 
 
 189 
 
 fan old servant behind him, shows us that he is jost retnm- 
 • home from school. 
 
 U. While we have been thns noting him, he has received his 
 
 jother's embrace, and has set hunself low by her feet. She 
 
 opon him for sotne time in silence, as if to discover in 
 
 conntenance the cause of his unusual delay, for he is an 
 
 bnr late in his retnm. But he meets her glance with so 
 
 nk a look, and with such a smile of innocence, that every 
 
 ond of doubt is in a moment dispelled, and she addresses him 
 
 I follows : 
 
 1 5. "What has detained yon to-day, ny dearest boy? No 
 cident, I trust, has happened to you on the way ?" 
 " Oh, none, I assure you, sweetest mother ; on the contrary, 
 I has been delightful, — so much so, that I can scarcely ven- 
 I to tell you." 
 
 A look of smiling expostulation drew from the open-hearted 
 07 a delidous laugh as he continued : 
 6. " Well, I sujqsose.I must. Ton know I am never happj, 
 od cannot sleep, if I have failed to tell you all the Iwd and 
 be good of the day about myself." (The mother smiled again, 
 ondering what the bad iras.) "I was reading the other day 
 at the S<7thians each evening cast into an urn a white or a 
 ^lack stone, accordb^ as the day had been haj^y or unhappy; 
 I had to do so, it-«would serve to mark, in white or black, 
 he days on which I have, or have not, an opportnnity of re> 
 to you all that I have done. But to-day, for the first 
 ne, I have a doubt, a fear of consdenoe, whether I ought to 
 eUyouiJl." 
 
 1. Did' the mother's heart flutter more than usual, as from 
 first taadety, or was there a softer soUdtude dimnung her 
 bye, that thb youth should seize her hand and put it tenderly 
 > his lips while he thus replied! 
 
 "Fear nothing, mother most beloved, your son has done 
 Inothing that may give yon pain. Only say, do yon wish to 
 Ihear aU that has befallen me to-day, or only the cause of my 
 I late return home?" 
 
 "Tell me all, dear Pancratius," she answered; "nothing 
 I that concerns yo« can be faidifrerent to me." 
 
 I 
 
190 
 
 THB TBIBD BBADSB. 
 
 8. " Well, then," he began, "this Uist day of my fireqaa 
 ing school appears to me to have been singidarly blessed,! 
 yet fall of strange oocnrrences. First, I was crowned as 
 succeasfal competitor in a declamation, which our good 
 ter Oassianns set as for oar work daring the morning he 
 and this led, as you will hear, to some singalar diBcoveri 
 The sabject was, ' That the real philosopher shoald be en 
 Toady to die for trath.' I never heard any thing so i 
 insipid (I hope it is not wrong to say so) as the compositio 
 read by my companions. It was not their fanlt, poor fellow 
 what trath can they possess, and what indacemen^ can th 
 have, to die for any of thdr rain opinions. 
 
 9. " Bat to a^Ohristian, what charming snggestions sachj 
 theme nataraUy makes 1 And so I felt it. My heart glowo 
 and all my thoaghts seemed to bam, as I wrote my essay, fuj 
 of the lessons you have taaght me, and of the domestic es 
 pies that are before me. The son of a martyr conld not fei 
 otherwise. Bat when my tarn came to read my declamation 
 I found that my feelings had nearly fatally betrayed me. 
 the warmth of my recitation, the word ' Christian' escaped ni 
 lips instead of 'philosopher,' and 'fait* wtead of 'trath.1 
 At the first mistake, I saw Oassiaafu st at the second, 1 
 saw a tear ^ten in hiseye^ as bending affecUonatoly towa 
 me, he said, ic a whispor, ' Beware, my ehild ; there are sh 
 ears listening.' " ; 
 
 10. " What, then," interrapted the mother " is Cassianos \ 
 Ohristian 7 I chose his school for yoa becaase it was in tU 
 highest repate for learning and for morality ; and now, indeed,! 
 I thank Ood that I did so. Bat in these days of danger aodl 
 a{qirebension we are oUiged to liye as strtfngers in oar owbI 
 land, scarcely knowing the faces of oar brethren. Certainly,! 
 had Cassianos proclaimed his faith, his school woold soon havel 
 been deserted. Bat go on, my dear boy. W^re his appie-l 
 hensions well grounded ?" 
 
 11. "I fear so ; for while the great hg^j of my schoolfel I 
 lows, not noticing these slips, vehemently applauded my heartjl 
 declamation, I saw the dark eyes of C^n^^os bent scowlin(^}| 
 vpon me, as he bit his lip in manifest io$t^** 
 
TBM UAxmrB Bor. 
 
 191 
 
 |«Aod who is he, my child, that was so displeased, and 
 
 efore?" 
 
 I "He is the oldest and strongest, bat, nnfortnnately, the 
 
 Dest boy in the school Bat this, yoa know, is not his 
 
 Oidy, I know not why, he seems eyer to haye had an 
 
 ^will and gradge against me, the canse of which I camiot 
 
 dentand.'' 
 
 I " Did he say aaght to yoo, or do 7" 
 
 Vi. "Tes, and was the canse of my delay. For when we 
 
 ^ent forth from school into the field by the riyer, he addressed 
 
 insnltingly in the presence of oar conqwnions, and said, 
 
 |Come, Fancratins, this, I nnderstand, is the last time we 
 
 et here (he laid a particnlar emphasis on the word) ; bat I 
 
 are a long score to denumd payment of from yoa. Ton haye 
 
 to show yoar saperiority in school oyer me and otherx 
 
 (ider and better than yonrself: I saw yonr saperdlioas looks 
 
 ; me as yoa spoated yoar high-flown d<Hdamation to-day ; ay, 
 
 1 1 canght expressions in it which yon may liye to roe, and 
 
 at yery soon ; for my father, yoa well know, is Prefect of 
 
 I dty (the mother slightly started) ; and something is pre- 
 
 wbich may nearly concern yoa. Before yoa leaye as 
 
 '. most haye my reyenge. If yon are worthy of yoar name, 
 
 it be^ not an empty word,* let ns fi^ly contend in more 
 
 dy strife than that of the style and t^bles.f Wrestie with 
 
 n, or try the cestas| against me. I bam to hamble yoa as 
 
 idesenre before these witnesses of yoar insolent trinmphs.' ** 
 
 18. The anzioas mother bent eagerly forward as she listened, 
 
 scarcely breathed. ".Ajad what," she exclaimed, "did 
 
 oa answer, my dear son T' 
 
 "I told Um gently that he was qnite ndstaken ; for neyer 
 Ihad I conscionsfy done any thing that coald giye pain to him 
 lor any of my schoolfellows ; nw did I eyer dream of clidming 
 
 * Th9 paneratinm wu Um exeraiM which oombined all other perBonal 
 |(ontesto; wraitUng, boxing, Ao, 
 
 t The imptleoMntf of wiitiog in cohoolt, the tablets being oovend with 
 |*u, on vMoh the I t jUn were traced by the sharp point, and efitoed b-r 
 I the flat top, of the alyle. 
 
 { The hiuid-bandaffriHrom in png^liatic oombats. 
 
193 
 
 TBB THIRD RBADKB. 
 
 iaperiority orer them. 'And as to what yoa proposei'f 
 added, 'yoa know, Oorrinns, that I have always refosedl 
 indulge in personal combats, which, beginning in a cool 
 of skill, end in an angry strife, hatred, and wish for reTe 
 
 14. " ' How much less conld I think of entering on 
 now, when yoa,aTOw that yoa are audoos to b^^ them ] 
 those evil feelings which are nsnally their bad end?' 
 schoohnates had now formed a circle ronnd as ; and I de 
 saw that they were all against me, for they had hoped to ( 
 some of the delights of their cruel games ; I therefore cha 
 fully added, 'And now, my comrades, good-by, dpd mayi 
 happnesp attend you. I part from you as I have lived ' 
 you, in peace.' ' Not so,' replied Corrinns, now purple in 1 
 face with fury j * but' " — 
 
 15. The boy's countenance became crimsoned, his tohJ 
 quivered, his body trembled, and, half choked, he sobbed i 
 " I cannot go on ; I dare not teU the rest !" 
 
 " I entreat yoa, for God's sake, and for the lore yoa 
 your father's memory," sud the mother, placing her 
 upon her son's head, " conceal nothing from me. I shall octi 
 again have rest if you tell me not alL What fiirther said 
 did Gorvinus?" 
 
 The boy recovered himself by a moment's pause and a i 
 prayer, and then proceeded : 
 
 16. " 'Not so I' exclaimed Oorvinns, 'not so do you dep 
 cowurdly worshipper of an ass's head ! Yoa have coi 
 your abode from us, but I will iBnd you oot ; tiU then 1 
 this token of my determined purpose to be revenged 1' 
 saying he dealt me a furious blow i^n tho^face, which 
 me reel and stagger, wMle a shout of savage delight 
 
 o<;th from the boys aroond us.'^ 
 He burst into tears, wlpdi reeved him, and then went <n.| 
 
THk mabttb's bot. 
 
 108 
 
 44. Thb Maktb'b Bot — concluded. 
 
 I, how I felt my blood boil at that moment t how my 
 lieart seemed bnntiDg within me ; and a voice appeared 
 Iffhisper in my ear scomAilly the name of 'coward!' It. 
 WM an evil siurit. I felt that I was strong enongh — 
 rruDg anger made me so— to seize my nqjost assailant by 
 I throat, and cast him gaqung on the ground. I heard al- 
 Aj the shont of applause that wonld haye hailed my victory 
 I tomed the tables against him. It was the hardest stmg- 
 lof my life ; never were flesh and blood so strong within 
 
 God I may they never be again so tremendously pow- 
 
 Ijii 
 
 'And what did you do, then, my darling boy?" gasped 
 1 the tr«nbling matron. 
 1 8. He replied, " Hy good angel conquered the demon at my 
 
 1 thought of my blessed Lord in the house of Gaii^ias, 
 oonded by scoffing memies, and struck ignominioudy on 
 
 ) cheek, yet meek and forgiving. Gould I wish to be other- 
 
 9 ? I stretched forth my hand to Oorvinus, and sud, ' May 
 
 ^ forgive you, as I freely and fully do ; and may he Uess 
 
 1 abundanUy.' Gasmanus came up at that moment, having 
 
 all from a distance, and the youthful crowd quickly dis- 
 
 I entreated him, by our conmion faith, now acknowt 
 
 between us, not to pursue Gorvinns for wbnt he had 
 
 ^ne ; and I obtained his promise. And now, sweet mother,'' 
 
 inmured the boy, in soft, gentle accents, into his parent's 
 
 |b(ffiom, " do you not tUnk I may call this a happy day 7" 
 
 8. SSently, and ahnost unknowingly, he had changed his 
 
 Ipodtion, and was kneeling before her; and well he might; 
 
 ' was die not to him as a guardian spirit, who had shielded 
 
 I him ever from evil ; or might he not well see in her the living 
 
 laint whose vhrtues had been Ms model from childhood ? Ln- 
 
 I dna broke the silence, ia a tone full of grave emotion. 
 
 4. " The time has at Iragth come, my dear child," she sdd, 
 
IN 
 
 THB TBIBD RUADKB. 
 
 ** which has long been the subject of my earnest prayer, 
 I have yearned for in the exuberance of maternal love, 
 ly have I watdied in thee the opening germ of each CI 
 yirtne, and thanked God as it appeared. I haye noted I 
 docility, thy gentleness, thy cUligence, thy piety, and thy] 
 of God and man. I haye seen with Joy tiiy Uydy faith, i 
 thy indiflieirenoe tc worldly things, and thy tenderness to i 
 poor. But I haye been waiting with amdety for the 
 which should dedsiyely show me, whether thou wonldst 1 
 content with the poor legacy of thy mother's weakly 
 or art the true inheritor of thy mar^rred father's i^obler | 
 That hour, thank God, has come to^y t" 
 
 6. ** What haye I done, thet, that shouM thus l«.ye i 
 or raised thy opinion of me?" adted Pancratfais. 
 
 "listen to me, my son. lliisday, which was to be tbel 
 of thy school education, methlnks that our merciful Lord 
 been pleased to giye thee ft lesson worth it all ; and to proij 
 that thou hast put off the things of a child, and must be 1 
 henceforth as a man ; for thou canst thiiik and speak, yes, i 
 act as one." 
 
 ** How dost tlion mean, dear mother?" 
 
 6. " What thou hast told me of thy declamation this mon 
 
 "Whatisthi 
 10. "Itishii 
 lllowmg in my 
 
 ing," she replied, "proyes to me how fhll thy heart must haTBvish that it to< 
 
 been of noble and generous thoughts; thou art too sincere i 
 honest to haye written, and f eryently expressed, that it inu i 
 glorious duty to die for the fldtb, if thop hadst not belieTo 
 it, and felt it." 
 
 " And truly I do beHeye and fSsel it," interrupted the bojj 
 " What greater hajqsiness can a Ohristian desire on earth?" 
 
 1. "Yes, my diild, thou layest most teuly," continued Lv 
 dna. "But I should not haye bem satisfied with wor 
 What followed afterwards has inrayed to me tiiat thou 
 beur iirtrq»idly and patiently, not aerely pain, but what !■ inheritance, t 
 know it must haye been haider for thy young patrician bloodi i,ave conceal< 
 to stand, the stingh^ q;nominy of a disgraceful blow, and UmI than gold an 
 scornful words and gliuices of an unpitying multitude. Nayl tbee." 
 more ; thou hast proyed thyself strong enough to foi^ye audi 12. With 
 to iHray for thine enemy. Tlds day thou hast trodden tbel golden chaii 
 
 ontinloyeof 1 
 
 "Enough, ei 
 
 ing with a hoi 
 
 childhood, I h 
 
 Heobey®^ 
 U. «»Thou 
 
 mother, with 
 liigh station, 
 there is one t 
 
TUK MAftrnes bot. 
 
 196 
 
 her pathi of the moontain, with the cross npon thy shouMen ; 
 
 I step more, and thou wilt plant it on its sunmit. Thon 
 
 ; proved thyself the genuine son of the martyr Qatetinos 
 
 thon wish to be like him?'' 
 
 1 8. " Mother, mother t dearest, sweetc»t mother 1'' broke out 
 
 I paothig youth ; " could I be his genuine son, and not wish 
 
 I resemble hhn? Though 1 uerer ei\)oyed the happiness of 
 
 owing him, has not his hnage been erer before my mind? 
 
 las he not been the rery pride of my thoughts ? 
 
 9. " When each year the solemn commemoration lua been 
 de of him, as of one of the. white-robed anuy that surrounds 
 
 lie Lamb, in whose blood he washed his garments, how hare 
 
 bj lieart and my flesh exulted in his glory ; and how have I 
 
 ayed to hun, in the warmth of filial piety, that he would ob- 
 
 I for me, not fame, not distinction, not wealth, not earthly 
 
 boi what he yalned more than all these : nay, that the 
 
 jnlj thing which he has left on earth may be appUed, as I 
 
 now he now considers it would most usefuUy and most nobly 
 
 b" 
 
 " What is that, my son?'' 
 
 10. "It is his blood," replied the youth, "which yet remains 
 lllowing in my veins, and in these only. I know he must 
 Iwish that it too, like what he held in his own, may be poured 
 |oat in love of his Redeemer, and -in testimony of his faith." 
 
 "Enough, enough, my cUldl" exclaimed the mother, thrill- 
 ling with a holy emotion ; " take from thy neck the badge of 
 [chOdbood, I have a better token to give thee." 
 
 He obeyed! and put away the golden bulla. 
 
 11. "Thou hast inherited from thy father," spoke the 
 I mother, with still deeper solemnity of tone, " a noble name, a 
 
 bigb station, ample riches, every worldly advantage. But 
 there is ofie treasure which I have reserved for thee from Us 
 bheritance, till thou shouldst prove thyself worthy of it. ■ 1 
 have concealed it from thee till now ; though I valued it more 
 than gold and Jewels. It is now time that I make it over to 
 thee." 
 
 12. With trembling hands she drew from her neck the 
 golden chain which hung round it ; and for the first time hoc 
 
106 
 
 TUB TIIIKD RUADKR. 
 
 son Raw that it sapported a small bag or parse richly 
 broidcred with pearls. She opened it, and \ drew from it 
 «ponge, dry indeed, but deeply stained. 
 
 "This, too, is thy father's blood, Pancratins," she u!i 
 with faltering voice and streamhig eyes. " I gathered it m 
 self from his death-wound, as, disgnised, I stood by his gidi 
 and saw hun die for Christ." 
 
 She gazed npon it fondly, and kissed it fervently ; and hcj 
 gashing tears fell on it, and moistened it once more. Au 
 thas liqaefied again, its color glowed bright and warm, as if ii 
 had only jnst left the martyr's heart. \ 
 
 13. The holy matron pat it to her son's qnivering hps, m 
 they were empnrpled with its sanctifying toach. He venerati 
 the sacred relic with the deepest emotions of a Christian andl 
 a son ; and felt as if his father's spirit had descended into hiin, 
 and stirred to its depths the fall vessel of his heart, that ita 
 waters might be ready freely to flow. The whole family thus' 
 seemed to him once more united. 
 
 14. Lucina replaced her treasure in its shrine, and hang iti 
 round the neck of her son, saying : "When next it is moist- 
 ened, may it be from a nobler stream than.that which goshei 
 from a weak woman's eyes 1" But Heaven thought not 8o; 
 and the future combatant was anointed, and the future martyr 
 was consecrated, by the blood of his father mingled with his 
 mother's tears. 
 
 9. la a son 
 ,ore happy thai 
 ipon earth. SI 
 
 lod, and in CO 
 Ibwjkbyasolei 
 
 45. Anna's Offxrino of Samuel. 
 
 SAMUEL, a renowned and holy prophet, was from his in* 
 fancy trained up to virtue. Anna, his mother, had for 
 many years been married to Elcana, without having any chil- 
 dren. Overwhelmed with the excess of sorrow, she wept and 
 prayed to God for comfort to her affliction ; she joined fasting 
 to her prayers, and bound herself by vow, if she should obtaiQ 
 a son, to consecrate him all the days of his life to the divine 
 service. Samuel was the fruit of his mother's piety, and the 
 recompense of her faith. 
 
ANMA*8 OFFEBIMO OF BAl^UBL. 
 
 197 
 
 9. In a son like him, says St. Ghrysostom, Anna became 
 pore happy than if she had been mother of the greatest prince 
 jipon earth. She received him as a present firom the hand of 
 }od, and in compliance with her tow, hastened to give him 
 
 clc by a solemn act of religion. 
 
 8. As soon as she had weaned him, she carried him to the 
 tabemade^ pnt him into the hands of Hell the high-priest, and 
 consecrated hun irreyocably, as she had promised, to the ser* 
 vice of her Creator. Gratitude and piety alone gnided the 
 tender feelings of her lore ; she parted with her child at a 
 
 ".■Vj,my : 
 
198 
 
 TBB THIBD BBAOKB. 
 
 time wboD the ohftrmi tad Bmiles of innocence made him 
 more dear. She knew what was good for her ion, and wh 
 was acceptable to Qod. 
 
 4. Her sacrifice hi some sort seems to resemble that 
 Abraham. She offered to God her darUng, her only son; 
 offered him for life, and "Stripped herself of all fatnre claii 
 over him. The mother's piety was repaid by the Tirtnea 
 her son. The little Samnd ministered to the Lord ondeil 
 Heli's direction by day, and at night slept within the tabe^| 
 nacle, near the ark of Qod, and there It was that Ood faTondl 
 hfan with a spedal reyelation, the preparatory walk of m 
 futore greatness. 
 
 6. Daring the sQenoe of the idght, he heard a rdce callingl 
 him by his name; unskilled as yet hi the langnage of the] 
 Lord, the holy yonth thonght that it had been Hell's Toice, 
 hastfly rose, and asked him what he wanted. Hell told him 
 he had not called, bade Urn go and compose himself to sleep. 
 Samuel had scarce liUd himself down, when the same voice 
 called hhn np agahi ; he ran to the high priest, who ordered 
 him to return and sleep. Samuel was called the thhrd time; 
 he again rose and went to &eU, who perceiyed that the Lord 
 had called the youth. " Oo sleep," said hcto him ; " and if 
 thou hear the Toioe again, thou shalt answer, ' Speak, Lord, 
 for thy seryant heareth.' ** 
 
 6. Samuel retired to take his rest, and upon hearing himself 
 called by name for the fourth time, answered in the words 
 that Hell had comnumded him. The Lord then informed 
 Samuel of the heavy judgments which were soon to fall npon 
 the high-priest and his ftuni^f , In punishment of sins that were 
 toa ononnous to be eqiiated by the saeriflo^ they offered 
 He declared that he could no longer bear the sinfhl negligence 
 of a father, who, knowing the disorders, and seeing the pro- 
 fane excesses of his two sons, had contented himself with a 
 gentle reprimand, when a just leal for the honor and sanctity 
 of God's altar required the most exemplary severity^ 
 
 1. Heli was very pressing the next morning to know what 
 the Lord had said. Samuel showed a great unwOIirgness to 
 speak, and nothing but Hell's importunity could have prevaOed 
 
 THC 
 
 ^ahlmtolmpar 
 
 itted to the dlvlii 
 ipagtmisoonduG 
 [I father. It wai 
 rer ought to ha 
 ijldren; he acikn 
 j the punishment 
 
 8. Hell, says S 
 iorchandpriva 
 en of their 
 enti, either tn 
 dons to grow 
 ,.a chedc^d at t 
 ) the ruin of the 
 ofh opon thenuM 
 
 46. Ti 
 1. 
 
 i 
 
 8.1 
 8. < 
 
THI BOT AMD THV OHILO JRIUt. 
 
 190 
 
 I him to impart the melanclioly leorat. Heli humbly lab- 
 ^tted to the diyine iecreet, mmI with the deepest regret for 
 I past mifoondnct, became sensible, that to fulfil the dotics 
 fi father, it waa not enough to be singly good, that he more- 
 tr ought to hare endearored to insUI goodness into his 
 en ; he acknowledged his neglect, and resigned himself 
 I the ponishment thereof. 
 
 8. Hell, says St. GregCKry, has many Imitators both hi th 
 
 horch and private fkmilles. Pastors rilently behold the dis- 
 
 of their flocks, which they onght to correct; and 
 
 ents, either ftrom indolence or false fondness, snlfer those 
 
 dons to grow np in their children, which ought to have 
 
 1 checked at thdr first appearance. Such a ncf^lect tends 
 
 I the ruhi of their souls, and draws down Qod's displeasure, 
 
 oth upon themseWes and their children. 
 
 46. Thb Bot AMD THS Ohild Jbsus. 
 
 1. A MONO green pleasant meadows, 
 ia. All in a grore so mild. 
 
 Was set a marble hnage 
 Of the Virgin and the Ohild. 
 
 2. There oft, on summer cTenings, 
 
 A loTdy boy would roye, 
 To play beside the Image 
 ^Hiat saaot{fied the grore. 
 
 8. Oft sat his mother by Mm, 
 Amoi^ the shadows dim, 
 And told how the Lord Jesus 
 Was once a child like him. 
 
 4. "And now firom highest heayen 
 He doth look down each day, 
 And sees whate'er thou doest. 
 And hears what thou dost say.^' 
 
SOO THB THIRD BXAUBB. 
 
 6. Uras spake his tender mother ; 
 And (m an erening bright, 
 When the red ronnd sun descended 
 'Mid clonds of crimson Hght, — 
 
 6. Again the boy was playii^ ; 
 And earnestly said he, 
 " Oh, beantifnl Lord Jesus, 
 Come down and play with mo. 
 
 t. 
 
 " I will find thee flowers the ftdrest^ 
 And weaye for thee a crown ; 
 
 I will get thee ripe red strawberrijw 
 If thou wilt bat come down. 
 
 8. " Oh, holy, holy mother, 
 
 Pat him down from off thy knee ; 
 For in these silent meadows 
 There are none to play with me." 
 
 9. Thns spake the boy so lovely ; 
 
 The while his mother heard ; 
 Bat on his prayer she pondered. 
 And spoke to him no word. 
 
 ■ I 
 
 10. That self-same night she dream'd 
 
 A lovely dream of joy ; 
 She thonght she saw yoang Jesas, 
 There playmg with the boy. 
 
 11. " And for the froits and flowers 
 
 Which thon hast brought to me^ 
 Rich blessings shall be g^n, 
 A thonsand-fold to thee. 
 
 12. " For in the fields of heaven 
 
 "- Thon Shalt roam with me at will, 
 And of bright fraits celestial 
 Shall have, dear chfld, thy fill." 
 
 18 TUi 
 
 1 
 
 An 
 
 14. An 
 
 Th 
 
 16. A 
 
 II 
 
 Tl 
 16." 
 
 n. 1 
 
 rl invit*^ 
 holy aac 
 Eacharist. ^ 
 act of human 
 
 this. 
 
 2. Not on 
 from endless 
 merited by ' 
 A mother, b< 
 OUT food an 
 
THE HOLY SU0HABI8T. 
 
 18 Thus tenderly ttnd kmdly 
 
 The fair child Jesus spoke ; 
 And full of careful musings, 
 The anxious mother woke. 
 
 14. And thus it was accomplish'd : 
 In a short month and a day, 
 That loyely boy, so gentle, 
 Upon his death-bed lay. 
 
 16. And thus he spoke in dying : 
 " mother dear I I see 
 The beantifid child Jesus 
 A-coming down to me ;— 
 
 16. " And in his hand he bearetfa 
 
 Bright flowers as white as snow, 
 And red and juicy strawberries ; 
 Dear mo^r, let me go." 
 
 It. He died — ^but that fond mothw 
 Her sorrow did restrain ; 
 For she knew he was with Jesus, 
 And she asked him not again. 
 
 aoi 
 
 w 
 
 47. The Holt En<^Bi8T. 
 
 ^E invite the attention of our young readcirs to the most 
 holy and the most subiime of the sacraments — ^the Holy 
 Eacharist. To die for one's friend, is regarded as the highest 
 act of human virtue ; but our Divine Lord has done more than 
 this. 
 
 2. Not only has he offered his life as a sacrifice, to save us 
 from endless misery, from that just punishment which we have 
 merited by our sins, but with a love more tender than that of 
 A mother, he has left us his own sacred body and blood to be 
 oar food and nourishment in our journey through this woi 
 
202 
 
 THE THIRD BBADER. 
 
 3. The Holy Eucharist is then the sacrament which conti 
 the body and blood of Christ, nnder the form or appear 
 of bread and wme. The history of this sacred institution! 
 oonlained in a few words. Jesus had promised his c 
 that he would give them his body and blood to be their foi 
 
 v^ 
 
 UtohisApostte 
 
 ament, which s 
 
 .ins." And th< 
 
 me" 
 
 6. Happy monei 
 the body and 
 Jm the love, tl 
 that august mon 
 iroach his Lord 
 lie elements of h 
 ittder affection glo 
 he bent before 
 Holy Comnmnio^ 
 1. This holy sac 
 ,68 thanksgiving 
 ;he thanksgivings 
 itation, an4 to 
 render to our 1 
 imetimeB called i 
 it the last supped 
 Lost commonly a 
 Lion, because by 
 Ud forms a bon^ 
 world. 
 8. This holy s 
 
 When he first made this promise, many of his followers ▼onldl , x. ^^ress 
 not believe his word, and left him. But his Apostles believed ■ , , t .^^ the 1 
 what he told them, though they did not know in what ™^i"^f l^koge whom the 
 he would redeem hjs promise. ' 
 
 4. As the time approached when our blessed Lord was 
 about to leave this world, he assembled together his twelve 
 faithful Apostles, for the purpose of eating with them his last 
 supper. After this supper was over, Jesus taking bread into 
 his sacred hands, blessed it, and immediately it was changed 
 into his own body, which he g^ve to his Apostles, saying, 
 "This is my body." 
 
 6. He then took the wme which was upon the table, and 
 (Jpessed it, and it was changed into his blood, which he 
 
 'Xi 
 
THE HOLY EUOIIABIST. 
 
 208 
 
 ^re to his Apostles, saying, " This is my blood •4>f the New 
 iment, which shall be shed for many onto the remission 
 OS." And then added : " Do this for a conmiemoration 
 
 fme." 
 
 6. Happy moment 1 when the Apostles received for the first 
 the body and blood of our Divine Lord. We may well 
 
 ;ine the love, the fervor, the awe which filled their hearts 
 that aogost moment. With what veneration did St. Peter 
 [troach his Lord to receive from his sacred hands the adora- 
 ble elements of his body and blood. What sentiments of 
 ender affection glowed in the bosom of the. youthful St. John, 
 he bent before Jesus, to receive, for the first time, the 
 'Holy Conmiunioo." 
 
 7. This holy sacrament is called the Eucharist, which sig^ 
 ^es thanksgiving, and is applied to it in commemoration of 
 be thanksgiving which our Saviour offered at the time of its 
 
 titation, an4 to remmd us of the grateful thanks we ought 
 render to our Divine Lord every time we receive it. It is 
 gmetimes called the Lord^s Supper, beicause it was instituted 
 at the last supper which Jesus took with his Apostles. It is 
 Imost commonly called, at the present time, the Hcly Cofnmur 
 nim, because by it we are united so intimately with Christy 
 land forms a bond of union among Catholics throughout the 
 (world. 
 
 8. This holy sacrament was prefigured in the old law by 
 iMelchisedec, who ofttered sacrifice, using bread and wine. But 
 [the most express figure was the killmg and eating of the Pas- 
 ichal Lamb, the blood of which was. sprinkled on the doors of 
 
 whom the destroying angel was to spare. So Christ is 
 I called the Lamb of God, and his blood being sprinkled over 
 I the earth, has redeemed man from sm. 
 
 9. The matter of this sacrament consbts of wheat bread, 
 and wine of the grape, which Christ made use of, and without 
 these the consecration would not be valid ; a small portion of 
 water iff mingled with the wine, in commemoration of the water 
 mingled with blood, which flowed from our Divine Saviour's' 
 eido, when pierced with a lance after he had expired on the 
 cross. In the early ages of the Church, communion was given 
 
 II- 
 
204 
 
 THE TIIIRI) RKADBR. 
 
 in both of these consecrated elements ; bnt by d^^rees i 
 custom was discontinued. The reception nnder both foi 
 was not deemed necessary by onr holy mother, the Chn 
 becaose Glirist being wholly present under either form, ' 
 ever receires under one kind alone, receires the true bodyi 
 blood of Ohrist. Hhia was found necessary, also, to confoij 
 certain heretics, who mi^tained that the consecrated bn 
 contained the body of Ohrist without his blood, and to 
 others, who held that the reception of both kinds was of difi 
 precept. 
 
 10. The reception of this holy sacrament, espednHy fori 
 first time) is the most important act of a Christian's 
 Children who have not receiyed it, should look forward viti 
 longing desire to that happy period. Eveiy action of tb 
 lives, from the dawn of reason to the day of their first 
 muhion, should be made a preparation for that sacred evei 
 They should never forget the important truth, that a 
 conununion renders them the associates of devib, and 
 them as candidates for hell, while a good commuidon elerat^ 
 them to the companionship cf angels, and seals them as 
 diildren of Qod. 
 
 48. Thb Houbb of Lobbtto. 
 
 THE house of Nazareth, in which the Blessed Yirgin^ 
 bom ; in which our Divme Lord passed his holy childho 
 and the years of his manhood until the age^'of thirty, becamej 
 after the death of the Blessed Vbgin, an object of peculia 
 veneration to the early Christians. It "was converted into 
 chapel, where mass was celebrated every day, during the l 
 centuries of the Church. Towards the close of the ninth m 
 tnry, when Palestine was in the hands of the Infidels, th 
 house was miraculously carried through the air into Dahnatu 
 In the same miraculous manner it was finally translated 
 Loretto, where it now stands under the dome of a magnific 
 eathedral, which has been erected around it. 
 
TIIK HOUSE OF LOBBTTO. 
 
 S. Sweetly low the laurels bending, 
 
 Trail their bright leayes on the sod, 
 For the angels are descending, 
 
 With the holy house of God. 
 O'er the Adriatic gliding, 
 
 Bathed in light, most heavenly fair, 
 Silently the air diyiding, 
 
 Angels their blest burden bear ; 
 Blissfiil dome, most dear and holy, 
 
 Speeding softly o'er the sea, 
 Laurel brandies bowing lowly. 
 
 Bid us bend the suppliant Imee. 
 
 8. Weep Balmatia for tiie treasure 
 
 Borne from off thy sunny shore, 
 For thy tears in untold measure. 
 
 Shall be ponr'd forerermore ; 
 Far from Nazareth imparted, 
 
 Lo! our mother's home was giren, 
 Weep your loss, then, brokeu'hearted. 
 
 Of this holy gift of heaven ; 
 BUssfnl dome most dear and holy. 
 
 Speeding softly o'er the sea. 
 Laurel branches bowing lowly. 
 
 Bid us bend the suppliant Imee. 
 
 4 Dome whose humble walls enfolded. 
 
 In the land of Galilee, 
 She, the maid whom Heaven had moulded, 
 
 Mother of our God to be ; 
 Dome wherein her infant beauty. 
 
 Infant purity, and truth, 
 Nourish'd were for mystic duty, 
 
 Waiting her angelic youth, 
 Welcome, by the angels guided. 
 
 Softly o'er the summer sea. 
 Blest the air so late divided 
 
 By the house of Gililee. 
 
 205 
 
 I'h 
 
S06 THR TIITKD BBADEK. 
 
 6. Blest the ground whereon it rested, 
 
 And forever there will bloom, 
 Flowers with light unearthly crested, 
 
 Yerdore midst the desert's gloom ; 
 From these walls the iitfant maiden, 
 
 Saintly glory ronnd her form. 
 To the Temple, sweetly laden. 
 
 Bore her tribute pure and warm ; 
 Not of gold, nor flowers that wither, 
 
 She her yotive offering made. 
 But a holiw g^t bore hither, 
 
 And upon the altar laid. 
 
 6. 'Twas herself, the " Star of Morning,'' 
 
 "LUyof Jadea»fair, 
 Sweetly God's dear shrine adorning, 
 
 Unreserved she offer'd there ; 
 Here returning firom the Temple, 
 
 With her holy spouse onoe more. 
 This sweet flower so pure tad simple^ 
 
 Lived the humble life of yore ; 
 Blissful dome most dear and holy. 
 
 Speeding softly o'er the sea. 
 Laurel branches bowing lowly. 
 
 Bid us bend the sui^liant Imee. 
 
 7. Gentlest mother, humbly kneeling. 
 
 Sorrowful witiun thy walls,* 
 Sound of heaven^ iMons stealing. 
 
 Softly, as we listm, falls ; 
 While we see thy beauty holy, 
 
 Beandng with a light divine. 
 And miotic Qabriel slowly 
 
 Enters where thy glories shine ; 
 
 * At St Mary's Aeademj, imt Boath B«ii4, a ditp«l fcr tiM '^OkUdno of Uuf I 
 ha* bera cnetod In tbe ezMt model of the honae of Loratto^ botk mtmnunr and lnu^ 
 tuUj. Tba daalgns bronght from Italy hav* been atdetly foUowad. Omr Holjr Fatbw 
 Plus QL baa llberaUy endowed tbla eb^wl ia the Weat with all tb» Indolceooei | 
 attaaiiad to tba world-ranow^rd pllgrimaga of Loretta 
 
EXTREME UNOnON. 
 
 207 
 
 Hear that voice like pnrling waters, 
 Falling sweetly on the ear, 
 
 " Mary, blest of Israel's daughters, 
 God the Lord is with thee here." 
 
 8. " FoU of grace" 'tis he who led thee, 
 
 Smless pure, his chosen one 1 
 And his power shall overspread thee, 
 
 And his will in thee be done ; 
 From thy tender heart's pore fonntaii:, 
 
 God shall be incarnate made. 
 And the tide firom sin's dark monntidn, 
 
 At thy holy feet be stay'd. 
 " Handmaid of the Lord behold me," 
 
 Joyful word falls on the ear, 
 Sinfid earth let ^ht enfold thee, 
 
 Lo I the Word Incarnate here^I 
 
 9. Fairest dome, the angels' treasure. 
 
 Earth can hold no shrine so blest, 
 And our hearts in untold measure, 
 
 Pour their tribute here to rest ; 
 By our loving Mother guarded, 
 
 Here we hopo her aid to g^in. 
 And our love at last rewarded. 
 
 Heaven shall echo our refhun ; 
 BlissM dome, most dear and holy, 
 
 Spee^Bg i^ftly o'er the sea, 
 Laurel branches bendbg lowly, 
 
 Bid us bend the suppliant knee. 
 
 49. ExiBEHE XTNcrnoN. 
 
 IHE sacrament of Extreme Uiiction is administered to sick 
 
 persons when in danger of death, and on that account it 
 
 I called Extreme. It is uncerttvin when this sacrament was 
 
208 
 
 THE TUIKI) UKADKB. 
 
 institated, but the Oonncil of Trent has dechtfed that iti 
 instituted like the other sacraments, by our diTine Lord ! 
 self. 
 
 2. That it was recognized as a sacrament by the AposJ 
 is evident from the Epistle of St. James/ where he says inj 
 5th chapter of his epistle : " Is any man sick among yon,! 
 him bring in the {ffiests of the Church, and let them pray J 
 hun, anointing him with oil, in the name of the Lord: 
 the prayer of faith shall saye the sick man, and the Lord i 
 raise hun up ; and if he be in sins, they shall be forgiven 1 
 St. Mark also relates that the Apostles anointed with | 
 many that were sick. 
 
 3. The matter of this sacrament is oil blessed by a bish^ 
 The words used on the occasion of administering the^ 
 ment are the following : 
 
 "By this holy unction, and his own most tender meii 
 may the Lord pardon thee whatsoever sins thou hast 
 mitted by the sight, by the hearing,'^ and so of the otl 
 senses. 
 
 4. No one, except a bishop or priest, can administer tl 
 sacrament. It may be received several times, but not moj 
 than once in the same sidmess. Persons ought to prepare! 
 it by a good confescion; and where this is impossible,! 
 reason of the loss of speech, by a smcere ,act of contritioj 
 and detestation of their sins. 
 
 6. The parts generally anointed are the eyes, ears, noi 
 lips, hands, and feet. Ilie effects of Extreme tTnction 
 first, to remit all venial sins, and mortal sins forgotti 
 second, to heal the soul of her infirmity And weakness, 
 certain propensity to sin which often remains in the sool i 
 the guilt has been remitted ; third, it ^ves strength and { 
 to the soul to bear with patience the pains and infirmities J 
 the body; and lastly, it sometimes restores the corpoij 
 health, as has been attested on many occasions 
 
"what is that, mother?*' 
 
 209 
 
 60. "What ib that, MothebI'* 
 
 1. TTTHAT is that, motberr^ " The lark, my child 1 
 
 V Y The moon has hut Just look'd out and smiled, 
 When he starts from his hnmble, grassy nest, 
 And is np and away with the dew on Us breast, 
 And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere^ 
 To warble it ont in his Maker's ear. 
 Ever, my child, be thy mom's first lays 
 Toned, like the lark's, to thy Inker's praise." 
 
 2. " What is that, mother f " " The dove, my son 1 
 And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan. 
 Is flowing ont from her gentle breast, 
 Constant and pure by that lonely nest. 
 
 As the wave is ponr'd from some crystal nm. 
 For her distant dear one's quick return. 
 Ever, my son, be thou like thcrdove, 
 In friendship as faithful, as constant in loye." 
 
 8. " What is that, mother?" " The eagle, boy I 
 Proudly careering his course of joy ; 
 
SIO TUB THUD BKADBII. 
 
 Firm, on his own monntoin vigor relying, 
 Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying, 
 His wing on the wind, and his eye on the snn, 
 He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right oa. 
 Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine. 
 Onward and upward, and tme to the line." 
 
 4. " What is that, mother?'' " The swan, my love! 
 He is floating down from his native grove ; 
 No loved one now, no nestling nigh, ^ , 
 
 He is floating down by himself to d^e ; ^ 
 Death darkens his eye, and nnplnmes his wipgs, 
 Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings. 
 Live so, my love, that when death shall come. 
 Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home." 
 
 51. Ohasitt. 
 
 TURN not away your face from the poor, and harden notl 
 yonr hearts agunst them." This, my child, is the bean-l 
 tifol admonition of the wise man, inspired by God himseltl 
 Of all the virtues which religion commends to the practice oil 
 her children, charity is the most pleasing to God, the mosti 
 
▲NRODOTES or H0BBB8. 
 
 211 
 
 ,» 
 
 \' 
 
 h!ial to our fellow-creatnres. When the world ii so ftall 
 
 irerty and wretchedness, what would become of the poor, 
 
 ^rich did not give them of their abundance, and relieve 
 
 [wants and sufferings by the exercise of charity, 
 
 Children, especially, ought to practise charity as far as 
 
 Imeans will idlow. If that beautiful Tirtue be not culti* 
 
 I in early youth, when the mind is fresh and the heart 
 
 Oed by the world's rough ways, it will neyer bear fhiit 
 
 ) heart in after life. 
 
 When little boys and girls have pocket-money given them, 
 
 ; better can they do with, at least, a portion of it, than 
 
 k it on some person who is in need. If part of the 
 
 w spent in every family among the rich, on cakes and 
 
 lies, were only given each week to some deserving object, 
 
 [the decent poor woman in the picture, it would provide 
 
 ]eif and her hungry little ones with, at least, some loaves 
 
 Let children think of that when they spend their 
 
 I gjlver pieces on Mrorthless toys and trashy sugarnBticks 
 
 [are of no earthly good to them, but are, on the contrary, 
 
 tirely injurious to- their health. 
 
 Would not the blessing which that poor woman seems 
 
 :80 ferventily to those good little girls, who have given 
 
 I child bread, be worth a thousand times more to them, 
 
 any thing they could buy for themselves to eat or to 
 
 rwith? 
 
 52. Anbodotbb of HoBsnk 
 
 IE method of taking the wild horse in the forests of 
 
 I Sonth America, by throwing a cord (called a lasso) over 
 
 , is effected by men mounted on domesticated horses, that 
 
 been tnuned to the business, pnce made a prisoner, 
 
 I kept for a couple of days without food or drink, he soon 
 
 omes tame and is broken-in ; but if not closely watched, he 
 
 escape to his friends of the forest, and yet he will after- 
 
 allow himself readily to be taken. Several instances 
 
 ro been known of persons who have met with their tamed 
 
S12 
 
 THK THIRD ABAPES. 
 
 ranaways in the herd, which after a long absence hare I 
 up to them, agahi to receive their caresses — and have [ 
 become their willing sla?es. By some travellers it is i 
 that the wild herds endeavor by stratagem to sedoctl 
 horses to Join their community. 
 
 2. We, some years since, saw the favorite charger ol 
 naparte: he was a handsome white barb, scarred witnf 
 wounds, which the groom stated him to liave receii 
 various battles ; and he also said that, since he had loi 
 master, he would not allow any stranger to monnt him;. 
 •nitting only the groom himself the honor of dohig so. 
 
 %^^-^ 
 
 = /-V^ 
 
 ^^v 
 
 <^^-^ 
 
 ^^ 
 
 always spoke to tlie ai^al in Frenrli, aid V.i cmm 
 were readily obeyed. - 
 
 8. He would bid him to retire, to lie down, to rise, and slj 
 how he fought in the service of Bonaparte; and how be sh 
 his provisions when they were scarce. After obeyhig the j 
 yiovLS commands of his groom, he would, in obedience to] 
 7asf., show how he shared his food, by going to a pulj 
 «v J ter, I' wM>.h there was a cleanly scraped carrot, and i 
 t>ie end oi iMn his mouth, he would bring it to the 
 la whose month he placed the other end, and then bit 
 two, eating his own portion only. 
 
 4. Occasionally equine attachment exhibits itself in a^ 
 
▲MRotK/rua or iiursioi. 
 
 213 
 
 [ted and creditable as that of the hnman mbd. During 
 'eniosalar war t ho i rampeter of a French cavaUy corps 
 I fine cbar^'t r 4$: ml to him, of which he became pas- 
 \\j foil 1, ana wtu^ b, bj gentleness of disposition and 
 '^ocilii/, ^■<]nall7 winced its affection. 
 Ml' "toand of the trumpeter's voice, tht sight of his 
 J II, or the twarg of his trumpet, was sufficient to throw 
 mimal into ( state of excitement ; and he appeared to be 
 and happy only when nnder the saddle of his rider, 
 he was mimly and useless to ererybody else ; for once, 
 ling removed to another part of the forces, and consigned 
 joung officer, he reRolntely refused to perform his otoIu- 
 I, bolted straight to the trumpeter's station, and there 
 his stand. Jostling alongside his former master. 
 This animal, on behig restored to the trumpeter, carried 
 daring several of the Peninsular campaigns, through many 
 and hair-breadth escapes. At last the corps to 
 he belonged was worsted, and in the confusion of retreat 
 ipeter was mortally wounded. Dropping from his horse, 
 ly was found, many days after the engagement, stretched 
 award, with the faithful charger standing beside it. 
 t Daring the long interval, it seems that he had never quit- 
 the trumpeter's side, bnt had stood sentinel over his corpse, 
 away the bhrds of prey, smd renudiymg totally heedless 
 is ovm privations. When found, he was in a sadly reduced 
 i^'Mon, partly firom loss of hi«i<)od through wounds, bnt chiefly 
 want of food, of which, in the excess of his grief, he could 
 Ese and sll'^ prevaOdd on to partake. 
 
 owheshiV' ^^^^S^ Providence seems to have implanted in the horse 
 yij^g ijigSenevolent disposition, wkk at the same time a certain awe 
 lience to ■^''^ human race, yet there «« instances on record of his 
 a DBill"^^^^ u\juries, and fearfully revenging them. A person 
 
 uig^^ 
 
 con 
 
 , and 1 
 the 
 len bit 
 
 fin 
 
 ' Boston (Mass.), ma in the habit, whenever he wished to 
 
 th his horse m the ttM, of taking a quantity of com in a 
 
 are, by way of bait. 
 
 |9. On callmg to him, the horse would come np and eat the 
 
 D, while the bridle was put over his head. Bat the owner 
 
 deceived the animal several times, by calling him when 
 
 H 
 
214 
 
 THE THIRD BBADEB. 
 
 he had no corn hi the mo^nre, the horse at length begJ 
 suspect the design ; and commg up one day as usual, on I 
 called, looked into the measure, and seeing it empty, tn 
 round, reared on his hmd legs, and killed his master on the 8 
 
 10. The docility of the horse is one of the most remark 
 of his natuni)|gifts. Furnished with acute senses, aiide:| 
 lent memory, high intelligence, and gentle disposition, he f 
 learns to know and obey his master's will, and to perform | 
 tarn actions with astonishing accuracy and precision, 
 range of his performances, however, is limited by his phy{ 
 conformation : he has not a hand to grasp, a proboscis toj 
 the minutest object, nor the advantages of a light and i 
 frame ; if he had, the monkey, the dog, and the eleph 
 would in t)m respect be left far behmd him. 
 
 11. It has been before remarked, that the horse is infej 
 to none of the brute creation in sagacity and general inti 
 gence. In a state of nature, he is cautious and watchful ; 
 the manner m which the wild herds conduct then: marcfi 
 station their scouts and leaders, shows how fully they obrnd 
 hend the necessity of obedience and order. All their mo| 
 ments, indeed, seem to be the result of reason, aided bjl 
 power of communicating theur ideas far superior to thatj 
 most other animals. 
 
 12. The neighings by which they communicate terror, alaij 
 recognition, the discovery of water and pasture, &c., are [ 
 essentially different, yet instantaneously comprehended by evd 
 member of the herd ; nay, the various movements of the bo^ 
 the pawing of the ground, the motions of the ears, and 
 expressions of the countenance, seem to be fully understood] 
 each other. 
 
 18 . In passhig swampy ground, they test it with the foj 
 foot, before trusting to it the full weight of their bodia 
 they will strike asunder the melon-cactus to obtam its sncculd 
 nice, with an address perfectly wonderful ; and will scoop o| 
 a hollow in the moist sand, in the expectation of its filli 
 with water. All this they do in their wild state ; and domij 
 tication, it seems, instead of deteriorating, tends rather i 
 strengthen and develop theur intelligence 
 
THE BATTLE OF BLBNHEIlff. 
 
 215 
 
 |u The Arabians try the speed of their horses, by hanting 
 goitridi — ^the bird endeavors to reach the mountains, nin- 
 j along the sands with great rapidity, assisted in its efforts 
 [tapping its wings. A horse, however, possessing the high- 
 tqatJity of speed, is enabled to come np with it ; when the 
 
 r creature hides its head in a bush, or w^rever it can, 
 lis quietly taken. By this criterion the hunter rates his 
 
 ); and as the animal evinces his speed and perseverance 
 I the chase, his master estimates his value. The Arabs 
 om their horses to fatigue, and give them milk whiwii 
 bles them to bear it. 
 
 53. The Battle of Blenhedl * 
 
 1. TT was a summer evening, 
 
 J- Old Rasper's work was done : 
 And he before his cottage-door 
 
 Was sitting in the sun. 
 And by him sported on the green 
 His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 
 
 2. She saw her brother Peterkin 
 
 * Boll somethmg large and round, 
 Which he beside the rivulet, 
 
 In playmg there, bad found ; 
 . He came to ask what he had found, 
 That was so large, and smooth and round 
 
 8. Old Easper took it from the boy, 
 
 Who stood expectant by ; 
 And then the old man shook his head, 
 
 And with a natural sigh, 
 " 'Tis some poor fellow's skull,'' sud he^ 
 " Who fell hi the great victory. 
 
 4. " I find them in the garden, for 
 There's many here about, 
 
S16 THK TUIKD READER. 
 
 And often when I go to plough, 
 
 The ploughshare turns them out ; 
 For many thousand men," sud he, 
 Were sldn m the great victory." 
 
 5. " ^ow tell us what 'twas aU about,'' 
 
 Toung Peterkin he cries, 
 And little Wilhehmne looks up 
 
 With wonder-waiting eyes ; 
 " Now tell us all about the war, \ 
 And what they kill'd each other for.'' 
 
 6. " It was the English," Easper cried, 
 
 " That put the French to rout ; 
 But what they kill'd each other for, 
 
 I could not well make out. 
 But everybody sidd," quoth he, 
 " That 'twas a famous victory. 
 
 1 " My father lived at Blenheun then, 
 Ton little stream hard by, 
 They burnt his dwelling to the ground, 
 
 And he was forced to fly ; ■ 
 So with his wife and child he fled, 
 Nor had he where to rest his heact. 
 
 8. " With fire and sword the country round 
 
 Was wasted far and wide, 
 And many a childmg mother then, 
 
 And new-bom infant, died; — 
 But things like that, yon know, must be 
 At every famous victory. 
 
 9. " They say it was a shocking sight, 
 
 After the field was won. 
 For many thousand bodies here 
 
 Lay rotting in the sun ; — . 
 But things like that, you know, must bt 
 After a famous victory. 
 
THB AMxlUNCIATION. 
 
 10. " Great praise the Duke of Marlbro* won, 
 
 And onr good Prince Engene.'' 
 " Why, 'twas a very wicked thing 1" 
 
 Said Uttle Wilhelmine. 
 " Nay— nay— -my little girl," quoth he, 
 "It was a famous victory. 
 
 11. " And everybody praised the Duke 
 
 Who such a fight did win." 
 *' But what good came of it at last t" 
 
 Quoth little Peterkin. 
 '' Why that I cannot teU," said he, 
 " But 'twas a famous victory." 
 
 217 
 
 54. The AxnnniozATioir. 
 
 WHEN the plenitude of time was come that God had fixed 
 from eternity to shower down his blessings upon man- 
 Idnd, by giving them a Biedeemer, the angel GaMel was first 
 deputed to Zachary, a holy priest, whose wife was Elizabeth, 
 one of the daoj^ters of Aaron. The heavenly messenger 
 came to tell him that he should have a son, whose name 
 should be John, and whose birth should be a subject of joy to 
 jiiuuijinlsrael. 
 
 i. Six months after. Almighty God deputed the same 
 I angel to a virgin whose name was Ifory, residing in Nazareth, 
 a city of Galilee. Mary had been espoused to a holy man 
 called Joseph, a descendant of the house of David. The 
 divine Providence had in a special manner presided over 
 tiiose nuptials, which provided the Tlrgin with a guardian 
 and protector of her purity. For with the same sentiments 
 of virtue, and in the same dispositions of mind, says St. Ans- 
 I tin, both Mary and Joseph entered into a mutual engagement 
 of joining the marriage state with a state of virginity, of 
 which the world had not seen an example. 
 
 8. Almighty God honored this alliance with an issue which 
 wu to set open the gates of heaven, which for ages had been 
 
 10 
 
218 
 
 THE THIRD KKADKR. 
 
 shut against us by the crime of our first parents. Mary waa 
 the woman destined by Almighty God to crush the serpent's 
 head, as it is written in the book of Genesis (chap, iii.), and 
 it was to obtain her consent that God then sent his angel to 
 Nazareth. The angel found her alone, as St. Ambrose ob- 1 
 serves, and respectfully said unto her — " H& ! full of grace 
 the Lord is with thee ; blessed art thou among women 1" 
 
 ■I, 
 
 ■ 
 
 J ... ' • 
 
 
 M 
 
 
 
 
 n ■ 
 
 
 • - ^H 
 
 » 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 .^■J?!ll\x^ , '• .- 1 
 
 / 
 
 Ha 
 
 
 \ 
 
 ^i 
 
 ^^F 
 
 ^■o^ 
 
 
 * - . " i-^^ 
 
 4. The bumble virgin was disturbed at t^e angePs saluta- 
 tion, and trembled with fear, lest, as Eve had been deceived 
 by the serpent, she also might be misled by a similar delusion. 
 She considered the sense and import of his words, and thereby 
 gives ns an admirable example of discretion, which teaches ns 
 not to be too hasty in consenting to a proposal before we 
 roderstand the nature of its obligation. 
 
 5. The angel saw the trouble of her miod, and to appease 
 t, said — " Fear not, Mary ; for you have found favor with 
 the Lord.'' He then opened the subject of his commission, 
 and told her that she should conceive and bring forth a son, 
 and call his name Jesus ; that he should be great, even the 
 Son of the Most High ; that he should sit upon the throne 
 
THE ANNUNCIATION. 
 
 2id 
 
 of David ; that he shoald reign in the house of Jacob, and 
 that of his kingdom there sho Jd be no end. 
 
 6. The Yurgiu listened to the angel with great attention ; 
 she heard the wonderfal things he promised, but desired to 
 know how it could possibly be done, because she was a virgin. 
 It wasi not an idle curiosity, but a mark of her submission to 
 the divine will ; nor was it a want of faith, but an intimation 
 of the chaste purpose of her mind, which induced her to ask 
 the angel that qu^tion. 
 
 1. The angel, in reply, assured her that no concurrence of 
 man was requisite for what the sole power of the Most High, 
 with her consent, would operate within her ; that by the in- 
 effabld^ virtue of the Holy Ghost she should conceive, bear a 
 son, and still remain a pure virgin. It is what the prophet 
 Isaiah (chap, vii.) had expressly foretold. But to convince 
 the Yirgin that nothing was impossible to God, tho angel, 
 moreover, told her what had happened to her cousin Eliza- 
 beth in an advanced age, who, notwithstanding the many 
 years she had l)een reputed barren, had miraculously cou' 
 ceived, and was six months gone with child. 
 
 8. The Yirgin having thus received the information she 
 desired, and being told the manner in which the mystery was 
 to be wrought within her, gave her consent. In terms the 
 most humble and submissive, terms that expressed the holy 
 disposition of her heart, she said — " Behold the handmaid of 
 the Lord : let it be done to me according to thy word." 
 
 9. The angel having thus happily completed his commis- 
 sion, returned to heaven, and the wonderful mystery of the 
 Incarnation took place that instant. For Mary had no 
 sooner given her consent, than the Son of God, the second 
 Person of the most adorable Trinity, by an invisible and in- 
 explicable operation of the Holy Ghost, took fle^h and became 
 man in her womb, without the least detriment to her vii^inal 
 ntegrity. That was the happy moment in which the work of 
 man's redemption was begun ; that was the moment when an 
 incarnate God unlocked the source of those plentiful graces 
 which were to flow for the salvation of mankind, to wash our 
 Honls from sin, and to sanctify them for eternal life. 
 
820 
 
 THB THIRD BKADE&. 
 
 55. St. Fbugitas and heb Sons. 
 
 THEBE lived at Borne, in the reign of Marcus Anrelios, « 
 noble lady called FeUcitas. She was a widow, and had 
 tCTen sons. On her husband's death, she took a vow of chas- 
 tity, and gave herself up to a life of prayer, fasting, and good 
 works. One of her principal occupations was the education 
 of her sevi^n sons, whom she loved very dearly. Felicitas' 
 love for her sons was not merely such as all women feel for 
 their children. 
 
 2. She remembered that they were not her children only, 
 but that they were the children of God, who had lent them to 
 her, and who would one day ask her account of them. She 
 did not wish to see them great in this world, but wished to 
 lay up in store for them the inestimable riches of eternal glory 
 in the next. 
 
 8. She therefore traf'^ them firom their infancy in all holy 
 and pious practices suited to their age, and she offered them 
 up to Jesus to live and die in his service, in whatever way it 
 might be his will to make use of them. Our Lord acc^ted 
 the offering, and gave her and them the high honor of suffer- 
 ing martyrdom for his sake. 
 
 4. FeUcitas was so good and holy that the women of her 
 own rank thought very highly of whatever she said or did, 
 and many of them who were pagans were converted by her 
 example and influence. This displeased the heathen priests, 
 and they complained to the emperor, and persuaded him that 
 the gods were very angry, and would not be pacified till Feli- 
 citas and her chilcbren would offer sacrifice to them. 
 
 5. She and her sons were accordingly made prisoners, and 
 taken before Publius, the prefect of the city. Pnblius was 
 unvrilling to use violence with a lady of such high rank and 
 character as Felicitas ; so he first took her aside, and tried 
 gently to persuade her to sacrifice to the gods. But Felicitas 
 answered — " Do not hope, O Publius I to win me with fair 
 words, or to terrify me with threats ; for I have within m^^ 
 the spirit of God, who will not let me be overcome by Satan ; 
 
 uid therefor 
 the servant < 
 6. Pnbliui 
 he would mo 
 therefore sa 
 yon are so 
 dren live, b 
 cruel tormei 
 t. "My < 
 lasting deat 
 now, since i 
 irill Uve wit 
 Publius disi 
 consider co< 
 tnres she w( 
 when she dii 
 8. The n 
 he sent for 
 lum, he tui 
 mother, he 
 who are noi 
 birth, and s 
 highest hon 
 9. But ] 
 advice is i 
 dren, jhe s 
 expects yoi 
 of your 80 
 the love ol 
 peratedPt 
 that ihis^ 
 commando 
 and head. 
 10. The 
 rius, the el 
 to adore 
 brava anc 
 
 -m t.^m I 
 
BT. FEUOTTAB AND HBB SONS. 
 
 221 
 
 wid therefore I am sore I shall be too hard for yon, who are 
 the servant of Satan.'' , 
 
 6. Pnblins seeing that she had no fear for herself, thought 
 be would move her bf speaking to her of her children, and he 
 therefore said to her — " IJnhiippj woman 1 is it possible that 
 jon are so tired of life that yon will not even le u yonr chil- 
 dren live, bnt will force me to destroy ihem by bitter and 
 crael torments 7" 
 
 1. "My children," replied Felicitas, "would die an ever- 
 lasting death if they were to sacrifice to yonr gods. But 
 now, since they acknowledge and worship Jesus Christ, they 
 will live with him forever." After making this first attempt, 
 Publius dismissed her, thinking it would be better to let her 
 consider coolly and quietly what he had said, and what tor- 
 tures she was bringing on herself and her children, hoping that 
 when she did so, she would come to a better mind. 
 
 8. The next day, as he was sitting in the temple of Mars, 
 he sent for Felicitas and her sons. When they came before 
 him, he turned to her, and appealing to her feelings as a 
 mother, he said — " O Felicitas I take pity on your children, 
 who are now in the prime of youth, and who are of such noble 
 birth, and are so good and clever that they may look to the 
 highest honors of the state." 
 
 9. But Felicitas answered — "Tour pity is cruel, and your 
 advice is impious and deceitful." Then, turning to her chil- 
 dren, Ahe said — " My sons, look up to heaven, where C^urist 
 expects yon with all his saints 1 Fight manfully for the good 
 of your souls, and show yourselves faithful and constant in 
 the love of the true God, Christ Jesus." These words exas- 
 perated Publius, who looked upon it as an intolerable affront 
 that this woman should defy 1dm to his very face, and so he 
 commanded that she should be cruelly beaten abont the face 
 and head. 
 
 10. Then he turned to her sons, and be^nning with Janua< 
 rius, the eldest, he tried to induce him, by promises and threats, 
 to adore the gods. But the boy was not unworthy of hii 
 brava and suntly mother, and he answered — " Yon wish to 
 persuade me to do a foolish thmg, contrary to all reason ; but 
 
 :3s«=»- 
 
223 
 
 THB THIBD BKADER. 
 
 I tnut in my Lord Jesus Christ that he will preserve me from 
 so great an impiety." On hearing these words, Publius o^ 
 dered that he should be strippe-' and very severely Kconrged; 
 after which he was thrown into pruion. 
 
 11. All the other brothers were brought up in turn, and 
 every art was used to conquer them, and induce them to obey 
 the emperor. But it was all to'^no purpose ; for they were 
 supported and guided by the Holy Spirit, and they all made 
 Publius the same answer, though in different words, as Jana* 
 arius had done. They were therefore scourged so severely 
 that their whole bodies were a mass of wounds, and in ihis 
 state they were thrown into prison, till the emperor's ftirther 
 pleasure should be known. 
 
 12. During all the time that her sons were being thus to^ 
 tured, Felicitas was forced to stand by and witness their suf- 
 ferings. This holy mother remained firm and unmoved, whUe 
 she looked on the torments of hor children. She did not shed 
 a tear as the noisci of the blown resounded in her ears ; she 
 did not shrink at the sight of their streaming blood, their 
 quivering flesh, and their involuntary writhings of agony. 
 
 13. The only words she spoke were to exhort them to stand 
 firm, and to inflame them with love for Jesus. It seems 
 strange how a mother could act in this way. It was not be< 
 cause she did not love her children, or because she had not 
 the natural feelings of a mother ; for, on the contrary, every 
 torture they endured pierced her to her very heart, and gave 
 her even more pain than it did them. But it was because the 
 supernatural character of her love for them gave her strength 
 to conquer the weakness of a mother's natural feelings. 
 
 14. Looking on them with the eyes of faith, she saw in 
 their temporal death only their gain of eternal life ; in their 
 present wounds, the jewels of their future crown ; and in the 
 severity of their torments, the greater blessedness prepared 
 for them in glory. She would have feared to leave them 
 behind her on earth, lest any one of them should fall short 
 of heaven, and therefore she rejoiced as much in the death of 
 her sons as other mothers weep when theirs are taken from 
 them. 
 
 15. Marcu 
 feel the least 
 all her sons s 
 eyes. The t 
 ing death, b 
 was first toi 
 with lead, tO 
 broken with 
 bodies being 
 16. A mi 
 thrown fron 
 were behead 
 would have 
 Christians d 
 17. The ( 
 cold dungeo 
 her patience 
 row, she wc 
 firom solitu 
 than ever ( 
 of her chil( 
 might be is 
 18. She 
 Jesus; for 
 in it couh 
 wept had i 
 as many b 
 bad childi 
 with them 
 them, and 
 19. At 
 her conse 
 her to be 
 martyrdc 
 ceasing t 
 of the C 
 mother ^ 
 tas love< 
 
 ■•■ M ^ i t rt - * '! 
 
 ■ ■ii ynn Wii K iii 
 
 ■ ' ill il *i»> t l|^»i i ii » lliii »H WI>i»i i<i »ii ■ ■ " * 
 
 O,—* 
 
ST. rETilOITAS AND HBR SONS. 
 
 228 
 
 15. Marcus Aurelias was so hardened that he could not 
 feel the least compassion for Felicitas, and he ordered that 
 all her sons should be put to death in Tarious ways before her 
 eyes. The three e^'^est underwent a very horrible and linger- 
 ing death, beinf <«. yly beaten tUl they exphred. Januarius 
 was first torn w^bii whips, and then with tUck cords, loaded 
 with lead, till he died ; and Felix and Philip were bruised an 
 broken with cudgels tUl, every bone being fractured, and theu 
 bodies being reduced to. a shapeless mass, they at last expired. 
 • 16. A milder fate awaited the others ; for Silvanas was 
 thrown from a rock, while Alexander, Yitalis, and Martialis 
 were beheaded. To have put their bereaved mother to death 
 would have been a deed of mercy ; but the persecutors of the 
 Christians did not know what mercy was. 
 
 1*7. The emperor ordered her to be thrown into a dark and 
 cold dungeon, where she was kept four months, in hopes that 
 her patience being worn out, and her spirit broken by her sor- 
 row, she would at last be willing to do any thing to escape 
 from solitude and torture. But there was now less chance 
 than ever of St. Felicitas giving up her religion, for the loss 
 of her children had only strengthened her to bear whatever 
 might be inflicted on her. 
 
 18. She had now no temptation to save her life by denying 
 Tesus ; for this world was become a blank to her, and nothing 
 in it could give her the least happiness. She' would have 
 wept had not her sons died for Christ ; but now that she had 
 as many bright and glorious saints in heaven as she had once 
 had chUdren on earth, her only hope and longini; was to be 
 with them in the presence of Him to whom she had offered 
 them, and for the love of whom they had laid down their lives 
 
 19. At last, when it was plain that she would never give 
 her consent to adore the heathen gOds, the emperor ordered 
 her to be beheaded. Thus did this blessed saint suffer eight 
 martyrdoms — being martyred in each of her children, and 
 ceasing to suffer only when she ceased to breathe. A father 
 of the Church, in speakmg of her, says — " She is not a true 
 mother who knows not how to love her children as St. Felici* 
 tas loved hers.'' 
 
S24 
 
 TUB THIRD BBADEB. 
 
 66. Immobtautt. 
 
 I LINGERED several weeks around the grave of my mother, 
 and in the neighborhood where she had lived. It was the 
 place where I had passed my own childhood and youth. It 
 wm the scene of those early associations which become the 
 dearer to ns as we leave them the farther behind. I stood 
 where I had sported in the freedom of early childhood ; bat I 
 stood alone, for no one was there with whom I oonld spoukof 
 its frolics. One feels singnlarly desolate when he seoi only 
 strange faces, and hears only strange voices in what was the 
 home of his early life. 
 
 2. I returned to the village where I redded when I first 
 introduced myself to my readers. But what was that spot to 
 me now ? Nature had done much for it, bet nature herself is 
 very much what we make her. There mui£ be beauty in our 
 souls, or we shall see no loveUnesn in her face ; and beauty 
 had died out of my soul. She who might have recalled it to 
 life, and thrown its hues over all the world, was — but of that 
 I will not speak. 
 
 8. It was now that I reaUy needed the hope of immortality. 
 The world was to me one vast desert, and life was without 
 end or um. The hope of immortaUly I We want it when 
 earth has lost its gloss of novelty; when our hopes have 
 been blasted, our affections withered, and the shortness of life 
 and the vanity of all human pursuits, have come home to us, 
 and made us exclaim, "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity:" 
 we want then the hope of immortality to give to life an end, 
 anaim. 
 
 4. We all of ns at times feel this want. Tho infidel feels 
 it in early life. He learns all too soon, what to him is a 
 withering fact, that man does not complete his destiny on 
 arth. Man never completes any thing here. What then 
 shall he do if there be no hereafter? With what courage can 
 I betake myself to my task ? I may begin ; but the grave 
 lies between me and the completion. Death will come to in* 
 terrupt my work, and compel me to leave it unfinished. 
 
 6. This is n 
 to be. I coul 
 be no more, 
 tiny ; but to < 
 tiny is but bej 
 ft8a"Kingol 
 6. The hop 
 iteps in to sai 
 the hope to b< 
 the finished pi 
 lug easel; the 
 and the indpi 
 begin; thoul 
 
 Went 
 
 TJnmi 
 
 Shoo 
 
 TIpt 
 
 The I 
 
 Bear 
 
 And 
 
 Wal 
 
 Mov 
 
 Swu 
 
 His 
 
 Ben 
 
 Onl 
 
 Cm 
 
 Fol 
 
 Fal 
 
 Fel 
 
 MHiMamiiHlilin rtiiiii<iilii ■ 
 
 pii ^ mm „ mmimitm0t 
 
THR WIDOW or MAIN. 
 
 225 
 
 5. This is more temble to me than the thoaght of ceasing 
 to be. I cotild almost (at least I think I could) consent to 
 be no more, after I had finished my work, achieyed my des- 
 tiny ; but to die before my work is completed, while that des- 
 tiny is bat begnn, — ^this is the death which comes to me Indeed 
 as a " King of Terrors." . 
 
 6. The hope of another life to be the completion of this, 
 iteps in to save us from this death, to giwe us the courage and 
 the hope to begin. The rough sketch shall hereafter become 
 the finished picture ; the artist shall gire it the last touch at 
 his easel ; the science we had Just begun, shall be completed, 
 and the incipient destiny shall be achieved. F«ar not then to 
 begin ; thou hast eternity before thee in which to end. 
 
 67. Thb Widow of Naiw. 
 
 9rilWAS now high noon. 
 
 i- The dull, low murmur of a funeral 
 
 Went through the dty — ^the sad sound of feet 
 
 Unmiz'd with Toices— «nd the sentinel 
 
 Shook off his slumber, and gazed earnestly 
 
 Up the wide streets along whose paved way 
 
 The silent throng crept slowly. They came on, 
 
 Bearing a body heavily on its bier. 
 
 And by the crowd that in the burning sun, 
 
 Walk'd with forgetful sadness, 'twas of one 
 
 Moum'd with uncommon sorrow. The broad gate 
 
 Swung on its hinges, and the Roman bent 
 
 His spear-point downwards as the bearers pass'd, 
 
 Bending beneath their burden. There was one — 
 
 Only one mourner. Close behind the bier. 
 
 Crumpling the pall up in her wither'd hands. 
 
 Followed an aged woman. Her short steps 
 
 Falter'd with weakness, and a broken moan 
 
 Fell fh>m her lips, thicken'd convulsively, 
 
 io» 
 
229 TIIK TIIIUD KKADEK. 
 
 As her heart bled afresh. The pitying crowd 
 i'ollow'd apart, but no one spolce to her. 
 She had no kinsmen. She had lived alone— 
 
 Ji 
 
 A widow with one son. He was her all — 
 The only tie she had in the wide world— 
 And he was dead. They could not comfort her. 
 ***** 
 Forth from the city-gate the pitymg crowd 
 FoUow'd the stricken mourner. They came near 
 The place of burial, and, with straining hands, 
 
 -~S!»5«S£rcr3 
 
 mmm 
 
MONUMENT TO A MOTUJCR'S OUAVK. 
 
 227 
 
 Closer upon her breast khe clasp'd tho pall, 
 And with a gasping sob, quiclc as a child's, 
 Anl an inquiring wildness flashhig throagh 
 Tho thin gray lashes of her foTer'd eyes, 
 She came where Jesas stood beside the way. 
 He look'd upon her, and his heart was moved. 
 " Weep not 1" he said ; and as they stay'd the bier, 
 And at his bidding laid it at his feet, 
 He gently drew the pall ft-om out her grasp, 
 And laid it back in silence from the dead. 
 With troubled wonder the mute throng drew near. 
 And gazed on his calm looks. A minute's space 
 He stood and pray'd. Then, taking the cold hand, 
 He said " Arise 1" And instantly the breast 
 Heaved in its cerements, and a sudden flush 
 Ban through the lines of the divided lips. 
 And with a murmur of his mother's name, 
 He trembled and sat upright in his shroud. 
 And, while the mourner hung upon his neck, 
 Jesus went calmly on his way to Nain. 
 
 58. MONTTMBNT TO A MoTHEB'b GbAYB. > 
 
 I FOLLOWED hito a burymg^ound in the suburbs of 
 Philadelphia, a small train of persons, not more than a 
 dozen, who had come to bury one of their acquaintance. The 
 clergyman in attendance, was leading a little boy by the hand, 
 who seemed to be the only relative of the deceased. 
 
 2. I gathered with them around the grave ; and when the 
 plain coffin was lowered down, the child burst forth in uncon- 
 troUable grief. The little boy had no one left to whom he 
 could look for affection, or who could address hun in tones of 
 parental kindness ; the last of his kinsfolk was in the grave, 
 and he was alone. 
 
 3. When the clamorous grief of the child had a little sub- 
 sided, the olergyman addressed us with the customary ezhor* 
 
228 
 
 THE THIRD READER. 
 
 tation to accept the monition, and be prepared, and in turning 
 to the child, he added, " She is not to remain in the grave 
 forever ; as sure as the grass, which is now chilled with the 
 frost of the season, shall spring to greenness and life in a few 
 months, so trae shall yonr mother rise from that grave to 
 another life : a life of happiness, I hope.'' 
 
 4. The attendants then shovelled in the earth npon tbe 
 coffin, and some one took little William, the child, by the hand, 
 and led him forth fh>m the lonely tenement of his mother. 
 
 6. Late in the ensmng spring, I was in the neighborhood of 
 the same bnrying^ound, and seeing the gate open, I walked 
 among the graves for some time, reading the names of the 
 dead ; when, recollecting that I was near the grave of the 
 poor widow, bnried the previous automn, I turned to see what 
 had been done to preserve the memory of one so utterly des- 
 titute of earthly friends. 
 
 6. To my surprise, I found the most desirable of mementoes 
 for a mother's sepulchre : little WiUiam was sitting near the 
 head of the now sunken grave, looking intently at some green 
 shoots that had come forth with the warmth of spring from 
 the soil that had covered his mother's coffin. 
 
 7. William started at my approach, and would have left 
 the place. It was long before I could induce him to tarry; 
 and indeed, I could not win his confidence until I told hhn 
 that I was present when they buried his mother, and had 
 marked his tears at the time. 
 
 8. " Then yon heard the priest say my mother would come 
 out of this grave 1" said William. 
 
 "I did." 
 
 " It is true : is it not?" asked he, in a tone of confidence. 
 " I most firmly believe it," said I. 
 " Believe it I" said the child, " believe it I I thought yea 
 knew it. I know it." 
 " How do you know it, my dear?" 
 
 9. " The priest said, that as true as the grass g^w up, and 
 the flowers bloomed in spring, so true would mother rise. I 
 came a few days afterward and planted flowernseeds on the 
 grave. The grass came green in the burying-ground long ago; 
 
 C-v 
 
MONUMENT TO A MOTHKB S GBAVE. 
 
 229 
 
 and I watched every day for the flowers, and tonlay they came 
 up too. See them breakmg through the ground 1 By-and-by 
 mother will come again." 
 
 10. A smile of exulting hope played upon the features of 
 the boy, and I felt pamed at disturbing the faith and confi- 
 dence with which he was animated. " But, my little child," 
 Baid I, " it is not here that your mother wiU rise." 
 
 "Yes, here," said he with emphasis: "here they placed 
 her, and here I have come ever since the first blade of grass 
 was seen this year." 
 
 11. I looked around, and saw the tiny foot of the child had 
 trod out the herbage at the grave-side : so constant had been 
 his attendance. What a faithful watch-keeper 1 what mother 
 would desire a richer monument than the form of her son 
 bendmg in tearful but hoping trust over her grave? 
 
 12. "But, William," said I, "it is in another world that 
 she will rise ;" and I attempted to explain to him the nature 
 of that promise which he had mistaken. The child was con- 
 fused, and he appeared nether pleased nor satisfied. 
 
 "U mother is not coming back to me, if she is not to come 
 op here, what shall I do ? I cannot stay without her." 
 
 " Yon shall go to her," said I, adopting the language of 
 the Scripture, " you shall go to her, but she shall not come 
 again to you." 
 
 13. "Let me go then," said William: "let me go that I 
 may rise with mother." 
 
 " WiUiam," said I, pointmg down to the plants just break- 
 uig through the ground, " the seed which was sown there, 
 would not have come up, if it had not been ripe : so you must 
 wait till your appointed tune ; until your end cometh." 
 
 "Then I shall see her I" 
 
 " I surely hope so." 
 
 "I will wait, then," said the child; "but I thought 1 
 should see her soon : I thought I should meet her here." 
 
 14. In a month William ceased to wait. He died, and 
 they opened his mother's grave, and placed his little coffin on 
 hers. It was the only wish the child expressed when dying. 
 Better teachers than I had instructed huu in the way to meet 
 
230 
 
 THE TUIBD BEADEB. 
 
 his mother ; and young as the little snfferer was, he had learned 
 that all the labors and hopes of happiness, short of heaven, are 
 profitless and vain. 
 
 word that is c( 
 us." And lea'v 
 
 .//'fr 
 
 ^IW 
 
 'C:- 
 
 #v. 
 
 59. Adobatton of thb Shbphebds. 
 
 THERE were in the neighborhood of Bethlehem some 
 shepherds watching their flocks by night. They saw the 
 radiance visible in the heavens ; they heard the angelic voices 
 and were struck with awe. Immediately one of the blessed 
 spirits who were singing glory to God and peace to men, de- 
 tached himself from the heavenly host, and coming to the 
 shepherds, said: " Fear not, for behold I brmg you tidings of 
 great joy, that shall be to all the people. This day is bom to 
 you a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord, in the city of David. 
 And this shall be a sign unto you : you shall find the infant 
 wrapped in swaddling-clothes, and laid in a manger." The 
 angel spoke and then vanished, like a stray beam of light. 
 
 2. And the shepherds, stunned and stupefied, said one to 
 ftnother : " Let us go over to Bethlehem ; and let us see this 
 
ADOBATION OF THE 8HKPUEBDS. 
 
 231 
 
 word that is come to pass, wluch the Lord hath shown to 
 113." And leaving their flocks they went, and they saw the 
 holy old man St. Joseph, the Yirgin Mary, and the infant 
 Go^, wrapped in swaddling-clothes, and laid in a manger. 
 And they adored him. And they went away joyfully, telling 
 I everywhere the wonders they had seen. 
 
 3. Now, children, was not this birth of the Son of God 
 
 I great miracle? It seems as though the whole earth should 
 have been in motion to receive him : yet he is bom by night 
 jQ a poor stable ! And by what a sign was he recognized — 
 'Tou T^Ul find the child wrapped in swaddling-clothes and 
 lud m a Lmnger 1" What then I Gould he not be bom in a 
 palace, amid kingly splendor, he the Creator and Master of 
 ill things? He could, if such had been his will, but it was 
 Dot: that sign would not have marked hun out sufficiently as 
 
 I onr Saviour. 
 
 4. Remember, children, what I have told yon he came ^o 
 I do; he came to instract and save us. To instruct us, he 
 
 bad to heal a triple wound in our soul — ^pride, avarice, and 
 
 lore of pleasure : this he did by presenting himself to us under 
 
 I the sign of humility, poverty, and suffering. To save us, he 
 
 I bad to expiate our faidts by his pains ; hence it was that he 
 
 I was bora in a stable. In beginnfaig to live, he begins to do 
 
 two great things, which we shall see him follow up in after 
 
 years by preaching and sacrifice ; from the crib he is onr 
 
 Teacher and our Saviour. Nevertheless, we cannot mistake 
 
 him in the humiliation of his birth. 
 
 6. That little child who cannot yet speak, is the very Son 
 of God, his eternal Word. Hear the evangelist St. John : 
 "In the beginnmg, before all beginning, without beginning, 
 was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word 
 was God. All things were made by him, and without him was 
 made nothing that was made. In him was life, and the life was 
 the light of men. That was the true light which enlighteneth 
 every man that cometh mto this world. And the Word was 
 made flesh, and dwelt among us ; and we saw his glory, the 
 glory as of the only-'oegotten of the Father, full of grace and 
 truth." 
 
 
 -.'■Tim 
 
 •53S3C' 
 
 i*^ 
 
283 
 
 THB THIBD BEADBB. 
 
 6. The prophets sang : " Great is the Lord, and worthy of 
 all praise !" We shig around his manger : Small is the Lord, 
 a little helpless child, and worthy of all love. O child, the 
 fairest of aU children, where do I behold thee? what destitaJ 
 tion I what nakedness i what sufferings I He is laid on straw; 
 the night is cold and firosty: thns does loye suffer! Ho 
 weeps, he ntters plamtiye cries : thus does love speak I Who I 
 woidd not love a God who has so loved ns? 
 
 t. Mary and Joseph were amazed at all these things, 
 they gathered and treaiiiared them in their hearts. Hac 
 Mary I happy Joseph 1 Ton it was that first beheld 
 Saviour of the world I It was your hands that received 
 as he came from the maternal womb, wrapped him in swa 
 dling-clothes, and laid him in the manger. Mary, it was thoQJ 
 that nursed him 1 Adore him as thou performest that sweet 
 duty, and give admission to the other woi£b!^>pers sent by the 
 angels ; soon there shall be others conducted from the fai | 
 East by a star, appearing as a prophetic sign in the heavens. 
 
 60. Tub AvoBLrs Bell. 
 
 1. rpHE large moon of antunm, 
 •!■ The guardian of night, 
 Had closed b?r pale lamp 
 
 Jn the firmament's height ; 
 From the Black Abbey's towem 
 
 The wild doves career'd, 
 As the bright dawn of mom . 
 
 Awaking appear'd ; 
 And the old marble city, 
 From campanile grey, 
 Proclaim'd to the burghers 
 All Noreward — " 'twas day I" 
 Then the long, mellow knell 
 Of the Angelus Bell 
 
THB ANOELUS BETX. 
 
 Seem'd psalming and singing 
 O'er bless'd crypt and cell, 
 Where the Black Monks were wont 
 
 In the old times to dwell. 
 
 * « « 4c * 
 
 'Twas noon, at the market-cross, 
 
 In the quaint town. 
 And the burgher so comely, 
 
 The tall peasant brown, 
 And the gaunt maorat-arms. 
 
 And mild maiden meek. 
 With the peacfahblush of beauty 
 
 And peace on her cheek. 
 Were crowding together 
 
 In hundreds around. 
 While the tall cross stood stately 
 'Mid tumult and sound. 
 
 Then the long, mellow knell 
 
 Of the AngeluB Bell 
 Upon the dense crowd 
 
 In the market-place fell ; 
 And the burgher knelt down, 
 
 And the peasant as well, 
 And the g^unt soldier rude. 
 
 At the peal of the bell. 
 While the pure maiden voice 
 
 Join'd the long, mellow kneU 
 
 * * ♦ * « 
 
 'Twas night o'er the abbey. 
 
 The moon *t()^o again 
 O'er the grand domes of pleasure 
 
 And poor haunts of pain ^ 
 And the wild dove was nestled 
 
 Again in the cleft 
 Of the old belfry tower 
 
 That early he left ; 
 And the pale monks were sitting 
 
 Alone and alone. 
 
284 
 
 TQB THIRD READER. 
 
 With lamps still nnlighted, 
 And penitent moan ; 
 
 When the Angelas Bell, 
 
 With its long, mellow knell, 
 Broke up their lone reveries 
 
 Like a blest spell ; 
 And down on the cold earth 
 
 The holy men fell, 
 The grand prayer to chant 
 
 And their long beads to tell ; 
 While sang with its psalm-voice 
 
 The Angelus Bell. 
 
 61. The Adoration of the Haoi. 
 
 WHEN the eastern sages beheld this wondrous and long 
 expected star, they rejoiced greatly ; and they arose, anq 
 taking leave of thehr lands and their vassals, their relations anq 
 their friends, set forth on theur long and perlons journey ovei 
 vast deserts and mountains, and broad rivers, the star goind 
 before them, and arrived at length at Jerusalem, with a grea^ 
 and splendid train of attendants. Being come there they aske 
 at once, " Where is he who is bom King of the Jews?" 
 
 2. On hearing this question. King Herod was troubled, and 
 all the dty with him ; and he inquired of the chief priebta 
 where Christ should be bom. AJid they said to him"Ii| 
 Bethlehem of Juda." Then Herod privately called the 
 men, and desired they would go to Bethlehjem, and search foi| 
 the young child (he was careful not to call him King), 
 ing, " When ye have found him, bring me word, that I ab 
 may come and worship him." 
 
 3. So the Magi departed, and the star which they had secij 
 in the east went before them, until it stood over the pla 
 where the young child was — ^he who wap born King of king 
 They had travelled many a long and weary mile ; " and vl 
 had they come to bee V Instead of a sumptuous jpalace, il 
 
1US ADOBATION OF TUK MAGI. 
 
 285 
 
 aud lowly dwelling ; in place of a monarch suiTOunded 
 rhis guards and ministers and all the terrors of his state, an 
 (faot wrapped in swaddling-clothes and laid upon his mother's 
 
 between the ox and the ass. 
 \i They had come, perhaps, from some far-distant savage 
 
 or from some nation calling itself civilized, where inno> 
 nice bad never been accounted sacred, where society had a 
 
 It taken no heed of the defenceless woman, no care for the 
 ilpless child ; where the one was enslaved, and the other per 
 lerted : and here, under the form of womanhoox' and child 
 
 od, tLey were called upon to worship the promise of that 
 righter future, when peace should inherit the earth, and right- 
 bnsness prevail over deceit, and gentleness with wisdom reign 
 |r ever and ever 1 
 
 5. How mnst they have been amazed ! how must they hava 
 
 I^CMppi'* • 
 
236 
 
 THn THIBD READER. 
 
 wondered in their souls at such a revelation I — ^yet snch i 
 the faith of these wise men and excellent kings, that thej 
 once prostrated themselves, confessmg in the glorioas Inno 
 who smiled npon them from his mother's knee, a greater I 
 themselves — ^the image of a truer divinity than they had i 
 yet acknowledged. 
 
 6. And havmg bowed themselves down — first, as was \ 
 t, ofllBring tJiemaelves, — they made offering of their treaaij 
 
 as it had been written in ancient times, " The king-q of ' 
 flhish and the isles shall bring presents, and the kings of Sh 
 snail offer gifts." And what were these gifts? Gold, fn 
 incense, and myrrh ; by which symbolical oblation\they profJ 
 ed a tlureefold faith ; — ^by gold, that he was king ; by inceij 
 that he was Ood ; by myrrh, that he was man, and doon 
 to death. 
 
 7. In return for their gifts, the Saviour bestowed n^ 
 them others of more matchless price. For their gold he | 
 them charity and spiritual riches; for their incense, perff 
 faith; and for their myrrh perfect truth and meekness:! 
 the Virgin, his mother, also bestowed on them a precious | 
 and memorial, namely, one of those linen bands in which 
 bad wrapped the Saviour, for which they thanked her 
 great humility, and laid it up among their treasures. 
 
 8. When they had performed their devotions and 
 theur offierings, being warned in a dream t« avoid Herod, tbj 
 turned bade again to their own dominions ; and the star wlul 
 had formerly guided them to the west, now went before thd 
 towards the east, and led them safely home. When they we( 
 arrived there, they laid down their earthly stater; and k 
 nlation of the poverty and humility in which they had fon 
 the Lord of all power and might, they distributed then: go 
 and possessions to the poor, and went about in mean atti]| 
 preaching to their people the new king of heaven and i 
 the Ghitj)-Kino, the Prince of Peace. 
 
 9. We are not told what was the success of their missioi 
 neither Is it anywhere recorded, that from that' time foil 
 every child, as it sat on iU mother's knee, was, even fori 
 sake of that Prince of Peace, regarded as sacred — as the 
 
lONA. 
 
 287 
 
 |i dime nature — as one whose tiny limbs enfolded a spirit 
 ich was to expand into the man, the king, the Ood. 
 
 Snch a result was, perhaps, reserved for other times, 
 
 I the whole mission of that divine Child should be better 
 
 lentood than it was then, or is riow. Bat there is an an* 
 
 lit tradition, that about forty years later, when St. T^iomas 
 
 I Apostle travelled into the Indies, he found these wise men 
 
 «, and administered to them the rite of baptism ; and 
 
 Hfterwards, in carrying the light of truth into the far 
 
 it, they fell among barbarous Qentiles, and were put to 
 
 jith; thus each of them receiving in return for the earthly 
 
 ma they had ca"t at the feet of the Saviour, the heavenly 
 
 jm of martyrdom and of everlasting life. 
 
 i*'; 
 
 62. lONA. 
 
 [LOWLT and sadly the company of Druids retired to their 
 
 homes in the depth of the ancient wood, and not many hours 
 
 passed when they quitted lona forever, and with it re* 
 
 aed the religious supremacy of those far Western Isles, 
 
 here they had for ages ruled ahnost as gods. 
 
 > If:; 
 
 ! 
 
238 
 
 THE THIKD BBADBB. 
 
 2. Aft;,er solemnly blessing the little island, St. ColuJ 
 kille proceeded to erect a stately monastery and a s] 
 church. Some years after, he founded a convent of Ana 
 tinian nuns, and the lonely isle of lona was soon as famous 1 
 Ohristian piety as it had formerly been for heathen siiJ 
 stition. It haid early been chosen as a burial-place for 
 princes of the Fictish and Scottish monarchies, on accoantl 
 its remote and isolated position, and the sacred charactei 
 had acquired. These causes continued to influence the neij 
 boring sovereigns, in a still higher degree, after the island I 
 become a distinguished seat of Christianity. 
 
 8. Even now, after the lapse of many centuriei 
 prmce, or king, or bishop, was buried in lona, the travel! 
 may still behold the ruined monuments which marked th 
 place of rest. " A little to the north of the cathedral," e^ 
 a modem writer, " are the remains of the bishop's house; i 
 on the south is a chapel dedicated to St. Oran, almost entij 
 sixty feet long and twenty-two broad, within the walls, 1 
 nearly filled up with rubbish and monumental stones. In tl 
 are many tombstones of marble, particularly of the great loij 
 of the Isles. 
 
 4. ** South of the chapel is an inclosure called Beilig On 
 the burying-ground of Oran, containing a great number I 
 tombs, but BO overgrown with weeds as to render most of t| 
 inscriptions illegible. In this inclosure lie the remains 
 forty-eight Scottish kings, four kings of Ireland, eight Nq| 
 wegian monarchs, and one king of France, who were 
 bitions of reposing on this consecrated ground, where thcj 
 ashes should not mix with the dust of the vulgar.'' 
 
 5. Sic transit gloria mundi, might well be inscribed ov| 
 the forgotten graves of lona, where so many princes 
 n^Atj men have mouldered into dust — where the arclutt 
 tnral glories of former ages lie around in broken and 
 less masses. 
 
 <"The column, with its capital, is level with tl e dust, 
 And the proud halls of the mighty, and the a Im homes of the ju 
 For the proudest works of man, as certainly, but slower, 
 Pass lilce the grass at the sharp scythe of the mower t 
 
8T. OOLUMBA BLB88UfQ THB IBLE8. 
 
 288 
 
 I'S 
 
 'But the gran growi again when in mi^eatj and mirth, 
 On the wing of the Spring oomei the OoddeM of the Bartk| 
 But for man. in this world, no apring-tide e'er return! 
 To the labors of hie hands or the ashes of his urns." 
 
 63. St. Ooluuba blessino ths Isles. 
 
 1. 4 ND now the choral voices hnsh'd, 
 iX And ceased the organ tone ', 
 
 As to the altar-steps, high raised, 
 
 Sad, silent, and alone, 
 The traveller pass'd. To him all eyes 
 
 Tam'd revere /.t as he trod. 
 And whispering voices, eacl) to each, 
 
 Proclahn'd the man of God — 
 Golnmba, in his ancient place. 
 Radiant with glory and with grace 
 
 2. Back fell h'j cowl — ^his mantle dropp'd, '^ 
 
 And in a stream of light, 
 A halo round his ag^ head. 
 
 And robed in dazzling white — 
 The saint with smiles of heavenly love 
 
 Stretch'd forth his hands to pray, 
 And kings and thanes, fuid monks and jarii^ 
 
 Knelt down hi their array. 
 Silent, with pallid lips compress'd. 
 And hands crossed hmnbly on their breast 
 
 8. He craved a blessing on the Isles, 
 
 And named them, one by one — 
 Fair western ides that love the glow 
 
 Of the departiog son. 
 From Arran looming in the south, > 
 
 To northern Orcades, 
 Then to Icna back again. 
 
 Through all those porilpns seas^ 
 
 
 k\ 
 
 4 
 
 i 
 
 f 1 
 
840 
 
 TBS TUIBD BBADEB. 
 
 Three nights and days the laint had lail'd, 
 To count the Hebrides. 
 
 4. He loved them for lona's sake, 
 
 The isle of prayer and praise, 
 Where Truth and Knowledge found a homt 
 
 When fall'n on evil days. 
 And now he bless'd them, each and all, 
 
 And pray'd that erermore, 
 Plenty and peace and Christian loye, 
 
 Might smile on eveiy shore, \ 
 
 And that their mountain glens might be 
 The abiding-places of the free. ' 
 
 6. Then, as he ceased, kings, abbots, earls, 
 
 And all the shadowy train, 
 Bose from their knees, and choral songs 
 
 Re-echoed loud again — 
 And then were hush'd — the lights bnra'd dii^ 
 
 And ere the dawn of day. 
 The saint and all the ghostly choir 
 
 Dissolved in mist away : 
 Atrial voices sounding still 
 Sweet harmonies from Dnni's hill. 
 
 And every year Oolnmba makes,, 
 
 Whie yet the summer smiles, 
 AImr, within his spectral boat, 
 
 "Bm oiicrlt of the Isles ; — 
 Aai monks and abbots, thanes and kiqgi^ 
 
 FroBi vault and channel start, 
 DtxiWried, in the rite to bear 
 
 T^ dim, allotted part. 
 And crave, nnon their bended kneen^ 
 A blessing on the Hebrides. 
 
H 
 
 lomt 
 
 THE OBSIBVUfO JUDOK. 
 
 04. Thb Obsbbvino Juoob. 
 
 241 
 
 FN a district of Algeria, distingniflhed by a name which, be- 
 L ing translated, signifies The Fine Oonntry, there lived, in the 
 
 Ijear 1860, an Arab chief or sheik, named BoB'Akas, who 
 
 llield despotic sway over tweWe tribes. 
 
 2. Haring heard that the cadi, or Judge, over one of these 
 jtrelre tribes, administered Juitice in an admirable manner, and 
 Ipronoonced decisions worthy of Khig Solomon hbnself. Boa- 
 Akas determined to Judge for himself as to the truth of the 
 
 [report. 
 
 3. Accordingly, dressed like a private individual, without 
 linns or attendants, he set out for the cadi's town, mounted 
 oa a docile Arabian steed. He arrived there and was Just 
 entering the gate, when a cripple, seizhig the border of his 
 
 I mantle, asked him for ahns. 
 
 4. Bou-Akas gave him money, but the cripple still main- 
 tained his hold. " What dost thou want ?" asked the sheik , 
 "I have already given thee ahns." ^^ Yes," replied the beg- 
 gar ; " but the law says, not only ' thou shait give alms to thy 
 brother,' but also, ' thou shall ak> ^or thy brother whatsoever 
 tbou canst.' " 
 
 6. "Well; and what om I do for thee 7" "Thou canst 
 save me—poor, crawliqf creature that I ami — ^firom being 
 trodden under the feet of men, horses, mules, and camels, 
 which would certainly happen to me in passmg througk the 
 crowded square, m. which a fair is now going on." 
 
 6. "And how can I save thee?" "By letting me ride 
 behind you, and patting me down safely in the market-place, 
 where I have bimiwinn." " Be it so," replied the sheik. And, 
 etoopiiig down, he helped the cripple to get up behind hun ; 
 which was not accomplished without much difficulty. 
 
 7. TIm strangely-assorted couple attracted many eyes as 
 J»j passed through the crowded streets ; and at length they 
 reached the marke^llace. " Is this where you wish to stop ?" 
 Mked Bou-Akas. "Yes." " Then get down." "Get down 
 yourself." " What for ?" " To leave me the horse." 
 
 11 
 
 4 
 
942 
 
 THB THIBL BBADBB. 
 
 8. " To leave yja my horse 1 What mean yon by that] 
 " I mean that he belongs to me. Enow yon not that we 
 now in the town of the jost cadi, and that if we bring the 
 before him he will certainly decide in myfayor?'' "TThj 
 should he do so, when the animal belongs to me?'' 
 
 9. "Do yon not think that when he sees ns two,— -yoi 
 with your strong straight limbs, so well fitted for walking^ 
 
 nd I with my weak legs, and distorted feet, — he will dc 
 that the horse shall belong to him who has most need o^ 
 him?'' " Should he do so, he would not be the jwt cadi,"| 
 said Bon-Akas. 
 
 10. "Oh I as to that," replied the cripple, laughing, "al- 
 though he is just, he is not infallible." " So 1" thought the I 
 sheik to himself, " this will be a ca^Htal opportunity of judging 
 the judge." Then turning to the cripple, he said aloud, "l! 
 am content — we will go before the cadi." 
 
 65. Thb Obsebvino Judos — torUmued. 
 
 ARRIVED at the tribunal, where the judge, according to 
 the Eastern custom, was publicly administering justice, 
 they found that two trials were about to go on, and would, of 
 eourse, take precedence of theirs. The first was between a 
 taleb, or learned man, and a peasant. 
 
 2. The point in dispute was the taleb's wife, whom the 
 peasant had carried off, and whom he asserted to be his own 
 better half, in the face of the philosopher, who demanded her 
 restoration. The woman (strange circmnstance 1) remained 
 obstinately silent, and would not declare for either; a feature 
 in the case which rendered its decision extremely difficult. 
 
 8. The cadi heard both sides attentively, reflected for a 
 momrat, and then said, " Leave the wonum here, and return 
 to-morrow." The learned man and the laborer each bowed 
 and retired, and the next case was called. This was a dillto- 
 enoe between a butcher and an oil-seller. The latter appeared 
 
 Btered witli oU, 
 le butcher spoto 
 
 ^ <« I went to 
 pay him for it, 
 le sight of the 
 Ut. I cried 01 
 Ire, having come 
 L hand, and he 
 5. Then spoke 
 IcbaieoUfromnM 
 yott change for a 
 'drew out my hai 
 my shop. He « 
 and my oil, ^^^f 
 •Ilobberl' la 
 tender the mow 
 nnght decide th 
 6. The cadi 
 varied one jot I 
 a moment, and 
 letum to-morr 
 had never let 
 which, I'e and 
 1. It was 
 "My lord ca( 
 taut country, 
 asked for ahn 
 hind me throi 
 In the crowd, 
 place he refn 
 to him, and 
 who wanted 
 8. Then i 
 wascon^ 
 which beloi 
 apparently 
 with me a 
 me Bat, 
 
THB OBSBBVIMG JDDOB. 
 
 243 
 
 by thai] 
 rt We 
 the 
 
 [tiro,-yot 
 
 need 0/ 
 fU8t cadi "I 
 
 ng, "alJ 
 >«ght the I 
 
 alond, "I 
 
 •rdlng to 
 r jnstice, 
 roald, of 
 tireen a 
 
 torn the 
 Ws own 
 led her 
 fflained 
 reatare 
 It. 
 
 for • 
 retnrn 
 Iwwed 
 differ. 
 
 eared 
 
 irered with oil, and the former was sprinkled with blood. 
 le batcher spoke first and said : 
 
 4. " I went to bay some oil from this ma% and, in order 
 pay him for it, I drew a handftd of money from my parse. 
 e sight of the money tempted him. He seized me by the 
 
 iffrist. I cried oat, bat he woald not let me go ; and here we 
 ire, having -come befbre yoar worship, I holding my money in 
 ny hand, and he still grasping my wrist." 
 
 5. Then spoke the oil-merchant: "This man came to par* 
 chase oil from me. Whea his bottle was filled he^said, 'Have 
 joa change for a piece of gold?' I searched my pocket, and 
 drew oat my hand fall of money, which I laid on a bench in 
 my shop. He seized it, and was walking off with my money 
 and my oil, when I caught him by the wrist, and cried oat 
 'Robber I' In spite of my cries, however, he woald not snr- 
 lender the money ; so I brought him here, that your worship 
 might decide the case." 
 
 6. The cadi caused each to repeat his story, but neither 
 varied one jot from his original statement. He reflected for 
 a moment, and then stdd, " Leave the money with me, and 
 return to-morrow." The butcher placed the coins, which he 
 had never let go, on the edge of the cadi's mantle. After 
 which, he and his opponent bowed and departed. 
 
 7. It was now the turn of Bou-Akas and the cripple. 
 " My lord cadi," said the former, " I came hither firom a dis- 
 tant country. At the city gate I met this cripple, who first 
 asked for ahns, and then prayed me to allow him to ride be- 
 hind me through the streets, lest he should be trodden down 
 hi the crowd. I consented, but when we reached the market- 
 place he refused to get down, assertmg that my horse belonged 
 to him, and that your lordsUp would surely adjudge it to hun 
 who wanted it most." 
 
 8. Then spoke the cripple. ** My lord," said he, " as 1 
 waa coming on business to the market, and riduig this horse 
 which belongs to me, I saw this man seated by the roadside, 
 apparently half dead from fatigue. I oifered to let him ride 
 with me as far as the market-place, and he eagerly thanked 
 me Bat, on our arrival, he reftised to get down, and said 
 
244 
 
 THE THIRD BEADEB. 
 
 that the horse was his. I immediately required him to ai 
 peai before your worship, in order that you might decide 
 tweeu us." 
 
 9. Haying required each to make oath to his statemen 
 and having reflected for a moment, the cadi said, "Leavj 
 the horse here, and return to-morrow." It .was done, au 
 Bon-Akas and the cripple withdrew in different directions. 
 
 66. The Observing Judge — concluded. 
 
 t the sUghtest 
 
 5 ««»T58 weU," 
 
 l-The cadi soon af 
 
 cripple arrived, ji 
 
 fl^e," said the «| 
 
 him." Then to 
 
 It was done; voi 
 
 g. When the c 
 
 was retiring to h 
 
 •'Art thou diso 
 
 "No, qaite the 
 
 to ask by what 
 
 
 
 N the morrow, a number of persons, besides those imnieB^®'*)' j ^ 
 - diately interested in the trials, assembled to hear th«l *^ vas^^' 
 judge's decisions. The taleb, or learned man, and the peasant,! twelve tn i 
 were called first. " Take away thy wife," said the cadi to the| ^^^^JJ: ^j 
 
 hand. "I««tt 
 Bons which det< 
 lord," tepUed t 
 saw that I dei 
 «I^d." 
 
 8. "WeU,* 
 
 called, and I 
 
 stand.' Like 
 
 fljed times b 
 
 washed them 
 
 fresh ink, doi 
 
 So I said to 
 
 about inksta 
 
 9. "Gooc 
 
 money?" 
 
 ••that the i 
 
 oil?" "Ce 
 
 placed it in 
 
 at it, and 
 
 of the wat( 
 
 former, " and keep her, I advise thee, in good order." Then 
 turning towards an officer, he added, pointing to the peasant, 
 " Give this man fifty blows." He was instantly obeyed, and 
 the taleb carried off his wife. 
 
 2. Then came forward the oil-merchant and the butcher. 
 "Here," said the cadi to the butcher, "is thy money; it is 
 truly thine, and not his." Then pointing to the oil-merchant, 
 he said to his officer, " Give this man fifty blows." It was 
 done, and the butcher went away in triumph with his money. 
 
 3. The third cause was called, and Bou-Akas and the crip- 
 ple came forward. "Wouldst thou recognize thy horse among 
 twenty others?" said the judge to Bou-Akas. "Tes, my 
 lord." "And thou?" "Certainly, my lord," repUed the 
 cripple. "Follow me," said the cadi to Bon-Akas. They 
 entered a large stable, and Bou-Akas pointed out his horse 
 amoi^ the twenty which were standing side by side. 
 
 4. " 'TLs well," said the judge^ " Betum now to the tribu- 
 nal, and send me thine adversary hither." The disguised 
 sheik obeyed, delivered his message, and the cripple hastened 
 to the stable as quickly as his distorted limbs allowed. He 
 had quick eyes and a good memory, so that he was ablo, with- 
 
THE OBSEBVINO JUDOS. 
 
 245 
 
 1^ toai 
 decide 
 
 statemes 
 
 K "Lew 
 
 done, ao 
 
 StiOQS. 
 
 • botcher, 
 ley; it is 
 aerchant, 
 
 It was 
 inonej. 
 'he crip. 
 9 ftmong 
 fes, my 
 ied the 
 
 They 
 9 horse 
 
 ) tribu- 
 ignised 
 stened 
 
 • He 
 with- 
 
 it the slightest hesitation, to place his hand on the right 
 il. 
 
 5. "'Tis well," said the cadi; "return to the tribunal." 
 {The cadi soon afterwards resumed his place, and, when the 
 cripple arrived, judgment was pronounced. "The horse is 
 thine," said the cadi to Bou-Akas ; "go to the stable and take 
 Mm." Then to the officer, " Give this cripple fifty blows.' 
 I It was done ; and Bou-Akas went to take his horse. 
 
 6. When the cadi, after concluding the business of the day 
 Iras retiring to his house, he found Bou-Akas waiting for him 
 "Art thou discontented with my award?" asked the judge 
 "No, quite the contrary," replied the sheik. "But I want 
 to ask by what In -^''-^Hon thou hast rendered justice ; for I 
 doubt not that tb i .* two causes were decided as equitably 
 as mine. I am n^b n. merchant.; I am Bou-Akas, sheik of the 
 twelve tribes, and I wanted to judge for myself of thy reputed 
 wisdom." 
 
 7. The cadi bowed to the ground, and kissed his master's 
 hand. "I am anxious," said Bou-Akas, "to know the rear 
 sons which determined your three decisions." " Nothing, my 
 lord," replied the cadi, " can be more simple. Your highness 
 saw that I detained for a night the three things in dispute?" 
 "I did." 
 
 8. " Well, early in the monung I caused the woman to be 
 called, and I said to her suddenly, ' Put fresh ink in my ink- 
 stand.' Like a person who has done the same thing a hun- 
 dred times before, she took the bottle, removed the cotton, 
 washed them both, put in the cotton again, and poured in 
 firesh ink, doing it all with the utmost neatness and dexterity. 
 So I said to myself, 'A peasant's wife would know nothing 
 abont inkstands — she must belong to the taleb.' " 
 
 9. " Good !" said Bou-Akas, nodding his head. '- And the 
 money?" "Did your highness remark," asked the cadi, 
 " that the merchant had his clothes and hands covered with 
 oil?" "Certainly I did." "Well; I took the money, and 
 placed it in a vessel filled with water. This morning I looked 
 at it, and not a particle ot oil was to be seen on the surface 
 of the water. So I said to myself, 'If this money belonged 
 
246 
 
 THB THIRD READER. 
 
 t ;he oil-merchant, it would be greasy, from the touch of I 
 bands ; as it is not so, the butcher's story must be true.' " 
 
 10. Bon-Akas nodded in token of approval. "Go.>dli 
 said he. "And my horse?" "Ahl that was a differentl 
 business ; and, nntU this morning, I was greatly puzzled,'{ 
 "The cripple, I suppose, did not recognize the animal?" re-l 
 marked the sheik. "On the contrary," said the cadi, "hel 
 pointed him out immediately." " How, then, did you discover | 
 that he was not the owner?" 
 
 11. "My object," replied the cadi, "in bringmg you (!cp< j 
 arately to the stable, was not to p^o whether yon would know 
 the Jiorse, but whether the horse would acknowledge ym. 
 Now, when you approached him, the creature turned towards 
 you, laid back his ears, and neighed with delight ; but when 
 the cripple touched him, he kicked. Then I knew that yon 
 were truly his master." 
 
 12. Bou-Akas thought for a moment, and then said, 
 " Allah has given thee great wisdom. Thou oughtest to be 
 in my p^ace, and I in. thine. And yet, I know not ; thou art 
 serlainly worthy to be sheik, but I fear that I should but 
 l)adly fill thy place as cadi I" 
 
 Honors ai 
 And bad 
 Some soli 
 Had mad 
 The little 
 
 67. HiEiTRY THE Hermft. 
 
 IT was an island where he dwelt, 
 A soUtary islet, bleak and bare, 
 Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spoto ' 
 Its gray stone surface. Never mariner 
 Approach'd that rude and unmviting coast, 
 Nor ever fisherm&n his lonely bark 
 Anchor'd beside its shore. It was a place 
 Befitting well a rigid anchoret. 
 Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys, 
 And purposes of life ; and he had dwelt 
 Many long years upon that lonely isle ; 
 For in ripe manhood he abandon'd arms, 
 
 No 
 At 
 fie 
 
HENBT THB HBBMIT. 
 
 247 
 
 >nch of] 
 true.' >> 
 
 '"Go..d|«| 
 
 <iiffereiit( 
 
 puzzled "f 
 
 cadi, "j,e[ 
 |a discover f 
 
 you ficp. j 
 >aJd knoif I 
 
 towards 
 [but wlien 
 that 
 
 Honors and friends and country and the world. 
 And had grown old in solitude. That isle 
 Some solitary man in other times 
 Had made his dwellmg-plaoe ; and Henry foand 
 The little chapel which his toil had built 
 
 i3 
 
 ■f" 
 
 .;' ' .. 
 
 m 
 
 W 1 
 
 V !' 
 
 ii 
 
 if 
 
 
 i'^mmiujh. 
 
 ■Ill 
 
 ii.ii!iuiiii!i;iiiiiflii' 
 
 111 
 
 \^ 
 
 Now by the storms unroof d ; his bed of leaves 
 Wind-flcatter'd ; and his grave o'ergrown with grass, 
 And thistles, whose white see jls, winged in vain, 
 Wither'd on rocks, or in the waves were lost. 
 80 he repaired the chapePs ruin'd roof. 
 
t V 
 
 S48 
 
 THE TTIIRD BBADEB. 
 
 Cleared the gray licbons from the aItar«tone, 
 
 And nndemeatfa a rock that shelter'd him 
 
 jj^rom the sea-blast, he bnilt his hcormitage. 
 
 The peasants from the shore wonid bring him food, 
 
 And beg his prayers ; bat human converse else 
 
 He knew not in that utter solitude, 
 
 Nor ever visited the haunts of men. 
 
 Save when some sinful wretch on a sick-bed 
 
 Implored his blessing and his aid in death. 
 
 That summons he dehiy'd not to obey. 
 
 Though the night tempest or autumnal wind 
 
 Madden'd the waves ; and though the mariner, 
 
 Albeit relying on his saintly load. 
 
 Grew pale to see the peril. Thus he lived 
 
 A most austere and self-denying man. 
 
 Till abstmence, and age, and watchfulness 
 
 Had worn him down, and it was pain at last 
 
 To rise at midnight firom his bed of leaves 
 
 And bend his knees in prayer. Tet not the less, 
 
 Though with reluctance of infinnity. 
 
 Rose he at midnight from his bed of leaves. 
 
 And bent his knees in prayer ; but with more zeal, 
 
 More self-condenming fervor, raised his voice 
 
 For pardon for that sin, 'till that the sin 
 
 Repented was a joy like a good deed. 
 
 One night upon the shore his chapel bell 
 
 Was heard ; the air was cahn, and its far sounds 
 
 Over the water came distinct and loud. 
 
 Alarm'd at that unusnal hour to hear -. 
 
 Its toll irregular, a monk arose. 
 
 The boatmen bore him willingly across, ^ 
 
 For well the hermit Henry was beloved. 
 
 He hastened to the chapel ; on a stone 
 
 Henry was sitting there, cold, stiff, and dead. 
 
 The bell-rope in his hand, and at his feet 
 
 The lamp that streamed a long unsteady light. 
 
 nOMB, -Bditb 
 
 \\j BaidCbarlet 
 
 'upon the Vftter 
 
 a^wiUBotbe 
 
 2 iipernaip 
 
 came to the v 
 
 the noble ^es 
 
 etoTmy ocean. 
 
 3 "Why 
 
 I should be ^ 
 
 4 i«-yon 
 
 Charles, 
 one place a« 
 eveiywbete. 
 
 5. "Bnt 
 
 Charles?" 
 
 land," reig 
 
 father tolc 
 
 6. "Tl 
 
 danger. 
 
 this saUoi 
 
 the sea u 
 
 of the T 
 
GOD 18 
 
 j-VEBYWHEBB. 
 
 U^ 
 
 ^M 
 
 ''\ *ix 
 
 68. God ib Etbktwhbeiu 
 
 ^l tTth.Uo^'^.^n^^.e broad I*«to»- 
 
 8. .. Whj »ot, ^*^ „^ the UtUe girl : „ .j 
 lAoridbedro^' «^«* ^, „ you are ^-J^ 
 ^ ., Yon wda_be 3?f " j, ^ u.»t w »«> " '•*^ ^ 
 
 ^i::ee :;r»^s.c*^^o«^ ''''' ^^'^ -^ "' "■ 
 
 one place as lu »" » 
 
 tlie sea undiatnrDea u ^ ^.^^ ^^^ bailor, wny »" 
 of tho pafisengora. ^o, i^^^ 
 
 ,-6)«W»»***f' 
 
S50 
 
 THB THIBD BBADEB. 
 
 be afraid?' 'We m0>y all be drowned/ said the passei 
 'All of us hare once to die/ ca^y retomed the sailor. 
 
 7. " The passenger was surprised to see the man's com] 
 snre. ' Have yon followed the sea long?' he asked. 'Et( 
 skice I was a boy ; and my father followed it before me.' 
 
 8. "'Indeed I And'where did yonr father die?' 'Hewt 
 drowned at sea,' fSfflied the sailor. 'And yonr grandfather,] 
 where did he die P ' He was also drowned at sea/ said th( 
 sailor. * Father and grandfather drowned at sea !' ezclaimedl 
 the passenger in astonishmoit, 'and yon not afraid to go to{ 
 sea ?' 'No I God is ererywhere/ said the sailor rererently. 
 
 0. " ' And now/ he added, after pausing a moment, ' may I 
 ask yon where yonr father died ?' ' In his bed,' replied the 
 passenger. 'And where did his father die?' 'In his bed,' 
 was again answered. 'Are yon not, then, afraid to go to 
 bed,' «aid the sailor, 'if yonr father and grandfather both 
 died there?'" 
 
 10. " Oh yes ! I remember it very well now/' said Edith. 
 " I know that the Lord takes care of ns always, wherever we 
 may be. I know that he is everywhere present." 
 
 11. "And he wiU take as good care of the people in that 
 ship as he does of those who are on the land," replied Charles. 
 " Father says th&t we should always go whore our duties call 
 us, whether it be upon land or upon sea, for the Lord can and 
 will protect us as much in one place as in another." 
 
 e, apart of Wsw« 
 
 Klttding^*^^"^®°' 
 L to her wants. 
 
 8. The king »«*' 
 ducats, and slid th« 
 Returning to his 
 Lge awoke, openc 
 l'^^^ «« You have 
 lui apology, and, 
 ihand into Ws po< 
 [He drew it out, 
 
 into tears, ^thou 
 
 5 "What 18 
 
 Ufeet,"80ineb< 
 
 IcamebythiBn 
 6. "Myftienc 
 
 in our sleep. G» 
 
 nfloie, and assur* 
 
 1. TWb story 
 
 tudi and duty V 
 
 fortiinatepaien 
 
 8. And, if t1 
 
 ,„,pleofFrede 
 
 ibe reward tm 
 
 tecompensedl 
 
 and by that G 
 
 expression of 
 
 69. Aneodotb of Fbbdebiok the Gbbat. 
 
 1 FREDERICK the Great, king of Prussia, having rung 
 . his bell one day, and nobody answering, opened the door 
 where his page was usually in waiting, and found him asleep 
 n a sofa. 
 
 2, He was going to awake him, when he perceived the end 
 of a billet or letter hanging out of his pocket. Having the 
 curiosity to know its contents, he took and read it, and found 
 it was a letter from his mother, thanking him for having sent 
 
 "" 
 
^ SMALL 0ATB0HI8M. 
 
 261 
 
 Loniiig to bis <f^^ Za^L<A. 
 
 I A "Von have slept weu, bw" »"* rT°__»„ed to put hia 
 
 his feet "somebody has »"»«'"'„ 
 
 I came'by this >>«>»«y.'?SS "Ood oBea sends «s good 
 ' « " Mt Weld," snid I'ledenck, «"" . ^^ hw in my 
 
 J;Sfdr^SSi^«-*-«'*'*^-'*^'"" 
 
 ts^t^'X-TiS^-rtbro:::^: 
 
 repression of filial love. 
 
 70. A Small Oateohmm. 
 1 TITHY are children's eyes so bright? 
 ^' \V Tell i:.e why?" 
 
S52 TUB TUIBD BEADEB. 
 
 2. " Why do children laugh so gay ? 
 Tell me why?" 
 " 'Tib becaase their hearts have play 
 In their bosoms, every day, 
 Free from sin and sorrow's sway — 
 
 Therefore, 'tis they langh so gay." 
 
 8 " Why do children speak so free 7 
 Tell me why?" 
 " 'Tis because from fallacy. 
 Cant, and seeming, they are free, 
 Hearts, not lips, their organs be — 
 
 Therefore, 'tis they speak so free." 
 
 4. " Why do children love so true ? 
 Tell me why?" 
 " 'Tis because they cleave unto, 
 A familiar fav'rite few. 
 Without art or self in view — 
 
 Therefore children love so true." 
 
 4 «< And return 
 
 Lrvantfllnmy^a*^ 
 IperlBhwlthhungei 
 
 land say to Wm : J 
 Ibefore thee; la 
 Lake me 88 one 
 
 Lent to to fathei 
 
 71. The Pbodioal Son. 
 
 A CERTAIN man had two sons. And the younger of 
 them said to his father : ' Father, give me the portion of 
 substance that falleth to me.' And he divided unto them his 
 substance. 
 
 2. " And not many days after, the younger son gathering all 
 together, went abroad into a far country, and there wasted 
 his substance by living riotously. And after he had spent all, 
 there came a mighty famine in that country, and he began to 
 be in want. 
 
 3. " And he went, and joined hunself to one of the citizens 
 of that country. And he sent him into his farm, to feed his 
 iwine : and he would fain have filled his belly with the husks 
 the swine did cat ; and no man gave unto hun. 
 
 5. •' And 
 him, and wa 
 
 « Father, I ^ 
 
 am not now 
 
 6. "Bnt 
 
 quickly the 
 
 hand, and 
 
 and kill it, 
 
 was dead, 
 
 And they 
 
 and drew 
 
' 268 
 
 THE PUODIPVI^ SON. 
 
 •A ' How nttttDy Wrcd 
 
 U»*< to >"y '»*«\''TJ^ &m go to my f»*«. 
 
 Lake me as one of thy nire 
 Lent to bis fot^er. 
 
 _1^ ftff his father saw 
 
 ,, .. ind when he was yet a great way m . ^^ ^^^ 
 
 V Intwas moved with compasB.on at^, J'. ^^| ,,1,^ 
 him, and was ^.^^^^ ^^^ And tne ^ ^ 
 
 felUponhi8necic,a^ ^^^^^„^ „d betore 
 
 '^^^^^^^'^^irlTto be called thy son; ^^^h 
 
 T'Xrtt'^^^er Bf :;rhCnrputrSn|onlns 
 
 Tnd ^ey began to be merry. ^^^ ^ten he came 
 
 1 
 
 
254 
 
 TRB THIBD BBADKB. 
 
 he called one Of the senranti, and asked what these tbingi I 
 meant. And he said to him : ' Thy brother is come, and thy 
 father hath killed the fatted calf, becaase he hath receired him | 
 tah.* And he was angry, and would not go hi. 
 
 8. "His father, therefore, coming out, began to entreat 
 him. And he, answering, said to his father : ' Behold, for lo 
 many years I serve thee, and I have never transgpressed thy 
 commandment ; and yet thoa hast never given me a kid to 
 make merry with my Mends : but as soon as this thy son ii 
 come, who hath devoured his substance with harlots, thoo 
 hast killed for him the fatted calf.' 
 
 9. " But the father said to him : ' Son, thou art always 
 with me, and all I have is thine. But it was fit that we shodd 
 make merry and be glad : for this thy brother was dead, and 
 Is come to Ufe agahi : he was lost, and is found.' " 
 
 10. After this parable, so tender and so touching ; after 
 this language, so simple vaA yet so profound, so far beyond 
 all human conceptions; after these lofty revelations of the 
 world, of life, of the human heart, and of God, one would wish 
 to speak but cannot : the heart is full, but we cannot give ex- 
 pression to our feeUngs. What shall I tell yon, children t do 
 yon not understand, do yon not feel the parable, that this 
 father is God ? that these two sons are men, the children of 
 God, some fdthftil, others unfaithftd to their father ? 
 
 11. If it is the youngest who leaves the paternal house, it 
 is because that it is in youth, the age of weakness and mex- 
 perience, that the errors and uregnlarities of life usually occur. 
 When a man has remained faithful to God, on through youth 
 to mature age, the age of strength and reason, it is very 
 rarely that he falls away from his service at a later period. 
 
 12. That a prodigal squanders away his substance In the 
 distant country to which he betakes himself, yon can also 
 easfly understand. At the very moment when one abandons 
 God, he loses all the treasures of the soul, sin robs him of all. 
 That there is famine in that strange, land, how could it be 
 otherwise ? 'God is the only source of life, of good, of happi* 
 ness ; away from him, what can there be but famine, indigence^ 
 and misery. 
 
 an 
 
 b 
 w 
 
 th 
 
 T>LANOHE 
 D Castile, ar 
 she displayed 
 manners far^ 
 tUrteen to t 
 guBtuB, and 
 VIII. This 
 vras one of 
 year between 
 the bride. 
 
 3. She wi 
 took place ^ 
 toterested in 
 vogue was i 
 betrothed V 
 They were 
 which coul 
 founded t1 
 
BLAMOB» )F OAOTILK. 
 
 26ft 
 
 rt always 
 we shoold 
 lead, and 
 
 ng; after 
 T beyond 
 18 of the 
 oald wish 
 t giye ex- 
 tdrent do 
 that this 
 tuldrenof 
 P 
 
 house, it 
 and inex- 
 Jly occur, 
 tgh yonth 
 t is very 
 leriod. 
 ce in the 
 can also 
 abandons 
 dm of all. 
 >ald it be 
 of happi- 
 indigence^ 
 
 Utten ; MbUitj of ''"*;J'1„ hambl« himelf. at th. 
 
 C^iight of, «d the ^i^ ^0 ; a„t ta to m. *• 
 
 L„M pwion. of *?^ •_, "h„ food but that wblcb 
 
 P, th< .irine, namely, t^m P"" 
 
 C-Tb.«wtr»ttb««r,^*Mj;^'»^'tSCiU 
 L^ the «.»!. *.ke. pl~«»;^to f ^^^ ^un to the «r, 
 L„ i. the mort croel ni«>»« lL . ..flow dom," " W 
 k-rt rJST^tt tJS:«. and It t«ap... bim 
 
 "and let me paw , Bl- 
 onder its feet. ' 
 
 72. Blakohb of Oabtilb. 
 I TJLAKOHE was' the aa««bt« ofA.ph»». ^.^ 
 D CartBe. and of Ele«>ot <^f'«^^'^ „ austerity of 
 mannen far beyond ha age. on ^^ ^^ p^j,^ ^^ 
 
 brt^IeirS-ialheS.^^--^-'-- 
 
 the bride. - ^ , .„ Normandy, wbere tbe ma^^age 
 
 2 Sbe was conducted to ^^^^^^'^ ^he three kingdoms 
 
 tooi place with a -l^^if ^^X^!^^! :nd amusement then m 
 
 inter^ted in this alhi^ce^ . ^^^^ /^be occasion ; but the two 
 
 vogue was inaugurated in ^^^l^' ^^^ g^M ornament. 
 
256 
 
 THE THIRD BEADEK. 
 
 nonnced on them, that they lived together for twenty-t 
 years without a single disagreement. 
 
 8. Bat the wit and wisdom of Blanche were no 
 markable than her beanty and nobleness of character ; so tha| 
 her father-in-law, the king, wonld often consult her, and 
 the greatest deference to her advice ; and so great was th^ 
 ascendency she acquired over her husband, that he would i 
 sist on her presence in the council-chamber, and even at 
 military expeditions. 
 
 4. When Blanche became a mother, she exhibited stil 
 greater virtues. Esteeming it a great duty to nourish he^ 
 children, she would not suffer this care to devolve on another.l 
 The eldest of her sons dying at an early age, the second! 
 oeing destined to rule over France, became the object of hisj 
 mother's tenderest care. She seemed to foresee the gloryj 
 which this prince would shed over his house, and at hia birth I 
 ordered the church bells to be rung (which had ceased for 
 fear of disturbing the queen), " to invite all the people to go | 
 and praise God for having given her so sweet a son." 
 
 5. Blanche devoted herself entirely to the formation of the 
 mind of this young prince. Every evening before they retired 
 to rest, she took her children on her knee, caressed them most 
 affectionately, and told them some little anecdote of some vir- 
 tuous action, so as to impress it on their infant minds. She 
 repeatedly said to Louis— "My son, God knows how ten- 
 derly 1 love you 1 butl would rather see you dead at my f«tet 
 than guilty of one mortal sin I" — ^words repeated ttom ag* to 
 age to the praise of the good Blanche of Oastil» 1 
 
 73 Hail! Vibgin of Vibtinp 
 
 1 TTAILI Virgin of virginsi 
 
 -U. Thy praises we smg, 
 
 Thy throne is in heaven. 
 
 Thy Son is its King. 
 
HAIL, VIEOIN OF VTROniS. 
 
 The saints and the angelB 
 Thy glory proclaim; 
 
 All nations devoutly 
 Bow down at thy name 
 
 257 
 
 II 
 
 Let all sing of Maty, 
 The mystical Boa, 
 The Mirror of Justice, 
 
 The Handmaid of Gpd 
 Let vaUey and mountain 
 
 IJnite in ber praise; 
 The sea with its waters, 
 T\ie sun with itn rays. 
 
 «*«*»«?*• 
 
268 
 
 THB THIRD BBATIinL 
 
 i;BQSXn> < 
 
 8. Let souls that ore holy 
 
 Still holier be, 
 To sing with the angels, ' 
 
 Sweet Mary, of thee. 
 Let all who are sinners 
 
 To virtue retain, 
 That hearts withont niunbor 
 
 With thy love may bom. 
 
 4. Thy name is onr power, . 
 
 Thy lore is our light ; 
 We praise thee at morning, 
 
 At noon and at night. 
 We thank thee, we bless thee^ 
 
 When hai^y and free ; 
 When, tempted by Satan, 
 
 We call upon thee. 
 
 6. The world does not love thet^ 
 
 O beautiful one 1 
 Because it despises 
 
 The cross of thy Son. 
 But thou art tiie Mother 
 
 Of all Adam's race ; 
 The birth-stain of Eva 
 
 'Tis thine to eiface. 
 
 6. Oh I be then our Mother, 
 
 And pray to the Lord, 
 That all may acknowledge 
 
 And worship his Word ; 
 That good men with courage 
 
 May wtik in his ways, 
 And 'bad men conyerted 
 
 May join in his praise. 
 
 A 
 
 Y4. Tjbqvsi 
 
 LnIBL the Anc 
 
 the eva times 
 
 Uy of God bai 
 
 ^yen. She has ft 
 
 noses not to Tii 
 
 Btearof sympatl 
 
 ijrd. T^®'® ^ ^^ 
 he rose and trinffl 
 line, and its rays 
 U. The stream o 
 Ldtheholyina» 
 rilowingTobe,WM 
 (Dgel close by bis 
 
 generate the me« 
 md motioned bin 
 
 iermitage. " * ° 
 Irtte cbMity for t 
 
 1 3. The Ancbo 
 ■his head, he foU< 
 ■they went on n 
 Iboring town, an 
 Icottage and dise 
 ■the scene befor 
 lee. Blocks o^ 
 |by the chisel. Is 
 Icupantofthec 
 
 1 4. The craf 
 nnder a canoj 
 
 ] bonches of p« 
 few aged peW 
 
 I around the si 
 conversation 
 instructing « 
 
 thankful *o^ 
 privations wl 
 
UBOBIID OF 
 
 DA»IBL THK AMOHOBSrr. 
 
 259 
 
 '"'oL n.t to vi.lt e»rth ^ ^», a» poor of ^ 
 
 L tear of -y»P»'V •« leftt^u «» ««'b," 8«id »•»'«', 
 U There to bo «l»nty 1«^ SS^k™, before his f awnte 
 t^ Utrimm^tbeh^pOM^J^^ ^^^W„r 
 
 Vm .Bd its rajB Ut up 1>B <»^ J"™ ^^ grow into shape. 
 hX stream of BgM "^"^^f a^weUed saBW, 
 U the holj man became "^"^^ ';„^ the presence of an 
 
 U dose by Ws side. »« 'j\.t the angd fortf« >r; 
 Erate the messenger of «od^ ^ ^rth from the 
 
 ht"*..^uo*:r.^x^*-«'« <»•''- '»* 
 
 11^ WO" 1^ "^^.^^TertSne.rongh-shapened 
 C ^Icks of marble md d»bs otft»« ^__^ ^^ a^ ^ 
 r JUl, Uy scattjrji ronnd^^^ 
 
 fTlhe craftsman ^\X^-^- »«* ^"""i 
 
 Che. of p«ple 8™Pf;iifSdT«ril>pM. ''TfCtt.t 
 few aged pen«.«. ^ "^Zl^, » »W«f^ "C wm 
 .romd the •'o'*?"^' '"^^d, ^.s Edogtas. Ho was 
 
260 
 
 THE THIRD READER. 
 
 LEGEND 
 
 5. It becam3 ultar, from the paxting blessings of the poi 
 that they wcr^ tc see him again on the morrow, and farthi 
 more, that he was in the habit each day of gathering thi 
 aronnd him and distributing among them all his earnings 
 strictly necessary to supply his own simple wants. 
 Anchoret was charmed and edified beyond measure by all 
 had seen and heard. He rejoiced exceedingly and gave thi 
 to God. 
 
 6. Here, then, was one true friend of the poor. Bat o! 
 he began to thinJk, what a pity it is that one who is so grei 
 of heart should be so poor himself, and able to do so littl 
 good. His charity is indeed unbounded ; but his means, ali 
 are not equal to his good-will. And straightway the hoi 
 man betook himself to prayer, and he begged of God that tl 
 generous artisan might become rich and great ; for if he wi 
 so liberal in a condition bordering upon indigence, he would 
 much the more liberal with unlimited resources subject to 
 command. 
 
 7. The angel appeared again to the Anchoret. "Th; 
 prayer, O Daniel, is not a wise one; it were not well foi 
 Enlogius to become rich." But Daniel could not help think' 
 ing of the greater number of poor who would be relieved, &n 
 of the splendid example the vurtnous and frugal Eulogios' 
 would give to other rich men, .were he indeed to become rich 
 himself. He continued to pray that his wish might be 
 granted, and in the fervor of his zeal he pledged hunself to 
 God as security for the good use his fellowHSiervant would 
 make of wealth and power, were they to become his portioo. 
 
 8. So, then, God granted the prayer of the Anchoret, and 
 he ordained that Eulogius, while hewing stone firom the side 
 of a hill, displaced a mass of loose fragments and earth, which 
 took his feet from under him and threw hun upon the ground. 
 Enlogius was terrified ; but when the noise was over, and the 
 dust had cleared away, he rose and saw lying at his feet a 
 huge lump of pure shhiing gold. He was rich, and that 
 neighborhood saw him no more, for, taking with him his 
 wonderful treasure, he went to the court of Justin the Elder, 
 and became a great general of the empire. 
 
 76. liEGEND OF 
 
 iBVBRAL yea 
 J Anchoret still 
 burned beforb the 
 hosen for his eel 
 lower and less fii 
 nsit and console 
 inch. 
 
 2. The old ma 
 His long hair and 
 "crests," he woi 
 break upon the 
 about this season 
 |it seemed to 1^ 
 erected as for a i 
 culprit summone 
 (but oh ! how 
 dresser Eulogitii 
 3. Daniel, lil 
 called to appeal 
 he had pledged 
 promote the w< 
 of sins was br< 
 He had nsed 
 purchase the s 
 access to his f 
 4. He had 
 the chief of « 
 soldiery in ex 
 be rose above 
 and paiaged 
 and one H 
 the Empero 
 throne. 
 6. Daniel 
 
 bitterly, he 
 
LBQBND OF 
 
 DANIBL THE ANOHOBBT. 
 
 261 
 
 et. "Th; 
 
 t well foi 
 
 help think' 
 
 lieved, and 
 
 Eologlasi 
 
 ecome rich' 
 
 might be 
 
 himself to 
 
 ant would 
 
 a portion. 
 
 ihoret, and 
 
 tn the side 
 
 urth, which 
 
 be ground. 
 
 »r, and the 
 
 his feet a 
 
 and that 
 
 1 him his 
 
 the Elder, 
 
 , mim, SHE AJJOHOBEr-cOT*"^'- 
 
 1 76. liBflUND OS VkSSSL TBn ^^ ^^ 
 
 5 Anchoret rtUl «:''*™f.„*l„Xi. eave, which he had 
 
 Ulo.gl>air«Hl,;»«f ^rftT'ave .f toe about to 
 •creBts," he wodd say, «P ^^^^ed one mght, 
 
 Li„»t this sewon. that D^^ ^^^^^ „ God »ddedy 
 
 Lr « .^^^-i«7^ert;«^- 
 dresser Eulogiiis. ^ ^^rrow and dismay, was 
 3 Daniel, likewise, to tas innm ^^^ ^^^dttct 
 Jk to appear by the side of ^ ^imjor^ j^^rate zeal to 
 if ^ plSged Winself as security, m his^jc ^^^^^^^^ 
 
 LcesB to his favor. ^ ^^bery and corrnption. 
 
 4 He had been made, by mea ^ntstripped all the 
 
 the chief of a g^«-\«^y;ld ^Tesame Proportion as 
 
 !oldiery in excesBes of every ^^J^^^^ .^b^ed the churches 
 
 the Emperor Justmian, ^" 
 too"- „t able to «. or h«« more, but we^«.| 
 
 ,.*««#»«»!•" 
 
262 
 
 THE THIRD BBADBB. 
 
 and begged him to bring Eologins back to his formfer d 
 dition, and to release him from a pledge that IhA proved | 
 injurious for both parties concerrst^d. 
 
 6. The angel bore to the foot of the throne thv> prayer 
 the aged servant of Qod, whose heart was lilled with gr^ 
 and bitter remorse, and the request it contained was np 
 mernifally granted. The conspiracy in which Eulogiu: 
 iinnlicated came to be discovered, his accomplices wtjre bronglj 
 to justicfc, and he narrowly escaped with his life. 
 
 7. .Tl(^ did penance for his sins, returned to his furmj 
 obscmit./, worked again at his craft as a stone-dresser, an 
 in tlmo resumed the practice of alms-giving, which he ha 
 changed in an evil hour for deeds of rapine Hud plunder. Thii 
 the good angel guardian of Daniel the Anchoret succeeded i 
 length in convincmg him that avarice but too often harden 
 the heart of wealth, thus disturbing the order of Qod's prov 
 deuce on earth, land that the poor are not tmfrequently th^ 
 best friends of the poor. 
 
 76. Obildhood's Yeabs. 
 
 1. TN yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls, 
 •^ In many a fold, the mantlmg woodbme falls, 
 The village matron kept her little school. 
 Gentle of heart, yet knovnng well to rule ; 
 Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien ; 
 Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean : 
 Her neatly-border'd cap, as lily ffur. 
 Beneath her chin was pum'd with decent care ; 
 And pendant ruffles, of the whitest lawn. 
 Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn. 
 Faint with old age, and dun were grown her eyes, 
 A pair of spectacles their want supplies ; 
 These does she guard secure, in leathern case. 
 From thoughtless wights, in some uiweeted plao*. 
 
 If.ore first 1 
 
 The low vei 
 
 Enter'd wil 
 
 Though 801 
 
 Hnch did '. 
 
 When I w 
 
 Severe 1 1^ 
 
 To soothe 
 
 And oft, ^ 
 
 Tomyloi 
 
 And thou 
 
 8. But 81 
 Alert 
 First 
 
 A lit 
 And 
 HeU 
 And 
 Tail) 
 
 4. Oh. 
 Of 
 
 Ooi 
 
childhood's tbabs. 
 
 268 
 
 former cd 
 d proved j 
 
 K prayer 
 I with gr^ 
 I was m 
 alogiu- 
 wfd brouglj 
 
 his furmj 
 dresser, an 
 lich he ha 
 inder. Thii 
 mcceeded i 
 rten harden 
 dod's prov 
 eqnently thJ 
 
 rails, 
 falls, 
 
 men; 
 f clean : 
 
 are; 
 er eyes, 
 
 AiEM 
 
 dplao». 
 
 a. 
 
 Much did I gnew, on » . ^ t borne •, 
 
 ^d oft she »«»f "(^g n,^, right i 
 
 And as she gave my uuis 
 
 Talk'd of the honors of my futore oay 
 
 Oodd she have seen me when revolving yv« 
 
 .^.,..«.«ni»-- *"■ 
 
 ,.-Mi««H«*W*^ 
 
S64 
 
 THE TniBD BBADBB. 
 
 BBl 
 
 Had oiought me deeper in the vale of teara, 
 Then had she wept, and wish'd m; wayward fate 
 Had been a lowlier, an unletter'd state ; 
 Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife, 
 Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd through lifft 
 
 fi. Where in the bnsy scene, by peace nnblest, 
 Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest ? . 
 A lonely mariner on the stormy main, 
 Without a hope, the cahns of peace to gam ; 
 Long toss'd by tempests o'er the world's wide shore^ 
 When shall his spirit rest, to toil no more ? 
 Not till the light foam of the sea shall lave 
 The sandy surface of his unwept graye. 
 Childhood', to thee I turn from life's alarms, 
 Serenest season of perpetual calms, — 
 Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease, 
 And joy to thmk with thee I tasted peace. 
 Sweet reign of innocence, when no crime defiles, 
 But each new object brings i»ttendalit smiles ; 
 When future evils never haunt the sight. 
 But all is pregnant with unmixt delight ; 
 To thee I turn, from riot and from noise, — 
 Turn to partake of more congenial joys. 
 
 6 'Neath yonder elm, that stands upon the moor. 
 When the clock spoke the hour of labor o'er. 
 What clamorous throngs, what uappy groups were seen, 
 In various postures scatt'ring o'er the green I 
 Some shoot the marble, others join the chase 
 Of self-made stag, or run the emulous race ; 
 While others, seated on the dap()led grass. 
 With doleful tales the light-wing'd minutes pass. 
 Well I remember how, with gesture starch'd, 
 A band of soldiers, oft with pride we march'd ; 
 For banners, to a tall ash we did bind 
 Our handkerchiefs, flapping to the whistling wind ; 
 And for our warlike arms we sought the mead, 
 
 And g«M ^^^ 
 Then, in nncot 
 We storm'd bc 
 
 1. Pleased with ' 
 To set her wl 
 And o'er her 
 To view our i 
 Stm OS she 1« 
 With its bel< 
 ■When tired ' 
 (For out of 
 And wondei 
 For who CO 
 Her sheets, 
 To strangei 
 Though we 
 How 'twas 
 
 I 11 one day ! 
 
 one in a ^o<*^ 
 "An object 
 
 teaches the pi 
 
 any thmg whi 
 
 object; so is 
 
 2. "Alee^' 
 
 diatinguish a 
 
 braaches, its 
 
 and the usee 
 
 luse our BenB( 
 
 " I shouW 
 
 ffood as to 1 
 
 ^ 8. "Iv^ 
 
264 
 
 BEKAKFAflT-T^BLB 80IBS0B. 
 
 A .««a«i we made of brittle reed ; 
 And gona and bj^mb we wm ^^ ^^^^^ 
 
 Then, in uncouth away, out 
 
 We Btonn'd some ruin'd pig-Bty »r 
 
 ;, -fh our Kay diBports, the dame was wont 
 ,. Pleased^th o« gay^ P ^.^^t 
 
 '^" r L^' h« ^tS would often peer, 
 
 rrrgria^^^^ 
 
 And wonder at »>« 'Wt-^^ Garnet 
 
 r„, ,ho eodd m^ ^S^Z^'i «i* pride 
 Her Bheets, he' to™' '^^ testifled ; 
 To rtrwger., "t""^" '"^"^o^er mneh, to troth. 
 
 -f7. BMAOATO-TABtK Somoit, 
 
 Iw^ 
 
 9» a«^!«l Ijuct to ber mother, 
 ^HAT to an ''''Jf\^"'..itave b^n re«Ung abort 
 W on. daj after ^'Vf'^.^^.^X, what it r<^'' 
 o„e to a book, and I «» "?* "^"^other, "is » !«»»» '^t 
 
 toacUlts l«»T-'?i^^^ Olj;et lemons t«>chn» to 
 ^ the nwB made of vte wooa j ^ ^^^^ „ 
 
 T.reh'r.ien:C'o::?oV'?— '"^»" - 
 
 ^J^Xw^raTdJ^huy. «». condition, >^^ 
 
 ...' .M'tHft ll '*"^' 
 
 ..«.,,.ifrti.<m>!f^ 
 
 -«s«WP»» 
 
Me 
 
 THXC TUIBU JEtJBADBB. 
 
 Ii, thttt 70a give me your careful attention. Ton must listed 
 to me with your ears, and gke heed to me with your mind." 
 
 " I will do so, my dear mother/' said Lucy, " and be much 
 obliged to you besideti. What object will you teach me 
 about V> 
 
 4. " Here is the breakfast-table/' said her mother, " with 
 the remains of the breakfast upon it, with cups and saucers, 
 poons, plates, and knives and forks. Here is substance 
 enough for many object lessons. Suppose I give you some 
 lessons in the science of the breakfastrtable. And, first of 
 all, let us see what it is that all these things rest upon and are 
 held up by." 
 
 "It is a table." 
 
 6. " Very good. And the table is made of mahogany. 
 Mahogany is the wood of a tree which grows in the West 
 Indies, in Central America, and in many parts of South 
 America. Men go into the woods and cut down the trees, 
 just as lumbermen go into the woods of Maine and cut down 
 pme-trees. They are then floated down to the searcoast, and 
 shipped to Europe or this country. 
 
 6. "This is very hard work ; the men who do it are obliged 
 to go into woods and swamps, where it is very hot, and often 
 unhealthy. 
 
 *' Mahogany, as you see, is a beautiful wood, and takes a 
 fine polish. It was introduced into England about the end of 
 the seventeenth centroy.* 
 
 7. " A captain of a West Indian ship brought home some 
 logs, which he had put on board his yessel simply as ballast ; 
 that is, as weight to make it steady. He gave them to his 
 brother, a physidan, who was buildmg a house, supposing 
 they wight be useful to him ; but the carpenters would not 
 do any thbg with the wood, saying that it was too hard for 
 their tools. 
 
 8. " Some time after, the wife of this physician was in want 
 of a candle-box, and Ami told the cabinet-maker to make it 
 out of one of the logs bf mahogany which had been thrown 
 
 ■ ■■■III! I I !■■ II I ■ I II 11 L I II ■■-■■I.I, l..,MB« ■! I ■■ ■ ■■■»■■■ — !■■ ■! H IM 
 
 * 2nU MMftlMfitA Mfi<«f^ is the f«riod between 1600 and 1701. 
 
 bbh 
 
 iie He was un 
 
 ould spoU his tooh 
 
 J was made and 
 
 Lician's new hoti 
 
 9 "Al^dyofrt 
 todfrom this tin 
 LdedtUUtbecw 
 1 <« Articles of m 
 Ud wood, which 
 Ibcen obviated by 
 
 ] 10. " A. log 0* 
 called veneers, b; 
 Ued upon pine, 
 Uogaay table, 
 covering of malw 
 
 'thanifltj«!« 
 
 cloth. Thte 18 
 
 plant caUed Am 
 
 n. "Yes, ft 
 
 afieldongrfttt 
 
 pretty blue flo^ 
 
 a piece of po« 
 
 wreck, and ^* 
 
 5'atber told m 
 
 those flowers. 
 
 ^2 ••lorn 
 
 what yonr fi 
 
 plants are p 
 
 stalks are « 
 
 bleached, nn 
 
 hair. These 
 
 into cloth. 
 
 13. "Yt 
 
 xmiform, 
 
 wrought i 
 
 genlons tn 
 
 "Flax 
 
BEEAKm-^-^^BLK BOI«HOE. 
 
 •261 
 
 I coTenng of in»iioB» ' ^.. Then next «T»V, ^„ » 
 I tlian if ft wre »U f»'''J^„ Limn to pwdncea i" 
 
 ■ tbose flowers » ^ that you T««^«T^deftd the 
 
 12 " I «m very glad, my «« » ^^^^^ are deiw, ^ 
 
 hair. in«Bei» r ♦aWe^loth is not 
 
 ^ught into It. TM .„„,«. thew 
 
 rl°^rm«ch taiBed to .« country •, 
 
 "^S^JP- 
 
268 
 
 BB 
 
 THE TUIRD HEADER. 
 
 are covered 
 
 many manafactories of linen here. They raise it ^ in gre«»o^» * «oinxnon 
 qnantities in England, Ireland, Belgium, and parts of QeletU^' ^ Q\^\[ar^ 
 many ; and it is manufacbured in Scotland, England, the norflio"'^® ,|^. » ^^^s 
 
 ci!y. The finest 
 
 are nw^de partly 
 
 been burned, po« 
 
 •ilhig materia 
 
 otpasteordougl 
 
 or dishes, and It 
 
 ^ accustomed t 
 
 3 "They^se 
 
 an ov 
 
 of Ireland, and Germany. 
 
 14. " This table-cloth was brought in a ship from Lireil 
 pool, in England." 
 
 " You said just' now that the flax was bleached. What 
 that ?" 
 
 " To bleach is to make white. The natural color of flax iil 
 a kind of brown, like the brown Imen thread I have in m;] 
 work-basket ; and it has to be whitened by art. 
 
 15. " Most linen fabrics are wiiitened after they are woven. _ 
 It used to be done by spreading the cloth upon the gross, Bp^* Hfl andson 
 in the sun, and frequently wetting it; but now the cloth ■ 8^**®*^', -jTrr^^^^j d, 
 
 is dipped into a kind of liquid which takes the color out | *;.. i^nV 
 
 at once. 
 
 16. " Now we hare the table set, and the cloth spread ; -vre 
 will next see what there is on the table. Here are the coffee- 
 pot, the teapot, the water-pot, the cream-jug, and the 8uga^ 
 bowl. What do you think these are made of?" 
 
 IT. "They are made of silver, I suppose. They look like 
 the silver half-dollar father gave me once." 
 
 " Your answer is a natural one, my dear Lucy. Older pe^ 
 sons than yon judge of things by their outward L/pearance. 
 These are not made of silver, though they look like it. 
 
 18. " Rich people have them of silver, but ours are made 
 of a white metal, commonly called German silver, covered 
 over, or plated, with real silver. German silver is made of 
 copper, zinc, and nickel ; all of which are metals. Articles of 
 this kind are made in great numbers in the city of Birmingham, 
 in England. They are also made in our country." 
 
 78. Breakfabt-Tablb Soienob — coniinued. 
 
 LET us next go to the cups and saucers, and the plates. 
 They are of the same substance, and of a white color ; 
 but they may be of other colors. Our dinner-plates, yon 
 
 i« xf yon look 
 the surface is 
 something lik« 
 Bubstance ©ad 
 
 water, and ^ 
 niftkeaUqtudl 
 
 require gla^^^f 
 g uXheyfl 
 
 glaring make; 
 
 u Earthen* 
 France, CWi 
 
 ft plafie in J 
 
 cers which 1 
 
 or flowers, • 
 
 ft. "The 
 
 at them, i* 
 
 day and fl: 
 
 ••Thete 
 
 handle, 
 iron. Ir< 
 
 now see i 
 
BEBAWABT-TABLE BOHfiNOB. 
 
 260 
 
 re woven, 
 he grass, 
 the cloth 
 lolor out 
 
 *ad; ve 
 ^e coffee* 
 le saga^ 
 
 ook like 
 
 Ider pe^ 
 earance. 
 
 • 
 
 re made 
 covered 
 nade of 
 tides of 
 ingham, 
 
 plates, 
 color J 
 s, yoit 
 
 r 3. " AU tod. of f'*'"^"! ^^rttaie. cUed potceWo, 
 Lt The «M.t .ort., '''J^'' "^.'trutot BtoM. whloh tare 
 Cmad. partly of ctay, "f^'^^; „7powd.r. 
 
 ^ .constomed to it. ^ tape It. The" » " 
 
 8. ..They .»« » '"f'^jj Ll «hea it come. o. it 1. 
 
 ' i-I What do yoti mean by P»»°; "^ ,„„ wlU see that 
 t.-H y« look at a e.p, <" P'^^ti'^^r^iiied «.d hrig". 
 
 :::r:'at^-*"Ser^-^-«^--^"'"'' 
 
 require glaring ftre dipped. ^^^^^^tedagi^. The 
 
 Urhletr^oTXSl paint^-^""-""""" 
 
 o'r^«lK;a^w^-Sl^,t»^» 
 
 »t«.em,it«»<««taP««»W«*»'»^ 
 
2T0 
 
 THE THIBD BEADEB. 
 
 is pat into a furnace and melted, and the iron is drawn off in 
 a liquid form. Iron is the most useful ofjnetals, and it 
 found in nearly all parts of the world, y^ 
 
 8. " Steel is made by putting bars of Iron into a close box] 
 with fine-powdered charcoal, and then heating the whole reryl 
 hot. The yapor of the charcoal acts in a peculiar way npoui 
 the iron, and makes it harder, more elastic, and less liable to 
 mst. Steel, also, when struck, sounds, or rings, louder than | 
 iron, and it takes a brighter polish. 
 
 9. " The handles of knives are made of ivory, bone, horn, 
 or wood. Ours are made of bone. Knives are made in Eng- 
 land, Germany, and also in our own country. Sheffield, in 
 England, is a place where many are made. 
 
 "Do you see any thing else on the table that is made of 
 iron?" 
 
 10. " No, mother, I do not." 
 
 ' ' There is something else, though yon do not perceive it. 
 This waiter is made of iron. It is made of very thin iron, 
 called sheet iron, which is firjt painted, and then varnished. 
 A great deal of ware of this kind is made in Birmingham, m 
 England. This is a large and rich tlty, and the people are 
 mostly employed in various manufactures of metal. 
 
 11. "They make buttons, buckles, thimbles, pencil-cases, 
 steel pens, teapots, trays, cake-baskets, and many other simi- 
 lar articles. 
 
 " The spoons are made of silver, — real silver. Silver is a 
 metal, which is dug out of the ground. It is one of the pre- 
 cious metals, so called ; it comes next in value to gold and 
 platinum, which latter is rarely used. 
 
 12. " Money is coined from gold and silver. Silver is used 
 for many purposes ; and various beautiful and useful things 
 are made from it. It comes mostly from Mexico and South 
 America. 
 
 " Havmg now disposed of the table, it<? covering, and th 
 furnishing of the table, let us proceed to consider what we 
 have had to eat. 
 
 13. "Our breakfast has consisted of tea, coffee, sugar, bread, 
 butter, milk, boiled ^;gs, and baked apples. 
 
 "Tea is the I 
 
 1 Japan. I* }* 
 
 gathered twice , 
 
 ' are dried a litti 
 
 and afterwardd 
 
 There are mvoi 
 
 «eat claflses, « 
 
 14. "Tiicsel 
 
 «« The Chine 
 
 80. Itwaair 
 
 it is now ter 
 
 ^ great manj 
 
 ^thtea. It 
 of lead. 
 
 15. "Coff« 
 
 in Arabia, ai 
 
 iugh, and its 
 
 cherry. A.t 
 
 sun, and the 
 
 rieaareagai 
 
 -^eiL we ^ 
 
 toasted, grc 
 
 from Mochi 
 
 16. "Te 
 
 -whicb nnci 
 
 were when 
 
 coffee is a 
 
 you ptom 
 
 hard woT( 
 
 n. "1 
 
 andinftiB 
 
 ««yott 
 but yon 
 tides of 
 nerves, t 
 
 are not 
 Qgedon 
 
 18. 
 
BBSA&FA8T-TABLB BOIENOB. 
 
 271 
 
 ^'ni off ia 
 and it 
 
 I close bo J 
 whole verjl 
 V^y npoaf 
 P liable to I 
 pder thaof 
 
 '^e, hoTD, 
 
 inEng. 
 
 ^ffleld, in 
 
 nuadeof , 
 
 We it 
 [hin iron, 
 inufihed. 
 rhain, in 
 ople are 
 
 3-cases, 
 }r fiimi. 
 
 er 18 a 
 lepre. 
 i and 
 
 nsed 
 hinga 
 oath 
 
 th 
 we 
 
 a^ 
 
 "Tea is the leaf of a shrab which grows in China and 
 Japan. It is from fonr to siz feet high. The leaves are 
 gathered twice a year ; in the spring and the antnmn. They 
 are dried a little in the snn, then laid on plates of hot iron, 
 and afterwards rolled on mats with the pahn of the hand. 
 There are many varieties of tea, but they are divided into two 
 great classes, black tea and green tea. 
 
 14. " These do not come from the same kmd of plant. 
 
 " The Ghmese are very fond of tea, and always have been 
 so. It was introdnoed into Enrope about the year 1660 ; and 
 it is now very mnch nsed, especifdly in England and America. 
 A great many ships come from GMna which are entirely filled 
 with tea. It is packed in wooden chests, which have a lining 
 of lead. 
 
 15. " Coffee is the berry of an evergreen shrab which grows 
 in Arabia, and the East and West Indies. It is abont ten feet 
 high, and its berry, when ripe, is red, and not very nnlike a 
 cherry. At the proper tune the fhiit is gathered, dried in the 
 Bon, and the berries extracted by the help of mills. The ber- 
 ries are again dried^^cked in bags, and sent away in vessels. 
 When we wart to make coffee, the berries, or grains, are 
 roasted, ground, and boiled in water. The finest coffee comes 
 from Mocha, in Arabia. 
 
 16. " Tea is made by steeping the leaves in boiling water, 
 which uncurls them, and makes them look larger than they 
 were when put in. Thus tea is properly an in/itsion. But 
 coffee is a deeoction, because it is made by boiling. Now will 
 you promise to remember the distinction between these two 
 hard words ?" 
 
 It. "I wiU try. Decoction is when you boil any thing, 
 and infusion is when you only steep it." 
 
 " Your father drinks coffee for breakfast, and I drink tea ; 
 but you drink milk. Tea and coffee both belong to those ar- 
 ticles of food which are called stimtUants. They act upon the 
 nerves, and produce a slight exhilaration or excitement. They 
 are not good for little boys and girls ; and th^y should be 
 nsed only in moderation by grown persons. 
 
 18. "When your father comes home at night, tired with 
 
272 
 
 THE THIRD BBADEB. 
 
 his day's work, a cap of tea refreshes him ; bat if ho were 
 drink too mach, or drink it too strong, it would keep 
 awake, and he would have a headache the next momi 
 Many persons injure themselves by drinking too much stroi 
 tea and cofifee. ^ ' • 
 
 19. " Sugar is the produce of a plant called the sugar-cam 
 which grows in the West Indies, and many other warm eoi 
 tries. It is about ten feet high, and about two inches m di< 
 ameter ; it looks a good deal like our Indian com. Whesl 
 ripe, the canes are full of a rich, sweet juice. 
 
 20. " They are then cut down, and next crushed in a mill , 
 the liquid that runs out is boiled away, and a little lime-water 
 is mixed with it, to help to clarify it, that is, make it clear. 
 
 "When this liquid cools, it settles down in the form of 
 brown sugar ; and the liquid that runs off is molasses. Brown 
 sugar, which is sometimes called raw sugar, is refined and pu- 
 rified, and thus turned into loaf-sugar. To do this, it is boiled 
 in lune-water, and the heated liquor is cleansed, or purified, 
 and then poured into conical moulds ; and when it cools, it 
 appears in the form of a loaf of hard white sugar. 
 
 21. " Sugar is made from other substances than the juice 
 of the sugar-cane. In France, the juice of the beet-root is 
 much used for this purpose. Sugar has also been obtamed 
 from grapes, and from liquorice root. In our country, much 
 maple-sugar is made by boiling down the juice of a kind of 
 maple-tree." 
 
 79. Breakfast-Table Soienoe — cotu^/uded. 
 
 YOU will observe that there are two kinds of bread on the 
 table ; one is brown and the other is white ; but they are 
 )oth made of wheat. Wheat is the growth of a plant which 
 ooks something like a very tall blade of grass ; when it is 
 ripe, it is cut down, and spread upon the floor of a bam, and 
 then beaten with a wooden stick called a flail, which causes 
 the wheat to drop out. 
 
 2 ««Ittbeni 
 big'a« apple-seel 
 
 i« These g^aui 
 This is done byl 
 
 er of ^1^<^VJ 
 brown bread^ 
 
 fromtbeimll-' 
 
 tliTOUgba^er 
 ijhe outer M 
 vrben ground,] 
 tbia bran is t< 
 wbo are no^ 
 bealtby for tl 
 4. «'1jiot 
 ia ^ibteb sta 
 Btirred abot 
 vater and t 
 put into Jw 
 ^ 5 ««-Wb( 
 
 is porous, < 
 produced t 
 
 into tt^ ^^ 
 
 6. ''Y* 
 
 from bop« 
 
 there are 
 
 stances \ 
 
 yeast ac 
 
 explain 
 
 20 int« 
 
 ^ 1. " 
 
 dersta!: 
 
 leaven, 
 
 means 
 
 At tin 
 
 8. 
 
 thing 
 
 brea 
 
,E«AKFA8WA«L« SOnSSOK. 
 
 278 
 
 brown bread is made of ttour m 
 
 from the mm. ^. ^^de of flour whicli has been passea 
 
 T « The white bread is ^^de ^t n sometimes caUed. 
 
 Tteu pound, a '■"-ri'n.^WtSTt ^ not. ^1 f """^ 
 
 ^r^r-^to n«ue .«aa. tue «- ^^ ^^s^:^!:; 
 
 Btirred about, for a cons perfectly. Then yeas 
 
 ^•. I^f DouKhwhichhasUenii^edm j^ dlj^ad 
 
 o. " , i. 9 T have eaxe" »" e- - 
 
 bread «!>»«'"* -*^ m- 
 
274 
 
 THE THIRD READEB. 
 
 ** Yon are right, my dear. Bread is sometimes made of 
 rye, of barley, of oats, and of Indian com. The bread of 
 which you speak is made of rye floor and Indian meal. Bye 
 is a grain of the same kind as wheat. 
 
 9. " Indian com is the fmit of a plant which we call by the 
 same name, and is also termed maize. It grows in the form 
 of yellow grams, much larger than those of wheat, which are 
 let round what is called the cob. Bye and Indian bread is 
 very comnon among New England farmers. 
 
 10. " 1 have now told you about every thing we hove had 
 to eat for our breakfast, except the milk and cream, the but- 
 ter, the baked apples, and the eggs. Milk, as you know, is 
 drawn from the cow ; you have often seen them milk the cows 
 at your grandfather's. 
 
 '' Butter is made of cream, and cream comes from milk. 
 Milk, when first drawn from the cow, is composed of two 
 parts, one of which is watery and sweet, and the other oily, 
 ^fter it has been allowed to stand some time, the cream rises 
 to the top. 
 
 11. "This is the oily part of the milk, audit rises because it 
 is lighter than the rest. The cream is taken off, or skimmed 
 from the top, and put into a long, round-shaped box, called a 
 chum. Here it is shaken and stirred by a handle, and in a 
 short time the watery particles of the cream separate from 
 those which are oily. The watery part is called buttermilk. 
 and is commonly given to the pigs; the oily part is but- 
 ter, and is given to good little boys and good little girls, 
 like you. 
 
 12. " The apple is a fruit which grows upon a tree, and is 
 gathered in the autumn. A collection of apple-trees is called 
 an orchard. You have sometunes been into your grandfather's 
 orchard and helped to pick up apples. There are many kinds 
 of apples ; some are sweet and some are sour. 
 
 13. " Bweet apples are commonly used for baking, and sour 
 ones for making pies. The apple is a very valuable fruit, and 
 many persons in our country support themselves by raising 
 and selling apples. 
 
 " Eggs are produced or laid, by hens. You know how fond 
 
 l,ouateofgo)^gj 
 
 eggs- "^ 
 
 ^ng-^ird'8 eggj 
 «« Att egg ^ 
 
 ^ay bereaf tet 
 of a ben. yo* 
 
 the yollf . *^* * 
 the vrl»t«- 
 15. "T^ete 
 
 featbers, or ft< 
 
 Bit upon It a J 
 
 it, a»4 turns 
 
 runs about, a 
 
 «» Ibis 19 t 
 
 taU turkey ' 
 
 vbenyouY* 
 ^agxuficeut 
 
 MountaittS. 
 
 16. "'^ 
 
 vforltB. ^ 
 
 tbi»g tTaat 
 
 tbattbe^ 
 
 em but w< 
 
 «« Aud 
 
 there be 
 
 n. " 
 
 ««Yer 
 of your 
 
 tree. ^ 
 
 or p^aVi 
 
 batvrl 
 
 in Asi 
 
 18. 
 
 ftuesi 
 
 ftotn 
 
BBE^AST-TABLE 80IE«CE. 
 
 275 
 
 AUtads ^., „, out head. »*»'"^ 
 
 the yolk, .»d "o™* " * ' . , V, IVke bones, or 
 
 it, and turns it w creature. , ^^ That 
 
 „»g,dfleent e»gle tW » ^^^^.^^ 
 
 "r*^"ws property "' *^ ''^rtT; ttot >«■ " " T"; 
 ^t; We Bometimes call it ^/J^f^^ „<,t know how . « 
 works, vv e »" „„aet8t»i>d. "'"""„ into a chick- 
 
 ttog ttat wo er^'lC's body converW «i egg »to 
 
 there be any ^^J^^,*^ / ^^^ere are the matB and the sa ^^ 
 
 1 T » Yes, mother, iu«^ . ^ j^aKe suci g*' 
 
 u^ .V trie • and I am glad '^^^^ ^^ ^^^^es of the palm- 
 
 - r..^et:^n:«a. -;to:Lffa sS-'^'St 
 ■'■^' ; A o^rifl 01 potash, rotasu i jaatenalfl tor 
 
 rtl^s^trplltsaud vegetables, The 
 
 ^rf^'^^t. 
 
276 
 
 THE THIRD KBADBR. 
 
 forming glass are pat into largo pots, and melted, ijitil it be- 
 comes a red hot liquid substance. Then the workman dipg 
 the end of a long iron tube into it, and takes up a bit, which 
 he first rolls on a polished iron plate, to make it smooth on 
 the outside. Then he blows into the other end of the iron 
 tche, and the hot glass swells and expands, and it is shaped 
 into the required form. In this way bottles and decanters 
 are inade. 
 
 19. " Salt-ceUars and other thmgs of the kind are shaped 
 in a mould. The finer and costlier articles of glass are cut. 
 This is done by grinding the surface with small wheels of stone, 
 metal, or wood. The glass is held up to the wheel. A small 
 stream of water is kept continually running on the glass, to 
 prevent its getting too hot. Friction, or the rubbing of one 
 thing against another, produces heat. 
 
 " The process of making glass is very curious, and the arti- 
 cles made are very beautiful. One of these days you shall go 
 with me to a glass manufactory. 
 
 20. ** Salt is formed from sea-water, which has, as you know, 
 a salt taste. It is pumped into shallow pans, or reservoirs, 
 and evaporated by the heat of the sun. Water is said to be 
 evaporated when it is dried up, or taken away, by the air. 
 The water in time passes off, and leaves the salt at the bot- 
 tom. This is afterwards boiled, skimmed, purified, and dried 
 
 21. " In many parts of our country there are springs of salt- 
 water, a great vrej off f^om the sea. Salt is made from the 
 water of these spi^ngs m the same way as from that of the 
 sea. Salt is also dug out of the earth, in a solid form, in 
 many parts of the world. This is called rock salt. 
 
 " Thus, my dear Lucy, I have told you all about the broak- 
 fast-table, and the various objects upon it. I hope you will 
 remember it." 
 
 22. " I will try to remember it, mother." 
 
 " And now I want to make one or two remarks upon what 
 we have been talking about. I wish you to form the habit of 
 reflecting as well as of observing ; that is, I want you to think 
 about what you see, and hear, and read. You will notice that 
 the articles of which we have spoken have come from all parts 
 
 l{ the vo^^^' 
 
 L sugar from 
 
 'g thetable^ll 
 
 23. •• A.nd tfl 
 
 prepare our l^tl 
 
 L The iron <J 
 
 ffirst d«l^^*^; 
 
 Vumace^y™^j 
 Letofwortanei^ 
 
 ted into the M 
 
 24. •• A.^^Jj 
 
 jertoralBet^l 
 
 {actuTed,tlaei 
 
 theabipan^i 
 VfaUthepeotf 
 
 our breaUfas^. 
 
 ft considerabW 
 
 25. "TH 
 
 caUed a etatj 
 
 laws, and o« 
 
 culture, cot« 
 
 ^orlisforaV 
 
 Ittdiau gvrv, 
 fish, a |iant 
 gourd.' 
 
 ^ 26. "■^* 
 
 girl." 
 K That 
 
 Nvaut you 
 
 caused yc 
 
 blesslugs 
 
 clotUug> 
 
 ftud boo 
 
 2^" 
 
 «' M 
 go to « 
 that t1 
 
BREAKFAST-TABLE SOIVNCE. 277 
 
 tkman d' W ^® ^^^^^' ^^ ^^^ ^^ fi'oi^ China, the coffee from Java, 
 ' ^^'t wIu'^P'® ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^ "WeBt Indies, the mahogany from Honda- 
 I smooth W^* ^^® tablecloth frohi Europe, 
 k the ir^'^u 2^- "■^'id then a great number of persona have helped to 
 
 the iron ^ 
 
 is shaned V^'^P^'^ ^^ breakfast, and oar breakfast-table fomitore, for 
 decanter 1^' ^® ^^^ ^^ which the knives are made, for instance, was 
 "first dag oat of the earth by miners ; then it was melted in a 
 e shaned I ''™^^*^ ^7 firemen ; then it was converted into steel by another 
 >8 are cat V^^ ^^ workmen ; then the steel was made into blades, and fit- 
 ted into the handles by catlers. 
 
 24. " And so of the table-cloth. First, we have the farm- 
 er to raise the flax, the workmen to prepare it to be manu- 
 factared, the men and the machines to spin and weave it, and 
 the ship and the sailors to bring it to this coantry. Indeed, 
 if all the people who have directly and indirectly helped to get 
 our breakfast for as were brought together, they would form 
 a considerable village. 
 
 25. "This is one of the advantages of living in what is 
 called a state of civilization ; that is, a state in which we have 
 laws, and books, and trades, and arts, and sciences, agri- 
 culture, conmierce, and manufactures. In su"^ <» state each 
 works for all, and all works for each. Had yoa been a little 
 Indian girl, your breakfast would have been a bit of broiled 
 fish, a handful of parched corn, and some water out of a 
 gourd." 
 
 26. "Mother, I am veiy glad I am not a little Indian 
 girl." 
 
 " That is just what I was coming to, my dear child. I 
 want you to be not only glad, but grateful to God, who has 
 caused you to be born in a situation where you enjoy fto many 
 blessings; where you can have convenient and comfortable 
 clothing, and abundance of healthy food, and schools to go to, 
 and books to read." 
 
 27. " And a dear good mother, who tells me every thing I 
 want to know," said Lucy. 
 
 " And now it is time," said her mother, " to get ready to 
 go to school. I hope I have not filled your little head so full 
 that there will be no room for your lessons." 
 
 ' 0^ stone, 
 A small 
 ' fir^ass, to 
 fS of one 
 
 the arti- 
 shall go 
 
 a know, 
 ervoira', 
 id to be 
 the air. 
 ie bot- 
 dried 
 'fsalt- 
 mthe 
 'f the 
 n», in 
 
 oalt- 
 will 
 
 lat 
 of 
 
 it 
 
278 
 
 THE THIRD BEADER. 
 
 »\*» 
 
 80. TiBBD OF Plat. 
 
 1. rriRED of play ! Tired of play I 
 
 A What hast thou done this livelong day ! 
 The birds are silent, and so is the bee ; 
 The son is creeping np steeple and tree ; 
 The doYes have flown to the sheltering eaves, 
 And the nests are dark with the drooping Igavei | 
 • Twilight gathers, the day is done — 
 How hast thou spent it— restless one I 
 
 2. Playing ? But what hast thou done beside 
 To tell thy mother at eventide ? 
 
 What promise of morn is left unbroken ? 
 What kind word to thy playmate spoken ? 
 Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven ? 
 How with thy faults has duty striven ? 
 What hast thou leam'd by field and hill. 
 By greenwood path, and by fi'nging rill f 
 
 OlslE of t 
 where \ 
 Scotland, 
 magmftcettt 
 most beaut 
 persona of 
 interesting 
 by.gone aj 
 a. "M< 
 vast aiad 
 
MELUOBK ABBKY. 
 
 27S 
 
 vei| 
 
 ,. There wiU eome » ,f «'» l^A 1 
 That wiU find thee tured— but nor. m v j 
 
 With drooptog limb, and »«W«g ^•. 
 Ld wteh the »h»do«. woold f»8tei cteep, 
 l^To»gtogotothyq»let.teop. 
 . OT.ll«OTe it then if thine whing brow 
 
 *• wt X fro-n »ta »»* *r, " ■"" ' 
 wtufortheeifthyUpconldt* 
 
 U to I«rtott' epmng to wretched»»»- 
 
 ", A taunbled thy he«rt '^J P^^^^ 
 If Natttte-B voice, have Bpoken to tuee 
 xffXhep holy meanisg. eloqnently- 
 
 ^^wtoTh. night rteal. on, « now, 
 
 ^J'^bring relief *» *7 -^K^J^J^ of re.t, 
 ^^^t^r'^Ton^— .brea.. 
 
 81. Melbosb Abbbt. 
 
 U where to be found. >« ""^ ^ J^j the remain, of four 
 Scotland. There "''"^^^tiXf Melrose i- perhap. tl,o 
 
 ro«rrJ:r^^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 by^ne age.. , „„aem writer, "1. indeed ■ 
 
 i rSti». X person ean help ad.,rin» It, 
 
280 
 
 TIIK Tiilltn RKADER. 
 
 whether ho survey it narrowly, or contemplate it t son 
 distance ; whether he exumiue it in detail, or in on compH 
 hensive view. It is not one of those rude edi6ccs whicl 
 when seen from afar, when contrasted with some neighborii| 
 object, and magnified or embellished with imagined perfection 
 strike the eye with admiration of their vastncss and beautjl 
 but from the coarseness of their materials, or the ignorartl 
 of those who constructed them, sink into deformity whcj 
 jBubjected to a minute and critical inspection. 
 
 ,^T- -^f'^ 
 
 8. It is impossible to view it from any quarter, or fc any 
 durection, without perceiving it to be a most admirable speci- 
 men of the architecture of former tunes, and a striking monu- 
 ment of the taste of the builder, as well as of the piety of its 
 founder. It pleases alike by the magnificence of its plan and 
 the exquisite fineness of its workmanship, by its local situation 
 and the interesting associations to which it gives rise. 
 
 4. He who can view the abbey of Melrose without being 
 highly gratified, has neither understanding that is cultivated, 
 nor feelings that one might envy. He is ruder than the ground 
 on which he treads, he is more insensible than the structure 
 whose beauties he cannot see. 
 
 1^ l>OOB.b\ii 
 
 A along, «a 
 
 Btrength: "J< 
 
 di8c\p^.e9 vronl 
 
 louder: "J^* 
 Jesus, having 
 
 that I do f 01 
 2, «'liOtci 
 «« fleceVve 
 inade thee ^ 
 And 'vai 
 andhefoU 
 Utude ^hc 
 jtlving 
 * 3. But 
 gave Big^ 
 from his 
 
OVRINO THR BUND. 
 
 
 .:!«'? 
 
 281 
 
 1 
 
 -^^-^ -y 
 
 82. CtiRiNO THB Blind. 
 
 AIb^ c.me forth *» -^^^^^etevey o« meV- J.« 
 "Receive tuy sig""' 
 
^. 
 
 
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 IMAGE EVALUATION 
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 2.2 
 
 — '"^ Ilii4 
 
 Photographic 
 
 Sciences 
 
 Corporation 
 
 ^ 
 
 23 WBT MAIN STRilT 
 
 WIBSTH,N.Y. 14SM 
 
 (716)t72-4S03 
 
 ^"^V"^" 
 
 ^V^ 
 
 V 
 
282 
 
 THS THIRD TtWAT)1i'.lC 
 
 who hath sinned, tMs man or his parents, that he should \» 
 bom blind?" 
 
 As though the infirmities wherewith some are bom were 
 always chastisements from God, whereas they are often in- 
 tended as special graces in the merciM designs of Provi- 
 dence. 
 
 4. The SaTionr answered : " Neither hath tlils man sinned, 
 nor his parents ;'' he is bom blind in order " that the works 
 of God may be made manifest in him." f^ 
 
 He then spat upon the ground, made day of the spittle, 
 and with it nibbed the eyes of fl» Mind man, saying : " Go 
 wash in the pool of SUod." 
 
 6. This was a pnblio fomxtain of Jerosalrai. The man went 
 accordingly, washed himself, and reooyered his nght. And 
 his fri^ds and aoqnaintaoces asked each other, "Is it, indeed, 
 the same man whom we have seen ritting here begging?" 
 
 " Yes," he replied, " I am he." 
 
 .6. And tney asked him how his eyes had been opened. 
 And he told them: "That man who is called Jesus, made clay 
 with lus spittle, and anointed my eyes, and said to me : 'Go 
 to the pool of SiloS and wash.' I went, I washed, and I see." 
 
 And they asked him, " Where is he?" And he replied, " I 
 know not." 
 
 The man was immediately brought to the Pharisees, and to 
 them he related how Jesus had restored his sight. 
 
 t. Now, it was on the Sabbath, the day of rest, tha^ Jesus 
 had cured him ; and the Pharisees were embarrassed. Some 
 sud: "This man is not of God, who keepeth^not the Sab- 
 bath." But others said : " How can a man that is a sinner 
 do such miracles?" And then they asked the man that had 
 oeen blind: "What sayest thoii of this man?" And he 
 •aid : " He is a prophet, a man sent from God." 
 
 8. But the Pharisees, still obstinate in their incredulity 
 refused to believe that he had been blind, or cured, and they 
 questioned his family on the subject. Behold, children, how 
 the most da^ding miracles of the Saviour were strictly exam- 
 inied, so that their authenticity was clearly established. 
 
 9. "Is this your son, whom some say was bora blind f 
 
 i,aidtbePli« 
 .•How, then,i 
 
 "Yea,** bM 
 lie now sees.! 
 
 ' 10. "GH 
 
 fliftn is a an^ 
 
 ' «ifheb«| 
 
 1 toiow,tbftt,l 
 
 that God dj 
 world it h^ 
 eyes of onj 
 conld not dl 
 11. The 
 ««Wwtch,' 
 
 us?" A^^. 
 lieard of t« 
 in the Soul 
 
 Uxlumr 
 AndJ< 
 ingtl«8i^ 
 
 1. 
 
I'HB COUHTBT FELLOWS AND THB ABS. 
 
 dsd 
 
 i»e should bel 
 
 ^^ wetel 
 often in,\ 
 of Provi. 
 
 I n»an sinned^ 
 it the works 
 
 '^^0 spittle, 
 ^fir: "Go 
 
 »««» irent 
 ??*• And 
 ' i*» indeed. 
 
 opened, 
 laade clay 
 me: 'Go 
 ndl 
 
 epiied, "j 
 
 ft 
 
 »» and to 
 
 laid the Pharisees to the parents of hfm who had been blind. 
 " How, then, doth he now see?" 
 
 " Yes," said thej, " he is our son. He was bom blind, and 
 he now sees. Ask himself how he was cnred." They were, 
 themselves, afraid to tell the truth. So the Pharisees went 
 again and interrogated the man who had been cured. 
 
 10. " Give glory to God," said they, " we know that this 
 man is a sinner." 
 
 " If he be a sumer," he replied, " I know not. One thing I 
 know, that, whereas I was blind, I now see. And we know 
 that God doth not hear simiers. From the beginning of the 
 world it hath not been heard that any man hath opened the 
 eyes of one bom blind. Unless this man were of God, he 
 conld not do the things that he hath done." 
 
 11. The Pharisees, being angry with the man, exclaimed : 
 " Wretdi, thou wast wholly bom in sin, and dost thoa teach 
 OS ?" And they drove him from their presence. Jesus, having 
 heard of this, came to the man, and said : ** Dost thou beUeve 
 in the Son of God?" 
 
 And he answered : " Who is he. Lord, that I may believe 
 inhun?" 
 
 And Jesus sud : " It is he who talketh with thee." Hea^ 
 ing this, the man fell down and adored, bim. 
 
 "^ Jesus 
 Some 
 iieSab. 
 > sinner 
 lathad 
 ^od he 
 
 inlity 
 I they 
 » how 
 ttam. 
 
 i> 83 Thb Ck>ui!rrBT Fellows ard the Ass. 
 
 1. A OOXTNTRY fellow and his son, they tell 
 •A- In modem fables, had an ass to sell : 
 For this intent they tum'd it out to play. 
 And fed so well, that by the destined day. 
 They brought the creature into sleek repair, 
 And drove it gently to a neighboring faur. 
 
 S. As they were jogging on, a rural class 
 
 Was heard to say, " Look ! look there, at that ass I 
 
 *«6««i«fJtSg~... 
 
284 
 
 TUB THIRD BBADBB. 
 
 And those two blockheads tradging on each side, 
 That have not, either of 'em, sense to ride ; 
 Asses all three !'' And thus the country folks 
 On man and boy began to cnt their jokes. 
 
 8. Th' old fellow minded nothing that they said, 
 Bnt every word stuck in the yoong one's head ; 
 And thas began their comment iihereapon : 
 "Ne'er heed 'em, lad." " Nay, father, do get on." 
 " Not I, indeed." " Why then let me, I pray.*' 
 " Well do ; and see what prating tongues will say.** 
 
 4. The boy was mounted ; and they had not got 
 Much farther on, before another knot, 
 Just as the ass was pacing by, pad, pad, 
 Oried, " Oh I that lazy booby of a kd I 
 How unconcernedly the gaping brute 
 Lets the poor aged fellow walk afoot." 
 
 6. Down came the son on hearing this account. 
 
 And begg'i^ 1 pray'd, and made his father mount : 
 
 Till a tMrd , / on a further stretch, 
 
 " See 1i see !" exclaimed, " that old hard-hearted wretch i 
 
 How like a justice there he sits, or squire ; 
 
 W 'Jtile the poor lad keeps wading through the mire." 
 
 6. " Stop," cried the lad, still vex'd in deeper mind, 
 " Stop, father, stop ; let me get on behind." 
 
 This done, they thought they certainly should please, 
 Escape reproaches, and be both at ease ; 
 For having tried each practicable way. 
 What could be left for jokers now to say ? 
 
 7. Still disappointed, by succeeding tone, 
 
 " Hark ye, you fellows I Is that ass your own ? 
 Get off, for shame t or one of you at least 1 
 You both deserve to carry the poor beast ! 
 Beady to drop down dead upon the road, 
 With such a huge unconscionable load." 
 
 * Contrive} 
 The ass 
 
 Witli 
 Others 
 
 Ab over 
 
 9, The coi 
 
 B.ubVd| 
 Wa&'c' 
 
 And 
 «»Xiett 
 
 TotWi 
 
 P^iTEl 
 deao 
 
 made a 
 tratedV 
 
 voice 
 l^roclaS 
 
aide^ 
 
 ?t on." 
 
 THB FIB8T OBITSAOB. 
 
 8. On this they both dismounted; and, some say, 
 Gontrived to carry, like a tmss of hay, 
 
 The ass between 'em ; prints, they add, are seen 
 With man and lad, and slinging ass between ; 
 Others omit that fancy in the print, 
 As overstraining an ii^nions hint. 
 
 9. The copy that we follow, says. The moa 
 Bnbb'd down the ass, and took to his first plan, 
 Walk'd to the fan*, and sold him, got his price. 
 And gave his son this pertinent advice : 
 
 " Let talke::? talk ; stick thon to what is best ; 
 To think of ploasuig all — is all a jest." 
 
 285 
 
 84. Thb Fntsrr Cbubadb. 
 
 PETER the Hermit, the preacher of the first cmsade, was 
 descended from a noble family of Ficardy. Having 
 made a jdlgrimage to the Holy Land, one day, while pros- 
 trated before the holy sepulchre, he believed that he heard the 
 voice of Christ, which said to Mm, — " Peter, arise I hasten to 
 proddm the tribulations of my people ; it is time that my 
 
SdH 
 
 THB THIRD BBAOER. 
 
 servants shoald receive help, and that the holy places shoQldj 
 be delivered." 
 
 2. Foil of the spirit of these words, which sounded un- 
 ceasingly in his ears, and charged with letters from the| 
 patriarch, he quitted Palestine, crossed the seas, landed on 
 the coast of Italy, and hastened to cast himself at the feet oi 
 the pope. The chair of St. Peter was then occupied by 
 Urban II., who had been the disciple and confidant of both 
 Gregory and Victor. Urban embraced with ardor a project 
 which had been entertained by his predecessors ; he received 
 Peter as a prophet, applaud^ his design, and bade him go 
 forth and announce the approaching deliverance of Jerusalem. 
 
 Peter thb Hbrmtt and !Kbrbooha. 
 
 3. The leaders of the Christian army who had prepared 
 the enthusiasm of the soldiers, now employed themselves in 
 taking advantage of it. They sent deputies to the general of 
 the Saracens, to offer hun either a single combat or a general 
 battle. Peter the Hermit, who had evinced more exaltation 
 than any other person, was chosen for this embassy. 
 
 4. Although received with contempt in the camp of the 
 infidels, he delivered himself no less hanglitily or boldly. 
 " The {ffinces assembled in Antioch," said Petor, addressmg 
 the Saracen leaders, " have sent me to demand jnttioe of you. 
 These provinces, stained with the blood of martyrs, have 
 belonged to Ohrtetian nations, and as all Ohiistian people are 
 brothers, we axe come into Asia to avenge the ii\juries of 
 those who have been persecuted, and to defend the heritage 
 of Ghrist and his disdples. 
 
 5. " Heaven has allowed the dties of Syria to fall for a time 
 into the power of infidels, in order to chastise the offences of 
 his people ; but learn that the vengeance of the Most High is 
 appeased ; learn that the tears and penitence of the Ohristians 
 have turned aside the sword of divine justice, and that the 
 God of armies has arisen to fight on our side. Neverthdess 
 we still consent to speak of peace. 
 
 6. " I coi^nre fon, in the name of the aU-poweiAd God, to 
 
 prr 
 
 ibandon the 
 country. The 
 Uolestyouin 
 you that the 
 you to see the 
 'to us, how del 
 brethren, and 
 H^ "But if 
 ofTpeace or i 
 of "battle at. 
 
 Christian*''" 
 accustomed 
 
 combat" 
 g. -When 
 
 the leader c 
 
 the bravest 
 
 number of tl 
 
 ^an princes 
 
 ever may « 
 
 enemies arc 
 
 whom we » 
 
 9. Kerb 
 
 who was 1 
 
 Vn their di 
 
 remained 1 
 
 but at leu 
 
 them it i< 
 
 ftud not 
 
 men, phw 
 
 are not ii 
 
 10. "I 
 
 upon be 
 
 ome pit 
 
 may for 
 
 fower; 
 
 elothes, 
 
 theKc 
 
 U. 
 
PITBB THE HEBlirr AlTD KBRSOOHA. 
 
 287 
 
 ahouldj 
 
 »P or the 
 » boldly, 
 ^idressing 
 • 0^ yon. 
 ^t We 
 
 Mes of 
 lieritage 
 
 I* a tune 
 snoes of 
 
 ristiang 
 lat the 
 theless 
 
 ibandon the territory of Antioch and return to yonr own 
 country. The Christians promise yon, by my yoioe, not to 
 molest yon in yonr retreat. We ?dll even pnt np prayers for 
 jon that the tme God may tonch yonr hearts, and permit 
 yon to see the tmth of onr fkith. If Heaven deigns to listen 
 to ns, how delightfnl it will be to ns to giro yon the name of 
 brethren, and to conclude with yon a lasting peace I 
 
 I. " Bnt if yon are not wilUng to accept either the blessings 
 of peace or the benefits of the Ohristian religion, let the fate 
 of 'battle at. length decide the jnstioe of onr canse. As the 
 Christians will not be taken by snrprise, and as they are not 
 accnstomed to steal Tictories, they ofTer yon the choice of 
 combat." 
 
 8. When finishing his discourse, Peter fixed his eyes npon 
 the leader of the Saracens, and said, " Choose from among 
 the bravest of thy army, and let them do battle with an eqnal 
 number of the Cmsaders ; fight thyself with one of onr Cluris- 
 |pan princes ; or give the signal for a general battle. W hat- 
 ever may be thy choice, thou shalt soon learn what thy 
 enemies are, and thou shalt know what the great God is 
 whom we serve I" 
 
 9. Kerboghft, who knew the situation of the Christians, and 
 who was not aware of the kind of succor they had received 
 in their distress, was much surprised at such langm^. He 
 remained for some tune mute with astonishment and rage, 
 but at length sud, " Betum to them who sent you, and tell 
 tiiem it is the part of the conquered to "eceive conditions, 
 and not to dictate them. Miserable vag^ibonds, e3i:tennated 
 men, phantoms may terrify womra; but the warriors (of Asia 
 are not intimidated by vain words. 
 
 10. " The Christians shall soon learn that the land we tread 
 npon belongs to us. Nevertheless, I am willing to entertain 
 
 ome pity for them, and if they will ^knowledge Mohammed, 1 
 may forget that this city, a pnj%o famine, is abeady in my 
 power ; I may leave it ia theur hands, and give them arms, 
 dothes, bread, women, in short, all that they have not ; fo» 
 the Koran bids us pardon all who submit to its laws. 
 
 II. *' Bid thy companions hasten, and on this ^^ery day takt 
 
TUB THIKO BKADKK. 
 
 adrantage of my clemency ; to-morrow they shall only leave | 
 Antloch by the sword. They will then see if their cmcified 
 God, who conld not saye himself Arom the cross, can save 
 them from the fate which is prepared for them." 
 
 12. This speech was loudly applauded by the Saracens, 
 whose fanaticism it rekindled. Peter wished to reply, but the 
 Sultan of Mossoul, placing his hand upon his sword, com- 
 manded that these miserable mendicants, who united blindness 
 with insolence, should be driyen away. 
 
 18. The Christian deputies retired in haste, and were in 
 danger of losing their liyes seyeral times while passing through 
 the army of the infidels. Teter rendered an account of his 
 mission to the assembled princes and barons; and all im- 
 mediately prepared for battle. The heralds-at-arms proceeded 
 through the different quarters of the city, and battle was 
 promised for the next day to the impatient yalor of the 
 Crusaders. 
 
 85. Thb Battlb 07 Antiooh. 
 
 ALL at once the Saracens commenced the attack by dis- 
 charging a cloud of arrows and then ruphing on the 
 Crusaders, uttering barbarous cries. In spite of their im- 
 petuous shock, their right wing was soon repulsed and pene- 
 trated by the Christians. 
 
 2. Godfirey met with greater resistance in their left wing ; 
 he succeeded, howeyer, in breaking it, and carrying disorder 
 among their ranks. At the moment that the troops of 
 Kerboghft began to giye way, the Sultan of Nice, who had 
 qiade the tour of the monntun and returned along the banks 
 of the Orontes, fell with impetuosity upon the rear of the 
 Christian army, and threatened destruction to the body of 
 reserye commanded by Bohemond. 
 
 3. The Crusaders, who fought on foot could not redst the 
 first charge of the Saracen cayalry. Hugh the Great, warned 
 of the danger of Bohemond, abandoned the pursuit of the 
 fii^tiyes, and hastened to the succor of the body of reserve 
 
 1 
 
 fben the b 
 Arslan, whc 
 weU as the 
 big troops, 
 clothed in 
 terror throi 
 4. The I 
 away, and 
 infidels. < 
 Hugh and 
 the death • 
 6. The 
 firmly witl 
 the comba 
 low bush< 
 me^^ately 
 masses ofj 
 broken; i 
 The Sultj 
 stratagen 
 hands of 
 6. At 
 Been to d 
 by three 
 armor, 
 succor y 
 Christia 
 odore, < 
 turned 
 the Ch 
 
 coving 
 waahe 
 
 1.1 
 
 and ^ 
 
 theCi 
 
 contii 
 
 thMik 
 
 fOBOO 
 
THB SATTLB OF AlHIOOH. 
 
 989 
 
 |o«JrIeaTc 
 
 cindfied 
 
 can save 
 
 Saracens, 
 fit bat the 
 ^ord, com. 
 
 blindness 
 
 c bjdis- 
 
 on the 
 
 heir jm- 
 
 Id pene- 
 
 t wing* 
 iisorder 
 ops of 
 !io had 
 banks 
 of the 
 >dy of 
 
 8ft the 
 anied 
 f the 
 lerre 
 
 Then the battle was renewed with redoubled fnry. Kilicy 
 Arslan, who had to avenge the shame of seyenJ defeats, as 
 well as the loss of his states, foaght like a lion at the head of 
 hi9 troops. A sqoadron of three thousand Saracen horse, 
 clothed in steel and armed with clnbs, carried disorder and 
 terror throagh the ranks of the Ohristians. 
 
 4. The standard of the Count de Yermandois was carried 
 away, and retaken, corered with the blood of Gmsaders and 
 infidels. Qodfirey and Tancred, who flew to the assistance of* 
 Hugh and Bohemond, signalized their strength and yalor by 
 the death of a great many Mussulmans. 
 
 6. The Sultan of Nice, whom no reverse could overcome, 
 firmly withstood the shock of the Clhrih<jans. In the heat of 
 the combat, he ordered lighted flax to be thrown among the 
 low bashes and dried grass which covered the plain. Im- 
 mediately a blaze arose which enveloped the Christians m 
 masses of flame and smoke. Their ranks were for a moment 
 broken ; they could no longer either see or hear their leaders. 
 The Sdtan of Nice was about to gather the fruits of his 
 stratagem, and victory was on the point of escaping from the 
 hands of the Crusaders. 
 
 6. At this moment, say the histo^ V'."^, a squadron was 
 seen to descend from the summit of the Jionntuns, preceded 
 by three horsemen clothed in white and povered with shining 
 armor. "Behold!'' cried Bishop Adhemar, "the heavenly 
 succor which was promised to you. Heaven declares for the 
 Christians; the holy martyrs, Qeoige, Demetrios, and The- 
 odore, come to fight for you." Immediately all eyes were 
 turned towards the celestLal legion. A new ardor inspired 
 the Christians, who were persuaded that God hhnself was 
 coxping to their aid, and the w(UN»y "JRiathe wiU cf Ood/" 
 wad heard as at the beginning of the battle. 
 
 t. The women and children who had remained in Antioch, 
 and were collected on the walls, animated the courage of 
 the Crosaders by %eir cries and acclamations, while the priests 
 continued to raise their hands towards heaven, and returned 
 thanks to God by songs of praise and thanksgiving for th* 
 tooeor he had sent to the Christians. 
 
 18 A 
 
390 
 
 THB THIRD BBADBB. 
 
 , 8. Of the Omsaden themselveB each man became a hero, 
 and nothing conld stand before their impetaoos charge. In a 
 moment the ranks of the Saracens were everywhere broken, 
 and they only fonght in confosion and disorder. They en< 
 dearored to nlly on the other side of a torrent and upon an 
 elevated point, whence their trumpets and clarions resounded ; 
 but the Oount de Yermandois attacked them in this last post, 
 and completely routed them. They had now no safety but in 
 llight, and the banks of the Orontes, the woods, the plains, 
 the muuntabs were covered with the fugitives, who abandoned 
 both their arms and their baggage. 
 
 9. EerboghA, who had been so certain of victory as to 
 have announced the defeat of the Ohristians to the Oaliph of 
 Bagdad and- the Sultan of Persia, fled towards the Euphrates, 
 escorted by a small body of his most faithful soldiers. Several 
 of the emirs had taken to flight before the end of the battle. 
 
 10. Tancred and some others, mounted on the horses of the 
 conquered enemy, pursued till nightfall the Sultans of Aleppo 
 and Damascus, the Enur of Jerusalem, and the scattered 
 wreck of the Saracen army. The conquerors set fire to the 
 intrenchments behind which the enemy's infantry had sought 
 refuge, and a vast number of Mussulmans perished in tiie flames. 
 
 11. According to the account o' several contemporary his- 
 torians, the infidels left a hundred thousand dead on the field 
 of battle. Four thousand Crusaders lost their lives on this 
 glorious day, and were placed among the ranks of the martyrs. 
 
 12. The Ohristians found abundance beneath the tents of 
 their enemies ; fifteen thousand camels and a great number of 
 horses fell into their hands. As they passed the night in the 
 camp of the Saracens, they had leisure to admire the luxury 
 of the Orientals, and they examined with the greatest surprise 
 the tent of the King of Mossoul, resplendent with gold and 
 precious stones, which, divided into long streets flanked by 
 high towers, resembled a fortified city. They employed several 
 days in carrying the spoils into Aniioch. The booty was 
 immense, and every Crusader, according to the remark of 
 Albert d' Aix, found himself much richer than he was when hs 
 quitted Europe. 
 
TUB 
 
 yUjj^OB WHOOtUABTKE. 
 
 m 
 
 > 86. Thk Village SoHOouiASTBR. 
 
 A man severe he waa, »««* ^ 
 
 I knew him weU. ««^f ^"'J *!!^artfd to trace 
 W had the boding tremW^^^^ 
 
 The day's f "*«" ^.^^th Srfeited glee 
 rnllwelUheylanglidwithco ^^ 
 
 M an his jokes, for "'^ * J^ «,nnd, • 
 Full well the busy wM^'.«^^ 
 
 Oonvey'dthed^a^^^^^jJ:^,,^^^^ 
 Yet be was kind, or tf w^ew ^ 
 
 The village f\*«^f^J^^ and cipber too ; 
 
 ,Twa8 certain be «>^J ^J^^ ^d tides presage, 
 
 I^ands be cf ^^meas^e ^^^ 
 
 And even the story '«^^;" ,4 his skill, 
 
 Inargaing,too,tbe^;7/eonldargne8tiU; 
 
 For even tbongb ▼a^l^.^J'' " .^d thnnd'ring sound 
 Wewordsofleaxnedl^l^^*^^^^ 
 
 Amiaed the gaptogTMt^ t ^^^^^, gjew 
 
292 
 
 THB THIRD BKADBR. 
 
 TBI 
 
 V, 
 
 87. The Hector of Quionbn and bis Yioab. 
 
 THE rector of Guignen, a venerablo old man, and his vicar, 
 had been a short time before guillotined ia the city of 
 Rennes, when I went to see my sister, Madame Junsions, vrho 
 lived at a short distance from Goignen ; she related to me 
 the following incidents of the capture of these two victims : 
 
 2. They had been warned of the search that was being made 
 for thorn, and attempted to escape through the fields, when 
 they were perceived by those in pursuit of them. They wore, 
 however, a considerable distance ahead, and the vicar, who was 
 much the youngest and more active, might easily have escaped. 
 
 8. They gained, however, upon the old priest, firing their 
 guns at him as they pursued him. The vicar had crossed a 
 brook and ascended the opposite bank, and was out of the 
 reach of his pursuers, when looking back he perceived that the 
 aged rector was unable to get up the steep ascent. His pur- 
 suers were shouting with joy at hip unavailing efforts. 
 
 4. The young man immediately turned back, to the surprise 
 of the soldiers, who could not but admire his heroic charity, 
 and endeavored to assist the good o\d parish priest. He de- 
 scended the bank, recrossed the brook, and covering him with 
 his body, strove to aid him across. But he was unable to do 
 so before the soldiers came up and took them both prisoners, 
 to be led, as they well knew, to certain death. 
 
 6. The gendarmes stopped at my sister's house, with their 
 prisoners, on their way to the city. The leader pf the prrty, 
 the infiimpus and dreaded D ^n, who had already distin- 
 guished' 'Umself by many sidiilar captures, and was a man of 
 frightful aspect and most sanguinary disposition, told my sister 
 '.he circumstances which I have related above, with some ex 
 pressions of a sort of admiration and pity, the more striking 
 from the mouth of such a monster. 
 
 6. " I ahnost regret," he said, " that such a brave fellow 
 will have to be put to death, after such a noble action. He 
 was quite safe, citizeness {eitot/enne)," he added. " We had 
 given him up, but we were gaining on the old one, when lo I 
 
 ho turned 
 time covet 
 
THR SKOTOB OF OUIONKM AND niB VIOAR. 
 
 298 
 
 lOAB. 
 
 [his vicar, 
 h city of 
 fons, wrho 
 to me 
 Btims ; 
 
 f^ made 
 when 
 fey wore, 
 
 fho vraa 
 'Scaped. 
 »fir their 
 mossed a 
 
 of the 
 that the 
 [is par- 
 
 orprfee 
 5hority, 
 He de- 
 a ^ith 
 
 to do 
 anew, 
 
 their 
 frty, 
 istin- 
 inof 
 ister 
 ex 
 
 JDg 
 
 ow 
 le 
 >d 
 >/ 
 
 ho tarnod back and came to help bim cross the brook, all the 
 time corering him with his body against the fire of oar guns 
 
 It was a remarkable and affecting scene." Yet, as soon as 
 they had got some refreshments, they hurried on with their 
 prisoners to the tribunal, ani from the tribunal they went the 
 same day to the 8caff6ld. 
 
894 
 
 THE THIBD BBADBB. 
 
 88. The Three Homes. 
 
 1. TTTHERE is thy home V I ask'd a cluld, 
 VV Who, in the morning air, 
 Was twining flowers most sweet and wild 
 
 In garlands for her hair : 
 " My home/' the happy heart replied, 
 
 And smiled in childish glee, 
 " Is on the sunny monntain side, 
 
 Where soft winds wander fiwe." 
 Oh t blessings fall on artless youth, 
 
 And all its rosy hours, 
 When every word is joy and truth, 
 
 And treasures live in flowers ! 
 
 S. " Where is thy home?" I ask'd of one 
 
 Who bent with flushing face, 
 To hear a warrior's tender tone 
 
 In the wild wood's secret place. 
 She spoke not, but her varying cheek 
 
 The tale might well impart ; 
 The home of her young spirit meek 
 
 Was in a kindred heart. 
 Ah 1 souls that well might soar above, 
 
 To earth will fondly cUng, 
 And build their hopes on human love. 
 
 That light and firagUe thing I 
 
 II 
 
 Where is thy home, thou lonely man?" 
 
 I ask'd a pilgrim gray. 
 Who came with fnrrow'd brow, and wan 
 
 Slow musing on his way : 
 He paused, and with a solemn mien 
 
 Uptum'd his holy eyes— 
 " The land I seek thou ne'er hast seen. 
 
 My home is in the skies I" 
 
 T 
 
 [^ 
 
 th< 
 ha 
 tb 
 
 tl 
 
 f 
 
295 
 
 n. 1 bto'd-ttoico bWa the heart mmt be 
 ""loXm such tho»gh« are g.«n. 
 -J: II. ftoM worldly fetters free- 
 Its only home in he»«'»- 
 
 89. St. 7^ '>«"'»™' °"^ *" ^'^''' 
 
 89 oT. Jrjffi»» *»— :- 
 
 r.. V Gt Peter gave of his excur- 
 mHB favorable account ^ji^f ,f ^J^^^ the objections of 
 Kn to CsBsarea, '-^^l^ZJ, the faitMnl wore 
 
 the faitb at Antioch. Scriptures witness, fnU of 
 
 2. Barnabas, a good man aBtbe ,^^^ ^^ promote the 
 
 faith and the Holy Ghost^;^^^^^^^ Upon 
 
 work which the grace of »oa na 
 
296 
 
 THB THIRD BBADEB. 
 
 his arrival he could not but rejoice at the pleasmg |«ospect of 
 rel%ion : an extensive field was opened to his zeal 1 the harvest 
 of souls was very great, the workmen few. He encouraged 
 them to persevere in the happy coarse they had undertaken, 
 and went to Tarsus in quest of Saul. 
 
 3. He found Mm and brought hun back to Antioch, where 
 they employed themselves for a whole year in the service of 
 the Lord ; they preached, they instructed, they labored with 
 unwearied zeal, and had the consolation to see their labors 
 crowned with success. The proselytes they made irere very nu- 
 merous, and each one vied with his neighbor in the study of good 
 works : then and there it was, that the followers of Christ's 
 doctrine were first distinguished by the name of Christians. 
 
 4. About the same tune there came prophets thitb<nr ftom 
 Jerusalem, and among them one called Agabus, who foretold 
 a great famine. The Christians were alarmed at the pro^Aecy, 
 and began to provide against the tune of distress, which hap- 
 pened under Claudius. They collected considerable sums, 
 which they put .into the hands of Saul and Barnabas for the 
 relief of their brethren dwellii^ in Judea. 
 
 5. The church of Jerusalem was at that time sorely aggrieved 
 by a persecution, which Herod, at the instigation-of the Jews, 
 had commenced agcdnst the faithful ; the wicked king had al- 
 ready slaiu St. James, the brother of St. John, and was then 
 meditating the death of St. Peter. Having caused him to 
 be apprehended during the Easter time, he kept him in prison 
 under a strong guard, till the holydays were over, when he 
 intended to bring him forth to the people. \i 
 
 6. The faithful were in the deepest consternation at the 
 disastrous event, rightly judging that the welfare of the flock 
 was closely connected with that of the pastor, and therefore 
 day and night did they send up the& most fervent prayers to 
 heaven for his deliverance. The Almighty graciously heard 
 their petition, and delivered his Apostle on the very night that 
 preceded his intended execution. 
 
 t. Bound with two chams, St. Peter lay asleep between two 
 
 ' soldiers in the prison, perfectly resigned within himself either 
 
 to life or death, when the angel of the Lord came with great 
 
 brightness 1 
 
 quickly- "^ 
 hands-, he I 
 
 round him,| 
 
 ward,tffl^ 
 
 8. Af 
 
 vent on tj 
 
 rbc saint f 
 
 been in a ' 
 
 sent Ins J 
 
 from fttt ^ 
 
 be cam* 
 
 knocked 
 
 9. ^a 
 ■Rhode h 
 
 andinnn 
 
 bim^»^ 
 panythi 
 
 bet seni 
 BtiU the 
 bad he« 
 
 10. 
 
 went t 
 
 ished. 
 
 gUentl 
 
 what 
 
 ratioi 
 
 the 1 
 
 ptivi 
 
 1 
 
 beei 
 
 has 
 
 8h 
 
 G< 
 
 he 
 
 h( 
 
 P 
 
„. PBTIEB 1.SUVBEED Ot>T OF PBBON. 
 
 29T 
 
 D*. *"* . 
 
 Lcldy. That moment the cba^feu^^^^^^^g^^ent 
 hands • he speedUy »'°««' f Vn^Xot^l^ he first and second 
 .onnd him, and ^oUo-f ^e^^f ^^^^^^ led to the city, 
 ward, tUl they came to thejon^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^ ^^ey 
 
 8. At their ^PP'^^f.f^f!!. where the angel left him. 
 went ontotheend of the ^eet^^^^j,,,eem^^ 
 rhe saint then came to ^f^'J^^^ow that the Lord^atl 
 been in a dream, and sf^^, Nowl ^^ ^^^^^^ ^^, 
 
 sent his angel, and deUvered me from t j^^^ the event 
 
 from aU the expectations of tWews 8^^ ^^^^^ ,,, 
 
 he cam* to the house of Mary, 
 knocked at the gate ^^ y . a girl called 
 
 9. Many of the f^^^^^l^X wl^^^ l^earken at the door, 
 Bhode hearing some one toockw^t;«j^^^^ 
 
 and immediately knewit to ^^^^^J to acquaint the com- 
 
 S in, she ran back ^ a tra^^^'^ ^^^^/told her she had lost 
 
 pany that Peter was at t^« ff ^^^.^ them that so it was : 
 
 !^V;:S:"S"^^^^ itwashisangelshe 
 
 -Kerinthemeanw^-n^^^ 
 
 went to the door, ^^d on ,«^"^fi, hs hand not to say a word 
 ished. He beckoned to ^^^^''^ them an account of 
 .ilently enteted into ^^'^'^^ ^^^^^^^ had finished ^s nax- 
 what God had done for ^^' ^ . ^^ j^^es and the rest of 
 
 ^tion, ^l^^^fJ'^^^lCe^i^^y out of the city, as 
 the brethren, and hastenea 
 
 nrivately as he could. . t of prison has 
 
 P"u. ihe wonderful '^^^^ ?^ .^J; J o ^^ Church, that she 
 
 heenthought to ^^^^^^^^^^^^^ <>- "^^^''^i 
 has instituted a ^jfj^^ often experienced smce, that 
 She then experienced, ^ she ^ ^^^re below ; that 
 
 unchangeable decrees. ^^^ 
 
298 
 
 TIIK THIRD KBADBR. 
 
 \i 
 
 ^y-/ ^ 
 
 90. Thr Hermit. 
 
 1. rpUBN, gentle Hermit of the dale, 
 J- And goide my lonely way 
 
 To where yon taper cheers the vale- 
 With hospitable ray. 
 
 2. " For here, forlorn and lost, I tread 
 
 With fainting steps and slow — 
 Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 
 Seem lengthenmg as I go." 
 
 JB. "Forbear, my son,'' the Hermit cries, 
 " To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 
 For yond^ futhless phantom flies 
 To lure thee to thy doom. 
 
 4. " Here, to the houseless child of want 
 My door is open still ; 
 And though my portion is but scant, 
 I give it with good will. 
 
POPB LBO THE OttK^T AMD A'lTILA. 
 
 6. " Then turn to-night, and freely share 
 Whatever my cell bestows — 
 My mshy conch and frugal fare. 
 My blessing and repose. 
 
 6. "No flocks that range the vaUey free 
 To slaughter I condemn — 
 Taught by that power that pities me. 
 I learn to pity them ; 
 
 1. " But, from the mountain's grassy side 
 A guiltless feast I bring — 
 A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 
 And water from the spring. 
 
 8. " Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ; 
 All earth-bom cares are wrong : 
 Man wants but little here below, 
 Nor wants that little long." 
 
 299 
 
 91. FoPB Lbo the Gbbat and Attila. 
 
 IN the year 450, Attila began his expedition agunst the 
 Western Empire. With an umuense ai Jiy, he set oS from 
 Hungary, directing his course through Germany, towards the 
 Lower Bhine. Large swarms of adventurers joined him upon 
 the march, and swelled hift whole force to half a million of 
 hardy combatants. Deymtatl jn, plunder, CTuelty, and bloodr 
 shed, with every kind of outrage that can be dreaded flrom 
 armed and lawless savages, accompanied the march of Attila. 
 He bore down all before 1dm : Metz, Triers, Tongres, Bheims, 
 Gambrai, and all the towns from the banks of the Bhme to 
 the very centre of Gaul, were plundered, burned, or laid in 
 ruins. 
 
 2. The former invaders of Ganl, the Goths, Bnrgundians, 
 Franks, and Alains, then saw themselves in danger, of losmg 
 their new possessions, and that to preserve tbeur existence it 
 
300 
 
 THK TllUtI) KKADBB. 
 
 was necessary to unite their forces against the common ene- 
 my. They joined the Roman standard under the command of 
 iBtius. 
 
 3. In the plains of Champagne, near Chalons, the two 
 armies met. Fierce, obstinate, and bloody was the conflict. 
 No less than a hundred and sixty-two thousand Huns are 
 said to have fallen in that memorable battle, fought in the 
 year 451. This defeat forced Attila to quit Qaul, and to lead 
 back his broken troops into Hungary. 
 
 4. In the following spring, Attila overran Italy. Meeting 
 with no resistance, he ravaged the country at discretion, re- 
 duced several of the fairest towns to heaps of stones and 
 ashes ; and, to finish the work of desolation by one decisive 
 stroke, marched against Rome. Rome was not in a state to 
 resist. Submissive offers and negotiation were the only weap- 
 ons she had to ward off the. blow. In the chair of St. Peter 
 was seated the holy and eloquent Leo, the successor of Sixtus 
 III., who had succeeded Gclestine. 
 
 5. The venerable Pontiff, moved at the danger that threat- 
 ened the capital of the empire, generously consented to put 
 himself into the power of a savage Tartar, and to expose his 
 life for the public safety. Without arms, and without a 
 guard, relying solely on the protection of God, who guides the 
 hearts of kings, he went to treat with the sanguinary mon- 
 arch, who was styled the scourge of God and the terror of 
 mankind. 
 
 6. Contrary to expectation, Attila received him with honor, 
 listened with attention to his pathetic and eloquent harangue, 
 and for once suffered the natural ferocity of his temper to b« 
 softened into reason. He promised peace to the Romans 
 drew off his troops and evacuated Italy. 
 
 7. Not long after his return to the royal village which h< 
 had chosen for his residence in Hungary, upon the fertil« 
 banks of the Danube, he burst an artery in his sleep, and wai 
 suffocated in his own blood. The quarrels that divided hii' 
 ions and the followers of his standard, dissolved the vast, un> 
 wieldy empire of the Huns, which had extended from the 
 Volga to the Rhine. 
 
CHILDHOOD OF CUHlBT. 
 
 301 
 
 92. Childhood of C^ibtst. 
 
 A «fl Toseph brought ba^k that boly 
 
 WHEN Herod was dead, Josepn o 6 ^^^^ j^^^^ 
 
 famaytoNazarethmWe. B^^^^^^ .^ ,«,, 
 
 S\r^ti:f Ofd wasinh^^^ ^,,^ ,,,,.. 
 
 2 Is he not ^d^^^^V If Wlf to the condition of 
 Jkon as a God, but b«^3^*^« ^'^^ hidden in Nazareth 
 
 . and'wisdom winch are in hun! ^^^^^ j^^^,^ ^o yon 
 
 3 And you, cluldren, hke t^«^^^^ that the grace ot 
 
 God may be with yon. O chi«i'^^" ^^^^^ ^^dren 
 
 Sill ag'es 1 age of im^cence !^ But^ ^o y^.^^ .^ ^ ^^^^^ ^^^,, 
 what innocence 18? Listen, a 
 
80» 
 
 THK TUIIU) KKADKM. 
 
 on earth. Look in that spotless mhror : how well your image 
 is reflected I Thus the heart of an innocent child reflects the 
 image of God. 
 
 4. Behold that pure and limpid stream where the heavens 
 are mirrored, and the twinkling stars I Thus is God mirrored 
 in the heart of a pure and innocent child. Behold the dazzling 
 whiteness of the lily, and mark wbat a sweet, fresh perfume 
 exhales from its graceful cup ! So is innocence the perfume 
 of the soul, which embalms earth and heayen. Behold the 
 snow that whitens the fields, and covers them in the dreary 
 days of whiter with a mantle of surpassing beauty ! Thus in> 
 nocence is the beautifhl coveiing of the souL 
 
 5. Oh unhappy day, fatal day, when a child first loses its in- 
 nocence, — Closes it forever? Oh, how his soul is disfigured I 
 Who could recognize it f The foul mirror no longer reflects 
 your unage; the troubled stream g^ves back no longer the 
 azure of the sky; the withered IQy hangs its faded head, with- 
 out beauty or sweetness ; the white snow is become filthy mud. 
 A pure child is, as we said, an angel ; but, alas ! if his wmgs 
 are once defiled with earthly mir^, can the angel still fly up to 
 heaven ? 
 
 6. It is to the little infant Jesus, chfldren, that you must 
 recommend your innocence, praying hun, at the same tune, to 
 ^ve you a portion of his wisdom. His modesty made him 
 conceal his treasures ; but he one day manifested them, and 
 then even the wise themselves were mute with astonishment. 
 
 \\ 
 
 a. OntheBi 
 Benettthl 
 Seethe 
 To anei 
 
 ^. Andth^ 
 "Who 
 Andtl 
 
 Audi 
 
 .. Andtl 
 AnAt 
 \^ho 
 
 Butil 
 
 6. Then 
 
 M'^ 
 And 
 
 6. A« 
 A^ 
 The 
 An< 
 
 • A 
 B 
 
 93. The Buttbbflt's Ball, and the Gbasspoppeb's 
 
 Fbabt. 
 
 «.1 
 
 I. pOME take up your hats, and away let us haste 
 V To the Butteirtfly's ball and the Grasshopper's feast : 
 The trumpeter Gad-fly has sunmon'd the crew. 
 And the revels are now only waitimc tor yoo. 
 

 «,tv AMD (,*AB8U0rFl£R. ^^^ 
 
 THE BCrnfiBFLY AMD W»*»^ 
 
 , t. ««.«aB by the Bide cf» wood, 
 
 *!,- w««tle BO blind and bo black, 
 S. And there came the B^J^^*^^;^^ on hto back ; 
 mo c«med ^%?^Stt^JSrbragon.fly too, 
 ABd there came *be Gn^d »^^ ^^e j 
 And all their relations, green, onmB-. 
 
 ♦».« Moth i»ith her plmnage of down, 
 
 - — «l«ll'a<^rt«fl^'"•'•• 
 5. Then the O, »t«l?*rX& *« «<"• ' . „ 
 ABd M ^ tto fa«0^^^;^ out of h« ** 
 
 Th. viMid. were ;r "^to^ t^ ^<^ '^ '«"* ' 
 And the Bee btoogkt tbe nonej 
 
 „,,„tio the SMil m ttSvunee, 
 ,. -With rtepe r" '^.'!^„ . mmet to deuce ; 
 And he PWjr* ** JS that he drew to to herf. 
 
 Their watchman, the <*1^;[ ^ ^ Ve can see ; 
 SohomeletnBhastenwWeyetw ^^^^^^^^ 
 
 For no watchman IB waitmg tor y 
 
304 
 
 THB THIRD RBADBB. 
 
 94. The Asgbnsion. 
 
 OUR blessed Lord remained forty days upon earth after his 
 resurrection, appearing sometimes to all his Apostles at 
 once, and sometimes only to some, that he might thereby fnlly 
 convince them of his being risen, and wean them by degrees 
 from his corporeal presence. During that tune, he instrncted 
 them in the nature and the use of those spiritual powers 
 which he had imparted to them for the good of mankind. 
 What those instructions were m particular, the evangelists do 
 not mention. St. Luke in general terms says, that he spoke 
 to them of the kingdom of God, which, according to St 
 Gregory, is his Church upon earth. 
 
 2. St. Matthew and St. Mark finish their evangelical hiS' 
 toiy with these remarkable words of our blessed Saviour to 
 his Apostles, saying, " To me is given all power in heaven and 
 on earth y go ye, therefore, teach all nations, baptizmg them 
 
 in the nai 
 
 QhoBt. HI 
 
 but be wq 
 
 them, therl 
 
 ed yon ; f J 
 
 of the wo^ 
 8. JesB 
 
 came do^ 
 
 01 
 
 death ; V 
 yealed w 
 mands al 
 the Spiri 
 vicar as 
 name, 
 absence 
 that sea 
 bumanit 
 4.1:1 
 the dea« 
 near J< 
 
 their e; 
 
 intervc 
 
 ^vine 
 
 right' 
 
 wiUb 
 
 andt 
 
 Apo« 
 
 men 
 
 thus 
 
 take 
 
 eom 
 
 6 
 
 fer 
 
 Ch 
 
 of 
 
 ou 
 
TUB ASCENSION. 
 
 805 
 
 In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy 
 Ghost. He who shall believe and be baptized, shall be saved; 
 but he who shall not believe, shall be condemned. Teach 
 them, therefore, to observe every thing that I have command* 
 ed yon ; for, behold, I am always with you, even to the end 
 of the world." 
 
 8. Jesns Christ had now finished the work for which he 
 came down from heaven and dwelt among ns. He had en* 
 lightened the world by his doctrine, and redeemed it by his 
 death ; by his miracles he had confirmed the tmth of his re- 
 vealed religion ; he had established his Ghnrch, which he com- 
 mands all to hear ; he had promised to assist his Ghnrch with 
 the Spirit of Truth to the end of ages ; he had appointed hia 
 vicar as a universal pastor, to preside over the Church in his 
 name, and to feed his flock, both sheep and lambs, in his 
 absence : nothing more remained than to take possession of 
 that seat of bliss, which he had merited for his own sacred 
 humanity and ns. 
 
 4. Therefore, on the fortieth day after his resn)rrection from 
 the dead, he led his disciples forth to the Mountain of Olives, 
 near Jerusalem; he there gave them his last blessing and 
 raised himself (torn the earth towards heaven. They fixed 
 their eyes upon him, as he ascended through the air, till an 
 intervening cloud received him out of their sight. By his own 
 divine power he ascended into heaven, where he sits at the 
 right hand of the Father ; being, as he always shall and ever 
 will be, the same consubstantial and co-eternal God with hun 
 and the Holy Ghost in one and the same divine nature. The 
 Apostles kept their eyes stili fixed on heaven, when two young 
 men in white apparel came and asked them why they stood 
 thus gazing at the heavens : the Jesus whom yon have seen 
 taken from you into heaven, said they, will in the some maunei 
 come again from thence to judge the living and the dead. 
 
 5. IMvial is the pomp of this vain world to a devout and 
 fervent Christian, when he contemplates the glory of Jesus 
 Christ, and considers the never^nding happiness of the citizens 
 of heaven. Heaven is the ol>ject on which we ought to turn 
 our eyes; thither ought our hearts and wishes to aspira 
 
8oe 
 
 TBB TBISO MIADRN. 
 
 We neror should foifcet, that the country to which wo belong, 
 that the bread which nourishes our sonls, that tho }p ire 
 which supports our yirtues, that the happiness whiih ".. !u)]>o 
 to partake of, and the Head of which we are mombers, is in 
 heayen. 
 
 0. The sphritual treasures which we hore oi\)oj, and the 
 temporal advantages which we receive t'roui creator cs, are 
 appointed us by Almighty Ood, liS helps towardi our las' 
 end. It was to open us an entrance into heayen that Christ 
 shed his blood ; it was to dra^- our hearts thither that he 
 ascended before the last day. The heayonly princes were 
 commanded to lift up their eternal gates, and the King of 
 glory, the Lord of powers, entered into his kingdom, which 
 he had acquired by his sufferings and death. 
 
 Oreat^ 
 
 95. Thb Tbavbllbb. 
 
 1. Tl'EN now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
 J-i I sit me down a pensiye hour to spend ; 
 And placed on high, aboye the storm's career. 
 Look downward where a hundred realms appear— 
 Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 
 The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 
 
 S. When thus cre.r,io'a*n ' , us aroo. i combine. 
 
 Amidst the store . uiuid tliankless pride repine? 
 
 Say, should the philosophio mind disdaia 
 
 That good whidi makes each humbler bosom yain ? 
 8. Let school-tanght pride dissemble aU it can, 
 
 These little things are great to little man ; 
 
 And wiser he whose sympatt3tic mind 
 
 Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
 4. Ye glittering towi:;s with wealth and splendor crown'd ; 
 
 Te fields when summer spreads profusion round ; 
 
 Te lakes whose ressels catch the busy gale ; 
 
 Te bending swains that dress the flowery yaie; 
 
ro belong, 
 
 tho gi ice 
 
 htn, u \n 
 
 and the 
 ;ard8, are 
 
 oar las 
 At Christ 
 ' that he 
 iCes were 
 
 King of 
 m, which 
 
 ni'd; 
 
 THB 
 
 MOOaiBtt WAM 1« «*^1»- 
 
 807 
 
 T,or me your l^^^^Jl^i::^^. mine! 
 Ore»tlon'« heir, the wono, mi- 
 
 Ho«a. •«« hoMd. "r™^ ""^^uag .till ! 
 Yet .an h. •W»'/"^J^o» Z 
 
 ^::sx':s!^>s:tTeav.uto»»»««-. 
 
 96. Tra MoowBH Wam is S""- 
 
808 
 
 THE THIRD READER. 
 
 Moors from Africa, who had oyemin their faur country and 
 reduced the Christian inhabitants of many of its provinces to 
 a state of abject slavery. 
 
 2. They had possession of the entire province of Granada, 
 one of the fairest and most fertile portions of Spain, and in 
 its ancient capital they had established their seat of empire. 
 
 The palace of the Moorish kings of Granada, called the Alham- 
 bra, is still to be seen in a fnined state in the neighborhood of 
 that city, and appears to have been one of the most magnifi 
 •ent boildings ever erected for a royal dwelling. 
 
 3. Bat at length the Christian princes of Spain succeeded 
 in conquering those rich and powerful Moors, whose cruelty 
 can hardly be told h words. The honor of that great triumph 
 was resOTYed for Ring Ferdinand and Queen Isabella his wife. 
 
 and wlien tl 
 infidels, they 
 rightful own 
 dan worsbil 
 4. There 
 ^lonao d'i 
 tues and g 
 the queen i 
 their expt» 
 to his Stan 
 5. The 
 Christian 
 Bacrifice o 
 ^and wf 
 but the q 
 
 self pla«* 
 defend it 
 to do 80, 
 
THE MONKS OF OLD. 
 
 309 
 
 AlUd'Ag»il«.toting«sbM«m«^ He it ^« whom 
 taes md gte»t v.aor « for ?» »« ^^ ^^^ „„„ and 
 
 the queen inttosted Witt, to fi.^«^_^j, i^neiiately flocked 
 
 ClirUtian army m bra "T"™™ ' j this new emsiide. Jer 
 ^ce of fte m«8 f' *« ^^t'\^^; dominions at the t««., 
 
 r^eT^:K'5-r,s::^d»^^^, 
 
 t:r.o,«>dhetept his word.. 
 
 97. This Mokks ot Ou>. 
 
 To hnm«. softness dead ^^e*^ ^^,^ ^^ty. 
 
 4': 
 . They dwelt lilce shadows on the earth, 
 
 'f^^ from the penalties «">^^i, 
 lor let one feeling «nt»e^f*ty. 
 
 *i,.m . their cloister'd hearts 
 *-k™^noUh:>Sr pang that parts 
 
 Beings that all »ff««'"''^» ^ udtM in mity. 
 
810 
 
 THB THIRD RBADSB. 
 
 4. The tomb to them was not a place 
 To drown the best-loved of theur race, 
 And blot out each sweet memory's trace 
 
 In didl obscurity. 
 
 5. To them it was the calmest bed 
 That rests the aching human head : 
 They look'd with envy on the dead, 
 
 And not with agony 
 
 6. No bonds they felt, no ties they broke, 
 No music of the heart they woke, 
 When one brief moment it bad spoke. 
 
 To lose it suddenly. 
 
 1. Peaceful they liyed, — peaceful they died j 
 And those that did their fate abide 
 Saw Brothers wither by their side 
 
 In all tranquillity. 
 
 8. They loved not, dream'd not, — ^for their sphere 
 Held not joy's visions ; but the tear 
 
 Of broken hope, of anxious fear. 
 
 Was not their miserf. 
 
 9. I envy them, those monks of old. 
 And when their statues I behold. 
 Carved in the marble, calm and cold. 
 
 How true an effigy ! 
 
 10. I wish my heart as calm and still 
 
 To beams that fleet, and blasts ihat chill, 
 And pangs that pay joy's spendthrift ill 
 
 With bitter usury, 
 
w 
 
 ly. 
 
 ire 
 
 89TJ, 
 
 yi 
 
 THB 8A0RBD PICTURES. 
 
 81i 
 
 98. Thb Saobkd PicrruBBS. 
 
 9S. i-BK «*-""- 
 
 «^ TTildebrand, had beefl deeply 
 . VALIANT kri^W-nam^^^d^^^^^^ ^ 
 
 niffbt • and at dawn of day n« b ^^ ^^g yery early, no 
 
 t CTv8 of the morning sm- g. presented out 
 
 8a^i„rrtbe pnrple robe o soon. Wo« ^^^_ ,^^ 
 
 "'^Pan^dS tr:i tSU««on>t-..se 
 and prayed. 
 
 I 
 
812 
 
 TnF, THIRD BBADEB. 
 
 Now, when he left the chapel, he met serrants coming from 
 Bnmo, who said: "We seek you. Our lord demands to 
 Bpeak with you ; he is dangerously ill." And he went with 
 them. 
 
 When Hildebrand entered the hall where the knight lay, 
 Bruno said : " Forgive me my injustice. Alas, I have injured 
 thee deeply 1" 
 
 4. Then the other said kindly : " My brother, I have noth 
 ing to forgive thee." And they grasped each other's .hand, 
 embraced and comforted each other, and parted in shicere 
 amity. 
 
 Then the light of evening was more lovely to the retnmmg 
 knight than the light of the morning had been. 
 
 99. Tbuth in Pabbnthbses. 
 
 1. T REALLY take it very kind, 
 J. This visit, Mrs. Skinner 1 
 
 I have not seen you such an age — 
 (The wretch has come to dinner !) 
 
 2. " Your daughters, too, what loves of girls^i 
 
 What heads for painters' easels I 
 Oome here and kiss the infant, dears, — 
 (And give it, perhaps, the measles I) 
 
 8. " Your charming boys I see are home 
 From Beverend Mr. RussePs ; 
 'Twas very kind to bring them both,— 
 (What boots for my new brussels !) 
 
 4. " What I Uttle Olara left at home 7 
 Well now I call that shabby : 
 I should have loved to kiss her so,— 
 (A flabby, dabby babby I) 
 
 6. " And Mr. S., I hope he's well, 
 Ah I though he lives so handy, 
 
JAPANESE MABTYB8. 
 
 818 
 
 ig from 
 uds to 
 Qt with 
 
 ht lay, 
 injared 
 
 e noth 
 3, hand, 
 sincere 
 
 nrning 
 
 He never now drops in to sup, — 
 (The better for oar brandy !) 
 
 6. '' Come, take a seat — I long to hear 
 About Matilda's marriage ; 
 You're come of course to spend the day !- 
 (Thank Heaven, I hear the carriage I) 
 
 t. What! must yon go? next time I hope 
 You'll give me longer measure ; 
 Nay — I shall see you down the stairs— 
 (With most uncommon pleasure !) 
 
 8. "Good-byl good-by! remember all. 
 Next time you'll take your dinners! 
 (Now, David, mind I'm not at home 
 In future to the Skinners !) 
 
 i 
 
 100. Japanese Mabtybs. 
 
 THE martyrdom of Don Simon, a Japonian nobleman and 
 valiant soldier, was full of a noble interest; he was con* 
 demned to be beheaded : when the tidings were brought him in 
 the evening, he put on his best robes, as if he had been going 
 to a banquet ; he took leave of his mother, his wife, and family ; 
 they wept bitterly, but Agnes would not be comforted. 
 This beautiful and great soul fell presently on her knees, 
 praying him to cut off her hair, for fear, she added, " that if 1 
 chance to survive you, the world may think I have a mind to 
 marry again." 
 
 2. He told her that after his death she was free to take 
 her choice. "Oh, my lord," replied Agnes, "I vow, in the 
 presence of God, I never wUl have any spouse but you." He < 
 then desired his three cousins to be called in. " Am I not a 
 happy man," he said, "to die a martyr for Jesus Christ? what 
 ean I do to be grateful for so singular a favor?" " Pray fo( 
 
 u 
 
314 
 
 THU THIRD KEADKR. 
 
 US, we beseech you," said one of thorn, " when you come to 
 heaven, that we may partake with you in your glory." " Pre- 
 pare to meet me," he replied, " for it will not be long before 
 you follow." 
 
 3. Having foretold them what soon came to pass, they 
 all fell on their knees, the mother, the wife, and the relatives 
 reciting aloud the Confiteor ; this done, he entertained himself 
 a while interiorly with God : then desiring the picture of our 
 Saviour to be brought, they walked down into the hall where 
 he was to suffer, each bearing a crucifix and a lighted torch 
 in their hands. 
 
 4. Many now gathermg around him, gave way to their 
 sorrow. " Weep not for me," said the martyr, " for this is the 
 happiest moment of my whole life ;" then kneeling down, his 
 head was struck off at one biow, in the thirty-fifth year of his 
 
 age. . 
 
 Agnes looked at the scene, pale and immovable ; she then 
 knelt, and gazed on the face for some time, and kissed it, and 
 
 : 
 
.i.- .^mjuammtmttimtum 
 
 to 
 fre- 
 3re 
 
 JAFANBSE MARTYBS. 
 
 315 
 
 leir 
 the 
 his 
 his 
 
 len 
 nd 
 
 bathed it with her tears. " Oh ! my hasband, who had the 
 honor of dying for him who first died for thee — oh I glorioub 
 martyr, now that thoa reignest with God in heaven, be mind- 
 fnl of thy poor desolate wife, and call her to thyself/' Hei 
 words were like a prediction. 
 
 5. An intunate friend of Simon, of the name of Don John, 
 a man of rank, was also beheaded ; leaving his widow Magda- 
 lene, and his little son Lewis, a boy abont seven or eight years 
 of age. In the course of a few days they were all called upon 
 to follow the dead. Four crosses were erected at the place 
 of execution, to which they were borne in palanqums. The 
 first they crucified was the mother of Don Simon, a person of 
 heroic resolution ; the next was the Lady Magdalene. 
 
 6. Her own torment was nothing to what she endured from 
 that of the little Lewis, whom they executed in her sight. 
 The child, seeing them tie bis mother, went of his own accord 
 to the executioners, praying them to fasten him to his cross : 
 "What," said they, "are not you afraid to die?" "No," 
 replied the child, " I fear it not ; I will die with my mother." 
 Then the executioners took and tied him to his cross, that 
 stood right over-agaiost that of Magdalene ; but drawing the 
 cords too tight, he gave a shriek. Bemg raised aloft in the 
 air, he fixed his eyes on his mother, and she hers on hun. 
 " Son," said she, " we are going to heaven ; take courage : say 
 Jesus, Mary." 
 
 7. The child pronounced them, and the mother repeated ; 
 and these, their last words, were spoken with so much solem- 
 nity and sweetness, that all wept around. After they had 
 hung in this manner for some time, one of the executioners 
 struck at him, but the lance slipping on one side, he missed 
 his blow. However, if he spared the child, it is certam he 
 pierced the mother to the heart. Fearing that he might be 
 daunted by such a stroke, she called to hun, " Lewis, take 
 courage ; say, Jesus, Mary." 
 
 8. The child seemed not in the least dismayed, and neither 
 gave a shriek nor shed a tear, but waited patiently till the ex- 
 ecutioner, redoubling his blow, pierced him through. The 
 Japonian crosses have a seat in the middle, for the sufferer te 
 
 #>• 
 
816 
 
 THE TIIIBD RBA.9ER. 
 
 lit on ; ir'^ead of nailing tho body, they bind the hands and 
 feec with cords, and place an iron ring about the neck ; that 
 done, the cross is raised aloft in the air, and after a few min 
 utes, the executioners, with sharp lances fit for the purpose, 
 strike right at the heart through the left side. By this means, 
 the sufferer dies almost in an instant in a deluge of his own 
 blood. 
 
 There was now only remaining the ardent and beautiful 
 Agnes, whom they reserved to the last; she knelt on the 
 bank, and, clasping her hands on her breast, blessed God 
 aloud for permitting her to die on the wood of the cross, 
 which himself had sanctified by his precious death. 
 
 9. She then made a sign for the officers to tie her : but not 
 a man approached her, all were so oyerwhelmed with grief. 
 She called to them again, and still they stood immovable like 
 statues : she then extended herself in the best manner she 
 could on the cross. Some idolaters that were present, between 
 the hopes of a reward and the menaces of the officers, stepped 
 up and bound her fast, and then raised her aloft in the air. 
 
 10. The spectators, seeing a person of her quality, so deli- 
 cate and tender, ready to suffer for no other crime but that 
 of being true and faithful to her God, could not keep from 
 tears. Some wept most bitterly ; others again covered their 
 faces, and were not able to look up at such a spectacle, which 
 was ready to tear their hearts to pieces. 
 
 11. In the mean while she fixed her eyes on heaven, and 
 prayed without intermission, in expectation of the fatal blow ; 
 but not one offered to do her this favor, insomuch that the 
 same persons that bound her were forced to take up the exe- 
 cutioners' lances, and do the office for them ; but being quite 
 inexperienced, they gave her blow upon blow before she was 
 dead. 
 
 12. The lady all the while fixed her eyes on the picture of 
 Christ, upon which her husband had gazed so fondly before 
 his death, and which she held in her hand. Many Christians 
 forced their way through the crowd, and without regard to 
 the soldiers' threats, dipped their handkerchiefs in the blood, 
 and cut off small pieces of the robos. 
 
 Bhovi 
 She's 
 
 Bun 
 
 I ho 
 Bill, 
 Gre 
 
 Th« 
 
 W 
 
S ' ji-t ' .- »-J-— "■ ' ^' 
 
 V -.I ' JBL. ' - i i-jaun'J ' "" ! ^ T* 
 
 PAIN IN A PLEASUBEB0A1. 
 
 817 
 
 and 
 that 
 mm 
 )08e, 
 lieans, 
 own 
 
 101. Fain in a Flbasubb-Boat. 
 
 » 
 Boatman. 
 Shovk off there I — ship the radder, Bill — cast off I she's under 
 wayl 
 
 Mrs. F. 
 She's under what ? — I hope she's not { good gracious, what a 
 spray I 
 
 BOATICAN. 
 
 Run out the jib, and rig the boom 1 keep clear of those two 
 brigs! 
 
 Mrs. F. 
 I hope they don't intend some joke by rnnnmg of their rigs I 
 
 Boatman. 
 Bill, shift them bags of ballast aft — she's rather out of trim I 
 
 Mrs. F. 
 Great bags of stones I they're pretty things to help a boat to 
 swim. 
 
 Boatman. 
 The wind is firesh — ^if she don't scud, it's not the breeze's 
 fanltl 
 
 Mrs. F. 
 Wind fresh, indeed, I never felt the air so full of satt I 
 
818 
 
 THB THIRD BEAOBB. 
 
 Boatman. 
 
 That schooner, Bill, harn't left the roads, with oranges and 
 nuts! 
 
 Mrs. F. 
 If seas have roads, they're very rongh — I never felt snch rots I 
 
 BOATKAN. 
 
 It's neap, ye see, she's heavy lado, and couldn't pass the bar. 
 
 Mrs R 
 The bar! what, roads with turnpikes too? I wonder wherv 
 they are I 
 
 Boatman. 
 Ho I brig ahoy 1 hard up I hard up I that lubber cannot 
 steer! 
 
 Mrs. F. 
 Yes, yes, — ^hard up upon a rock I I know some danger's 
 
 near] 
 Gracious, there's a wave ! its coming in j and roaring like a 
 bull! 
 
 Boatman. 
 Nothing, ma'am, but a little slop 1 go large. Bill I keep her 
 fnlll 
 
 Mrs. F. 
 What, keep her full I what daring work I when full she must 
 go down! 
 
 Boatman. 
 Why, Bill, it lulls ! case off a bit — it's coming off the town ! 
 Steady your hehn I w;e'll clear the Pint! lay right for yonder 
 pioJcl 
 
 Mrs. F. 
 Be steady — ^well, I hope they can ! but they've got a pint of 
 drink 1 
 
 Boatman. 
 Bill, give that sheet another haul — she'll fetch it up tliis 
 reach. 
 
 Mrs. F. 
 I'm getting rather pale, I know, and they see it by that 
 speech! 
 « I wonder what it is, now, but — I never felt so queer I 
 
' .IUW» ' ' - J„ I W.- II J I * ll ' -l« 
 
 PAIN IN ▲ PLBASUBB-BOAT. 
 
 819 
 
 and 
 irntflf 
 bar. 
 
 ■ '* 
 
 innot 
 
 Boatman. 
 
 Bill, mind yonr luff— why Bill, I say, she'a yawing— keep her 
 nearl 
 
 Mrs. p. 
 Keep near! we're going farther off; the land's behind oar 
 * backs. 
 
 Boatman. 
 Be easy, ma'am, it's all correct, that's only canse we tacks ; 
 We shall have to beat aboat a bit, — Bill, keep her oat to seu. 
 
 Mbs. F. 
 Beat who aboat? keep who at sea? — ^how black they look at 
 me I 
 
 Boatman. 
 It's veering roand — I knew it woald ! oiT with her head! 
 stand by I 
 
 Mrs. F. 
 Off with her head! whose? where? what with? — an axe I 
 seem to spy. 
 
 Boatman. 
 
 She cannot keep her own yoa see ; we shall have to pall her 
 inl 
 
 Mrs. F. 
 They'll drown me, and take all I have ! my life's not worth a 
 pin! 
 
 Boatman. 
 Look oat yon know, be ready. Bill— just when she takes the 
 sand! 
 
 Mrs. F. 
 The sand — O Lord ! to stop my month ! how eveiy thing is 
 
 plann'd! 
 
 Boatman. 
 The handspike, Bill — qaick, bear a hand ! now, ma'am, jnst 
 step ashore. 
 
 Mrs. F. 
 What I ain't I going to be kill'd — and welter'd in my gore ? 
 Well, Heaven be praised I bat I'll not go a sailing any more 
 
8S0 
 
 TBB THIRD BRADBB. 
 
 102. Flowbbs for thb Altar ; or, Plat and Earnbr. 
 
 DRAXATia PIBSONA 
 
 HiLur, ton jttn old. Aorh, Mttn jun old. 
 
 OtwAts, nln« jun old. Fathbb Domiiiio. 
 
 Tb« Oardeur, Miller, iu. • 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 mUUstroam, with ftweir, down which the water rushes toworde the mill. 
 Aawn orouee a little bridge, listens, and then searches for a while among 
 the sedges on the bank. At length she utters an exclamation of Joy, and 
 at the same moment a beautiful bantam hen rushes oui., ducking. 
 
 Agnea. Five eggs, and all my own 1 One each, for papa, 
 mamma, Helen, Oswald, and myself! Yet, no; poor old 
 Kitty Oliver shall haye this one, and I will boil it for her in 
 her Uttle tin saucepan. sly Bantam, naughty Bruydre, to 
 make your nest in such an out-of-the-way place I Had I not 
 been up so very early this morning, and heard yoitr " Cluck, 
 duck !'' you would have cheated us all. 
 
 Hden and Oswald coil, Agnes 1 Agnes ! 
 
 Agnea. They are coming this way, and calling me. I will 
 not tell them of my good fortune until breakfast-time, and 
 then it will be such a pleasant surprise. They will all won- 
 der so to see Brnydre's eggs, but they will never guess where 
 she had hidden them. 
 
 £nter Hblsm and Oswald. Aonm hastily gathers up her apron 
 
 with the eggs. 
 
 OsvoaJd. Agnes, we want you. We have invented a new 
 game ; and while we are planning all the rules and the meet- 
 ing-places, and so on, you must gather some sedges for us. 
 
 Agnea. What can you want with sedges? 
 
 Oawdd. What is that to yon ? Ton will know by and by 
 when play-time comes ; so lose no time, if you please, but do 
 as you are bid. 
 
 Agnea. In a minute. Just let me run to the house and 
 back. I will fly as fast as a bird. 
 
 Oawald. Stuff and nonsense I Who can wait for you? 
 Breakfast will be ready in a quarter of an hour, and we have 
 invented a new game, I tell you ; so go and gather the sedges. 
 
 Agne% 
 have in n 
 know it p 
 
 Oavodi 
 
 your aprc 
 
 altar, an 
 
 have beei 
 
 BO you ai 
 
 Agnea 
 
 that par 
 
 Bhe turns 
 takes, r< 
 Into tea 
 
 Bden 
 
 , Bruyftre 
 
 than a ^ 
 
 Oawc 
 
 she was 
 
 Selfish 
 
 Hde 
 She is 
 some c 
 
 Ost 
 
 eggat 
 [flea 
 
 Ai 
 wiU^ 
 
 
 Brii 
 tihei 
 you 
 
IXOWBBS FOB TBB ALTAB. 
 
 821 
 
 
 po 
 
 iljjmes [imploringly]. Oswald, pray let me take what I 
 have in my apron to the honse. It is a secret; yoa shall 
 know it presently, but let me go. 
 
 Osvoald. I know what it is, by the way you are holding up 
 yoor apron. Yoa have been gathering some flowers for the 
 altar, and wish to make a mystery of it ; bat there woald 
 have been plenty of time before four o'clock to gather them, 
 so yoa are a great simpleton to do it so early. 
 
 Agnes [aaide]. The eggs at breakfast will set him right in 
 
 that particular, so I will say no more now, bat ran for it. 
 
 Bha turns quioklj, »nd runs m fiwt m she can. Oswald pnrsn«B, over- 
 takes, roughly seizes her apron, and breaks all th» eggs. Agnes bursts 
 into tears. 
 
 Helen. O Oswald 1 what have yoa done? Those mast be 
 Braydre's eggs, that Agnes has been banting for for more 
 than a week I 
 
 Oswald. Then why did she not say so at once? I suppose 
 she was afraid I should want one of them for my breakfast. 
 Selfish little animal 1 
 
 Aeins sobs violently, but says nothing. 
 
 Helen. Gome, come, Oswald, do not be unfair to Agnes. 
 She is a Aretful little thing, with plenty of faults, as well as 
 some of her neighbors, but she is not a greedy child. 
 
 AavEs smiles, and looks grateftilly at Hium. 
 
 Oswald. In that case it is a pity certainly for ua that the 
 eggs are broken, and a greater pity to cry about the matter. 
 [He sings']: 
 
 "Hompty Dumpty sat on a wall, 
 Humpty Dnmpty had a great fall ; 
 Not all the Jdng's horses nor all the king's men 
 Could set Humpty Dumpty up agiun." 
 
 Agnes {Umghing]. That is very true, Oswald, dear ; so wo 
 will think no more of our Humpty Dumpty's misfortunes. 
 
 Bhe runs to the brook, and begins to gather sedges. 
 
 Ostoald. By the way, tho&e sedges are not quite the thing. 
 Bring me the tallest flags and bulrushes you can find : pull 
 them up close t) the root. Every one must be as tall as 
 
 yourself. 
 
 14» 
 
322 
 
 THB THIBD SEADBB. 
 
 Agnea. They are very hard to break off ; I am afiraid they 
 will cat my hands. 
 
 Oswald. Oh, that is a trifle. Yon most pull the harder ; 
 and when yon hare finished, lay them in a handle at the door 
 of the sammer-hoase, that when the recreation-hoar comes, we 
 may begm without loss of time. 
 
 Agnea. I wonder what the play is to be. 
 
 Eden. I will tell yon all aboat it at breakfast-tune. 
 
 Oswald. And remember, that if you cry at every word that 
 is spoken, and if yoa complain when the flags cat yoar hands, 
 yoa will never make one in oar game. None but the very 
 bravest of the brave can learn to play with as at that. 
 
 Exeont Hxuir and Oswald ; manet Aomts, who gathen flags and bolrnsh- 
 es, and carries them to the summer-honse. She performs her task with 
 mach perseverance and patience, and never looks at her bleeding hands 
 until the breakfast-bell is heard. 
 
 Agnes. There is the beU for breakfast, and 1 have not 
 gathered my flowers, though I thought of them the last thing 
 at night and the first thing in the morning. Well, well; 
 patience was my virtne for yesterday's practice, and it cer- 
 tainly was not mach tried 1 1 mast keep it until after break- 
 fast, and then choose another for to-day. 
 
 She dips her hands into the stream to wash them, lays her bundle at the 
 door of the summer-house, and trips gayly homeward. 
 
 SCBNB II. 
 A flower garden. Enter the three children. ' 
 
 Agnes. Oh, yes, it will be lovely I To walk m procession 
 and sing the litanies with flags in our hands to look l^e palms! 
 Thank yoa again and again, dear Helen, for inventing such a 
 iweet play. 
 
 Oswald. It was not Helen who mvented it ; it was I. 
 
 ffelen. For shame, Oswald ; how can yon say so I 
 
 Oswald. Well, though you may have tkougJU of it first, I 
 put your thought into shape for you. 
 
 Agnes. Thank you, then, dear Oswald. 
 
 OsuHild [to Agnes'], Now, mind, we only allow yoa a 
 
32 
 
 mmmm^ 
 
 FLOWEltS FOB THE ALTAB. 
 
 323 
 
 they 
 
 lerj 
 
 ioor 
 
 we 
 
 that 
 ids, 
 rerjr 
 
 quarter of an hour to gather your flowers; and the very 
 moment I whistle, you must come and join us in the forum. 
 
 Agnea. The forum 1 What is that? 
 
 Oswald. Why the grass-plot, to be sure, stupid. Do you 
 not remember that the summer-house is the temple of Jupiter, 
 where the martyr's are to refuse to offer sacrifice : and that 
 the weather-cock is the Roman eagle, and the grass-plot is — 
 
 Agues. Oh, yes, I remember all about it now I I promise 
 to join yon when you whistle for me in a quarter of an hour. 
 
 [Exeunt Helen and Oswald. 
 
 Agnes Iwhile putting on her garden-apron and gloves, and 
 taking oui her Jlotoer-shears']. Oh, happy day, happy day 1 
 To dress our Lady's altar with my own roses, all my own 1 
 Thirteen wMte ones that I counted yesterday, with ever so 
 many buds, and twenty-five red ones ; and then the moss-rose 
 tree, that seems to have come out on purpose for to-day, it is 
 so full of buds I How beautiful they will look t Our Blessed 
 Lady shall have them all — every one ; I would not give one to 
 anybody else to-day for the world — unless, perhaps, — [she 
 pauses a moment^ and then, clapping her hands together, 
 adds with a happy smile and upward glance"] no, not even to 
 Father Dominic. This is far better than even our new play r 
 this is happiness, while that is only pleasure [she looks 
 thoughtful, and a cloud comes over her countenance]. 
 
 Fathxb Doimno is seen approaching with his brevisry in his hand. 
 
 Agnes [stiU musing]. There is Father Dominic. I would 
 ask him, only he is saying his ofBce. 
 
 Fatbbr Dohinio crosses the path, and, without speaking, holds oat his 
 finger, which Aokxb takes, looking up in his face, and walking beside 
 him Sot a few minutes in silence. 
 
 Father D. [shuts his hook and smiles gently at Agnes]. 
 Well, my cuild, what is it you are wishing to say to me ? 
 
 Agnes [aside]. How is it he knows so well wiiat I have in 
 my thoughts? [aloud] Father, is there any harm in playii^ 
 ut martyrs ? 
 
 Father D. You must first explain to me a little what sort 
 of a game that is. 
 
 Agnes. We are to pretend that we are some of the holy 
 
824 
 
 THK TillKD KBADEB. 
 
 saints who suffered martyrdom under the emperor Diocletian. 
 Oswald is to be the pagan tyrant ; the snmmer-hoose is to be 
 the Roman temple, where He.en and myself are to refuse to 
 offer sacrifice to Jupiter ; and then we are to walk to prison 
 and to death singing the Litanies, with make-belieye palms in 
 our hands. 
 
 Father D. And you wish to know 1 — 
 
 Agnes. Whether the sufferings of the samts is not too holy 
 a subject to be turned into play ? 
 
 Father D. Tell me, my child, which is the most holy occu- 
 pation that children can have ? 
 
 Agnes [after thinking a while], father, you have told me 
 that, with simplicity and obedience, every occupation is holy 
 to a little child ; so that play in play-time, is as holy as study 
 in school-time, or even as meditation itself. 
 
 FatJier D. And what is it that sanctifies your meditation, 
 your work, and your play, so as to make them equally accept- 
 able to our Lord ? 
 
 Agnes. The constant remembrance of his adorable presence. 
 
 Father D. Go, my child, to your play. For my part, I 
 think it the prettiest I have heard of for many a long day, and 
 I should like to be a little child like yon for a while to join in 
 it. Though your palms are make-believe ones, your litanies 
 are real, and whenever yon sing them your angel guardian joins 
 his voice with yours. Who knows but that our Lord, when 
 he sees little children amusing themselves with good disposi- 
 tions, may bestow on them in reality the spuit of martyrdom f 
 
 Agnes. Do people need the spirit of martyrdom now, when 
 there are no longer any heathen emperors? What is the 
 spirit of martyrdom. Father ? 
 
 Father D, {sighing']. Yes, my dear child, we want it still, 
 and shall do so to the end of the world ; but if yon ask me 
 what it is, I answer it is a gift from Heaven, to be obtained, 
 ike all other perfect gifts, by asking for it. Let this be the 
 virtue yon choose for to-day ; pray for it, my dear child, and 
 it will be given to you both to know and to practise it, whether 
 in play-time or at any other time, should the occasion be given 
 when yon need it ; and this may be sooner than yon think 
 
,,«•. •l»«t»*"*I^J(J**f^^^'^ 
 
 FLOWEKS FOR THE ALTAB. 
 
 325 
 
 rA\ I am afraid of 
 Affne,. O Father, im '^^'^^^l, .UghOy tot, can 
 
 ^lij tettato from i^- O™*^" ^^ u^t h, doe. not 
 
 A^^biBtleisheard. 
 
 we are waiting. , what must I do ? I prom- 
 
 . iZ^^Zl^'^-^' ^^' -' '^'^ "^ 
 
 ^»SL....Keep.o„pr-^»r^;:''"*=^-; 
 .disappototmeat rather than b^kap^ ^.^^^^ ,.4 „„, of 
 
 4S^». But there '««*7PXaoi» Blessed Lady every 
 
 ^ '^^inpot'^y- ^^yj^lm. Offer to om 
 
 rTerD. Give me ^rj^^ttwa for the altar. IvriU 
 
 Lori every Uttte good «t.» «^ a^« j„ t^, ,^.^ 
 
 house i whUe yon fo^T y,^ th»t do ? 
 
 I yM say it at the same tm.e. vv ^^ ^. 
 
 SCENE III. o AM>» 
 
 S^lflowerinborboBom. 
 
326 
 
 TUB THIUD BEADEB. 
 
 Oswald [fieft'cely]. Gome on, wretches, and suffer the pan* 
 ishment which Csesar so jostly awards to yonr crimes. Thrice 
 hare yoa impiously refused to sacrifice, and thrice shall yon 
 be beaten with these rods before the axe closes your miserable 
 and detestable lires. In the mean time, thrice shall yon bd 
 driven through the city and round its boundaries, that every Ro- 
 man may behold yonr ignominy, and may tremble at yonr fate. 
 
 no drives them before him for eome time, and then stops opposite the 
 
 summer-house. 
 
 Oswald to Agnes. Maiden, your tender years inspire me 
 with some compassion for your folly : only bow as yon pass 
 that standard, and I will intercede for you with the emperor. 
 
 Aemts walks erect past the summer-house. 
 
 Oswald. WUt thou noi uend ? 
 
 Agnes. No. 
 
 Helen {pushing her]. You do not do it properly. Make 
 a speech, cannot you ? Plain " no" sounds so stupid. 
 
 Agnes. I do net know what else to say. 
 
 Helen. You ought to make a grand speech, to defy the 
 lictor, and abuse the emperor and the gods of Rome. Yon 
 shall hear by and by how /will do it. 
 
 Oswald [threatening with his rod]. Once for all, wUt thou 
 bow to the standard of Rome, to the royal burd of Jupiter 7 
 
 Agnes. Never 1 
 
 Oswald. Here then will I teach thee what it is to be ob- 
 stinate. [He strikes her somewhat harder than he intended.'] 
 
 The Angel guardian of Aems approaobes and whispers to her frequently 
 during this scene and the rest of the drama. The words of the Angel 
 seem to AeNxs thoughts, for she does not see the Angel, but she knows 
 hfl is near, and speaks to him also in thoughts. 
 
 Angel. Courage, Agnes. A flower for the altar I 
 Oswald to Helen. To thee also is mercy for the last time 
 offered. Disgrace not a name held in honor throughout the 
 world, that of a Roman matron ; nor afford a pretence to thy 
 children to desert the holy temples, where their an'^stors wor- 
 shiped, and forsake the protecting gods of their hearths and 
 homes. 
 
naynm w)» wb *«•"»• 
 
 327 
 
 .wrUlB. they '-"i*.^"' ^'S^les «e dem «f *e rf st 
 
 empMort command tto mu x 
 
 Bae« [ansrily]. "oj^' ^'r^Libte. IH* Agnes much 
 
 yon do it again. ^^y^ ^n if you caU me Os- 
 
 a aowei for the dtM. ^ h»„ hurt Helen » 
 
 ^ene.. Dear Oswald, I f«* J,"" ftere is » »lae mark 
 
 Uttt'mor. th»> yon '»'»*«*• t^'C.ff tbis part of «;« 
 an her arm. Had 'e notbetor^^^ ^ ^^^^. 
 
 TbcI^. ^'"'•"7?:S^Uy; .»itor»b.gi«^i'-'n 
 
 OskmW. Very ^"W^^h throw away my fasces, 
 kick down the altar of Jnpiter, and tnro ^.^^^^ 
 
828 
 
 THB THIRD BKADBB. 
 
 l8t Child. Well, if that ain't beautiful? I wonder whether 
 we could play at that, or whether it could be only for t^enile* 
 folks. 
 
 2d OhUd. Why shouldn't us? If us can sing in the 
 church, us has as good a right as they any how and any- 
 where. 
 
 Angel to Agnes. Love the poor and welcome them every- 
 where. 
 
 Agnes. Perhaps this may be a flower for the altar. 
 
 She mns to her mother, who is sitting reading on one of the garden-seats, 
 and asks permission for the viJage children to join their procession. 
 This being granted, Aonbs tells the children where to find the bundle 
 of palms, and again takes her place b.3hind Hxuen. They walk on, 
 singing, *' Virgo slngularis, inter omnes mitis," &o., &e. Krmr Ou* 
 TKB, who is weeding aliower-bed, looks np when she hears their voices, 
 and calls to the gardener. 
 
 Kitty. John, John, come here and hearkec. You have 
 heard me tell about Miss Agnes' singing. Gome and listen to 
 it yourself, and you will say with me that there is not one of 
 them to be compared with her. Bless her little heart I she 
 sings like an angel, as she ii. 
 
 AsMxs, who hears this, blushes. 
 
 Agnes to her Angd guardian. If it will be a flower for the 
 
 altar to shun human praise, let me sing in my heart only, and 
 
 do yon sing for me. 
 
 The Angel sings, and Aonsb keeps silence. The/ walk along the bank ol 
 the river, singing the Litany of Loretto, when the village children arrive 
 carrying their mock palms : they follow the procession, and join in the 
 litany. 
 
 Oswald [turning sharply round]. Who is that roaring the 
 Orapro nobis, spoilmg our singing? 
 
 1st OJMd [slinking back']. 'Twasn't me, sir. 
 
 2d Child {pulling his forelock, and scrajping a rustic 
 hoto]. I humbly az your pardon, shr. 
 
 3d Child [^frituMing]. I don't see. what harm there is, 
 when missis gave us leave. 
 
 ith Child [sturdily]. Mother says that the aay may come 
 wheb tltiB quality and the gentlefollcs 'twill be glad enough to 
 have the prayers of the poor 
 
 i 
 
KL0WEB8 FOB THE ALTAR. 
 
 829 
 
 { 
 
 • T And your mother Said 
 BOH, yott W ™ ^5tM totmce, nod »ot to 8U.g 
 
 ^„««J <o ^»n«. 0« Lord »» »»'^ *XXds. , 
 
 oiota..""**"*""*" ,11 sir I found tto to the 
 
 ,,mffl»-ko«e, who* M«J;f°^ ™a »»ted these row to 
 l^»he« • »nd tWntoag mayhap yo» ^^^^ ^th 
 
 'd^I^Tfono'" ?"<»»"'"• ^'^•'° „ 
 
 ■"•^Z«. Oh.*hatUfa»o.. We;^'„t.»o 
 a^,«,rittog the rfiltS ome ChriB«aa-«»rty«. 
 r^ioB to»itue« *« *Sf I^DWor Diocletian, and rone 
 
 C.ymyp»to! »»a*"T^ .»a dl the rest, except 
 you prevent me I *""* 
 
 1l 
 
".MBli i lJ P 
 
 880 
 
 THE THIBD BBADBB. 
 
 Angel. Ooarage to soffer for Justice' sake is a flower worthy 
 of the altar. 
 
 Agnea. Oswald, you shall not touch one of those flowers. 
 They are neither yours nor mine ; they were given to our 
 Blessed Lady, and she shall have them. 
 
 OattxUd [sarcaaHcally']. Oh, ho I A(,iies turned yixen, and 
 daring to dictate to me : that is capital I It is very remark- 
 able that I don't feel more fHghteit>?d. Never was cooler in 
 my life, ha, ha, ha I [Me holds tha basket over his head and 
 laughs.] 
 
 Angel. To bear a£fronts and mockery is a choice flower, and 
 very dear to our Lord. 
 
 Agnes [meekly]. Oswald, I forgive you firom my heart; 
 but pray give me those flowers. 
 
 The poor children snrronnd her. 
 
 Omnes. Never mind. Miss Agnes, yon shall have plenty of 
 flowers for our Lady's altar ; we will all go and gather the 
 very best we have, and will be back again in ten minntes. 
 They run ia diiferent directions to gather flowers for Agnes. 
 
 Oswald. There I do yon hear? yon will have twice as many 
 as these in ten minntes, so don't be bothering me any more, 
 for I mean to have them, and have them I will. 
 
 Angd to Agnes. Zeal for the honse of our Lord is beauti- 
 ful and fragrant to him. 
 
 Agnes. No, Oswald, no : yon shall not even tonch them. 
 What is given to the Church is already holy, and I will pray 
 that yon may not have one of them. 
 
 Helen. For shame, Oswald I What a coward yon are to 
 take advantage of a child like Agnes ! Put down the basket 
 this instaat, or I will go and tell mamma. 
 
 Osuxdd [angrily]. Qo along with you then, and tell tales, 
 and see what you will get by them. There is no use in hold- 
 ing out your hands, Agnes ; they are tied fast enough. 
 
 He runs across the bridge pursued by HxiucN. When he has reached the 
 other side, h<« throws the basket into the mill-stream, and Inaghs aoom* 
 taPf. AoNxs bur8t« into tears. 
 
 Angel. Pray for Oswald. 
 
 Agnes. And do yon also pray for him as I do. 
 
P,^WBK8 FOB THB ALTAB. 
 
 831 
 
 M she is carrlod by tM «ro»f"r^ .« 
 
 M, hani>, and throm hxm>af on mo 9 
 
 ««w.] .„ t_^i Motto of good comsel 
 
 pray for »s I M"«» "'.''^■SLedte «««» I'"' •^"": 
 tW goodness o AtogMy Go^ j^^ „ y„„ c» to he 
 
 iter Dotninic. ,„ mukes towards the lane, but 
 
 miliar, P"^"" , _m mtpt !»«• 
 
■ gJLgt S 
 
 382 
 
 THE TIIIUD BBADEB. 
 
 Hjilbm sobs heavily Arom titna to time, and they walk on for some way 
 without saying another word. 
 
 Helen. Who is that coming across the field towards the 
 road? 
 
 Father D. It is Dick the miller ; he is hurrying towards ns. 
 
 Dick shouts: Not that way, Father ; to the house, to the 
 house I 
 
 He Uikes off hie broad hat, and wipes his fboe, which is as pale at death, 
 
 and quickly Joins them. 
 
 FaJther D. To the house, did yon say ? 
 
 Dick. Tes, Father ; she is found and carried home. 
 
 Father D. [aside]. I dare not ask the particulars — I see 
 how it is. 
 
 Helen. Oh, tell me ; is she dead ? 
 
 The miller looks at her sorrowfully. 
 
 Helen. Oh, let me go on by myself : I cannot wait for you • 
 I must go and comfort mamma. 
 
 Father D. Go, my child ; and may your ht avenly Mother 
 help you in youi* task. [Exit Helen.'} Now, tell me, I pray 
 you, every particular. Who found her? Was life quite ex- 
 tinct when she was taken from the mill-wheel ? 
 
 Dick. The mill-wheel t [Ae shudders.'] No, thank God, we 
 are spared that trial I Her cheek is as smooth as a lily flower, 
 and as pale, and there is neither scratch nor stain on her little 
 white limbs ; and there she lies, with a smile on her face likp 
 an angel asleep. 
 
 Father D. God is mdeed merciful in the midst of his judg* 
 ments. 
 
 Dick. Here is how it was : when Master Oswald told me 
 what had happened, away I ran at once to the mill to stop 
 the machinery ; and (God forgive my want of faith 1) I said, 
 " Of a certamty it is too la^/C ; nothing can hinder the course 
 of a mill-stream, and we she 11 find her all torn and mangled 
 among the wheels." No^ sir, she had never reached the mill. 
 Away I went up the river t )wards the bridge ; and there, just 
 in the bend, on the side next the mill, there she lay among the 
 flags and sedges. The current must have carried her within 
 reach of them, for she had caught hold of them with the clutch 
 
 / 
 
 ■ /' 
 
FL0WBB8 FOtt TUB ALTAB. 
 
 888 
 
 ol death; -d th. H .^ tbat^^^^^^^^^ 
 o.er the weir. She had bo firm ^^ ^ ^er ; 
 
 was obUged to cut t^«°^^«^.f '^^^^^^^ bound, and the long 
 and to Bee her lying there. 7/*°^ °^' 7^ ^^en playing at mar- 
 LveB in them that t^^ ^^^^^^^^^^ on he? counte-nce I 
 
 tyrs with, and with ^^^l^'^'^^l.^ i ^ere to Uve a hundred 
 
 I never should forget that «8^ " ^ ^^,,^. 
 
 Jears. and a h^ed more on ««» top ot^ ^^^^^^^^^^ ^,, 
 Faih^ 2>. That Bght^ D^^. ^ ^^^ attention of men 
 
 eternity in heaven. It w one 
 
 and of angels. ^ ^ . for close beside her, 
 
 ^^- «"• '"' ^:f J^'"t if tS! Miss Ag^es ^ «ot 
 oat of hte seiaes, for J«J^ "* .n^, «>d «»* "^ "^^ *"* 
 dead. I carried her ^^^J^'Zi^>^ eonnng apo- her. 
 to prepare madam for «» «»f°^t,„ the bwtot and had gone 
 As for Master Oswald, he !>»?'"*«"; „ „„ch as lifting «P 
 ^;°„. He wanted alongJ^lr'^;«^^,'Ji,,i^ the basl»t 
 his eyes , but I saw to «»■? '™',™ „ot worthy to carry rt, 
 that he held in »»» ^^^ "jf,C I sh«kened my steps, «r, 
 ,„,ta I lost sight of tarn oltoKJ*"-^ '^t the heart to thtok ol 
 „ I came near ^'^»^'>Z2lil«tm, head how I shodd 
 the mother-a»d 1 was Pjo*^^^,, ^ho should I see but 
 behave, and what I »'^*J'S,'JS with the seryantx. and 
 
 .Mdarn herself commg o"' »' *2» „ coUeoted and oahn as 
 "alking without hurry or agitationjMC ^^^ 
 
 ;hen she goes up «>« "f « ^^ l^ unns, oh, so t«toly 1 
 ^ to me, «xd ifk^ ^Jf^ZA through the p««h ">»» 
 ^a wato stnught «P *« f I^; " the foot «f *« '^' "^ 
 
 rr^'S::^frhS^^.owr:ir^ 
 
B WBB Sg 
 
 
 834 
 
 THR THIRD KBADER. 
 
 himself in somo corner wlien we came in, for I heard him 
 sobbing. When we left the church I followed them home. 
 Madam carried Miss Agnes herself np-stairs, where every thing 
 had been made ready to receive her ; and when I came away, 
 the mother and the old narso.were busy chafing the body, and 
 nsing all the means possible to restore Ufe, if snch a thing were 
 possible. When I came out of the room to go and meet you, 
 sir, there was Master Oswald outside the door on his knees. 
 He will not stir firom that spot ; but he tells everybody that 
 goes by that his sister is not dead, and that she will not die, 
 because t: len he would be a murderer. But as to that — as to 
 any chance of that I — I carried her home in my arms, and bless 
 your heart alive, sir I . 
 
 Horo Diox shakos hla gray Itoiul, and tho toars trioklo down his ohooks. 
 
 SCENB VI. 
 
 A bedchamber. Aonks is lying pale and apparently lifeless on her little 
 bod. Her mother and IIklkn, with the nurse, are olmflng her limbs and 
 applying restoratives. No one speaks. 
 
 Enter Fathkb Dowmo. 
 
 Father D. Sweet little lamb ! dear to our Lord ! Your 
 prayer of to-day went straight up to heaven ; it was soon an- 
 swered. 
 
 He kneels beside the bed; the others also kneel. A pause. 
 
 Father D. to the mother. Was there any thing like life ? 
 Mad you, have yon, any hope that life is not quite extinct ? 
 . Mother. I have fancied, fi:om time to time, that there was 
 » slight pulsation of the heart, but my own beats bo strongly 
 ^at I may easily be mistaken. 
 
 Fmheb Doimna places his iiand on the child's heart, and bemling his ear 
 4lowr> listenaatiNitfvttly ; he then takes a gUuss from the table, sad holds 
 it to iter month* The mother watches anxiousl; He gives the glass to 
 the m( ther. 
 
 Mother. The glass is dunmed by her breath,— she lives 1 
 Father T). No thne must now be losa in givii^^ her the last 
 lacrament of the Church. Perhi^ it was for +bis great grace 
 
FLOWBM FOB TMK ALTAR. 
 
 336 
 
 -blch pl««l« for 1* ^ *r If^ HhaU bring health to the 
 Tick M ««U w (orgl»en«« to the ''"""^ ^ j,,jh„ Domioio 
 
 ^n^eZ «;W«p«r« to Agnea . ow . 
 
 SCBNB VII. 
 . «...H.lt.watoWngbe.ld.thebod,Midfrom 
 
 ;S Woom on her cheek »dfto" h»d^. J^ __^^^ ^ 
 Cut » few hours «nee, "'"^/J^'^aSighthl to .it here, if 
 „pon h« bosom « ^ T'l even for that I codd never 
 T^r. oriy to h^ "er b«ath^e«n for ^^ 
 to weary of tta«.kmg God. ^ ^ ^„,^ tut «t 
 
 Kk, .0 »»T't"'t'»mtb'^tltorth»tI»*l'thav.h»ri 
 here, and llrten to the »°» ™""^* How Uttle we thmk of 
 at aW time for the tort Be«n ye»m^^ ,^^ ,e are 
 
 CJereie. .vejy day ^tow«l n^'-^l;;^^ ^ ^,^a never 
 Mver without them 1 Th'Jf^ " „, <«er «p ."ry breath 
 he without g~tit«de to Godl^ ^^J ^^^ But .eel 
 of my Bte now, once for '^'"'^ ^01 clowd Ae m»h«. 
 1 Love., .he **.. i J'* ^er ;y«^ ^^ ^^^ ,„ ^ 
 the iiign of the «os8, and offer, up n 
 
 ' jtjne.. I. Oswald there? ^ou .hall not we OiwaM 
 
 flaen. No .^reet^t » ^ J^ ^^ going to tea., you 
 untU you vnsb it yonrseu. 
 anymore. 
 
836 
 
 THE THIRD BBADBR. 
 
 Agnea. Good morning, dear Helen. Give me a kiss, and 
 then ask Oswald to come to me directly ; but do not distnrb 
 mamma, for she wants rest. [Exit Eden. 
 
 SDter Oswald. 
 
 Agnet. Come hither, dear ; I want to speak to yon. 
 
 OtWALD eomes forward in tears, and bories his head in the ooanterpane as 
 he kneels beside Aonis. A«nx8 puts her arm round liim, and draws 
 him near enough to wliisper in his ear— 
 
 [ know all abont it, dear ; I know what yon are thinking of. 
 Oswald beats his breast, bat does not say a word. 
 
 My poor Oswald ! how mnch yon haye suffered ! Would you 
 do any thing I asked yon now ? 
 
 Oswald kisses her hand and sobs. 
 
 Yon will. Well, then, promise me that, when at any tune 
 yon think of yesterday and of all that happened to us, you 
 will think of it this way: Once upon a time Almighty God, 
 in his infinite mercy, preserved my little Agnes in a wonderful 
 way, in order that she might love me and I love her, and both 
 of us love him a thousand tunes more than ever we did before, 
 or ever could have done otherwise. 
 
 Omoald. I will. 
 
 Agnea. And when yon cannot help reproaching yourself, 
 you vrill not do it more unkindly than yon can help, but wiU 
 say, " Out of this fault, with God's help, sLaU spring ten vir- 
 tues!'' 
 
 Oswald. I wiU. 
 
 Agnea. And now, dear Oswald, give me a drink. I am 
 still very weak, but shall soon be well. If Helen comes in, 
 tell her it is your turn to watch. There, put your hand under 
 my cheek, that I may kiss it when I awake. That is nice ; I 
 can go to sleep again now. Good-night, dear. How happy 
 we shall all be, now, if Almighty God gives us the grace oi 
 perseverance to the end 1 
 
 THE END. 
 
 '■ v~l"^fiftli i t 11 . :: iiirSiiiijfl fr: 
 
 vry>,(|ir,l<B!!»r.a>— ■-»».T.r«riiim~ 
 
 mi 
 
/ 
 
 kiss, and 
 t disturb 
 It Helen. 
 
 a. 
 
 iterpane u 
 and dra\rs 
 
 iking of. 
 buld yon 
 
 any time 
 ) us, you 
 hty God, 
 wonderful 
 and both 
 id before, 
 
 yourself, 
 I, but will 
 I ten vir- 
 
 k. I am 
 comes in, 
 smd under 
 is nice; I 
 ow happy 
 ) grace oi