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Lorsque le document est trop grand pour Atra reproduit en un saui cilchA. 11 est filmA A partir da Tangle aupAriaur gauche, de gauche A droite, et de haut an bes. en prenant la nombra d'imagas nAcessaira. Las diagrammea suivants illustrant le mAthode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 'V " . ■■.,":■ . . . A ' '' ■'-l.,.*1 • ': 'l ' - .' . t ♦ i :\ 1 < ' . ( \ \ \s '': '^-' \i 1 - i ""^ ■ "> ; V^:;' v.. ' t bc^ OB lh« Report of th« OathoUo M«mb«n of th« Ck>mmiV t««, for OM in th* Oathollo Sohools of X1 'i * »v >■• - ' ibi|N«ilMMfdlaftoAotortti«Prov1iMMI«ffiMMi«,lntbeTMror ^^y^ -, oc« thooauid eight hoadred and ■Iz^-&t«, Bt D. * J. 6ADURB * CO., t« to» •«•• or tke ■■•Htm •« th« Pwfteo* ol Om»»1^ LniI ^ . -^ - ' it \\ :% .. ^..- ■ -. -. .'• .> , ■'/■•■ IKTRODUOTIOH. Ths snbjeot of edao&tion b oertainly the greftt qn«0tloii of fhc day. Its praotioal importanoe can soarcelj be exaggerated. Upoo its Bolotion depends the fatnre of Bocietjf whether for weal or for woe. The leading spirits of oar age and country have so appre- hended it; and hence school-book sncceeds school-bookf and method follows method, with a view to the more efficadons im- parting of knowledge to yonth. The activity in this department, especially among those outside the Ohurch, has been prodigious, and it seems to be on the increase. The characteristic trait of onr age seems to be the desire to seize on the child, and to mould its tender mind and heart to a particular form. Our widespread system of common schools is but an expression of this feeling, which is based upon a knowledge of human nature and of philos- ophy. The child is ** the father of the man," and the character of the latter will be but a development of the impressions made upon the mind and heart of the former, while these were suscep- tible and plastic. If tlie flower be blighted, or the twig be bent| in the nursery, it will be difficult to render the matured plant either healthy or straight. The great fault of our common-school system is fonnd in its either wholly ignoring or greatly undervaluing the religious ele- ment in education. Without religion, education is, at best, bnt-a doubtfal boon, and it may be even a positive evil. Clonsidering tlie innate tendency of our nature to evil, and the difficulty oC training it up to good, the religious element is essential in the educational process. No other principle can supply an efficient curb to tlie headlong passions of youth ; no other can effectually tndn up children to the practice of a sound morality, thereby \\. INTRODUOTIOir. making them good citizens by making them first good Ohristiana. Witlioat religion we may posaibly snooeed in making them de> corona, if not decent, pagans ; we cannot certainly hope to make tliem good, much less exemplary, Christians. The teachings of revelation, the facts of history, the lessons conveyed by onr own daily observation and experience, and the /fightfnl increase of vice whenever and wherever a contrary system has been adopted, all combine to confirm this conolnsion. « We would not exclude secular education — ^ery far from it : but we would constantly blend with it the holy ioflnenoes of reli^on. Ohristian and secular instruction should go hand in band ; they cannot be consistently or safely divorced, at least among Ohristians. Hot that we would thrust Ohristian teaching on the youthful mind too frequently, or on unseasonable occasions, so as to produce a feeling of weariness or disgust. This is but too common a fault among onr over-zealous, hut-r-in this respect at least — not over- wise Bible and Sabbath OhristiAns of the day, who, but too often, in the name of religion, repress the buoyant smiie of childhood, oast a gloomy shadow over the spring-tide of life, thereby infusing into the child an early, and, therefore, very deeply seated disgust for religion, and, in the end, producing an abundant harvest of in- differentists and infidels. We every day see the sad effects of this overwrought zeal and mistaken system of instruction. We would, on the contrary, seek to make religion amiable in the eyes and dear to the hearts of the little children whom Christ 8o dearly loved. It should gild with its light and warm with its rays every pursuit of the school-room, even as the sun enlightens and cheers the objects of nature. We would not intrude the re- ligious influence on the mind and heart of childhood, but we would seek to distil it gently, even as God distils the dews of heaven ou the tender plants of the morning. We wonld carefully exclude from the reading-lessons all the poison of noxious princi- ples, and even all worldly and frivolous matter; and "we would do this all the more rigidly whenever the poison would become the more dangerous, because latent, or gilded with the fiascinai- tions of style, or the gorgeous imagery of poAtry. We wonld rigidly ^ol^d-^ Byron, in spite of his Syren Song. Thns ink nmuuvuiioii* proTsd, Mcnlar inftrnotion would pat on new bennty tnd obtain ■ greatly increased inflaenoe for good; it would be **olothed with strength from on high,*' and the light of heaTen woold play around its ^^athway. It would then become doubly attractive to childhood ; for the aroma of religioDf diffbsed through all its de- partments, would lend it a charm and give it a aest which no earthly condiment could impart. TLis idea, we believe, has been carried out to a great extent at least, in the new Series of Metropolitan Headers Just issued by the Messrs. Sadlier of New York, particularly in the Fourth Reader, to which our attention has been more specially call«)d. The mat- ter of the lessons is varied, and though far from being ezolusively religious, possesses, in general, a religious or moral tendency, and always leaves a good impression. There is no lesflon without its moral. Th« selection was made by a religions lady of the Order of the Holy Gross, who took care to submit her work to the judgment of gentlemen well known for their critical acumen and literary taste, and had it edited by another lady of New York, who has merited well of American Oatholic literature. Under such circumstances it does not surprise us to find tliat the collec- tion possesses great merit, and that it is likely to become emi< nently popular in our schools, and thereby to acuomplish much good. The Fourth Reader is divided into two parts : the first contain- ing the principles and practice of elocution, and the second, *. '»> selected and appropriate readings, both in poetry and in prost . Two things in particular strike us as distinctive of tliis collection of readings for children : first, the preference given to American sub - jects and to American authors over those which are foreign ; anu, second, the copious selections from the writings of the principal Catholic writers of the day, both in Europe and in America. There is scarcely a prominent writer of this class from whose pen we have not at least one specimen. What renders this feature of the book the more valuable, is the circumstance that the writings of some of these distinguished authors are not very generally known or easily accessible to the mass of readers in this country. It is well that our children should learn that there are good and fl DfTRODUCmOlf. elegant worke of literature in the Ohnroh as well as ontBide of it| and it is highly important that they shonld be imbned, from aa early age, with a taste for this kind of reading. Among the for* eign Cntholic writers from whom selections are famished, we no- tice the names of Cardinal Wiseman, Dr. Newman, Balraez, Cha- teanbriand, and Digby. Among onr own writers, we perceive witli pleasure the names of several of onr archbishops, bishops, ar.d clergymen, besides those of snch distingnished laymen as Dr. Brownson, Dr. Huntington, MoLeod, Shea, Miles, and others. The writings of these are interspersed with Judicious selections from our standard American authors, Irving, Prescott, Bancroft, and Paulding. >« * ^i»,rf ., . .. - We take pleasure in recommending this valuable series of Readers to the patrooage of onr Oatholio ofdlegeSi aohoolBi and MiMUnicBb ..,■-1. y.A' %-... X^'---..rlf-. ;*■;;■ t."-> ■ ' ^ •^ - W"-. ' -*£''•>;',■. ;: •»,-„..,-> ■: ■ .'■'..,,. ,/Jf ,,. ■■• ■t^^r^^-iiVifeji; , * ■-.--•; .■ ■:■■'. .v,-5rJ~.fJ^Vtii fkk' ^■5?- «{»-*,:- ■ ' ■....;. V.V^^.. ...... •; ■..-'^••-,*v.> ':* --^- - '^ \'v ' 'Ay -/> AX" i^'^^V ■W^, ^■^-: CONTENTS. .:.. .•,*.■«• ImoBvon<», "yj Biihop Bpaldlog . lU PART I. : > >--« PBINCIPLBB OP ELOCimON. Introduotloii v Proper pofltion 11 Holding the Book 12 BespiraUon 12 Bxercise 12 ArticuUtion 12 Exercises in Articulation 16 Pronunciation 19 Exercises in Emphasis 22 iNFiiionoii 23 Examples in Inflection 24 •* «• " for two Toioes 26 » " " for three Toioea 27 Eznoisn n EuxnmoM. Examples 81 Spirited Declamation 81 Gay, Brisk, and Humorous Descriptioi^ 81 Unimpassioned Narrative 82 Dignified Sentiment 88 Solemn and Impresdve Thoughta 88 Awe and Solemnity 88 Deep Solemnity, Awe, Consternation 84 Monotone ', 86 QUAMTITT 88 Examples in Quantity 8er Ratx OB MovumT or THB yoKa 40 Slow Movement 41 Reverence 41 Melancholy 41 Plofound Solemnity ., 42 i^Wj .1 .» 4 oosmn. M Omndeur, VaiitncM 42 Moderate Movcniunt 43 Lively Movement 42 BriHk Movement 48 Rapid Movement « 44 BrMITOMB, OE PLAINTITKMWi Of 8PBWH 46 Example* of Plaintive Utterance MoOmwU. 46 *' " " •• BryeaU. 47 " " ** ** Hood. 48 •• ThePast WtUom. 40 •♦ Where are the Dead 49 V* ** The Charge of the Six Hundred Knnyton. 00 • *' Qive me Three Orains of Cora 61 . •* TheLeaves A. S. Sigthmu, 61 , ** The First Crusaders before Jeraaalem 62 ** Lament for the Death of Owen Hoe O'Neill lkm$, 68 ** The Wexford Massacre M.J.Barry. 64 ** AbouBenAdham Leigh Hunt, 66 ' •• TheReaper Longfellom. 66 ; •« Mental Beantjr AkmuUi. 66 •* The Soliloquy of King Biohard Shaktpeart. 67 " Spring Flowers... Howia. 67 *' The Modera Blue-Stocking 68 " Invocation Madcay. 60 " Time G. D. PrmOiM. 69 " Poetasters Pop$. 68 " Richard's Resignation Shaktjmr: 60 *' Eve's Regret on quitting Fturadise MOUrn. 61 " Love duo to the Creator Q. Griffin. 61 " A Child's First Impression of a Star WUtu. 62 " The Carrier-Pigeon Moore. 62 " To the PiiHsion-Flower 64 " Advice to an Affected Speaker. ImBrmffiru 6S Bflnarks to Teachers 06 ♦ •»■ - V PART II. v _.. POETRY. liie Landing of Columlras Samud Ri^ert. 89 Mary, Queen of Mercy JammClarmBe Manjfan. 76 Laagnage 0. W. Hobmt. 82 taSbn Names Mt. OOMTKim. 1 43 • • . • • 42 • • • • • 42 • • • • • 48 44 46 i«nMU. 46 IrymU. 47 Hood. 48 WiUom. 40 40 MJ^tOfl* 00 61 tphmu. 61 62 Dam, 68 64 Hunt, 66 jfOow. 66 bfUMb. 66 ttptart. 67 Howiti. 67 68 rodbiy. 69 rentim. 69 .Pop$, 69 tptcart. 60 MUUm. 61 rrifin. 61 Wiuii. 62 Moore. 62 64 nyirCk 65 06 limetROMbyTnruB Roltrl So ut k wt a 08 Mary .Stiiiut's LmI Pnycr /. O. 'V^y • • • • 179 • • • • 181 Tftiom 186 Tsod. 19S UOMTEKTt. %: rhe iMt Hours of Louis XVI.. AUam. 191 Character of the Irish Peasantry Ji.vtk Barrington. 196 St. Frances of Bome. Lady FulUrUm. 199 Spring M. W. Longfeilow. 201 Martyrdom of Fathers de Brebeuf and Lalemant. . .Btv. J. B. A. Ftrkmd 208 Illumination at St Peter's Biilup Engiand. 206 Illumination at St. Peter's— continued 209 'llie Son's Return QmddQnffin. 212 llie Son's Return— continued 216 Edward the Confessor lAngard. 219 The Discontented Miller QMtmith. 223 The Jesuits Mrt. J. aadlier. 227 Education Kenetm H. Digby. 229 Educatiou^-«ontinued 282 Infidel Philosophy and Literature Bobertton. 234 Infidel Philosophy and Literature— continued 287 Marie Antoinette Eimmd Burki. 241 TheOldEmigrd Mary R. Mitford. 244 Sir Thomas More to his Daughter 248 Influence of Catholicity on Civil liberty BUhop Spalding. 260 The Choice QwryH. Milet. 264 The Choice— continued 267 Landing of the Ursulines and Hospital Nuns at Quebec 260 The First Solitary of the Thebais Chattaubriand. 264 The First Solitary of the Thebids— continued 267 The Exile's Return Mr$. J. SadUer. 274 Mount Orient ChraUGnffin. 276 De Frontenac Bibaud, 281 The Catacombs Dr. Manahan. 288 llie Religious Military Orders Arehbuhcp PweM. 2S! Dialogue with the Oout Dr. I^anklin. 291 Magnanimity of a Christian Emperor Sehltgd. 293 European Civilization BtUnux. 297 St. Francis de Sales' Last Will and Testament. .St. Franeu da Sola. 299 Arch-Confraternity of San Oiovanni Decollato Maguir*. 802 The Confraternity " Delia Morte". Maguire. 804 The Plague of Locusts Dr. Unman. 808 The Plague of Locusts — continued 810 Ohristian and Pagan Rome Dr. Ndigan. 816 Rosemary in the Sculptor's Studio Dr. Huntington. 819 Religious Ordeis LeOmiU. 821 Resignation of Charles Y., Emperor of Germany Robtrtaon. 826 Resignation of Charles Y.— continued 828 Letter from Pliny to Marcellinui Mdmalk 881 rhe Religion of Oatholkai Dr. Dtyk. 8 OOHTEHTB. ii!i W i m hs The Wife WaahngUm Jrvbifi 887 The Truce of God PredtL 840 Advice to a Young Lady on lier Marriag) Dean SwifL 848 A Catholic Maiden of the Old Times Rm. J. Baye*. 846 De Laval, first Bishop of Quebec H. J. M&rgan. 852 Borne Saved by Female Virtue Nathtmid Booke. 367 Borne Saved by Female Virtue— continued 860 The Friars and the Knight Dijfby. 863 Oil Bias and the Parasite Le Sage. 866 Anecdote of King Charles II. of Spain 871 Spiritual Advantages of Catholic Cities Dn/by. 872 On Letter Writing Btaekwootte Magtmne. 878 TheAIhambra by Moonlight. W.Irving. 880 Best Kind of Bevenge Chambert. 881 Edwin, King of Northumbria Lingard. 884 Cleanliness AddUon. 886 Memory and Hope Jda. K. Pauldiny. 880 The Charmed Serpent ChaUavMond, 894 Two Views of Nature " 895 Wants Jai. K. PauU^. 400 Wants— continued 402 Vesuvius and the Bay of Naples Rat. O. F. HaMn*. 405 Ireland " " 407 Patriotism and Christianitj Ohaieavbriand. 414 Peter the Hermit Miehaud. 416 Can the Soldier be an Atheist? CKoteniimiui. 419 Japanese Martyrs Miaa OaddeU. 421 Japanese Martyrs — continued. 428 On the Look of a Gteatleman SaslHt. 427 Social Characters , ', Ohaieatibriand. 429 Death of Charles II. of England EoberUon. 482 Beligion an Eswntial Element in Education Sttgff. 484 Books as Sources of Self-cultivation " 488 Man'sDestiny *« 441 On Good Breeding .■ A»on. 446 Execution of Sir Thomas More 460 The Influence of Devotion on the Happiness of Life Blair. 468 Adherence to Principle commands Bespect Jfin Browruon. 467 Mount Lebanon and its Cedars PaUeraon. 469 The Siege of Quebec by Montgomery 461 Champlain H.J. Morgan. 466 Jacques Cartier at Stadacona. Oanuau. 469 Jacques Cartier at Hochelwga AXM FMand, 472 The City of Montreal P,J,0. Ohmneam^. 4H4 ! I i '1 ■ ifi*:Af^^i: THE FIFTH READER. _;. ■■ -_-.-'*u' .,■',■•- ^h¥^- Part L PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. -v., ■.,,^:/iV;-, Introduction. ;;.:•>-,:.•• . .^-.•. HE art of reading well is one of those rare ao complishments which all wish to possess, a few think they have, and others, who see and belieye that it is not the unacquired gift of genios, la- bor to obtain. But it will be found that excel- lence in this, as in every thing else of value, is the result of well-directed effort, uid the reward oi unrenutting industry. - ' To read and speak, so as at once to convey intelligence to the nund and pleasure to the ear ; to givu utterance to thoughts and sentiments with such force and effect as ta quicken the pulse, to flush the cheek, to waim the heart, to expand the soul, and to make the hearer feel as though he were holding converse with the mighty spirit that conceived the thought and composed the sentence, is, it is true, no or- dinary attainment ; but it is far firom being either above the power or beyond the reach of art. - To breathe life through language, to give coloring and force to the thoughts, is not merely an accomplishment ; it is an acquisition of priceless value — a power of omnipotent agency, when wisely and skilfully used. But this degree of excellence is to be attained only through the influence of sure and multiplied principles ; — principles that are oniversal ; principles that are founded in nature. I* 1 i i 'I I 10 TBB FIFTH READRR. Modes of delivery must inevitably vary with the sascepti* bility of the reader to imaginative impalses, and with the nature of his appreciation of what he reads. To prescribe rules for what, in the nature of things, must be governed by the answering emotion of the moment, and by a sympathizing htelligence, may continue to be attempted, but no positive lystem is likely to be the result. Language cannot be so labelled and marked that its delivery can be taught by any scheme of notation. Emotional expression cannot be ganged and regulated by any elocutionary law ; and, though there has been no lack of lawgivers, their jurisdiction has never extended far enough to make them an acknowledged tribunal in the republic of letters and art. Mr. Kean does not bow to the law laid down by Mr. Kern- ble or Mr. Macready ; Mr. Sheridan differs from Mr. Walker, and Mr. Knowles dissents from them both. The important step, I believe, in regard to practice in ex- pressive reading, is to set before the pupil such exercises as (nay sufficiently enlarge his interest and be penetrable to his understanding. An indifferent, nnsympathizing habit of de- livery is often fixed upon him, solely by accustoming him to read what is either repulsive to his taste, or above his com- prehension. As well might we put him to the task of read- ing backwards, as of reading what is too dull or difficult to kindle his attention or awaken his enthusiasm. Reading back- wards is not an unprofitable exercise, when the object is to 'omit his attention to the proper enunciation of words, iso- lated from their sense ; but when we would have him unite an expressive delivery to a good articulation, we must give him for vocal interpretation, such matter as he can easily un- derstand. That the study and practice of Elocution should form a branch in our systems of Education, is now generally con- ceded. The true method of conveying a knowledge of this art is, however, still open to much discussion. Experience has confirmed me in the opinion that elaborated artificial rnlea are almost "worse than useless ;"for they fetter all the natural FKINCIPLE8 OF ELOOUTIOir. II hnpolses of the Papil, and too ft^nently ribstitnte manner* isms and affectations for a direct, earnest, natnral method of delivery. And yet Elocution has its rules, as essential and as necessary to be understood and studied as are the mlea which govern a thorough knowledge of the exact sciences. To simplify these rules, and to present only those which are absolutely requisite to form a strictly natural and finished reader, has been my aim in the following pages. - t . A knowledge of the positive rules which govern TnflectionSf and practice on the same to enable the pupil to inflect wit] ease; the general knowledge of rules governing j^ stress, and a practice on Modulaiion, in its varietii emotional, and imitative tones, are all the necess ical auinliaries which Elocution, as an art, affords toi dent. These essential rules I now present, condensl briefest and most practical form, the due practice classes, accompanied by the application of the principl daily Beading from Examples I have furnished in this will, I trust, materially assist in the formation of an sminently natural and correct style of Reading. I daim no originality in the creation of any new Sjrstem of Elocutionary Instruction. I have only compiled and adapted rules from acknowledged masters of the art, rejecting those which experience has satisfied me are but extraneous and non- essential ^''**""'"'^*"^"' ^ •-'^'•^■ han- t>«MJE. to IfiP* in ■J --.■im-'^-''mi'' "iSi- >.V.^(V:.f. Proper FosmoNS. Whether sitting or standing, the body should be kept erect, the head pp, and the shoulders back and down. The chest will thus be expanded, breathing be free and full, and the vocal organs left to an unembarrassed action. A standing position is the best — it gives more power. Support the weight of the body on the left foot ; advance the right about three inches, and turn the toes of both feet moderately out. This position is termed the second right ; it will be changed to the Jirst right, by throwing the weight of the body on the right fool; \v t I i % : 1 m I i il 12 THE FIFTH READFR which may sometimes be conTenient for relief, where the iead> Ing is long oontinaed. Holding the Book. The book should be Icept in the l^ hand, in a nearly hort gontal position from the lower point of the breast, at a dis* tance of six or eight inches from it. The voice wiU thus be unobstrocted, and the face, which is the index of the soul, in complete view of the andience. The right hand may be em- ployed in turning the pages, and, in proper cases, in light, sig« nificant gesture. Besfiration. , To read with elegance and power, the function of breathing must be under entire control. The compass and quality of the Voice depend upon it. To secure this control, it will be found highly useful to train the lungs to their most pliant and ener- getic action, on some respiratory exercise, as below: ftJV " The chest so exercised, improves its strength ; ^ f|< ^? :..,,.,. . And quick vibrations through the system drive v.. . . V v>! The restless blood." ^i^*: »i?-t' I *lVtV. ■4^ri- ■i.-f-- ■ '-^i/i ;>'- Exercise. ■7:.l. .-«i':-)i. 1. Draw in the breath very slowly, until the lungs are en- tirely filled. 2. Emit the breath in the same maimer, continuing to breathe as long as possible. 8. Take in a full, quick breath, and expire it in an audible, prolonged sound of the letter A. 4. Inspire with a sudden, impulsive effort ; then exhale In the style of a strong, whispered cough. 6. Take in and give back the breath through the nostrils fully, but slowly, the mouth being entirely closed. 6. Exercise the lungs in the manner of violent panting. Articulation. A perfect articulation is the great excellence of good read- ing and speakmg. There are other vocal qualities which ranh PBXKOCnJB OF i&Looin!n>N. W Digfa in the elocntionary scale, as inflection, emphasis, and expression — but they are all inferior to this, and dependent upon it. Thcj hare no power to make clear to the mind those words or phrases which, by reason of imperfect enoncia- tion, are not receired by the ear. The student should be led, therefore, to early and perseyering practice on the Eiemeotary goands of the language, on difiBcnlt Consonant Combinations, and on unaccented Syllables. The effect would be almost magical. It would be marked by all the purity and complete* ness which Austin's Chironomia contemplates, when it says : " In jnst articulation, the words are not hurried over, nor pre- cipita ;d syllable over syllable; they are delivered out fronc the lips as beautiful coins, newly issued from the mint, deeply and accurately impressed, perfectly finished, neatly struck by the proper organs, distinct, sharp, in due succession, and of due weight." Defects in articulation may proceed either from OTer-eageru ness in utterance, or from sluggishness and inattention. Wtr will here cite some of the Yowel and Consonant sonnds which are most frequently marred by a vicious articulation. The proper sound of the a is often too decidedly perverted in the syllables and terminations in oZ, ar, ant, an, ance, &c., as in the following words : fatal, particular, scholar, separate, arro- gant, honorable, perseverance, preliminary, descendant, ordi* nance, &c., in which the a should be slightly obscured, but nott debased into the e of her, or the u in but. Syllables and terminations in o, ow, and on, are badly articn^^ lated by many, who say potator for potato, comprumise for compromise, tobaccernist for tobacconist, innervate for inno- vate, feller for fellot^j, winder for windoti;, meller for meWow, hist'ry for history, haUered for hallou^ed, meader for meadoto philoserpher fbr philosopher, colemy for colony, abrurgate foi abrogate, &c. The o in such words as horizon, motion. Bos ton, &c., may be slightly obscured, bnt not dropped. The unaccented u is often erroneously suppressed, or mado to sound like e, in such words as particular, voluble, regular, ' lingular, educate, &c. The full, diphthongal sound of the u in mute should be j^ven to the above words, as well as to tht \^ 14 THB FIFTH BXAOBB. r'l i 1,1 '11 ■ \ following: nude, tune, tube, suit, assume^ nature, mixture, moisture, vesture, vulture, geniture, structure, gesture, statue, institution, constitute, virtue, tutor, subdued, tuber, duty, duly, Ac. --'■^^- >'•■ • ^-''^; There are some miscellaneous vulgarisms in the renderiug o. Towel sounds, to which we will but briefly allude. Do not omit the long, round sound of o (as it occurs in h&me) in such words as boat, coat, &c. Do not give to the a in scarce tho sound of u in purse. Do not say tremendyous for tremendous, or colyume for column (pronounced koUum^ the u short as in us, and not diphthongal, as in U6e). Give to the diphthong ot its full sound in such words as noise, potse, point, &c. Do* not trill the r in the wrong place. Do not give the sound of u to the a in Indian (properly pronounced Indyan). Do not give the sound of^e oxfd to the/uZ of awful, beauti/u/, and the like ; of um to the m in chasm, prism, patriotism, kc. Do not dismiss the letter d from such words as and, uands, hAuda, depen^^s, senc^s, &c. Do not say git for get, idee for idea, thar for there, po'try for poetry, jest for just, jine for join, ketch for catch, kittle for kettle, st&h for star, pint for point, fur for far, ben for been (correctly pronounced bin), doos for does (correctly pronounced duz), agin for again (correctly pronounced agren), ware for were (correctly pronounced wur), tharefore for therefore (correctly pro- nounced thurfore), air for are (correctly pronounced ar, the a as m far). It is a conmion fault with slovenly readers to dispense with the final g in words of more than one syllable, ending in ing. Such readers tell us of their startin* early in the momin\ seein* nobody comin\ Ac, giving us to infer that they either have a bad cold iik the head, or have been but in- differently attentive to their elocutionary studies. Always avoid this vulgarism, whether in conversation, or in reading aloud. Where consonants precede or follow the letter s, care should be taken to avoid the too frequent practice of improperly dropping the sound of one letter or more. For example, in the line, — " And thou exis^'s^ and striv*s/ as duty prompte," — the sound of the italicized consonants is often imperfectly PRINCIPLES OF ELOOUTION. 1$ n;nder»4. So we hear acts incorrectlj pronooDced ax ; facts, fax; 'eflecU, reflex ; expects, expex, Ac. Great libertief are often taken with the letter r. There are speakers who say bust for burst, fust for first, dust for durst, &c. We also hear Cnbor for Cuba, later instead of Ian;, teawr instead of toar, paurtial ibstead of partial, Larrence instead of Lau> rencc, stat^nn instead of storm, maum instead of mom, caum instead of com. The vibrant sonnd of the r should not be mufiSed m snch words as rural, mgged, trophy, kc. ; nor shonld the r be trilled in care, margin, &c. The sound of the h, in syllables commencing with shr, should ' be heeded ; as in the line, " He shrilly «Arieking shrank from driving him.'' In these and similar words the h is often shorn . of its due force, and, by some bad speakers, is entirely sup- pressed. To the preservation of its aspirate sonnd in such I words as w/iat, wAale, w/iither, wAen, Ac, particular atten- tion should be given. A thorough and well-defined articulation will leave a hearer in no doubt as to which word is meant in articulating the fol- lowing : when, wen ; whether, weather ; what, wot ; wheel, . weal ; where, wear j whist, wist ; while, wile ; whet, wet , ■ whey, way ; which, witch ; whig, wig ; whin, win ; whme, wine ; whirled, world ; whit, wit ; whither, wither ; white, wight ; wheeled, wield. JExerciaes. * He is content in either place ; He is content in neither place. They wandered weary over wastes and deserts ; They wandered weary over waste sand desertiL I saw the prints without emotion ; I saw the prince without emotion. That last still night ; That lasts till night His cry moved me ; His crime moved me. He could pay nobody ; He could pain nobod^. V vy 16 THS rtrrn reaosb. VV' He built bim an ice house ; ^ .;• He boilt him a nice house. My heart is owed within me ; Mj heart is sawed within me. A great error often exisfo ; A great terror often ezisto. He is content in either situation ; . > ' He is content in neither situation. Whom ocean feels through all her coontlesB wsfvi ; Who motion feels through all her countless wa^es. « . |. My brothers ought to owe nothing ; My brother sought to own nothing. ' ' In the following exercises, most of the noteworthy difficul> ties in the articulation of our language have been introduced. In some of the sentences, it will be seen, little regard has been had to the sense which they may make ; the object being either to accumulate difficulties in Consonant combinations, or to illustrate varieties of Vowel sounds and their equivalents. '^ Exercises in Articulation. 1. A father's fate calls Fancy to beware. ^11 in the ball here haul the au^l aU ways. Stint's heart and hearth are better than her head. And sAall I, sir'raA, guarantee your platd ? Arraign his retgn to-day ; the great ratn gauge. And so our wiling ended all in wailing. Accent' the ac'- cent accurately always. ? >vl; 2. ^w;ful the awe ; nor brood ought Tom to maul. The 6nl&, the 6ri&e, the 6ar&, the &a661ing 6i66er. Biding thou bndg^dst, and butf^ing bravely hidest. Bubbles and hu&frubs barbarous and pu&lic. C&nst give the blind a notion of an ocean? OAurlish cMrographers, chromatic chanters. ChiV' alry's chief chid the c^iurPs chaffering choieo chimerical. 3 Call her ; her cooler at the collar scorning. C7rimo craves the Czar's indictment curious, i^espisee^ (fespoilers troxked the t^astarefs e^oom. Diaph'&nous <2elu8ions diep're- cate. Dr&chvaaa disd&ln dla^Tsed cfespotically. Earn earth's dear tears, whose dearth the heart's hearth inurns. FBOfOmn OF KLOOimOK. n 4. JEbgland hfr men metes there a generous measure. Canat decetres the people from his seat. The key to that maclane Is in the field. Friends, heads and heifers, leopards, bury 00/. Examine, estimate the eggs exactly. 5. FtLultsf He had fanZ/s ; I said he was not fa^. JPa eundioas P/^ilip's ^ippant /Zuency. OhaBtly the jjribboos an* get goTg^ gnomes. Go I thouy^ rough conyAs and hiccony^ plouj^A thee thronyA I Omdg'dst thon, and j^b'dst thou, fl'oryon, with thy yyyes ? 6. He Anmbly Aeld the hostler's Aorse an Ji^onr. Bis Aonest rhetoric exAilarates. JTear'st thou this /icrmit's Acinous Aero- sy? He twists the tear^s to suit the several Beets. HOpe, boats, r&ads, cdats, and loads of cloaks and soap. Why ha^ assfdst thon him thus inhumanly ? 7. In either place he dwells, in neither fails. Is he in life through one grea< terror led ? In one grea/ error rather is he no't 7 Is there a name — is there an aim more lofty ? I say ' the Judges ought to arrest the culprit. I say the judges sought to arrest the culprit. 8. tfanglinglyyealous jeered the c/acobin. c/nne's azure day sees the ^ay gayly Jump. JTnavish the ibnock could compass such a ibiot. £eep cool, and learn that cavils cannot itill. JTentuciby ibiows the darib and bloody ground. 9. Long, /ank, and 2ean, he \llj lectured me. Lo I there behold the scenes of those darib ages. The scenes of those darib cages, did you say ? ilfete'orous and meteor'ic vapors. MxAeiedst thou him ? In misery he mopes. 10. ifyrrh by the murderous myrmidons was brought. Jfan is a microcosm, a mimic world. Ifute moping, maim- ed, in misery's murmurs whelm'ef. Jfammon's main monn- ment a miscreant makes, ifoments their solemn realm to ifemnon give. 11. Neigh me no nays; know me now, nei^Abor Dobbin ^Vipt now the flower is riv'n, forever falPn. Nympfcs range the forests still till rosy dawn. Nay 1 did I say / scream f I said we cream. Never thou clasjp'rfs^ more fleetiny triumph* here. 12. O'er wastes and deserts, wasfe sand deserfs spraying. On the hud uharf the timi^ dwarf was standing. Oh, note ' lii! Jl THE niTH RKADEB. the occasion, yeoman, hautboy, heau/ Or'thofipy preeedcf orthog'rapby. Ob'ligatory objects then he offered. 18. Pre'ccilents ruled prece'dent Frea'iderUs. Poor paint- ed pomp of pleasure's proud parade. Pharmacy /ar more /armers cures than kills. Psyche (si-kfi) puts oat the sp^iiu^ h p^cudo pipe. Politics happ'n to be uppermost. The room's perfumed' with per'fumes popular. 14. (JuWp quoted Qt/arlcs's ^iddities and quuka. Queens atid coquets quickly their conquests ^it. Quacks in a ^an- dary were quaking there. Quench^cTst thou the gua.rre\ of the ^uid'uuncs then? Quiescent Quixotism and guibblin^ quizzing. 15. ifave, torctched rover, erring, rash, and perjured, ^ude rugged rocks refichoed with his roar. ^Ainoceroses armed, and Russian bears. JRound rang her sArill sAarp, frenzied shriek for mercy. JBuin and rapine, ruthless u;rctch, attend thee I 16. Six slim, sleek saplings sZothfully he sawed. /Sl^ridnloas ttrays the stream through forests strange. SnarVsts thou at me ? Vainly thou splash'dsi and strov'rfs^ Sha\\ scuffling . s^ift thy s^rinktn^, sAriekinc/ s/iame ? /Schisms, chasms and prisms, phantasms, and frenzie.i uire. Smith, smooth, smug, . smart, smirked, smattered, s//t.okcd, and smiled. Sudden he '■*\, B&dd'n^d ; wAcrefore did he sadd'n? r 17. The Aeir his Aair uncovered to the air. That las^ still night, that las^s ^ill night's forgot I The sfriden^ triden^'6 g^ife strides sinuous. The dupes shall see the dupe survey the scene. The martial corps regarded not the corpse. ^ 8. The ringing, clinging, blighttny, smittn^ ct^ mored me, thy crime mov ^ me murf These thing! can never make your gowernmerU. T*wm> bar^'c. ^ the durt that wounded me, alas 1 21. Thoa startVdst me, and still thon gtartl'«< mc. Thoa wnt€h'«< there where thoa watch'(2«/, sir, when I came, ihoa b\&c\L*n^dst and thoa black'n'«< me in Tain. Tb< iht'sl /hov those //tocirhta of ^Aine coald ^Arill me ^AroagL ' The in* lTi<,' M '' -0 wue's Yogue brogue playu6« like an agut 2^. 'I'll .1 Hiept^8t, great ocean, hush^dat thy myriad wayes. The '^■'•If whose Aowl, the owZ whoae hoot is heard. The new time p'ayid on Tuesday suits the duke. Too soon hou ehuckVdat o'er the gold thou stoles^ Twanged sAort and 8hi-r\>, like the shrill swallow's cry. 23. Use makes us use it even as usage rules (this last ' like the o in move). tZmpires usurp the insurer's usual custon CTlility's your ultima'tum, then. CTntunable, untraotable, un- thinking. CTrge me no more; your arguments are useless. The tutor's revolution is reduced. 24. Fain, vacillating, ve'hement, he veers forever. R'i^et- ting his scythe, the mower smge^A hUthe. While «7;tiling time at whht, why will you wAisper? IFAelmed in the waters were the M;Airling loAeels. WTiere is the ware that is to wear so well ? 25. White were the tdghts who waggishly were winking. TTrenched by the hand of violence from hope. Wouldst thou not highly— woulds^ not holily? With short shrill shrieks flits by on leathern wing. Xerxes, XantippC, Xen'o- phon, and Xanthus. 20 Facbts yield the yeomen youthful exercise. You pay nobody ? Do you pain nobody ? Your kindness overwhelms me— makes me bankrupt. Zeuxis, Zenobia, Zeus, and Zoro- lis'ter. Zephyr these heifers indolently fans. "" V"" Pronunciation. A and the when under emphasis have the vowel sounded long; »8 " I said i man, not th« man." But a when unem I I 90 THE nm BXIDIB. !i 1 '1 phatic or xmaccenied is always short ; as, " We saw & child playing abont." The used before a vowel, takes the long Bound of e, but before a consonant, the short: as, "The oranges were good, but thfi dates bad. These distinctions deserve particular attention in primary and intermediate schools. They are much neglected. My when emphatic takes the long sound ; as, " It is my book, not yours," but in most other cases it takes the short sound. Kven in reading the Sacred Scriptures, good taste prefers the short sound, except in expri^-ssions of marked solemnity, or in connection with the Holy Name. By seldom adopts the short sound. In collo- quial phrases like the following, however, it is allowable ; as, " By-the-by, or by-the-way." These examples are like words of three syllables, with the accent on the third. In the word myself, the y never takes the long sound, the syllable sel/ receiving the stress when it is emphatic, except when re- ferring to the Deity. There, when used as an adverb of place, takes the full sound of ^ (long a) ; as, " The boy was certainly thire ;" but when merely employed to introduce a word or phrase, it takes the lighter sound of e ; as, " Oh, there is the boy." So with their ; as, " It is thdir duty, not yours." " They will not neglect their duty." In the same manner your, when emphatic, sounds as the word etuer does ; but onemphatic, it shortens into yur, having less the sound of long u. The following seven words used as adjectives always have the e sounded — aged, learned, blessed, cursed, winged, ttriped, streaked ; as, " An ag^d man ; a learned professor ; the ble8s6d God," not " An ag'd man, &c." When this word Is compounded, however, the ed is short ; as, " A fuU-ag'd person." " Those who wish to pronounce elegantly" as Walker has ustly said, "must give particular attention to these syllables as a neat pronunciation of these, forms one of the greates beauties of speaking." But great defects are common in thi respect, not only in the humbler grades of society, but among the educated and refined. In the pulpit, in the halls of legis- lation, everywhere, indeed, this is more or less the case. The word mwlulaHon is derived from a Latin w > > (1st voice) The lightning — (2d voice) lightning flies' — (3d voice) the lightning flies on wings of fire. (Ist voice) But slowly' — (2d voice) slowly now the hero falls' — (2d voice) but slowly now the hero fails'^ liki ft! J' PRINCIPLES Ot ELOCUTION. 29 i mix, and rk in hat- md In'nis* 7oice) and ^, sounded )n high — ood barsts (2d voice) as the last roice) the attle. people' — is oyer the pder'— (3d t was like bursts on Lce' on the as gajr'— he sea' — led\ forth to forth to • ace' — (Sd lef, as he lies'— (3d lero falls' alia; Iik« " '■.! ' ' -^ the tree of hundred roots before the driving storm. (Ist Toice) Now from the gray mists of the ocean' tiie white sailed ships of Fingal' * appear'. — (2d voice) High' — (3d voice) high is the grove of their masts' aa they nod by turns on the rolling wave8\ (1st voice) As ebbs the resounding sea through the hundred isles of Inistore' — (2d voice) so loud' — (3d voice; so vast', — (1st voice) so immense', — (All) re- turned the sons of Lochlin to meet the approaching foe\ (ist voice) But bending', — (2d voice) weeping', — (3d voice) sad, and slow' — (All) sank Cahnar, the mighty chief, in Cromla's lonely wood\ (1st voice) The battle' — (2d voice) battle is pa8t\ — (3d voice) " The battle '<« past," said the chief. (Ist voice) Sad is the field'— ^2d voice) sad is the field 0/ Lena' I — (3d voice) Mournful are the oaks o( Cromla' 1 (All) The hunters have fallen in their strength I The sons of the brave are no more' ! (1st voice) As a hundred winds on Morven' ; — (2d voice) as the stream of a hundred hills' ; — (3d voice) as clouds successive fly over the face of heaven'; (Ist voice) so vast', — (2d voice) so terrible', — (3d voice) so roaring' — >-s^ (All) the armies mixed on Lena's echoing plaiR\ (1st voice) The clouds of — (2d voice) night came rolling down' ; — (3d voice) the stars of the north arise' over the rolling waves': they show their heads of fire through the flying mists of heaven\ 1st voice) "Spread the sail'," said the king' — (2d voice) Seize the winds as they pour from Lena' 1" — (3d voice) Wo rose on the waves with songs I (All) — ^We rushed with joy through the foam of the deep. The humorous ode by Thomas Hood, addressed to his soi^ * Here the acute accent is intended aa a mark of accent, not of iaflootioa \\ so THE Firrn rbadeb. agod three years and five months, contains nomerouf ezamplei of the parenthesis. * • . . • ■♦ Thoa happy, happy elf ! (But Htop ! — first let me kiss away that iMi )-~« Tlinu t!ny iniaj^e of myself 1 (My love, he's poking peas into his ear) — Thou in^rry laugliin;^ sprite I with spirits feather lighi. Untouch'd l)y sorrow, and unsoil'd by sin — (Qood heavens ! the child is swallowing b pin !) Th »u little tricksy Puck With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing-bird that wings the air, (The door ! the door ! he'll tumble down the stair t^ Thou darling of thy sire I . ' (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire 1) y; Thou imp of mirth and joy 1 ' In love's dear chain so strong and bright a liak, Thou idol of thy parents — (Drat the boy I There goes my ink 1) Thou clierub — ^butofearthl Fit playfellow for fays bv moonlight pale. In harmless sport and mirth, (The dog will bite him if he pulls its tail 1) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honejr -" From every blossom in the world that blows, " Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, »' (Another tumble — that's his precious nose I) Thy father's pride and hope ! "^ U * (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope I) ' , With pure heart newly stamp'd from nature's rouit^ (Where did he learn that squint 1) Toss the light ball — bestride the stick, . \ (I knew so many cakes would make him sick I) ., With fancies buoyant as the thistle down, ; , f ■^ Prdmpting the face grotesque, and antic briid^ if v • '> pBnfGZFLD or KLOOCnON. I With many a Iamb-like frisk, f (He's got the scissors, snipping at jonr gowal) Fresh as the mom, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar !) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dore^ (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write unless he's sent above I) Exercises in Elocutioit. Spirited Deelamation, * He woke to hear his sentry's shriek — 'To arms 1 They come I The Greek I the Ore«k.'» •* Strike — till the last arm'd foe expires ; Strike — for your altars and your fires ; ^ Strike — for the green graves of your sires, God, and your native land.'' " Shout, Tyranny, shout, Through your dungeons and palaces, 'Freedom ig o'er."' "On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave ! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave ,, And charge with all thy chivalry I" *' Now for the fight — ^now for the cannon peal I Forward — through blood, and toil, and cloud, and fife I On, then, hussars ! Now give them rein and heel ! l*liink of the orphan child, the murdered sire. Earth cries for blood. In thunder on them wheel. This hour to Europe's fate shall set the triumph seaL Gay^ Briitk^ and HumorouB Deteription. "Last came Jyo's estatic trial, He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ; '> ' But soon he saw the brisk, awakemng viol, Whose sweet, entrancing sound he loved the best." r •( \ \ TH£ fimi READER. .' y : ** I come, I como 1 — Ye hare callM rac long, I corno o'er the moantaiiLs with lig^ht and song. Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earthy By the winda which tell of the violet's birth." ** Then I see Queen Mab hath been with yoa. She comes, In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the forefinger of an alderman, *• Drawn by a team ul little atomies Athwart m*^n'fl noses, as they lie asleep ; Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners' legs ; The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ; The traces, of the smallest spider^s web ; The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams, , Her wMjf), of cricket's bone ; the lash, of film ; Her wagoner, a small, gray-coated gnat. Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, r Made by the jomer squirrel, or old grub, Time out of mind the fairies' coachmakers. And in this state she gallops, night by night. Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose. And then dreams he of smelling out a suit ; And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tall, Tickling a parson's nose as he lies asleep ; Then dreams he of another benefice. Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck ; And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats. Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, Of healths five fathom deep ; and then anon Drums in his ear ; at which he starts and wakes, And, being thus frighten'd, mutters a prayer or twa. And sleeps again." ' Unvm^a^noned, Narratht. There was a man in the land of Uz, whose name was Job, tnd that man was perfect and upright, and one that feared God and eschewed evil.'* • - ' Are but the solemn decorations all 'vk;^^; ::>c« > Of the great tomb of man/ ■^^' m THB riPTH READER. Ml. 11,1 Profound Solemnity. ' *' Leaver have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breatl^ And stars to set — but oil, Tl>ou hast all seasons for thine own, Death 1 Orandeur — VastneM. " Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll I Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. ... " Tliou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time. Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm,— Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark heaving, — boundless, endless, as sublime, — The image of Eternity, the throne Of the Invisible, — even from out thy slune The monsters of the deep arc made. Each zone Obeys thee. Thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.'' Moderate Movement. Moderate movement is the usual rate of utterance in ordi> nary, unhnpassioned narration, as in the following extract—* ' Stranger, if thou hast leam'd a truth which needs Experience more than reason, — that the world Is full of guilt and misery, — and hast known Enough of all its crimes and cares To tire thee of it, — enter this wild wood, , And view the haunts of Nature." « ' Lively Movement. This rate of the voice is exemplified in giving utterance tc • moderate degree of joyful and vivid emotions, as in the fol- N^wing extracts , "Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp 7 Are not these woods PRiNcirLra or elocution. 4$ More frne from peril than the enrious coart 7 Here feel we but the pennlty of Adam,— The seasons' difference, aii, the icy fang And churlish chiding of the wintry ' ind, Which, when it bites aud blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say, ' This is no flattery.' These are counscUori That feelingly persuade me what I am. Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongu6s in trees, books in the running brooki. Sermons in stones, and good in every thing : I wo«ild not change it. * - r j Brisk Movement. This rate of the voice is employed in giving atterauce to gay, sprightly, humorous, and eidiilarating emotions ; as in Cbe following examples : '* But, oh ! how altered was its sprightlier tone. When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, * Her bow across her shoulder flung, , Her buskins gemm'd with mommg dew. Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rang The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known \" "Last came Joy's estatic trial. He, with Tiny crown advancing First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ; . But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol. Whose sweet, entrancmg voice he loved the best." **I come, I come I — ^ye have call'd me long ; — V I come o'er the mountain with light and song, Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, :}^ c^ By the green leaves opening as I pass." \ \ 44 THE FIFTH READER. i i i "Joy, joy I forever, my task is done, The gates arc pass'd and bearen is won.'' Rapid Movement. This moyement of the voice is the symbol of violent anger, confusion, alarm, fear, hurry, and is generally employed ia giving utterance to those incoherent expressions which ar« thrown out when the mind is in a state of perturbation ; as may be exemplified in parts of the following extracts : " Next Anger rush'd. His eyes, on fire, In lightning owned his secret stings ; In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hands the strings." "When, doflf'd his casque, he felt free air Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare : 'Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace, where? Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare I Redeem my pennon — charge again 1 Cry, " Marmion, to the rescue 1" — Vain . Last of my race, on battle-plain That shout shall ne'er be heard again I Yet my last thought is England's. Fly, Fitz-Eustace; to Lord Surrey hie. , Tunstall lies dead upon the field ; His life-blood stains the spotless shield ; Edmund is down — my life is reft — The admiral alone is left. ^ , . Let Stanley charge, with spur of fire, ,' With Chester charge, and Lancashire, Full upon Scotland's central host, Or victory and England's lost. ~ Must I bid twice ? Hence, varlets I 6j, .*. Leave Marmion here alone — to die.'" "He woke — to hear his sentry's shriek — * To arms I They come ! The Greek 1 the Greek P ^^ He woke — to die 'midst flame and smoke, i^i-' 'If rRINClPLES OF ELOCmON. mgcr, ed io 1 are a ; as And Bhout, and groan, and sabre stroke. And death-shots fullinj^ thick and fast, As lightnings from the mountain cloud, And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band ; — 'Strike — till the last arm'd-foe expires I Strike — for your altars and your fires 1 Strike — for the green graves of your sires, God, and your native land' " *' Sack to thy punishment, False fugitive ! and to thy speed add wings ; Lest, with a whip of scorpions, I pursue Thy lingerings, or with one stroke of this dart, Strange horror seize thee, and pangs unfelt before !" ** This day's the birth of sorrows I This hour's work Will breed proscriptions. Look to your hearths, my lordl^ For there henceforth shall sit, for household gods, Shapes hot from Tartarus I — all shames and crimes : Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn ; Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup ; Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe. Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones, 'Till Anarchy comes down on you like Night, , . And Massacre seals Rome's eternal grave." ;.;:ur:' •If S-eS _■':■>., ;-:,-^r Semitone. '•'"'*^' (PluntiTenosB of speech, or the semitonlo movement.) In ascending the musical scale, if the tone of the voice, in moving from the seventh space to the eighth, be compared to the ntlerance of a plaintive sentiment, their identity will be perceived. The mterval from the seventh to the eighth is a semitone. Every one knows a plaintive utterance, and the pupil may at any time discriminate a semitone, and hit its interval by affecting a plaintive expression. Salyects of pathos and tenderness, uttered on any pitch, W§ THK FIFTH RKAOES. hlp:h or low, are capable of being sonndt^d with thin marked plaintiTeness of character. Lot the pupil devote much time to this subject. He must acquire the power of traasferring iti plaintiveness to any interval, in order to give a just coloring to expressions which call for its use. Thij movement of the voice is a very frequent element io expression, and performs high oflBccs in speech. It is used io expressions of grief, pity, and supplication. It is the natural and unstudied language of sorrow, contrition, condolence, commiseration, tenderness, compassion, mercy, fondness, vexa- tion, chagrin, impatience, fatigue, pain, with all the shades of difference which may exist between them. It is appropriate in the treatment of all subjects which appeal to human sym- pathy. When the semitone is united with quantity and tremor, the force of the expression is greatly increased. The tremalous semitonic movement may be used on a single word, the more emphatically to mark its plaintiveness of character ; or it may be used in continuation through a whole sentence, when the speaker, in the ardor of distressful and tender supplication, would give utterance to the intensity of his feelings. Examples in Plaintive Utterance. ' " " My mother ! when I heard that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, • „ Wretch even then, life's journey just begun f I heard the bell toll on thy burial day ; I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away ; And, turning from my nursery \N.ndow, drew ... A long, long sigh, and wept a last a*i»eu. -_ But was it such ? It was. WTaerc thou art gon^ Adieus and farewells are a sound unknow'i.'' " Would I had never trod this English ^rth, ^a" Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it. - .1 Ye have angels' faces, but H€«vei knows ^ our hearts,— I am the most onhappy woman li^ uigk" .jl '^^'' PRINCIPLES OF ELOCmOW. 47 * Motmy FULLY 1 Oh, monmfirily This midnight wind doth sigh, Like some sweet, plaintiye melodji Of ages long gone by I It speaks a tale of other years— Of hopes that bloom'd to die-^ Of sunny smiles that set in tears. And loves that mouldering lie t ** Mournfully! Oh, mournfully This midnight wind doth moanl It stirs some chord or memory In each dull, heavy tone ; . The voices of the much-loved dead Seem floating thereupon — All, all my fond heart cherish'd Ere death hath made it lone/' MtfiiuftWUb Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads — The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. Tls life our fiery barbs to guide Across the moonlight plaing ; *1^ life to feel the night- wind That lifts their to>9iii^' manes. A moment in the Btnttsh camp—* A moment — and away, Back to the patciless forest, Before the p»eep of day. " Grave men there are by broad Santai^ Grave men with hoary hairs, Their hearts are all with Marion, . For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band. With kindliest welcoming. With smiles like those of summer, Aikl tears like those of spriagi ■ H. ;;.'' ^•-w-*!' A\-,^^jC IJ *i \ t THE FIFTH READER. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton Forever from our shore.'' tevAA ■/ '-:,mM: ^# AlasI for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sunl ^ Oh 1 it was pitiful 1 Near a whole city full, Home she had none. Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly, • Feelbgs had changed : , Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence * Even God's providence ^ * Seeming estranged. Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, ' With many a light, - ■ From window and casement^ From garret to basement, She stood with amazement, Houseless by night. The bleak winds of March f Made h^* tremble and shiw ^ But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river : Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery Swift to be hurl'd— . - . - Anywhere, anywhers, j^.^- Ottt of the world I T. Beeik -t W: \ ■ ■>-. PRINOIFLBB OF ELOOTTTION. The Past How w3d and dim this life appeaii I ^' One long, deep, heavy sigh, When o'er oar eyes, half closed in tean^ The images of former years Are faintly glittering by ! ' ' f ^ '1, And still forgotten while they go I As on the sea-beach, wave on waTC^ ■ Dissolves at once in snow, The amber clouds one moment lie, i.^^. Then, like a dream, are gone I Though besatiful the moonbeams pliy On the lake's bosom, bright as they, And the sonl intensely loves their stay. Soon as the radiance melts away. We scarce believe it shone t HeaVen-4iir8 amid the harp-strings dwell. And we wish they ne'er may fade — They cease — and the soul is a silebt cell. Where mnsic never (day'd ! Dreams follow dreams, thro' the long night^oa Each lovelier than the last ; Bat, ere the breath of morning-flowers, That gorgeoas world flies past ; And many a sweet angelic cheek, '^ Whose smiles of fond affection speak, Glides by us on this earth ; ,/« :< While in a day we cannot tell Where shone the face we loved so weQ In sadness, or in mirth 1 ^^^ ■:^ WmoNi Where are the Dead? Where are the mighty ones of ages past. Who o'er the world their inspiration cast, — . Whose memories stir our spirits like a blast? Whore are the dsidf * *; TBS FUTH RKADEBi 'lU When ftre old empire's sinews snapp'd and gone? Where is the Persian ? Medef Assyrian? Where are the kings of Egypt? Babylon ? , Where are the deadf Where are the mighty ones of Greece? Where be ; The men of Sparta and Thermopyls ? ^> The conquering Macedonian, where is he 7 \ Where are tbe deadf ■■■"" ."'' ' "^'.,. ■ :;.- :,■ .-/,. :■ ■^-.f''4 '■ The Charge of the Six Humdsid. ' Half a league, half a leagae. Half a league onward, /j»? All in the valley of Death, ?, :. I * Bode the six hundred. " Forward, the Light Brigade l** . " Charge for the guns I" he saids Into the vo,lley of Death Bx>de the six hundred. ■h^:*- ■■' ■ V. iw ms&i:--- ^' "Forward, the Light Brigade P Was there a man dismay'd? Not though the soldiers knew Some one had blunder'd I Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turn'd m air. Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd : / " Plunged in the battery smoke, Bight throngh the line they brcko ; Cossack and Bussian ,;. Beel'd from the sabrenstroke . Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not— Not the six hundred. ■J^l^.'LiiJ-. \ ■jlj S^iU V i-'^v i«(p'4i'" ^v TKINCIPLBS OF KLOCUTION. • . Gin vc Trreb Grains of CoRir. f GiTB me tbrce grains of corn, mother, ^ . Only three grains of corn, It will keep the little life I hare, ' '1 Till the coming of the mom. I am dying of hanger and cold, mothd^ Dying of hmiger and cold, And half the agony of such a death My lips have never told. /..> , ■ ■ '■ ■■"■'■■' -" '■ ■ '" ■• - Uf The Leaves. ■ Tbe leaves are dropping, dropping, And I watch them as they go ; Now whirling, floating, stopping. With ft look of noiseless woe. Yes, i them in their falling, As t ;, tremble from the stem, With a stillness so appalling — And my heart goes down with them t Yes, I see them floating round me -^ 'Mid the beating of the rain, ■ ^ Like the hopes that still have bound me^ To the fading past again. ^ They are floating through the stillness. They are given to the storm— And they tremble off like phantoms Of a joy that has no form. ... A. & He is gone on the monntain, he is lost to the forest, " ^ Like a summer-dried fountain, when our need was the sorest ; The fount, reappearing, from the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, to Duncan no morrow I The hand of the reaper takes the ears that are hoary. Bat the Toioe of iho weeper wails manhood in gktj { \\ THE Firra READEB. The aatamn winds rushing waft the leaves thi\t are serest, Bat onr flower was in flushing rhen blighting was nearest. Fleet foot on the correi, sage counsel in cumber, Bed hand in the foray, how sound is thy slumber ! Like the dew on the mountain, like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on tb^ fountain, thou art gone, and forever , Scott. The First Crusaders before jERusALisif. *> "Jerusalem I Jerusalem I" The blessed goal was won : On SUoe's brook and Sion's mount, as stream'd the setting sun, TJplignted in his mellow'd glow, far o'er Judea's plain, Slow winding toward the holy walls, appear'd a banner'd tram. , ,., Forgot were want, viisease, and death, by that impassioned throng. The weary leapt, the sad rejoiced, the wounded knight grew strong ; One glance at holy Calvary outguerdon'd every pang, A.nd loud from thrice ten thousand tongues the glad hosannaa rang. But yet — and at that galling thought, each brow w&s bent in gloom — TLd cursed badge of Mahomet sway'd o'er the Saviour's tomb: Then from unnumber'd sheaths at once, the bcaniitig blades upstream'd, Vow'd scabbardless till waved the cross above that tomb f!".- redeem'd. ' - • >ai. ^?' ^ rf^linij. ' -'■ But suddenly a holy awe the vengeful clamor still'd. As sinks the storm before His breath, whose word its rising ^ ♦.».., will'd; - ' ' ' For conecience whisper'd, the same soil where they so proudly stood, •,;.^'v,.,r:, ,;-:-,:.;^ :»: . the S(4i of Man had trod abased, and wash'd with tears and PBIHOIPLIB Of XLOOimOlf. M ^en dropp'd the sqairo his master's shield, the serf daeh'd down his bow, And, side by side with priest and peer, bent reverently and I6w, • - ^ ;• While sank at once each pennon'd spear, nlomed helm and flashing glaive, Like some wide waste of reeds bow'd down by Nilus' swollen wave. Lament for the Death of Owen Rote O'Neill. Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words, " From Derry against Cromwell he march'd to measure swords ; But the weapon of the Saxon, met him on his way, And he died at Lough Onghter, upon St. Leonard's day t" Wail, wail ye for the mighty one I wail, wail ye for the dead ! Quench the hearth and hold the breath — with ashes strew the head. How tenderly we loved him 1 how deeply we deplore 1 But io think — but to think, we shall never see him more 1 Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall, Sure we never won a battle — ^'twas Owen won t!iem all. Had he lived — ^had he lived — our dear country had been free , But he's dead — ^but he's dead — and 'tis slaves we'll ever be. Vilil Wail, wail him through the Island I Weep, weep for onr pride I , ?*? v Would that on the l>attle-field our gallant chief had died I Weep the Victor of Benburb— weep him, young man and old ; Weep for him, ye women — ^your Beautiful lies cold I We thought you would not die — ^we were sure you woolC And leave us m our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow — Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky- ' Oh 1 why did you leave us, Owen? Why did you die ? w If II ! i s I 1:^ I 64 TBE FIFTH BEAOBR. Soft u woman's was your voice, O'Neill 1 bright wm joor eya Oh I why did you leave us, Owen? why did you die? Tour troubles a^e all over, you're at rest with God on high ; Hot we're slaves, and we're orphans, Owen I — why did you die f *"• • -' TEtOMAS Davu. ii ^::'v J^i;:'::^ The Wex id Massacre. Thet knelt aroand the Cross divine, The matron and the maid — They bow'd before redemption's sign And fervently they pray'd — Three hundred fair and helpless onea, Whose crime was this alone — Their valiant husbands, sires, and som^ Had battled for theur own. Had battled bravely, but in vain— • The Saxon won the fight ; And Irish corses strew'd the plain Where Valor slept with Right. And now that man of demon guilt To fated Wexford flew — The red blood reeking on his hilt, Of hearts to Erin true I ,;.-> .= . j He found them there — the young, the old-* The maiden and the wife ; Their guardians brave, in death were cold^ Who dared for them the strife — They pray'd for mercy. God on high t Before Thy cross they pray'd, And ruthless Cromwell bade them die . To glut the Saxon blade ■-if(:M'- Three hundred fell — the stifled prayer Was quench'd in woman's blood , Nor youth nor age could move to span From slaughter's crimson flood. - i i m * :• * * \ FBINCIPLEB OF RLOOUTIOlf. !: .r- .:',\'iQ^ «Mi Bat nations keep a stern account ; r Of deeds that tyrants do ; ,And gniltless blood to Heaven will mount, • / And Heaven avenge it, too 1 M. J. Baut. Abou Ben Aohkm. Abou Ben Adeem (may his tribe increase)! Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw with the moonlight in his room, MakSg it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel, writing in a book of gold ; Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold ; And to the presence in the room he said, " What writest thou V The vision raised his head, And, with a look made all of sweet accord. Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." " And is mine one ?" said Abou. " Nay, not so," Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low. Bat cheerly still ; and said, " I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.'' The angel wrote and vanished. The next night It came again with great awakening light. And show'd the names whom love of God had bless'd. And lo I Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. -i-i^v- = [:<•>■ LnaaHinift ■w w * . >L. There is a reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, . ,, v He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, ^ And the flowers that grow between. "Shall I have nought that is fair?'" saith he ; ''Have nought but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to om^ I will give them all back again." He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyei^ . > , He kiss'd their drooping leaves ; • ■* i 7tj,«.:%. These are the soul of Beauty's frames « Without whose vital aid, ■t^f- Unfinished all her features seem, ,^ And all her roses dead. . ^ > Amaxaon, To monarohize, be fear'd, and kill with looks ;, v Infusing hiiL with self and vain conceit. As if this flesh, which walls about our life. Were brass impregnable ; and humor'd thus, Comes at the last, and with a little pin Bores through his castle walls ; and, farewell, king t ^ Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood With solemn reverence ; throw away respect. Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty. For you have but mistook me all this while. ' • I live on bread, like you ; feel want, like you ; Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus, i How can you say to me, " I am a king ?" Shakrbaxx. PRIN'CIPLES or ELOCCnON, «J Eve's Reorets on QuirriNo Paradise. Must I thus leavo thee, Paradise ? thus leave Thee, native soil ? these happy walks and shades, Fit haunt of gods 1 where I had hoped to spend. Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day ^ That must be mortal to us both 1 O flowers, *> That never will in other clunate grow, '' My early visitation and ray last At even, which I bred up with tender band From the first opening bud, and gave ye names 1 Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank Tour tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount ? Thee, lastly, nuptial bower 1 by me adorn'd With what to sight or smell was sweet I from thee How shall I part, and whither wander down Into a lower world, to this obscure And wild ? How shall we breathe in other air Less pure, accustomed to immortal fruits ? Mixiw LoVE DUE TO THE CREATOR. And ask ye why He claims our love ? Oh, answer, all ye winds of even, Oh, answer, all ye lights above, . That watch in yonder darkening heayQUi, Thou earth, in vernal radiance gay -'*/"* As when His angels first array'd thee. And thou, O deep-tongued ocean, say' Why man should love the Mind that made There's not a flower that decks the vale, There's not a beam that lights the mountain, >* There's not a shrub that scents the gale, ' :' " ** ^ There's not a wind that stirs the fountain, There's not a hue that paints the rose, There's not a leaf around us lying, ;^ But in its use or beauty shows True love to us, and love undying I . q. Qjunw, ih2^ I H 6S ^ THE FIFTH REASEB. A Child's fibst Impression of a Stab. She had been told that God made all the stars That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood Watching the coming of the twilight on,. As if it were a new and perfect world, And this were its first eve. How beautiful Must be the work of nature to a child In its first fresh impression ! Laura stood By the low window, with the silken lash Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth H^lf parted with the new and strange delight Of beauty that she could not comprehend. And had not seen before. The purple folds Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky That look'd so still and delicate above, Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eye Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still Stood looking at the west with that half smile, As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. Presently, in the edge of the last tint Of sunset, where the blue was melted in To the first golden mellowness, a star Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight Burst from her lips, and, putting up her hands, Her simple thought broke forth expressively, — « Father, dear father, God has made a star.'' Wi]xn« il The Carbier-Pioeon. The bird, let loose in Eastern skies, when hastening fondly home, Ne'ei stoops to earth her wing, nor flies where idle warblers roam ; But high she shoots through air and light, above all low delay,' Where nothing earthly bounds her fli|;ht, nor shai?.ow dima ■y"-*.y>-- v*..w ,■-.■»* A «*p/'' *yi^i" P nUNCITLBS OF ELOCUTION. 68 Bo grant me, God, from every care and stain of passion free, Aloft, through Virtue's purer air, to hold my course to thee ; No sin to cloud, no lure lo stay my soul, as home she springs ;— Thy sunshine on her joyful way, thy freedom in her wings I MOOBI. PoLTOABP, ono of the fathers of the Christian Chnrch, raffered martjrn* dom at Bmyrna, in the year of our Lord 167, during a general persecution of the Chriatiana. *' Go, lictor, lead the prisoner forth, let all the assembly stay. For he must openly abjure his Christian faith to-day." The pmtor spake ; the lictor went, and Polycarp appeared. And totter'd, leaning on his staff, to where the pile was rear'd. His silver habr, his look benign, which spake his heavenly lot, Moved into tears both youth and age, but moved the prstor not. The heathen spake : " Renounce aloud thy Christian heresy I"— "Hope all things else," the old man cried, "yet hope not this from me." — "But if thy stubborn heart refuse thy Saviour to deny, Thy age shall not avert my wrath ; thy doom shall be — ^to die I"— "Think not, O judge I with menaces, to shake my faith in God ; If f'n His righteous cause I die, I gladly kiss the rod." — "Blind wretch I doth not the funeral pile thy vaunting faith appall?"— "No funeral pile my heart alarms, if God and duty call." — "Then expiate thy insolence ; ay, perish in the fire I Go, lictor, drag him instantly forth to the funeral pyre !'' The lictor dragg'd him instantly forth to the pyre ; with bands He hound him to the martyr's stake, he smote him with his hands. "Abjure thy God," the prsetor said, "and thou shalt yot bf ftee."— ■ **Ko/' cried tho hero "rather let death be my destiny V ^- 64 THE FIFTn READER. The prsetor bow'd ; the lictor laid with haste the torches nigh : Forth from the fagots burst the flames, and glanced athwart the sky ; The patient champion at the stake with flames engirdled stood, Look'd up with rapture-kindling, eye, and seal'd his faith ia blood To THE Passion Flower. What though not thine the rose's brilliant glow, Or odor of the gifted violet, Or dew with which the lily*s cheek is wet ; Though thine would seem the pallid streaks of woe, The drops that from the fount of sorrow flow, Thy purple tints of shame ; though strange appear ' The types of torture thou art doom'd to wear; ■ Yet blooms for me no hue like thine below. For from thee breathes the odor of a name, . ' Whose sweetness melts my soul and dims my eyes ; And in thy mystic leaves of woe and shame I read a tale to which my heart replies : In voiceless throbbing and devoted sighs ; Death's darkest agony and mercy's claim, And love's last words of grief are written in thy dyea* , " ■..-•,- -rf ;-,... •:" ■-■: ^ ••■• =.i^^!,' -,■ 'z"- "^ :^^' •.. '.:^ To spend too much time in studies is sloth ; to use them too much for ornament is affectation ; to make judgment wholly by their rules is the humor of a scholar. They per- fect nature, and are perfected by experience ; for natural abilities require study, as natural plants need pruning; and studies themselves do give ibrth directions too much at large, except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire them, and wise men use them; for studies teach not their own use — this wise men learn by observation. Read not to contradict and re* fute, not to believe and take for granted, but. to weigh and eoDsider, . , ^.H. Baopk^v- ^ \ :\\s PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTION. 65 Advice to an Affected Speaeer. What do you say? — What? I really do not understand you. Be so good as to explain yourself again. — Upon my word, I do not. — Oh, now I know : you mean to tell me it is a cold day. Why did you not say at once, " It is cold to-day ?" If you wish to inform me it rains or snows, pray say, " I rains," " It snows ;" or, if you think I look well, and you chooBc to compliment me, say, "I think you look well." " But," you answer, " that is so common, and so plain, and what everybody can say." Well, and what if they can ? Is it so great a misfortune to be understood when one speaks, and to speak like the rest of the world ? I will tell you what, my friend; you and your fine-spoken brethren want one thing — you do not suspect it, and I shall astonish you — you want common sense. ■ s . 'r -' '. : ' ' . " - Nay, this is not all : you have something too much ; you possess an opinion that you I.ave more sense than others. That is the source of all your pompous nothings, your cloudy sentences, and your big words without a meaning. Before you accost a person, or enter a room, let me pull you by your sleeve and whisper in your ear, "Do not try to sho\7 oflT your sense ; have none at all — that is your part. Use plain lan- guage, if you can ; just such as you find others use, who, in your idea, have no understanding ; and then, perhaps, ) >q will get credit for having some." La Baur&ai ,=,|ic::i .^ REMARKS TO TEACHHRS. Tt is of the utmost importance, in order to acquire a coT' red and elegant style of reading, frequently to refer the pupil to the Principles of Elocution, given in the Firsi Part. These should he frequently reviewed, and the direc tiona an^ied to the selections in Part Second. ■ ■■ 'I- m ' '. I J THE FIFTH READER. ^ •^♦4»i Fart II. SELECT LITERARY EXERCISES IN READINa ICOT' T the Find direc 1. GhARAOTER of C0LITMBU8. IRYINO. WAiiHmoTON Trvtno •wftB born in Now York, April 8, 1788 — dlod, 1880. Ah an hintoriun nnd essnviHt, (rvin^; liud no Hupcrinr and few eqiiuU among the men of his tinjc. His •' IliBtory of New Yorli," written under tlie asMunicd nnnio of Deidrich Kntckeroockor; liiu ** Hiatorv of ColunibuM," and the '*Sketch-Iiook," were among tlie earlier triumphs of lii» (renins; but his liwt and greatest work is the *' Life of Woshiugtou/' concluded just before his death. lOLUMBUS was a man of great and inventive genias. The operations of his mind were energetic, but irregular ; bursting forth at times with that irresistible force which characterizes intellect of such an order. His mind had grasped all kinds of knowledge connected with his pursuits ; and though his information may appear limited at the present day, and some of his errors palpable, it is because knowledge, in his peculiar department of science, was but scantily devel> oped in his time. His own discoveries enlightened the igno- rance of that age ; guided cotjecture to certainty ; and dis- pelled numerous errors with which he himself had been obliged to struggle. ^ 2. His ambition was lofty and noble. He was full of high thoughts, and anxious to distiuguish himself by great achieve- ments. It has been said that a mercenary feeling mingled with his views, and that his stipulations with the Spanish court were selfish and avaricious. The charge is inconsiderate and unjust. He aimed at dignity and wealth in the same lofty spirit in which he sought renown ; but they were to arise bom .. ^> 68 TB« rirrn RZAr.ER. the territories he should discover, and be commensurate in im portance. 3. He asked nothing of the soycrcigns but a command cf the countries he hoped to give them, and ii share of the profits to support the dignity of iiis commanrl. The gains that prom- ised to arise from his discoveries, he intended to appropriate in the same princely and pions spirit in which they were do manded. He contemplated works and achievements of Ijene- volence and religion, vast contributions for the relief of the poor of his native city; the foundation of churches, -wiiere mas.ses should be m\d for the souls of the departed ; and armies for the recovery of the holy sepulchre in Palestine. 4. Columl>us was a man of quick sensibihty, liable to grenfc excitement, to sudden ajisd strong iippressions, and p0vieri\d impulses. He was iii\tjral5y irritable and impetuous, and keenly sensible to injury and iajvistice; yet the quickness of his temper was counteracted by 'lie benevolence and generosity of his heart. The magnanimity of his nature shone forth through all the trovLbles of his stormy career. Though continually outraged in his dignity, and braved in the exercise of his com • as and ; though foilf^d in his plans and endangered in his person by the seditions of turbulent and worthless men, and that, too, at tiiiHS when sufferiiig under anxiety of mind and anguish of body sufficient to exasperate the most patient, he restrained his valiant and indignant spirit ; and, by the strong powers of his mind, brought himself to forbear, and reason, and even to supplicate : nor should we fail to notice how free he was from all feeling of revenge, how ready to forgive and forget, on the least signs of repentance and atonement. He has been extolled for his skill in controlling others ; but far greater praise is due to him for the firmness he displayed in governing himself. 5. His magnanimous benignity made him accessible to all kinds of pleasurable sensations from external objects. In his letters and journals, instead of detailing circumstances with the technical precision of a mere navigator, he notices the beauties of nature with the enthusiasm of a poet or a painter. 6. He was devoutly pious ; religion mingled with the whole coarse of bis thoughts and actions, and shines forth in all his <» III V . CHARACTER OF OOLtJMBDS. 60 most private and anstodied writings. Whenever he made any great discovery, he celebrated it by solemn thanks to God. The voice of prayer and melody of praise rose from his ships when they first beheld the New World, and his first action on landing was to prostrate himself upon the earth and return tiia!)k8. 1 With all the visionary fervor of his imagination, its fond- "st «.Va'; iUS fell short of reality. He died in ignorance of the real grandeur of his discovery. Until his last breath he enter- tained the idea that he had merely opeued a new way to the old renorta of opulent commerce, and had discovered some ot i\ib wild regions of the East. He supposed Hispaniola to be tii-:^ ancient Ophir which had been visited by the ships of Sol- vmou, and that Cuba and Terra Firma were but remote parts vf Asia. 8. What visions of glory would have broken upon his mind «!Ould he have known that he had indeed discovered a new continent, equal to the whole of the Old World in magnitude, »nd separated by two vast oceans from all the earth hitherto ^nowQ by civilized man I And how would his magnanimous ^irit have been consoled, amidst the afflictions of age and the •sares of peunry, the neglect of a fickle public, and the injustice of an ungrateful king, could he have anticipated the splendid empires which were to spread over the beautiful world he had discovered ; and the nations, and the tongues, and languages which were to fill its lands with his renown, and to revere and bless his name to the latest posterity I 2. The JjAitdinq of Colitmbtts. BOOEB8. I,--; Samitel Sookrs was bom in England, in 1765, and died in 1855. Hii Soetry Ims nc- great claim to originality ; but it posaesaex, in an eininebl egree, the merits of good taste, refinement, and careful composition. 1. The sails were furl'd ; with many a melting close, Solemn and slow the evening anthem rose, — Rose to the Virgin. 'Twas the hour of day .,._ ^ '< ■^^y.'. When Betting suns o'er guoun^ seas displftj 4 ^f^ip II \l ■«-i I m I m m iir'V.' 70 TBS rXTTH BEADIIL A path of glory, opening in the west To golden climes and islands of the Uest ; And human voices on the silent air Went o'er the waves m songs of gladness there I S Chosen of men ! 'Twas thine at noon of night ^ First from the prow to hail the glimmering light i (Emblem of Truth divine, whose secret ray Enters the soul and makes the darkness day I) " Pedro I Rodrigo ! there methought it shone I There — in the west 1 and now, alas, 'tis gone I-— 'Twas all a dream ! we gaze and gaze in vain ! But mark and speak not, there it comes again I It moves ! — ^what form unseen, what being there With torch-like lustre fires the murky air ? His instincts, passions, say, how like our own I Oh, when will day reveal a world unknown?" S. Long on the deep the mists of morning lay ; Then rose, revealing as they rolhiu away Half-circling hills, whose everlasting woods Sweep with their sable skirts the shadowy floods i And say, when all, to holy transport given, Embraced and wept as at the gates of heaven,— When one and all of us, repentant, ran. And, on our faces, bless'd the wondrous man,— Say, was I then deceived, or from the skies Burst on my ear seraphic harmonies ? 4. " Glory to God !" unnumber'd voices sung, — " Glory to God !'' the vales and mountains rung, Voices that hail'd creation's primal morn. And to the shepherds sung a Saviour born. Slowly, bareheaded, through the surf we bore Ihe sacred cross, and kneeling klss'd the shore. 3. Philanthropy and Charity. DR. BROWNSON. Or. 0. A. Brown-son was born at Stockbrldge, Vermont, Sept 16. 15U)8. lit toniM itt an old Nb«>fiii|[l«ail it^ooki and was broufrbt up in thv wajt \ PHILANTHBOPT AND CHARITT. 71 •f his Puritan Aneentora. Hih yonth an^ earW manhood were pnMed in the Tain purautt of relifciotik tr'tli. guided aolely "by liiii own powerful tnttrllect, antil, at lensth, by the blusninfr of God, lie inndc liis wny to tiie f^oldun portal* of the true Church. Since then, Dr. Browntion lian dcvntvd iiia gniul talents to the service of C'utiiolicity, and few men iiave done mora than he to make the truths of fuitli manifest to tite unbeliever. Ah a Cath olio reviewer, lie holds a hi^h place in the world of letters ; hut it is us • €hiii>tinn nhilosophcr, logicmn, und metuphyKicinn, that he is known to tlic Icamea of nil nations. Uis fame is, indeed^ universal, and his author it; of the highest weight ob well east as west ot the Atlantic. 1. The natural sentiment of philanthropy is, ai best, only naman love. This answers very well, when the work to be done is simply to propose grand schemes, make brilliant and eloqaent speeches, or when there are no disagreeable duties to be performed, no violent natural repugnances to be overcome ; but it fails in the hour of severe trial. Your philanthropist starts with generous impulses, with a glowing enthusiasm; and so long as there are no great discouragements, no disgusting offices in his way, and he has even a small number of admiring friends to stimulate his zeal, applaud his eloquence, flatter his pride, and soothe him for the rebuffs he meets from the world, he may keep on his course, and continue his task. 2. But let him find himself entirely alone, let him have no little public of his own, which is all the world to him, let him be thwarted on every point, let him be obliged to work iu secret, unseen by all but the All-seeing Eye, encounter front men nothing but contradiction, contempt, and ingratitude, and he will soon begin to say to himself. Why suffer and endure so much for the unworthy ? He who loves man for man's sake, loves only a creature, a being of imperfect worth, of no more worth than himself, — ^perhaps not so much ; and why shall he love him more than himself, and sacrifice himself for him? The highest stretch of human love is, to love our neighbor as we love ourselves ; and we do injustice to ourselves, when we love them more than we do ourselves. 3. Nay, philanthropy itself is a sort of selfishness. It is a sentiment, not a principle. Its real motive is not another' good, but its own satisfaction according to its nature. I seeks the good, of others, because the good of others is thr means of its own satisfaction, and is as really selfish in its pri^ciiplQ aa any otlier of our sentimeutci ; for tbero ia a l)rom) %i^::' 7i THE nrrn reader. '^\ distinction between the sentiment of philanthropy, and the dutf/ of doing good to others, — between seeking the good of others from sentiment, and seeking it in obedience to a law wliich binds the conscience. 4. The measure of tlie capacity of plulanthropy, as a senti- uicnt, is the amount of satisfaction it can bring to the pos lessor. So long as, upon the whole, he finds it more delight- ful to play the philanthropist than the miser, for instance, he will do it, but no longer. Hence, philanthropy must always decrease just in proportion to the increase of the repugnances it must encounter, and fail us just at the moment when it is most needed, and always in proportion as it is needed. It follows the law so obserrable in all human society, and helps xnost when and where its help is least needed. Here is the condemnation of every scheme, however plausible it may look, that in any degree depends on philanthropy for its success, 5. The principle the Assoclationists want for their success is not philanthropy, — the love of man for man's sake, — -but divine charity, not to be had and preserved out of the Catho- lic Church. Charity is, in relation to its subject, a supernat- nrally infused virtue ; in relation to its object, the supreme And exclusive love of God for his own sake, and man for the sake of God. He who has it, is proof against all trials ; for his love does not depend on man, who so often proves himself totally unamiable and unworthy, but on God, who is always and everywhere infinitely amiable and deserving of all love. He visits the sick, the prisoner, the poor, for it is God whom he visits ; he clasps with tenderness the leprous to his bosom, and kisses their sores, for it is God he embraces and whose dear wounds he kisses. The most painful and disgusting offices are eweet and easy, because he perfonas tbem for God, who is love, and whose love inflames his heart. Wihenever there is a service to be rendered to one of God's little ones, he runs with eagerness to do it ; for it is a service to be rendered to God himself. 6. " Charity never faileth." It is proof against all natural repugnances ; it overbomes earth and hell ; and brings God down to tabernacle with men. Dear to it is this poor beggar :!■*• i. LOVE FOB TUB CUUUCU. to ^>r it sees in him only oar Lord who had ' Mut where to laj hifl head ;" dear are the Borrowing and the afflicted, foi it sees in them Htm who was " a man of sorrows and acqaaintid with infirmity ;" dear arc these poor outcasts, for in them it beholds Him who was " scorned and rejected of men ;" dear are the wroiigfjd, the oppressed, the down-trodden, for in them it be- holds the Innocent Que nailed to the Cross, and dying to atone for human wickedness. *l And it joys to succor them all ; for in so doing, it makes reparation to God for the poverty, suflFerings, wrongs, con- tempt, and ignominious death which he endured for our sakes ; or it is his poverty it relieves in relieving the poor, his hungi it feeds in feeding the hungry, his nakedness it clothes in throw- ing its robe over the naked, his afflictions it consoles in consol- bg the sorrowing, his wounds into which it pours oil and wine and which it binds up. " Inasmuch as ye did it unto the least «f these my brethren ye did it unto me." ■> 8. All is done to and for God, whom it loves more than men, more than life, and more than heaven itself, if to love •lim and heaven were not one and the same thing. This is the principle you need ; with this prmciple, you have God with you and for you, and failure is impossible. But with this principle, Association is, at best, a matter of indiflference ; for this is sufficient of itself at all times, under any and every form of political, social, or industrial organization. He who has God can have nothing more. :; 4, Love fob the Church. ^^I\>i^ >/-*t ;*i".j DB. BBOWKSON. • V. -' -«. '**-' 4.V ^;\ 1. God, in establishing his Church from the foondatioa of the world, in giving his life on the cross for her, in abiding al- Tiays with her, in her tabernacles, unto the coflsummation of the world, in adorning her as a Bride with all the graces of the Holy Spirit, in denominating her his Beloved, his Spouse, has taught us how he regards her, how deep and tender, how infi- nite «ud iomhaustiUe, bis love for hetr^ftodwitliiwha^ love a^d 74 THE FIFTH EEACER* honor ire should behold her. He lores us with nn influtc lore, and has died to redeem us ; but he loves us aud wills our sal* vation, only in and through his Church. He would bring ua to himself, and he never ceases as a lover to woo our lovfe but he wills us to love, and reverence, and adore him only as children of his Beloved. Our love and reverence must redound to his glory as her Spouse, and gladdei her maternal heart, aud swell her maternal joy, or he wills them not, knows them not. 2. Oh, it is frightful to forget the place the Church holds m the love and providence of God, and to regard the relation in which we stand to her as a matter of no moment ! She is the one grand object on which are fixed all heaven, all earth, ay, and all hell. Behold her impersonation in the Blessed Virgin, the Holy Mother of God, the glorious Queen of heaven. Humble and obscure she lived, poor and silent, yet all heaven turned their eyes towards her ; all hell trembled before her ; all earth needed her. Dear was she to all the hosts of heaven ; for in her they beheld their Queen, the Mother of grace, the Mother of mercies, the channel through which all love, and mercies, and graces, and good things wore to flow to man, and return to the glory and honor of their Father. 8. Humblest of mortal maidens, lowliest on earth, mider God, she was highest in heaven. So is the Church, our sweet Mother. Oh, she is no creation of the imagination I Oh, she is no mere accident in human history, in divine providence, di- Tine grace, in the conversion of souls I She is a glorious, a living reality, living the divine, the eternal life of God. H«f Maker is her Husband, and he places her, after him, over all in heaven, on the earth, and under the earth. All that he con do to adorn and exalt her, he has done. All he can give he gives ; for he gives himself, and unites her in indissolabl anion with himself. Infinite love, infinite wisdom, iufioite power can do no more. 4 All hail to thee, dear and ever-blessed Mother, thori chosen one, thou well-beloved, thou Bride adorned, thou chaste, immaculate Spouse, thou Universal Queen I All hail to thee I We honor thes, for God honors thee ; we love thee, for God k>?es thee } wo obey tbee^ for thoa ever commandoflt the will of th th wr mc th( we rcc anc 001 Ja dnce occti; from hh, i to tr grace toti the •otit 'ii»W MART, QUERN Or MRRCT. 75 of tby lord. The passers-by may jeer thee ; the scrrants of the prini2e of this world may call thee black ; the daughters of the uncircumciscd may beat thee, earth and hell rise up in wrath against thee, and seek to despoil thcc of thy rich orna- ments and to sully thy fair name ; but all the more dear art thon to our hearts ; all the more deep and sincere the homn^ we pay thee ; and all the more earnestly do we pray thee to receive our humble offerings, and to own us for thy children, and watch oyer us that we never forfeit the right to call thee our Mother. 5. Mabt, Queen of Mercy. MANOAK. Jaxxb Clarehok Manoan. — Amotif^ the poets whom Ireland hu pro daced within tlio lust ton or fifteen yours, Clurence Munf^nii deservedly occiipieit a high pluce. As a trun^lutor, he wim iniiuitttblc: he translated from the lr\»\i\ tiie French, tlie German, tlio SpnniHh, the Italian, the Dan- itth, and the Kastcrn lanKUUgen, with Hiich a versatile facility aH not only to tran8fuso into hm own tongue the HubHtnnco of the original, but the grsceH of Htyle and ornament, and idiomatic cxprcHsion, winch are peculiar to the poetry of every conntrv. He frequently nurpussed the origiiuds in the fluency of hix language. Many of the poonut called ^' tranalatiouB," art tuXirvly hia ovu.—IiaUcuU of Ireland. ,;, ,. . , 1. There lived a knight long years ago, Proud, carnal, vain, devotionless ; Of God above, or hell below, He took no thought, but, undismayed, Pursued his course of wickedness. His heart was rock ; he never pray'd .. To be forgiven for all his treasons ; He only said, at certain seasons, " Mary, Queen of Mercy 1" S. Tears rolPd, and found him still the sarae^ : Still draining Pleasure's poison-bowl ; : ^? Yet felt he now and then some shame ; :. . -y "'C The torment of the Undying Worm xt •' v. > A.t whiles woke in his trembling soul ; -ii =1 - 4 ^um b«^ '■aaj^-. And thea,.thoagh poworiees tn lefonv^v:? i^m? 7« THE nFTR READER. n m Would he, in hope to appease that stemoit Ayenger, cry, and more in earnest, " Mary, Queen of Mercy I" 8. At last Youth's riotous time was gone, And lioathing now came after Sin. With locks yet brown, he felt as one Grown gray at heart ; and oft, with tean^ He tried, but all in vain, to win From the dark desert of his years One flower of hope ; yet, morn and evenii^ He still cried, but with deeper meaning, *' Mary, Queen of Mercy I" 4 A happier mind, a holier mood, A purer spirit ruled him now : No more in thrall to flesh and blood, He took a pilgrim-staff in hand, And, under a religious vow, Travail'd his way to Pommerland ; There enter'd he an humble cloister. Exclaiming, while his eyes grew moister, " Mary, Queen of Mercy !" 6. Here, shorn and cowl'd, he laid his caret Aside, and wrought for God alone. Albeit he sang no choral prayers. Nor matin hymn nor laud could learn, He mortified his flesh to stone ; For him no penance was too stem ; And often pray'd he on his lonely ^ Cell-couch at night, but still said only, " O Mary, Queen of Mercy I" I. They buried him with mass and song ' Aneath a little knoll so green ; Bat, lo I a wonder-sight I— Ere long Rose, blooming, from that verdant moand, Tlie fairest lily ever seen ; Aodf on ite petal-edges roiud . • *^ u RELIOIOUB SC£MOBIALS. RelleviDg their tranBlucent whiteness, Bid shine these words, in gold-hued brightneM^ "0 Mary, Queen of Mercy I" And, would God's angels give thee power, Thou, dearest reader, mightst behold The fibres of this holy flower Upspringing from the dead man's heart, In tremulous threads of light and pold ; Then wouldst thou choose the better part, And thenceforth flee Sin's foul suggestions ; Thy sole response to mocking questions, " Mary, Queen of Mercy 1" 71 6. Religious Memorials. eiR HUMPHREY DAVY. - - Sn HuiirwRKT Davy— an eminent English pb.ilosonhcr and chemin Oi thfl present century. lie wrote some very interesting oookB of travel. 1. The rosary, which you see suspended around my neck, is a memorial of sympathy and respect for an illustrious man I was passing through France, in the reign of Napoleon, by the peculiar privilege granted to a savant, on my road to Italy. I had just returned from the Holy Land, and had ir my possession two or three of the rosaries which are sold to pilgrims at Jerusalem, as having been suspended in the Holy Sepulchre. Pius VII. was then in imprisonment at Fontaine- bleau. By a special favor, on the plea of my return from the Holy Land, I obtained permission to see this venerable and illustrious pontiflF. I carried with me one of my rosaries. 2. He received me with great kindness. I tendered ray services to execute any commissions, not political ones, he might think fit to intrust me with, in Italy, informing him that I was an Englishman-: he expressed his thanks, but de- clined troubling me. I told him that I was just retunied from the Holy Land ; and, bowing, with great humility, oflfered him my rosary from the Holy Sepulchre. 8. He received it with a smile, touched it with his lips, gave It'.t* n THE FIFTH READKB. ¥M Ills benediction over it, and returned it into my hands, suppo» ing, of course, that I was a Roman Catholic. 1 had meant to present it to his Holiness ; but the blessing he had bestowed upon it, and the touch of his lips, made it a precious relic to nie ; and I restored it to my neck, round which it Las ever since been suspended " We shall meet again ; adieu :" and he^gave me his paternal blessing. 4. It was eigliteen months after this interview, that I went out, with almost the whole population of Rome, to receive and welcome the triumphal entry of this illustrious father of the Church into his capital. He was borne on the shoulders of the most distinguished artists, headed by Canova : and never shall I forget the enthusiasm with which he was received ; it is impossible to describe the shouts of triumph and of rapture sent up to heaven by every voice. And when he gave his benediction to the people, there was a universal prostration, a sobbing, and marks of emotion and joy, almost like the burst- ing of the heart. I heard everywhere around me cries of " The holy father 1 the most holy father I His restoration is the work of God I" G. I saw tears streaming from the eyes of almost all the women abont me, many of whom were sobbing hysterically, and old men were weeping as if they were children. I pressed my rosary to my breast on this occasion, and repeatedly touched with my lips that part of it which had received the kiss of the most venerable pontiff. I preserve it with a kind of hallowed feeling, as the memorial of a man whose sanctity, firmness, meekness, and benevolence, are an honor to his Church and to human nature : and it has not only been useful to me, by its influence upon my own mind, but it has enabled me to give pleasure to others ; and has, I believe, been some times beneficial in insuring my personal safety. 6. I have often gratified the peasants of Apulia and Cala bria, by presenting them to kiss a rosary from the Holy Se])- ulchre, which had been hallow^ed by the touch of the lips and benediction of the Pope : and it has even been respected by, and procured me a safe passage through, a party of brigaudfi^ who once stopped me in the passes of the Apennines. THE BATTLE OF CASILLON. 7t the The Battle of Carillon. O A RN E A U . F. X. GkRVKKV utanda deservedly liigh nmongst Americnn writcru n* th< • Ulior of tlio bent liiwtory «>f Ciinudj. yet written. " Tlii-* rnnk liii^ iii^t iry hoUls," t«u.v8 a OuiiiKiiun writer, " not'orily fur the jn"««t iiiforiniition it con- tains, but for the purity and per»picuity of the lunpiiagc which ho finpl<>y« to portri'v iiirt opinons of men, und thinpi* in gcnenil, con!iectotatca of the Federal Kepublic. 1. The heights of Carillon are situated in the angle formed by the discharge of Lake St. Sacrament, named River La Chute, and Lake Champlain, into which that river pours its waters. Tliese banks are of no great elevation, and their point culmi- nates at the very summit of the angle, terminating in a gentle slope on the lake side, and more abruptly on that of River La Chute, along which runs a little sandy beach about fifty yards in breadth. At the extremity of the angle, on the edge of the declivity, there was placed a small redoubt, the fire of which commanded the lake and the river, and raked the slo- ping ground along the water-course. This redoubt was con- nected by a parapet with Fort Carillon, the ruins of which are still to be seen. The fort, which was capable of corlija- ing three or four hundred men, was placed midway in the angle, and commanded the centre and right of the table-lund, as well as the level ground beneath, bordering on Lake Cham^ plain, and the St. Frederick river. The army passea lio night of the 6th — tth July, 1158, in bivouac. The enemies' fires indicated that they were in force at the ford. Tho intrench • ments, formed by zig-zag angles, were commenced on the evening of the 6th, and continued with great activity all day on fh« Vtli ; they took the fort, followed for some time the crest of the heights on the side of River La Chute, then tnrned to the right, to cross the angle at its base, following the windings of a shallow gorge Avhich intersects the table-land, and finally descended to the shallow water which extends to the lake. They might be six hundred yards in exteut, and five feet Id f ■f ■>'■ • -r "I' 80 THE FIFTH B£ADEB. t' height ; they were formed of round trees laid one on the other ; in front were placed up-rooted trees, the large branches of which, pointed at the end, formed a sort of chevaux-de-frise. 2. Each battalion having taken on its arrival the post it was to hold during the action, threw up that portion of the intrenchment destined for its protection. The men all worked with incredible ardor. The Canadians, who had been unable to obtain their hatchets sooner, only commenced in the after- noon their intrenchment in the shallow water on the Lake Champlain side. They finished on the following day about noon, just as the English made their appearance. The country in fi'ont being covered with wood. General Montcalm had all the trees fclk-d for a certain distance round, in order to have a clearer view ef the movements of the enemy. 3. Meanwhile, General Abercromby had disembarked with his whole army. He learned from some prisoners that the French liad intrenched themselves in order to await a reinforcement of 3,000 men, which the Chevalier de Levis was exj^ected to bring. He therefore resolved to attack Montcalm befoi d tho arrival of that force. The engineer whom he had sent to reconnoitre having brought him word that the French works were not yet finished, he immediately put himself in motion, and on the eveninp; of the 7th pushed forward his vanguard, under Colonel Bradstreet, to within some 1400 yards of the French. Both sides then prepared for action on the morrow. 4. The English army, exclusive of some hundreds of men left at the Chute, and to guard the boats at the foot of the lake, still numbered over 15,000 chosen men, commanded by ex- perienced officers, and it went into the combat with all the confidence given by great numerical force. The Frencli army reckoned only 3,600 men, of whom 450 were Canadians and marines ; there were no savages. Montcalm placed 300 men in charge of Fort (Carillon, thus leaving 3,300 for the defence of the intrenchments, which, from their limited extent, that force was enabled to line three men deep. The order was given for each battaUou to hold in reserve its grenadier com- piny, with a picket of infantry, and to draw them up in the rear, so as to have them in readiness to send wherever they THK BATIXE OF CARILLON. 8. fflifirht be needed. The Chevalier de Levis, who arrived that same morning, was charged with the command of the right wing, having LFider him the Canadians, who formed the ex- treme Fight, under tlie order of M. de Raymond ; the left wing was commanded by M. de Bourlamarque ; General Montcalm reserved the centre for himself. Such was the French order of battle. 5. General Abercromby fortned his army into four colnmna, so as to attack all points simultaneously. The grenadiers and the flower of the infantry, chosen to form the head of the columns, received orders to throw themselves on the intrench- ments, with bayonets fixed, and only to draw when they had leaped in over the breastworks. At the same time, a number of barges were to descend the River La Chute, to threaten the left flank of the French. At one o'clock the English columns began to move ; they were intermixed with light troops, among whom were some Indians. These savages, under cover of the trees, opened, as they approached, a mur- derous fire. The columns emerged from the woods, descended the ravine in tront of the intrenchments, and advanced stead- ily, in admirable order, the two first ajrainst the left wing of the French, the third against their centre, and the last against their right, following the foot of the hill to the strand, where the Canadians were stationed. The fire commenced by the skirmishers of the right column, and extended gradually from one column to the other, on to the left, which endeavored to penetrate into the works by the right flank of the Chevalier de Levis. That officer, perceiving the intention of this colunm, composed of grenadiers and Scottish highlanders, ordered the Canadians to make a sortie, and attack it on the flank. This attack succeeded so well that the fire of the Canadians, joined to that of the two battalions placed on the hill, obliged the column to fall back on that which was at its right, in order to avoid a double flank fire. The four columns, forced to converge a little as they advanced, as well to protect their flank? as to reach the point of attack, found themselves all close together when they gained the heights. At the same moiQeiit AOiQd thirty barges presented themselves on the BIvqi THK riFTH READER. La Chute, raenncinj^ the French left. Some cannon-shots from the fort, which sunk two «f them, and jome men sent along the ahore, sufficed to put thera to flight. General Montcalm had given orders that the enemy should be permitted to ap- proach within twenty paces of the intrenchmeats. That order was punctually executed. When the English reached the place appointed, the musketry assailed their compact masses i»ith such prompt and terrible effect, that they reeled and fell Into disorder. Forced for a moment to fall back, they never- theless recovered themselves quickly, and retu'*ned to the charge ; but, '<; getting iheir orders, they began to draw. The fire opened with great vivacity all along the line, and was long and weli k; . laiued ; but, after the greatest exertions, the assailant M wore forced a second time to retire, leaving the ground '.'/eiwd with dead. They rallied at some distance, formed their c ''^mns again, and, after some moments, rushed again on the !iii;enchments, in the face of so brisk and con- tinuous a fire as had hardly ever been seen. General Mont- calm braved all the danger like the meanest of his soldiers. From the centre, where he was placed, he darted to every point that appeared in danger, either to give orders, or conduct assistance. After unheard of efforts, the English were at length repulsed. 6. Astonished more and more by so obstinate a resistance, General Abercromby, who had thought that nothing could stand before the forces he had at his disposal, could not per- suade himself that he should fail before a force so inferior in numbers ; he thought that whatever might be the courage of his adversaries, they must eventually give way in a struggle whose violence and duration would hi' ma'; their defeat the more ruinous to them. He resolved then to continue the at- tack with energy until success should crown his efforts, and from one till five o'clock his troops returned full six times to the charge, and were each time repulsed with considerable loss. The flail ramparts that protected the French caught fire several times in the course of the action. 1. The British 'jolumus b^iring failed in their first simultaneoiis ■attack on Montcalm's wings and centre, were then brought THE BATTLE OF OABILLOK. S3 ttygctlrer ; thus united, they attacked now the right, now the centre^ now the left of the French, with no better success tiian before. Against the right their most furious assault was made, and there it was that the battle raged the fiercest. For three consecutive hours did the grenadiers and the S<^otch Mghlanders continue to charge with courage that never faltered Th«j highianders especially, under Lord John Murray, covered themselves with glory. They formed the head of a column almost right in front of the Canadians. Their light and pic- turesque costume distinguished them from all the others in the midst of smoke and fire. They lost the half of their soldiers, 5vith twenty-five officers killed or grievously wounded. But their attack, like the others, was at length repulsed, and the ieflforts of the assailants failed once more before the calm but "obstinate intrepidity of the French troops, who fought to the cries of " Vive le Roi ! Vive notreg^niral !" During these several charges the Canadians still made sorties on the flanks of the enemy, and carried ofiF prisoners, 8. At half-past five. General Abercromby, losing every ves- tige of hope, withdrew all his columns to the woods, to enable them to draw their breath ; he would make one more attempt before giving the signal for retreat. An hour after, they re- appeared, and commenced a general attack on the entire French line. All the troops took part in it, but they met the same opposition as in all the previous ;"="'pnlt8 ; and, after useless efforts, they were forced at length to yield the victory to their opponents. The English retired under cover of a cloud of sharp-shooters, whose fire, with that of the Canadians, who sallied forth in pursuit of them, was prolonged till night. 9. The French troops were exhausted with fatigue, but wild with joy. General Montcalm, accompanied by the Chevalier de Levis and his staff, went all through the ranks, and thanked them in the king's name for the conduct they had maintained through nil that glorious day, one of the most memorable in the recordb* of French valor. Being unable to believe, bow- aver, in the definitive retreat of the English, and expecting a new engagement on the morrow, he gave his orders and made his preparations to be ready to receive them. The troops i ■^^mt B4 THE Fimi RKADER. passed the night in their rcBpcctive positions ; they cleanec their aims, and prepared to commence at daybreak the com* pletion of the intrenchraents, which they strengthened with two Invtteries, one to the rigiit, with four pieces of cannon, the other to the left, with six. After some hours of expec- tation, seeing that the enemy did not appear, General Mont* calm sent out some detachments to reconnoitre. They I)roceeded some distance from La Chute, and burned an in- trcnchment which the English had commenced raising and had abandoned. On the morrow, the 10th, the Chevalier de Levis pushed on to the foot of Lake St. Sacrament with the grenadiers, the volunteers, and the Canadians ; he found only the traces of Abercromby's precipitate flight. The same night that followed the battle, that general had continued his retrograde movement toward the lake, and that movement had become an actual flight. He had abandoned on the way his tools, a part of his baggage, a great number of wounded — who were taken up by the Chevalier de Levis — and had re- embarked in all haste at the first dawn of day, after throwing his provisions tato the water. 10. ^uch was the battle of Carillon, in which 3,600 men struggled victoriously for more than six hours against 15,000 choice soldiers. The winning of that memorable day singu- larly increased the reputation of Montcalm (whom fortune seemed to favor ever since he had been in America), and in- creased stili more his popularity among the soldiers. I 8. Language of a Man op Eduoatiok. m I ^'^11 i^% COLERI DOE. Samuel Taylor Coler.loe, an English poet, died in 1834, aged 62. He was one of tlie remarkable men of }iis times, and exerted a wide and deep intellectual influence on minds of tlM his^liest class. He was decitlcdly ar. oriifinal poet, and a critic of imrivalled excellence. Coleridge's life waa aot whiit the admirers of his genius could have wi.shed. 1. What is that which first strikes us, and strikes us at once, in a man of education ? and which, among educated men, so instantly distinguishes the man of superior mind, that (as was observed with eminent propriety of the late Edmund /f LANQCAOR OF A MAJT Of KDCCATIOK. He deep ly ar. was I nee, 1, SO (as Hindi Barke) 'Ve cannot stand nnder the same archwa>dttring q Bhower of i-ain, \mthout findin^j him oulV^ 2. Not the weight or novelty of hia remarks ; not any nnusual interest of facta cominunicatfxl by him ; for we may BuppoBP both the one and the other precluded by the short- neas of our intercourse, and the triviality of the subjects The diflfcrence will be impressed and felt, though the conver8»< tiou should be confined to the state of the weather or the pavement. 3. Still iesa will it arise from any peculiarity in his words and phrases. For, if he be, as we now assume, a tvell-edu- cated man, as well as a man of superior powers, he will not fail to follow the golden rule of Julius Csesar, Avoid an un- usual word as you would a rock; unless where new things necessitate new terms. It must have been among the earliest lessons of his youth, that the breach of this precept, at all tunes hazardous, becomes ridiculous in the topics of ordinary conversation. 4. There remains but one other pouit of distinction pos- sible ; and this must be, and in fact is, the true cause of the impression made on us. It is the unpremeditated and evi- dently habitual arrangement of his words, grounded on the habit of foreseeing, in each integral part, or, more plamly, in every sentence, the whole that he then intends to communi- cate. Ho\>ever irregular and desultory his talk, there is method in the fragments. 6. Listen, on the other hand, to an ignorant man, though perhaps shrewd and able in his particular calling ; whether he be describing or relating. We immediately perceive that hia memory alone is called into action ; and that the objects and events recur in the narration in the same order, and with the same accompaniments, however accidental or impertinent, as they had first occurred to the narrator. 6. The necessity of taking breath, the eflforts of recollec- tion, and the abrupt rectification of its failures, produce all his pauses ; and with exception of the "and then," the "and there" and the still less significant '*gnd so," they coD»titut« liJcewise all his connections. ,.^i -.-_»,,. r.4«x?^.,. 86 THK FIFTH UEA.DZB. 9. Lano'-aob. nOLMrrectiy« Ifc will be difficult to escpress in letters the manner in which It is fiw* THE INDIANS. A few brief stanzas may be well einpIoy*d To speak of errors we can all avoid. Learning condemns beyond the reach of hope The carelesR churl that speaks of sdap for sdap ; Her edict exiles from her fair abode The clownish voice th&t utters rdad for rOad ; Less stem to him who calls his c6at a cdat. And Rtcers his b&at believing it a bdat. She pardon'd one, our classic city's boast, Who said, at Cambridge, most instead of iift. But knit her brows, and stamp'd her angry fo To hear a teacher call a root' a root." n 6. Once more : speak clearly, if you speak tit all ; Carve every word before you let it fall j Don't, like a lecturer or dramatic star, TVy over hard to roll the British B ; Do put your accents in the proper S] ot j Don't — let me beg you—don't say " How ?" for " Wliat f** And when you stick on conversation's burs, Don't strew the pathway with those dreadfol nn,* _ 10. The Indians. 8T0BY. JosBPH Stobt. — In 1811, Joseph Story was appointed Associate Jus- tice of the Supreme Court of the United States, and held the ofHce with iniiclj ability until \m death in 1S45. His priiicipai literary writings are contained in a collcctiou of his discourses, reviewb, and niiscelluniee. 1. There is, in the fate of these unfortunate beings, much to awaken our sympathy, and much to disturb the sobriety of qnently mispronounced, but it is a sound somewhat similar to v5. ITio proper pronunciation is vi. They, also, who give the second Bound of in the words soap, road, coai, boat, and most, come in for 8 Bmnll sharo of his lash. •Rfiot. »Root(rfit). *The drawling style in which many persons are in the habit of talking, heedle^y hesitating to think ot a word, and the mean* while supplying its place by the ucmoauiug syllable "ur," is h&n ■V" -,% ^, ^ ^r 1^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) 1.0 I.I 1.25 bi 12.8 150 1*^" mm ^ m ^ 1^ 12.5 2.2 2.0 ■WUt. Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WIST MAIN STRIET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 - xi^ "^lA. yU. > Vi 88 THR FIFTH READER. our judginc'tit ; much which may be urged to excuse their own atrocities ; much in their characters which betray us into an involuntary admiration. What cau be more eloquent than th(>ir history ? By a law of nature they seemed destined to a slow but sure extinction. Everywhere at the approach of the white man they fade away. We hear the rustling of their footsteps, like that of the withered leaves of autumn, and they are gone forever. 2. They pass mournfully by u§, and they return no more. Two centuries ago, and the smoke of their wigwams, and the fires of their councils rose in every valley, from the Hudson Bay to the farthest Florida, from the ocean to the Mississippi and the lakes. The shouts of victory and the war-dance rang through the mountains and the glades. The thick arrows and the deadly tomahawk whistled through the forests ; and the hunter's trace and dark encampment startled the wild beasts in their lairs. The warriors stood forth in their glory. The young listened to the song of other days." The mothers played with their infants, and gazed on the scene with warm hopes of the future. The aged sat down, but they wept not; they should soon be at rest in finer regions, where the Great Spirit dwells, in a home prepared for the brave beyond the western skies. 3. Braver men never lived ; truer men never drew the bow. They had courage, and fortitude, and sagacity, and perseve- rance beyond most of the human race. They shrank from no dangers, and they feared no hardships. If they had the vices of savage life, they had its virtues also. They were true to their country, their friends, and their homes. If they forgave not injury, neither did they forget kindness. If their ven- geance was terrible, their fidelity and generosity were uncon- querable also. Their love, like their hatred, stopped not this Bide of the grave. 4. But where are they? Where are the villagers and war happily conde.Tined. Such habits may easily be corrected by a littlo presence of mind, and particularly by full owing the diiection. Think twice before you speak once.- - -^ ■ ^r " ' - THE niDIAKS. eir own into an an their ) a slow lie white otstcpB, urc gone 10 more, and the Hudson ississippi nee rang rows and and tlie beasts in ry. The trs played , hopes of ot; they aat Spirit e western the bow. perscve* c from no the vices e true to sy forgave their ven- 3re uncon- I not this and war by a littlo tloD. Thiuk nors and youth ; the sachems and the tribes ; the honters and their families ? Theyhaveperished; they are consumed. The wasting pestilence has not alone done the mighty work. No, nor famine — nor war ; there has been a mightier power ; a moral canker, which has eaten into their heart cores — a plague, which the touch of the white man communicated — b poison which betrayed them, to lingering ruin. The winds of the Atlantic fan not a single region which they may call their own. Already the last feeble fcnmant of their race are pre- paring for their journey beyond the Mississippi. I see them leave their miserable homes — the aged, the helpless, the men, and the warriors — "few and faint, yet fearless still." 5. The ashes are cold upon their native hearths. The smoke no longer curls around their lowly cabins. They move on wit b slow unsteady steps. The white man is upon their heels for terror or dispatch, but they heed him not. They turn to take a last look uf their desolate villages. They ccct a la^.t glance upon the graves of their fathers. Th«»y shed no tears ; they utter no cry ; they heave no groans. . There is something in their hearts which passes speech. Tb«re is something in their looks, not of vengeance or submission, but of hard necessity, which stifles both ; which chokes all utterance ; which has no aim or method. It is courage absorbed by despair. They linger but a moment. Their look is onward. ' * 6. They have passed the fatal stream. It shall never be repassed by them, no— never. Yet there lies not between us and them an impassable gulf. They know and feel thnt there is for them stiil one remove farther, not distant nor 'iuseen. It is to the general burial-ground of their race. T. Reason as we may, it is impossible not to read in such a fate much which we know not how to interpret ; much of provocation to cruel deeds and deep resentme'nts ; much of apology for wrong and perfidy ; much of pity mingling with indignation; much of doubt and misgiving as to the past; much of painful recollections, much of dark forebodings. i-i'/.'sivrj- 90 thx fifth beaseb. 11. Indian Kames. ... . -' , SIOOURNET. Ifiw. Ln>iA H. 8MjunNET is a popular American poet«sii. 8he bM irritten no poem of length, but many of her fugitive piecea evince • light ■nd agreeable poetic talent. { t 1. Ye say, they all have pass'd away, ^ That noble race ahd brave, That their light canoes have vauish'd From off the crested wave ; That 'mid the forests where they roamM There rings no hunter's shout ; But their name is on your waters. You may not waih it out. . ■■ V 'Tls where Ontario's billow Like Ocean's surge is curPd, Where strong Niagara's thunders The echo of jthe world ; Where red Missouri bringeth Rich tributes from the West, And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps On gTcen Yirginia's breast. ■-■:-■-■} -^^ Ye say, their cone-like cabins, That cluster'd o'er the vale, Have fled away like wither'd leaTes Before the autumn gale ; But their memory liveth on your hiDi^ Their baptism on your shoro Your everlasting riverc speak Their dialect of yore. 4 Old Massachusetts wears H Withm her lordly crown, And broad Ohio bears it, Amid her young renown ; ^^l^ *'t'K;'J*- •n iro iut " wo , die Ar boi 001 -<. " ant vol wh reli '/ ^-^^ r-A ■■-M--:-' - Ch ^-.-/;?, toi ', i'f vei i th£ , '' COI :a anc con be Pn He bw a ligUt /\ J-. <^ f ..'■/'; n, YINOEMT, DBACX>N ▲ICD MABTTB. Connecticut hath wreathed it Where her quiet foliage wares, And bold Kentucky breathes it hoanc^ Through all her ancient cares. ^ :'':'r: ft. Wachusett hides its lingering Toio9 Within his rocky heart, And Alleghany graves its tone Throughout his lofty chart ; Monadnock on his forehead hoar Doth seal the sacred trust ; Tour mountains build their monument!, Though ye destroy their dust. 12. St. Yincknt, Deacon and Mabttb. UBS. ANNA JA.XEBON. Mm. 3 uiB8y fire, on th» ground strewn with potsherds, and left him there : but God sent down his angels to comfort him ; and when hi*: gcards looked into the dungeon, they beheld it filled with light and fragrance ; they heard the angels singing songs of triumph, and the unconquerable martyr pouring forth his soul in hymns of thanksgiying. He even called to his jailers to enter and partake of the celestial delight and solace which had been vouchsafed to him; and they, being amazed, fell apon their knees and acknowledged the true Qod. 8. But Dacian, perfidious as he was cruel, began to con- lider what other means might remain to conquer his nncon- t|uerable victim. Having tried tortures in vain, he determined to try seduction. He ordered a bed of down to be prepared, ^rewn with roses ; commanded the sufferer to be laid upon it, find allowed his friends and disciples to approach him. They, treeping, stanched his wounds, and dipped their kerchiefs in dis flowing blood, and kissed his hands and brow, and be- ccght him to live. But the martyr, who had held out through tuch protracted torments, had no sooner been laid npon the bed, than his pure spirit, disdaining as it were these treacher- 4»U8 indulgences, fled to heaven : the angels received him on their wings, and he entered into bliss eternal and inelTable. .Si'if kV. 18. The Seven Sleepebs of Ephesus. _ ,, MBS. JA.MK80N. 1. PtfRTiffo the persecution under the Emperor Declus, there lived in the city of Ephesus seven young tnen, who were Chris tians : their names were Maximian, Malchus, Marcian, Diony- sins, John, Serapion, and Constantine ; and as they refused to ofler sacrifice to the idols, they were accused before the tri- tuBtL Bat they fled and vsoaped to Mouat CoUm)) when V* H TBB FITTR SEAOXB. \^A-(M r Uiey bid themselres in a cave. Being discoyered, the tynuit ordered that they should roll great stones to the month of the cayem, in order that they might die of hunger, They, em- bracing each other, fell asleep, f 7 2. And it came to pass in the thirtieth year of the reign of the Emperor Theodosius, that there broke out that dangeron? heresy which denied the resurrection of the dead. The pious emperor, being greatly afflicted, retired to the interior of his • palace, putting on sackcloth and covering his head with ashes: therefore, Qod took pity on him, and, restored his faith by bringing back these just men to life— which came to pass in this manner: • ',^ liv. 3. A certain inhabitant of Ephesns, repairing to the top of Mount Coelian to build a stable for ,his cattle, discovered the . cavern ; and when the light penetrated therein, the sleepers awoke, believing that their slMifbers had only lasted for a sin* gle night. They rose up, and Malchus, one of the number, was dispatched to the city to purchase food. He, advancing cautiously and fearfully, beheld to ^is astonishment the ima^c . of the cross surmounting the city ^ief He went to anothei - gate, and there he found another cross. He fiibbed his eyes . believing himself still asleep, or in a dream ; and entering th** city, he heard everywhere the name of Christ pronouncoo openly : and he was more and more confounded. 4. When he repaired to the baker's, he offered in payment an ancient coiii^ of the time of the Emperor Decius, and they looked at him with astonishment, thinking that he had found a hidden treasure. And when they accused him, he knew not what to reply. Seeing his confusion, they bound him and dragged him through the streets with ebntnme](j^| and ho looked round, seeking some one whom he knew, btit not a face in all the crowd was familiar to him. 5. Being brought before the bishop, the truth was disclosed ,. to the great amazement of all. The bishop, the governor, and the principal inhabitants of f hQ city, followed him to the ou- trauce of the cavern, where the other six youths were found. Their faces had the freshness of roses, and the brightness of a holy light was fMroiind theu. Theodosios himself^ being iiiL» .'%-' TIMES GO BT TURNS. 95 em- formed of this great wonder, hastened to the cavern ; and one of the cleepers said to him, " Believe ns, O Emperor I fur we have t>een raised before the Day of Judgment, in order that thoQ mightest trust in the Resurrection of the Dead I" And haring said this, they bowed their heads and gave np th(;ir spirits to Qod. They had slept in their cavern for i96 ycnrs 6. Gibbon, in quoting this tradition, observes that it maj be traced to within half a century of the date of the miracle. About the end of the sixth century, it was translated from the Syriac into the Latin, and was spread over the whole of west- ern Christendom. Nor was it confined to the Christian world. Mahomet has introduced it, as a divine revelation, into the Koran. It has penetrated into Abyssinia. It has been found in Seandinavia ; — in fact, in the remotest regions of the Old World this singular tradition, in one form or another, appears to have been known and accepted. 7. The Seven Sleepers of Ephesus, extended in their cave- side by side/o>cciir perpetually in the miniatures, ancient sculp ture, and stamecl glass of the thirteenth and fourteenth cea turies. Thus they are represented in the frieze of the chape) of Edward the Confessor, at Westminster. In general| the aune of each is written overhead. .-.wrf }l i'> ^. J^ 14. — Times oo BY Turns. SOUTHWELL. ; ^ , ,, / '-^ ^'^ BoBBKT SoiiTHWBLi. was bom. A. D. 1560, and undorwont his msrtf Moni« A. D. 1595. Of all the hundroa and twenty-eight Catholic prieats pnt t«- deatk in Elizabeth^s reign, not one was more worthy of pions ooinmeinom- tion. Descended from an ancient family in Nortblk, he was edncated on the Continent, and became a Jesuit at Rome. While on the English niis- •ion, he resided chiefly at the house of Anne, countess of Amndel, who died iu the Tower of London. He was thrown into prison in 159S, wherR he remained three years, during which time he was put on the rack teu several times. Nothing oould be proved against him. excei>t what lie oon- fesned:— that he wa<< a Catholic priest, and preparea to die ibr his faitli. Such was the condition of the dungeon in which Southwell snltered \\\i long captivity, that his own futlior petitioned that he might be relcuse-i from it, although but to die. On the 2l8t of February, 1595, he was hung, drawn, and quartered at Tyburn, being subjected, during a prolongtMJ death, to those horrible tortures commonly undergone by the martyrs ol Ihit nigOt tortuvw to wbioh he replied only by rap«Me(ttjr nuduiuc tb< 9« THB Fimi READKR. nigii nf t>ip ornw. JkH'uIoH his nocmx, which posACM a solid enargr of dh> tion, iiH Well n.H a nohli; H|iiritiinl clcvution, Sotithwell Icfl behind liim tw< wnikit ii)^ proKU, which almiind in beauty and putLoH, Marj/ Jlugdak^ b'untral Tea/**, and tlifl Tiiumplia imer iMath. 1. Thk lopped tree in time may grow again, Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorriest wight may find release of pain, The driest soil suck in some moistening shower: ' , Time goes by turns, and chances change by coarse, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. 2. 8, The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow; She draws her favors to the lowest ebb; Her tides have equal times to come and go; Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest webs No joy so great but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in fine amend. , Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring; Not endless night, yet not eternal day; - ' The saddest birds a season find to sing; The roughest storm a calm may soon allay. Thus, with succeeding turns God tempereth all. That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. A chance may win that by mischance was lost; That net that holds no great takes little fish; In some things all, in all things none are cross'd; Few all they need, but none have all they wish. TJnmingled joys here to no man befall ; Who least, hath some; who most, hath never aO. ■'.-■J., > , 16. Catholic Missions m the Northwest. EXTKACTS FROM BANCROFT'S HISTORY OF THK VltlTBD BTATEt. n^KMioK Hanckiikt lia;< written the only work that deserves the tit lo o! ti>i7:j-n r>ik THE riFTB READBB. r i.>. ftrd, and one jear before the General Conri of Mnasachaietti had made proTigiona for a Collef^e. 6. I'be fires of charity were at the same time enkindled. The Duchess D'Ag^illon, aided by her uncle, the Cardinal Richelieu, endowed a public hospital dedicated to the Sou Ot Ood, whose blood was shed in mercy for all mankind. Its doors were opened, n«t only to the sufferers among the emi- grants, but to the maimed, the sick, and the blind, of any of the numerous tribes between the Kennebec and Lake Superior; it relieved misfortune without asking its lineage. From the hospital nuns of Dieppe, three were seJected, the youngest but twenty-two. to brave the famine and rigors of Canada in their pacient mission of benevolence. T. The same religious enthusiasm, inspiring Madame de lu Peltier, a young and opulent widow of Alen(;on, with the aid of a nun of Dieppe and two others from Tours, established the Ursuline Convent for girls Is it wonderful that the natives were touched by a benevolence which their poverty and squalid misery could not appall? Their education was at tempted ; and the venerable ash-tree still lives beneath which Mary of the Incarnation, so famed for chastened piety, genius, and good judgment, toiled, though in vain, for the educatioo of the Huron children. ' '• " 8. The life of the missionary on Lake Huron was simple and aniform. The earliest hours, from four to eight, were ab- aorbed in private prayer. The day was given to schools, visits, instructions in the catechism, and a service for proselytes. Sometimes, after the manner of St. Francis Xavier, Brebonf would walk through the village and its environs ringing a little bell, and inviting the Huron braves and counsellors to a con- ference. There, under the shady forest, the most solemn mysteries of the Catholic faith were subject to discussion. 9. Tet the efforts of the Jesuits were not limited to the tluron race. Within thirteen years, the remote wilderness waa visited by forty-two missionaries, members of ihe Society of Jesus, besides eighteen others, who, if not initiated, were yet chosen men, ready to shed their blood for their faitlv Twice or ihike a jear they all aeeembkd at St. Mary's; dmiag m ■ CATHOLIC MISSIONS IN TBR NORTHWEST. 99 loieiU indled. ardinal Sou Ok i. lU le emir r of tho nor; it nm tbe jest but in their le de lu the aid Bhed tho ;hat tb« ertyani I was at ,h whicli genius, ducation the rest of the time thej were scattcrcfl through the infidel tribes. 10. The first misRionaries among the Hnrons — Fathers I)e Brebenf, Daniel, and Laliemand — alt fell glurious martyrs to their devoted zeal Father Rcymbault soon after fella Tictim to the climate, and died in Quebec (1642). Hi6 osso- eiate. Father Jogoes, who with him had first planted the cross in Michigan, was reserved for a still more disastrous, though glorious, fate. He was taken prisoner by the fierce Mohawks^ and was made to run the gauntlet at three different Mohawk villages. 11. For days and nights he was abandoned to hungei and every torment which petulant youth could contrive. But yet there was consolation; — an ear of Indian corn on the stalk was thrown to the good Father ; and see, to the broad blade el was erected, with mats for the tapestry ; and there the pictures of the Saviour and of the Virgin mother were unfolded to the admiring children of the wilderness. The Oneidas alsc listened to the missionary ; and early in 1657, Chaumont reached the most fertile and densely peopled lands of the Benecas The Jesuit priests published their faith, from the Mohawk to the Genesee The Missions stretched westward along Lake Superior to the waters of the Mississippi. Two young fur-traders^ having travelled to the OATHOUO KI8BI0N8 US THE NORTHWEST. iOl '4 it on* hospi* f that } ; and f whole rimeval Jesuit, 80 elo- ; if the of that i round dch the , "Glad )ken to- B." At 1 of the precious but the through showed ecstasy y rvices oi ely as in received Bil>el was pictures bided to idas alsc Ihaumonl 8 of the leir faith. Missions rs of the id to the West fire hundred leagues, returned m 1656, attctided by a number of savages from the Mississippi valley, who demanded missionaries for their country. 4. Their request was eagerly granted ; and Gabriel Drenil* lettes, the same who carried the cross through the forestc oi Maine, and Leonard Gareau, of old a missionary among the Uurons, were selected as the first religious envoys to a land of sacrifices, shadows, and deaths. The canoes are launched ; the tawny warriors embark ; the oars flash, and words of triumph and joy mingle with their last adieus. But just be- low Montreal, a band of Mohawks, enemies to the Ottawas, awaited the convoy : in the affray Gareau was mortally wounded, and the fleet dispersed, 6. But the Jesuits were still fired with zeal to carry the cross westward " If the Five Nations," they said, "can penetrate these regions, to satiate their passion for blood ; if mercantile enterprise can bring furs from the plains of the Sioux ; why cannot the cross be borne to their cabins I" The zeal of Francis de Laval, the Bishop of Quebec, kindled with a desire himself to enter on the mission ; but the lot fell to Ren6 Mesnard. He was charged to visit Green Bay and Lake Superior, and on a convenient inlet to establish a residence as a conmion place of assembly for the surrounding nations. 6. His departure was immediate (a. d. 1660), and with few preparations ; for he trusted — such are his words — " in the Providence which feeds the little birds of the desert, and clothes the wild flowers of the forests." Every personal mo- tive seemed to retain him in Quebec ; but powerful instincts impelled him to the enterprise. Obedient to his vows, the aged man entered on the path that was red with the blood of his predecessors, and made haste to scatter the seeds of truth through the wilderness, even though the sower cast his seed in weeping. '• In three or four months," he wrote to a friend, "you may add me to the memento of deaths." 7. His prediction was verified. Several months after, while his attendant was employed in the labor of transporting tha Cttuoe, he was lost in the forest, and never seen moie. Long THE FirrH RCADSB. •fterwards, his cossock and breriary were kq)t as amnleti among the Sioux Similar was the deaih of the great Father Marquette, the discoverer of the Mississippi. Jcliet returned to Quebec to announce the discovery The unaspiring Marquette remained to preach the gospel to the Miamis, who dwelt in the north of Illinois around Chicago. Two years afterwards (a.d. 16t5), sailing from Chicago to Mackinaw, he entered a little river in Michigan. 8. Erecting an altar, he said mass after the rites of the Catholic Church ; then, begging the men who conducted his cauoe to leave him alone for a half-hour, " lu the darkling wood, Amid the cool and Bilence, he knelt down And ofi'urcd to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication." At the end of half an hoar they went to seek him, and ho was no more. The good missionary, discoyerer of a new world, had fallen asleep on the margin of the stream which bears his name. Near its mouth the canoe-men dug his grave in^he sand. Ever after, the forest rangers, if in danger on Lake Michigan, would invoke his name. The people of the West will build his monument. 17. Mabt Stuart's Last Psatee. SMYTHE. ' HcK. J. O. SifTTHK has written some of the sweetest ballads in the Kng- U»h langnnge ; those purticuhirly in connection with the Hon9« of Stnart, a!' THE DIBCOTEBT OF AMEBICA. 105 19. The Dibcovebt of Amebtca — continued. 1 On the night before the discovery of the first land, aftei the Sal^x Regina had been chanted, according to his bio- graphers, the Admiral made an impressive address to his crew His speech must have been one of the most Catholic orations ever delivered in the New World. It has not been recorded it can never be invented. We can, indeed, conceive what a lofty homily on confidence in Qod and His ever Blessed Mother snch a man so situated would be able to deliver. 2. We can imagine we see him as he stands on the darkened deck of the Santa Maria, his thin locks lifted by the breeze already odorous of land, and his right hand pointing onward to the west. We almost hear him exclaim. " Yonder lies the land 1 Where you can see only night and vacancy, I behold India and Cathay I The darkness of the hour will pass away, and with it the night of nations. Cities more beautiful than Seville, countries more fertile than Andalusia, are off yonder. 8. "There lies the terrestial paradise, watered with its four rivers of life ; there lies the golden Ophir, from which Solo- mon, the son of David, drew the ore that adoined the temple of the living God ; there we shall find whole nations unknown to Christ, to whom you, ye favored companions of my voyage, shall be the first to bring the glad tidings of great joy prQ> claimed * of old by angels' lips to the shepherds of Chaldea.' " But, alas I who shall attempt to supply the words spoken by such a man at such a moment, on that last night of expec- tation and uncertainty — the eve of the birthday cf a new world 7 4. Columbus and his companions landed on the morning of the 12th of October, 1492, on the little island which they called San Salvador. Three boats conveyed them to the shore ; over each boat floated a broad banner, blazoned with "a green cross." On reaching the land the Admiral threw him self on his knees, kissed the earth, and shed tears of joy. Then, raising his voice, ho uttered aloud that short but fervent prayer, which, after him, all Catholic discoverers were wont ''to repeat, .-•;... .■_.^,1 ^ q* _.:...........*-. ■-.• vv-rr'- 106 THE FIFTH BEiLDEB. 1 } It'.: » 'i'***'' i liJi' ■ji 5. It Ls in tho.<;c words : " O Lord God, Eternal and Omnipi otent, who hj thy Divhie Word hast created the heavens, the earth, and the sea, blessed and glorified be thy name, and praised thy majesty, who hast deigned, by me, thy humble servant, to have that sacred name made known and preached in this other part of the world !" 6. The nomenclature used by the great discoyerer, like all his acts, is essentially Catholic. Neither his own nor bis patron's name is precipitated on cape, river, or island. San Salvador, Santa Trinida'da, San Domingo, San Nicolas, San Jago, Santa Maria, Santa Marta — these are the mementoes of his first success. All egotism, all selfish policy, was utterly lost in the overpowering sense of being but an instrument in the hands of Providence. 7. After cruising a couple of months among the Bahamas, and discovering many new islands, he returns to Spain. In this homeward voyage two tempests threaten to ingulf his solitary ship. In the darkest hour he supplicates our Blessed Lady, his dear patroness. He vows a pilgrimage barefoot to her nearest shrine, whatever land he makes ; a vow punctually fulfilled. Safely he reaches the Azores, the Tagns, and the port of Palos. His first act is a solemn procession to tho church of St. George, from which the royal orders had been first made known. . r ... - ; , 8. He next writes in this strain to the Treasurer Sanchez : " Let processions be made, let festivities be held, let churches be filled with branches and flowers, for Christ rejoices on earth as in heaven, seeing the future redemption of souls.'' The court was, at the time, at Barcelona, and thither he repaired with the living evidences of his success. Seated on the royal dais, with the aborigines, the fruits, flowers, birds, and met- als spread out before them, he told to princes his wondrous tale, 9 As soon as he had ended, "the King and Queen, with all present, prostrated themselves on their knees in grateful thanksgiving, while the solemn strains of the Te Deum were poured forth by the choir of the royal chapel as in commemo* ration of some great victory V^ To place beyond any m^ THE TIBOIN IIABT'8 KNIQHT. 107 position of doabt the Catliolicitj of this extraordinary eTent, one evidence is still wanting — the official participation of tbt ■OTereign Pontiff. That it had from the outset. « . 20. Thb VntGiN Mabt's KmoHT. ▲ BALLAD or TBB OBUBAOHb ' . TH08. d'aBOT UoGXK. . ]ln ** the middle ages," there were orders of knights especially devoted to oiir BlcRsed Lady, hh well as many illustrions individuals of knightly nnk and renown. Thus the order called Servites, in France, was known a^ U» e$clave$ tU Marie; and there was also the order of "Oar Ladv ot "h' rcy,'^ for tlie redemption of captives; the Templars, too. before tneix fall, were devoutly attached to the service of our Blessea Laay.] 1. Beneath the stars in Palestine seven knights disconising stood, ^ . . ,, But not of warlike work to come, nor former fields of blood, Nor of the joy the pilgrims feel prostrated far, who see The hill where Christ's atoning blood ponr'd down the penal tree ; ' Their theme was old, their theme was new, 'twas sweet and yet Hwas bitter, — Of noble ladies left behind spoke cavalier and ritter, And eyes grew bright, and sighs arose from every iron v...i;v,,n breast, '-'■'''■■' -^:.;-y/f- \ For a dear wife, or plighted maid, far in the widowed West. 2 Toward the knights came Gonstantine, thilce noble by his birth, , And ten times nobler than his blood his high ont-shining worth ; His step was slow, his lips were moved, though not a word he spoke, ^ v i ?./ :. Till a gallant lord of Lombardy his spell of silence broke. . :" What ailethihee, Constantine, that solitude you seek? <;vlf counsel or if aid you need, we pray thee do bat speak* A i«)8 TIJR FIFTH READER. ' Or dost thoumourn, like other freres, thy lady-love afar^ Whose image shineth nightly through yon European star?" 8. Then answer'd courteous Constantlne — " Good sir, in sim- ple truth, I chose a gracious lady in the hey-day of my youth ; I wear her image on my heart, and when that heart is col^ The secret may be rifled thence, but never mast-be told. For her I love and worship well by light of morn or even, I ne'er shall see my mistress dear, until we meet in heaven ; But this believe, brave cavaliers, there never was but one Such lady as my Holy Love, beneath the btessed sun." 4. He ceased, and pass'd with solemn step on to an olive grove, And, kneeling there, he prayed a prayer to the lady of his _^, love. And many a cavalier whose lance had still maintained his own Beloved to reign without a peer, all earth's unequalled one, Look'd tenderly on Gonstantine in camp and in the fight ; With wonder and with generous pride they mark'd the 4 ^, lightning light ;, - Of his fearless sword careering through the unbeEevers' ranks. As angry Rhone sweeps off the vines that thicken on bis banks. 5. " He fears not death, come when it will ; he longcth for his love. And fain would find some sudden path to where she dwells above. How should he fear for dying, wnen his mistress dear is dead?" Thus often of Sir Gonstantine his watchful comrades said ; Until it chanced from Zion wall the fatal arrow flew, That pierced the outworn armor of his faithful bosom i : , through; ,, ;: 7 :'';:';. '"'^ ^ And never was such mourning made for knight in Palestine, As thy loynJ comrades made for thee, beloved Gonstantine IrtSf THE TOUNO CATHOLIC. lOD » bosom Beneath the royal tent the bier was guarded night and day, Where with a halo round his head the Christian champion lay; That talisman upon his breast — what may that marvel be Which kept his ardent soul through life from every error free? Approach ! behold ! nay, worship there the image of his lo?c, The heavenly Queen whc reigneth all the sacred hosts above, Nor wonder that around his bier there lingers such a light, For the spotless one that sleepeth tuaa the Blessed Virgin's Knight I ' 21. The Youno Catholio. ABBd HABTINEZ. AsBi Martinez — a native of France. His writings bear the stamp of the French national geniiia. His works are worthy of being ranked next to those of Moehler and Balmez. His " Keligion in Society, as a popular manual against the discordant but numerous errors of the day, is unrivalled. 1. What commands his attention most in the temple, is the mysterious person of the priest, the spiritual father of the whole parish, anJ with whom he is about to form the most intimate relations, — at catechism, where, during many years, he is to receive, with children of his own age, the milk of the divine word ; or in the confessional, where he will reveal the most secret movements of his heart. m: - 2. It is to the priest he is indebted — and he is reminded of it by the sight of the sacred font — for the sublime title of the child of God and of the Church ; it is from his sacred hand that he awaits the mysterious sacrament which is to unite him ^intimately to his Creator. Great is the influence of his pastor over his spiritual children. Napoleon, on his death-bed, con- fessed to his companions in exile, that the presence of the priest had always spoken to his heart. Here let every one recall the impression of his early days. 3. But to the eye of tlie young Catholic, the religious hori zon extends, and gradually reveals itself with age. Around his parish other parishes are gathered. The common father of priests and people — the priest emphaticaiiy i. ilO THE FIFTn READER. —the bishop, appears in the midst of joyful chants. 'CIi •acred hand touches the young brow, and the union, before bC close, of our youth with the mystical body of the Church be* comes still closer. 4. Beyond and above bishops, universal veneration pointi nt to him the Bishop of bishops, the universal pontiff, seated upon the immovable chair of St Peter, and forming of the one hundred and sixty millions of Catholics, scattered through- out the world, one only body, animated with the same spirit, nourished with the same doctrine, moving towards the same end. 6. He sees in the clear light of history this vast society, which no visible hand has formed or supports ; and for the destruction of which, all the known forces of the physical and moral W(trld have conspired, — surviving all hnman societies, resisting the most frightful tempests, and constantly bringing the immense majority of Christians into subjection to its laws so unyielding to the passions of men. 6. Who are the enemies, in every age, rising up against the House of the living Ood f He sees odious tyrants, the ene- mies of all restraint ; proud dreamers, who pretend to substi- tute their thought of a day for universal faith ; sectarians without a past, without a future, with no tie to bind them to each other but their common hatred to Catholic society ; — and all confessing, by the name they bear, their descent from one man, and their religious illegitimacy 7. What a powerful guarantee against the assaults of doubt is presented to the young Catholic by this fact, which is aa clear as the sun, and the evidence of which is more convincing every step we advance in the knowledge of the present and the past. He cannot refuse to believe in the Church, without saying : " In matters of religion I see more plainly, I alone, than a hundred and sixty millions of my cotemporaries and the eight or ten thousand millions of Catholics who preceded me, all as interested as I am in knowing the truth, and most of them with better advantages of becoming acquainted with it/* ■,-!:-r Cf'f' THE CHILDREN OF TOE POOR. Ill • <'> tyr> ,..*, S2. Thr Children of the Poor. LAMB. CaABT.BS Land, % natiTe of En((1and, died in 1884, afred S9. He wan both proM and poetical writer, but liin t'anio rc»ta cliicflv on liin Ka^it^n ol Elia ; tl)ei>e nre dintingtiiHlicd by a moiit delicate vein of Iiumor and vxquiHito puthoa. The foilowinj; extnict ia from a acrieH of hie papers, written with uiiich linmor and ♦^atn, atfainnt the truth of certain popular pro\T»rbi»— tha aubject in the prenent inatunco being, *' Home ia honiA, be it over so homely.'' 1 The innocent prattle of his children takes oat the sting of a man's poverty. But the children of the very poor do not prattle. It is none of the least frightful features in that con- dition, that there is no childishness in its dwellings. " Poor people/' said a sensible old nurse to us once, " do not bring up their children; they drag them up." The little careless darling of the wealthier nursery, in their hovel, is transformed betimes into a premature, reflecting person. No one has time to dandle it, no one thinks it worth while to coax it, to soothe it, to tov it up and down, to humor it. There is none to kiss away ita tears. If it cries, it can only be beaten. 2. It has been prettily said that " a babe is fed with milk and praise." But the aliment of this poor babe was thin, on- nourishing; the return to its little baby tricks, and efforts to engage attention, bitter, ceaseless objurgation. It never had a toy, or knew what a coral meant. It grew up without the lullaby of nurses; it was a stranger to the patient fondle, the hushing caress, the attracting novelty, the costlier plaything or the cheaper off-hand contrivance to divert the child, the prat- tled nonsense (best sense to it), the wise impertinences, the wholesome fictions, the apt story interposed, that puts a stop to present sufferings, and awakens the passions of young wonder. 8. It was never sung to; no one ever told it a tale of the nursery. It was dragged up, to live or to die as it happened. It bad no young dreams. It broke at once into the iron realities of life. A child exists not for the very poor as an object of dalliance; it is only another mouth to be fed, a pair of little hands to be betimes inured to labor. It is the rival, till it can be the co-operator, for food with the pare&t. It is never hii ^ 112 THE FIFTH nEAPEIl. nirth, his diTersion, his solace ; it never makes him yoang Again, with recalling his young times. The children of the very poor have no young times. 4. It makes the very heart to bleed to overhear the casual street-talk between a poor woman and her little girl, a woman Df the better sort of poor, in a condition rather above the Bqualid beings which we have been contemplating. It is not of toys, of nursery books, of summer holidays (fitting that age), of the promised sight or play, of praised sufficiency at school. It is of mangling and clear-starching, of the price of coals, or of potatoes. The questions of the child, that should be the very outpourings of curiosity in idleness, are marked with forecast and melancholy providence. It has come to be a woman — before it was a child. It has learned to go to market ; it chaffers, it haggles, it envies, it murmnrs ; it is knowing, acute, sharpened ; it never prattles. Had we not reason to say, that the home of the very poor is no home ? 23. My Life is lies the Summer Eosb. i WILDE. R. H. WiLDXwasbom in 1789; hn puased his childhood in Baltimort. •nd 8ub8e(iuently removed to Georgia ; and. althoufj^h engaged in law ana political life, devoted a Hufflcient portion ot his time to literature to mak« (t evident that he had tlie talents to assume a prond position in its ranks. Be died, in 1847, a most edifying death, in the bosom of the Catho'ic Charcht 1. My life is like the Summer rose, ' '%* - That opens to the morning sky, But ere the shades of evening close, Is scattered on the ground to diet • ' *', • Yet on the humble rose's bed. The sweetest dews ot iiight are shed ; As if she wept the waste to see; — , . J , But none shall weep a tear for me! w ... J ■ . • -'.' . . f ZCy life ig like the Autumn leaf f;: '' ] ..'^ - That trembles in the moon's pale rmyj .»^ ;^ , ,,^n. ^••: ( I TBS Bl.EB81T> BACUkWOrt, young of the ! casnal woman 3ve ih? t is not [ig that iency at price of t should marked le to be 9 go to s ; it is we not ome? Ultimora. law Bod to mak« ts ranks. Churebt • 4 .'./ Its hold is f^il, its date is brief, . Restless, and '>on to pass awajl Yet ere that leaf sliall fall and fade, The parent tree >* '" mourn .! shade, The winds b<'wail tlic '♦•iifless tre< .— But none shall uroathu u high for met My life is like the prints, which feet Have left on Tampa's desert rand, Soon as the rising tide shall beat, All trace will vanish from the saud t Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea,- But none, alas, shall mourn for mel 24. The Blessed Sacbament. FABER. ment." "Mary at the loot of tlie Cross," and the " LonterenceH," she** that he is emineutly an ascetic writer. He is also a poet of hiirh order:— •'The Cheswell Water-Lily," "Sir Luuncelot," " Kohary," "Styriaii Lftke,'* and many otlier poems, rank anions; the noblest and purest of the-- Engflish bards ; he awakens anew the lyre of the martyr Southwell aud the pious Canon Crashaw. — Metropolitan. 1. Let ns suppose it to be the Feast of Corpus Ghristi. We have risen with one glad thought uppermost in our minds It gives a color to every thing around about ns. It is health to us even if we are not well, and sunshine though the skies be dull. At first there is something of disappointment to us, when we see our dear country wearing the same toilsome look )f commonplace labor and of ordinary traffic. We feel there fs something wrong, something out of harmony in this. 2. Poor Londonl if it knew God, and could keep holydays lor God, how it might rejoice on such a day, letting the chains of work fall itcNm r>ff its countless slaves of Manmion, and giving one whole inn to the deep, childlike joy in a mystery which ii •\- 114 THE nrrn nEAr>En. It , I ,, ■ i '} i\ ■fi; I ! M !^ 1 ti i; i WQ THK FIFTH READKB. 25. The Blind Martyr. OAKUINAL WISEMAN. Hi» Eminence CAnniNAL Wipkman, tlie first Arclibislioj f We9t:nin»telf a Christian ?" he asked, negli« gently. . ^ ^,, THE BLIKD MARTTH. 119 11. " Oh, yes ; how could I deny it ?" " Tlien that meeting was a Cliristian meeting 7" " Certainly ; what else could it be ?" He wanted no more ; his suspicions were verified. Agnes, about whom Torquatus had been able or willing to tell him nothing, was certainly a Christian. His game was made. She must yield, or he would be aveuged. ' 12. After a pa-se, looking at her steadfastly, he said, " Do you Inow whither you are going ?" " Before the judge of earth, I suppose, who will send me to my Spouse in heaven." " And so calmly ?" he asked, in surprise ; for he could see no token from the soul to the countenance but a smile. " So joyfully, rather," was her brief reply. 13. Having got all that he desired, he consigned his prisoner to Corvinus at the gates of the jEmilian basilica, and left hei to her fate. It had been a cold and drizzling day, like the pre ceding evening. The weather, and the incidents of the night had kept down all enthusiasm ; and while the prefect haa been compelled to sit in-doors, where no great crowd could collect, as hours had passed away without any arrest, trial, oi tidings, most of the curious had left, and only a few mor& persevering remained past the hour of afternoon recreat'on in the public gardens. But just before the captive arrived a fresh knot of spectators came in, and stood near one of the side-doors, from which they could see all. ; ■ ; I 26. The Blind Martyr — continued, 1. As Corvinus had prepared his father for what he was to expect, Tertullus, moved with some compassion, and imagining there could be little diflBculty in overcoming the obstinacy of a poor, ignorant, blind beggar, requested the spectators to re- main perfectly still, that he might try his persuasion on her, alone, as she would imagine, Avith hia ; and he threatened heavy penalties on any one who should presume to break the •ile^M. \\ #v: 120 THE FIFTH READER. 2. " What is thy name, child ?" •' Cajcelia." " It is a noble name ; hast thou it from thy family?" ** No ; I am not noble ; except because my parents, though poor, died for Chrint. As 1 am blind, those who took care of me called me Caeca,* and then, out of kindness, softened it i ito Cajcelia." 3. " But, now, give up all this folly of the Christians, who have kept thee only poor and blind. Honor the decrees o^ the divine emperors, and offer sacrifice to the gods ; and thou Bhalt have riches, and fine clothes, and good fare ; and the best physicians shall try to restore thee thy sight." " You must have better motives to propose to me than these ; for the very things for which I most thank God and his Divine Son, are those which you would have me put away." 4. " How dost thou mean ?" " I thank God that I am poor and meanly clad, and fare uot daintily ; because by all these things I am the more like Jesus Christ, my only Spouse." • " Foolish girl !" interrupted the judge, losing patience a (ittle ; "hast thou learnt all these silly delusions already? At least thou canst not thank thy God that he has made thee sightless ?" " For that, more than all the rest, I thank him daily and hourly with all my heart." "How so ? dost thou think it a blessing never to have seen the face of a human being, or the sun, or the earth? What strange fancies are these ?" 5. " They are not so, most noble sir. For in the midst of what you call darkness, I see a spot of what I must call light, ft contrasts io strongly with all around. It is to me what tho 3un is to you, which I know to be local from the varying direction of its rays. And this object looks upon me as with a countenance of intensest beauty, and smiles upon me as ever. And I know it to be that of Him whom I love with undivided • Blind.. M Ml I THE BLIND HABlTR. 121 n though care of ened it ns, who crees o^ nd thoa and the ne than }od and me put md fare lore like tience a dy? At ide thee aily and ave Reen What midst of ill light, rhat the varying as with as ever. ndivided affection. I would not for the world hare its splendor dimmed by a brighter snn, nor its wondrous loyeline(>. confounded with the diversities of other features, nor my gaze on it drawn aside by earthly visions. I love him too much, not to wish t J see him always alone." 6. " Come, come ; let me hear no more of this silly prattle Obey the emperor at once, or I must try what a little pai will do. That will soon tame thee." *' Pain I" she echoed, innocently. '^ Yes, pain. Hast thou never felt it ? hast thou never been hurt by any one in thy life ?" ** Oh, no ; Christians never hurt one another." "7. The rack was standing, as usual, before hun ; and he made a sign to Catulus to place her upon it. The executioner pushed her back on it by her arms ; and as she made no re- sistance, she was easily laid extended on its wooden couch. The loops of the ever-ready ropes were in a moment passed round her ancles, and her arms drawn over the head. The poor sightless girl saw not who did all this ; she knew not but it might be the same person who had been conversing with her. If there had been silence hitherto, men now held their very breath, while Csecelia's lips moved in earnest prayer. 8. " Once more, before proceeding further, I call on thee to sacrifice to the gods, and escape cruel torments," said the judge, with a sterner voice. " Neither torments nor death," firmly replied the victim, tied to the altar, " shall separate me from the love of Christ. I can offer up no sacrifice but to the one living God, and its ready oblation is myself." 9. The prefect made a signal to the executioner, and he gave one rapid wlurl to the two wheels of the rack, round the windlasses of which the ropes were wound ; and the limbs of the maiden were stretched with a sudden jerk, which, thongh not enough to wrench them from their sockets, as a further turn would have done, sufficed to inflict bi excruciating, or more truly, a racking pain, through all her frame. Far more grievous was this from the preparation and the cause of it being uneeen, and from that additional suffering which dark* ■ 1 Pi X 122 THE FIFTH ERADRK. 3t 1 u inflicts. A quivering of her features and a sadden p«1* ness alone gave evidence of her suffering. 10. " Ha 1 ha I" the judge exclaimed, " thon feelest (bat 1 Come, let it suffice ; obey, and thou shalt be freed.'' She seemed to take no heed of his words, but gave vent to her feelings in prayer : " I thank thee, O Lord Jesus Christ, that thou hast made me suffer pain the first time for thy sake. I have loved thee in peace ; I have loved thee io comfort ; I have loved thee iu joy ; and now in pain I love thee still more. How much sweeter it is to be lik^ thee, stretched upon thy cross even, than resting upon the hard couch at the poor man's table I" 11. "Thou triflest with me!" exclauned the judge, thor- oughly vexed, " and makest light of my lenity. We will try something stronger. Here, Catulus, apply a lighted torch to her sides." A thrill of vdis^st and horror ran through the assembly, which could not help sympathizing with the poor blind crea* ture. A murmur of suppressed indignation broke out from all sides of the hall. 1^. Csecelia, for the first time, learnt that she was m the midsi of a crowd. A crimson glow of modesty rushed into her brow, her face, and neck, just before white as marble. The angry judge checked the rising gush of feeling ; and all listened in silence, as she spoke again, with warmer earnestr ness than before : " my dear Lord and Spouse I I have been ever true and faithful to thee ! Ijet me suffer pain and torture for thee ; but spare me confusion from human eyes. Let me come te thee at once ; not covering my face with my hands in shame, when I stand before thee." 13. Another muttering of compassion was heard. " Catulua I" shouted the baffled judge, in fury, " do your duty, sirrah I What are you about, fumbling all day with tha torch ?" It is too late. She is dead." Dead 1" cried out TertoUos ; "dead, with one tarn of ih$ wliefil? Impossible r* ^^ « u ien pttl* St thai 1 I Tent to 3 Christ, for thy thoe in in I love k*» thee, he hard je, thor- 1 will try torch to issembly, ind crea* >at from me midsi er brow, and all earnest* ;rae and or thee ; come te a. shame, do youf rith tha TtfK BLIND MAItTTR. 123 14. Catnlas gare the rack a torn backwards, and the body remained motionless. It was true ; she had passed from f^^ rack to the throne, from the scowl of the judge's countcuan^^ to her Spouse's welcoming embrace. Had she breathed out her pure soul, as a sweet perfume, in the incense of her prayer ? or had her heart been unable to get back its blood, from the intensity of that Brst virginal blush ? 16. In the stillness of awe and wonder, a clear, bold voice cried out, from the group near the door, " Impious tyrant, dost thou not see that a poor blind Christian bath more power over life and death than thou or thy cruel masters ?" " What ! a third iime in twenty-four hours wilt thou dare to cross my path ? This time thou shalt not escape." 16. These were Corvinus' words, garnished with a furious imprecation, as he rushed from his father's side, round the in< closure before the tribunal, towards the group. But as he ran blmdly on he i ick against an officer o^ herculean build, who, no doubt quite accidentally, was advancing from it. He reeled, and the soldier caught hold of him, saying : " You are not hurt, I hope, Corvinus ?" " No, no ; let me go, Quadratus, let me go." It. "Where are you running to in such a hurry? Can ] help you ?" asked his captor, still holding him fast. " Let me loose, I say, or he will be gone.'* "Who will be gone?" " Pancratias," answered Corvinus ; "who just now insulted my father." " Pancratins !" said Qnadratus, looking round, and seeing that he had got clear off ; "I do not see him." And he let him go ; but it was too late. The youth was safe at Dioge- nes' in Snburra. 18. While this scene was going on, the prefect, mortified, ordered Catulus to see the body thrown into the Tiber. But another officer, muffled in his cloak, stepped aside and beckoned to Catulus, who understood the sign, and stretched out his hand to receive a proffered purse. " Out of the Porta Capena, at Lucina's villa, an honr aftci iuascti" said SobBstiui. • • • ■ - ■ ■« «™e;«tf;^n;.^^^, ., . • ^.^wkt I 12i THE FIFTH READBB. i;t IH 19. " It shall be delivered there, safe," said the executioner. " Of what, do yoa think, did that poor girl die V asked a ipcctator from his companion, as they went out. " Of fright, I fancy," he replied. " Of Christian modesty," interposed a stranger, who passed tbom. 27. Peaoe Tribunals. ABOUBIBHOP KENKIOK. Fraitcis Patrick Kenrick, D. D., archbishop of BHltimore, was horn In Dublin, in 1797. In biblical and thcolofficnl lcnrniti(r, lie has no Biipurior among the hierarcliy of the Church. His "Doxmutic Theology" and •'Primucy of the Apostolic See," and others of liis voluminous works, aro everywhere received as stundiird authorities. Hi» greatest work, however, Is his Translation of the Holy Bible, with notes and comments, ^t. is worthy of remark that the brother of this eminent prelate is Archbifhop «f St. Louis, and has also written some works of merit. 1. Philanthropists often speculate on the propriety of e&tab- lishing a peace tribunal, to settle, without the proud control of fierce and bloody war, the various controversies which may •Arise among nations ; yet they seldom reflect that such a tri- bunal existed in the middle ages, in the person of the sovereign pontiflF. The warlike spirit of the northern b^ibarians, which Btill survived in their descendants, should be understood in or- der to fully appreciate the services which the.popes in restrain- bg it rendered to society. 2. Their efforts were not always successful, but their ment was not, on that account, the less in endeavoring to stem the torrent of human passion ; and their success was sufficient to entitle them to the praise of having effectually labored to substitute moral and religious influence for brute force. 3. As ministers of the Prince of Peace, they often inter- posed spontaneously, and with arms powerful before God, opposed the marauders who rushed forward to shed human olood. The fathers of the Council of Rheims, in 1119, under the presidency of Calistus II., were engaged lii ecclesiastical deliberations, when the pontiff communicated to them over taioa of peace which bad reached him fron I! fIBST BATTLV OK THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM. 25 cutioner. asked a 10 passed M born In no BuperioT logy" ond works, aro c, however, Jilts, 't. ia ^rcho'iJ-Jiop ^of eafcab- d control hich may uch a tri- sovereign ns, which )od in or- i restrain- leir merit stem the fficient to ibored to ce. ten inter- ore God, id human 19, under Icsiastical lem over 4. He informed them that he mast repair to the place which the emperor had appointed for an interview, promising to return and close the Council. " Afterwards," said he, *' 1 shall wait on the King of England, my godchild and reluti~(^ and exhort him, Count Theobald his nephew, and others wiio arc at variance, to come to a reconciliation, that each, for the love of God, may do justice to the other, and according to the law of God, all of them being pacified, may abandon war, and with their subjects enjoy the security of perfect peace." 5. Leibnitz regarded this mediatorial office of the pope as one among the most beautiful evidences of Christian influence on society, and expressed the desire, which, however, he did not hope to sec realized, that a peace tribunal were established anew at Rome, with the Pontiff as its president, that the con- troversies of princes, and the internal dissension of nations might, by the mild influence of religion, be decided without bloodshed. ** Since we are allowed to indulge fancy," said he, " why should we not cherish an idea that would renew among OS the golden age ?" 28. FiBST Battlb on the Plains of Abbaham. > GAKNEAU. 1. At daybreak the English army was drawn up in battle array on the plains of Abraham. When, at six in the morning, M. de Montcalm received the unexpected news of this landing, he conld not believe it. He thought it was some separate de- tachment, and, carried away by his usual vivacity, he set for- ward with only a part of his troops, without making his arrangements known to the governor. 2. At this moment the army of Beau Port found itself reduced to about 6,000 fighting men, because sundry corps had bcea detached from it. General Montcalm took with him 4,500 men, and left the rest in the camp. THiese troops defiled by the bridge of boats placed across the Biver St. Charles, entered the city by Palace Gate, on the north, and marching throogh, 126 THE FIfTfl HUDML I ' > I went out by St John's and Si Louis' Gate, on the wwt, l« the i>Iains )f Ahrahum, where, at eight o'clock, they caioc in Bight of the enemy. Montcahn perceived, not without sur- prise, tjje entire Eiijjjllsh army drawn up in line to receive him. By a fatal precipitation he resolved to make the attack, not- withstanding nil advice to the contrary, despite the opinion even of his niajor-gcncral, tho Chevalier de Montrcuil— who represented to him that with such a far inferior force they were in no condition to attack — and despite the positive orders of the governor, who wrote him not to open fire till all the forces were brought together, and that he himself would march to his assistance with the troops left to guard the camp. But the general, fearing lest the English should intrench them- selves on the plains, and render their position impregnable, gave the order for battle. Tho English were two to one y they numbered 8,000 men present under armc. But Mont- calm was willing to try his fortune, hoping that success might again crown his audacity, as it did before at Carillon. 3. He drew up his men in a single line three men deep, the right on St. Foy's, and the left on St. Louis' road, without any reserved corps. The regulars, whose grenadiers were with M. de Bougainville, formed the centre of this line. The govern- ment militia oi Quebec and Montreal occupied the right, that of Three Rivers and a portion of that of Montreal formed the left. Platoons of marines and Indians were thrown on the two wings. Then, without giving time for the troops to draw breath, he gave the order to advance on the enemy. They rushed forward so precipitately that the line broke, and the battalions were found one in advance of the other, so that the English thought they were advancing in columns, especially those of the centre. 4. General Wolfe's army was drawn up in a square in front of the heights of Neveu, the right resting on the wood of Samos, and a small eminence on the verge of the precipitous bank of the St. Lawrence ; the left on the house of Borgia. One of the sides of the square faced the heights ; another looked toward the St Foy road, along which it was drawn up ; and a thhrd was turned towards the wood of Sillery. Wolfe had weftt, to came in out 8ur- >ivc liim. icU, iiot- opiiiioD III— who rce tliey re orders 1 all the M march ip. But ch them* regnable, to one ; it Mont- )S8 might leep, the , without Neve with e govera- ght, that formed irown on roops to enemy, 'oke, and 60 that specially e in front f Saraos, bank of One of looked np ; and olfe had FTBST BATTLE Oil THE PLAINS OP ABBAnAlf 127 coror/'<»nc(Kl ftlo^g 'he Wt Foy road a line of flmall earthco redoubts, wliich were c«krri«l burkw.inl in a scmirircle. Sil regiments, the Louisburg grenadiers, and two pieces of cannon formed the side facing the city. The two other sides were formed by thrre full regiments, one of which was the 78th Scotch IlighlaiitltTS, fifteen or sixteen hundred strong. An- other regiment, in eight divisions, was placed in reserve in the centra* of the lines. 5. The action commenced with the Canadian skirmishers and some Indians. They kept up a brisk fire on the British line, which bore it bravely, though with considerable loss. General Wolfe, convinced that, if he were beaten, retreat was impos- sible, passed along the ranks of his army encouraging his men to fight. He caused them to double-load their guns, and ordered them not to fire till the French came within twenty paces. The latter, who had lost all their firmness by the time they came within reach of the English, opened in an irregular manner, and in some battalions, too far oft', a platoon fire which took little eflTect They, nevertheless, continued to ad- vance ; but, on coming within forty paces of their adversaries, they were assailed by so murderous a fire, that, with the dis- order in which they already were, it was impossible to regulate their movements, and in a little time they all fell into the strangest confusion. General Wolfe seized that moment to attack in his turn, and, although abeady wounded in the wrist, he led his grenadiers to charge the French with the bayonet He had only taken a few steps in advance, when he was struck by a second ball, which pierced his breast. He was carried to the rear, and his troops continued the charge, most of them being unaware of his death till after the battle : they set oti in pursuit of the French, part of whom, having no bayonets, gave way at the moment, despite the efforts of Montcalm and his principal officers. Some one who was near Wolfe cried out, " They run 1" " Who ?" demanded the dying general, and his face lit up with sudden animation. " The French I" was the reply. " What, already ? Then I die content I" And so saying, the hero expired. 6. Almost at the same moment Colonel Carleton wat :> n •i'-"-'.^:- '.^-ta'^'I- 128 THE Tirrn readcb. ^ 'i : vrouDdcd in the head ; Brigadier-General Monckton having received a shot, left the field, and General Townshend, the third in command, succeeded him in command of the army. 7. The victors then pressed the fugitives on all sides, bayonet or sabre in hand. Little more resistance was offered, except from the skirmishers. The chief of brigade, Senesergnes, and M. de St. Ours, who filled the same grade in that battle, fell, mortally wounded, into the power of the enemy. General Montcalm, who had already received two wounds, did all he could to rally his troops, and regulate the retreat ; he was be- tween St. Louis' Gate and the heights of Neveu, when a shot; penetrating his loins, threw him from his horse, mortally wounded. He was carried by some grenadiers to the city, into which a part of the French threw themselves, while the greater number fled towards the bridge of boats on the River St. Charles. The governor arrived from Beau Port just as the troops were disbanding. He rallied 1,000 Canadians between St. John's and St. Louis' Gates, put himself at their head, and by a furious fire arrested the course of tlie enemy for some time, which saved the fugitives. The rout was com- plete only among the regular troop-;. The Canadians con- tinued to fight as they retreated ; favored by some small woods or thickets by which they were surrounded, they forced several English corps to retire, and only yielded at length to superior numbers. It was from this resistance that the victors sustained the heaviest loss. Three hundred Scotch highland- ers, returning from the pursuit, were attacked by the Canadians on the coteau St. Genevieve, and beaten back, until they were rescued by two regiments sent to their assistance. 8. It was only at eight o'clock that Colonel Bougainville, who was at Cap Rouge, received orders to march to the plains of Abraham ; he immediately set out with nearly half his troops, who were dispersed almost as far as Pointe-au-Trembles, l»ut being unable to arrive in time to take part in the battle, and seeing that all was lost, he retired. The English did not deem it expedient to profit by the confusion of their adversaries to penetrate into Quebec, or take possession of the cami) at Beau Port, which might afterwards be retaken by the troops .->fj .'-^_-V f-i*|<--\' •*' -J' having od, the riny. >ayonet except les, and tie, fell, general I all he was be- a shot; nortally he city, hile the le River it as the between sir head, emy for 'as com- ins con- \e small ly forced ngth to victors ighland- inadians key were fainville, )laiii9 of troops, J)les, l>ut Ittle, and lot deem Varies to 3amp at troops :< •• 8B00ND BATTLE ON THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM. 129 who had retired into the city. Such was the issue of the first battle of Abraham, which decided the possession of a country almost as large as the half of Europe. 28J. Second Battle on the Plains of Abbaham. GARNBAU. 1. Levis, who had gone forward with his staflf to reconnoitef in person the English position on the heights of Neven, had no sooner perceived this movement tnan he sent orders to his troops to hasten their march to the plains of Abraham. The English general, seeing as yet but the van of the French army, resolved to attack it without delay, before it could re- cover from the disorder of the march ; but he had to deal with a man of rare intelligence and of almost imperturbable coolness. He drew up his troops in front of the heights of Neveu ; his right rested on the coteau St. Genevieve, and his left on the steep which there bounds the River St. Lawrence ; his entire line was about a quarter of a league in length. Four regiments, under the orders of Colonel Burton, formed the right, placed on the St. Foy Road ; four other regiments, with the Scotch highlanders, under Colonel . Eraser, formed the left, on the St. Louis road. Two baitalions were held in reserve. Besides these two battalions, the right flank of the army was covered by a body of light infantry under Major Balling, and the left flank by Captain Huzzen's company of rangers, with a hundred volunteers under Captain McBonald. General Murray gave the order to march forward. 2. The French vanguard, composed often companies of grena- diers, was put in order of battle, part on the right, in a has- tion raised by the English the year before, part on the left, in Bumont's Mill, with the houses, tannery, and other build- ings which surround it, on the St. Foy road. The rest of the army, having learned what was going on, had quickened its paces more and more as it advanced ; the three brigades of the right were scarcely formed when the English commeutH the attack with rigor. 130 THE FIFTn READF.R. 3. General Murray felt the importance of seizing Damont*8 Mill, covering as it did the pass by which the French gained the field of battle, and he caused an attack to be made on it with superior forces. He hoped that by crushing the five com- panies of grenadiers by whom it was defended, he might then fall on the soldiers marching past, separate them from the battle- field and cut oflf the right wing engaged on the St. Louis road. 4. Levis, in order to counteract his design, removed his right to the entrance of the wood on its rear, withdrew the grena- diers from Dumont's Mill, and caused them to fall back, so aa to lessen the distance between them and the advancing bri- gades. It was at this moment that Bourlamarque was griev- ously wounded by a cannon-ball, which killed his horse under him. His soldiers, left without orders, and seeing the grena- diers engaged in r xurious and unequal contest, took it on themselves to go and sustain them, and fell into line at the very moment when the enemy was directing great part of his strength, and nearly all his artillery, on that very point ; the cannons and howitzers, charged with ball and case-shot, plowed the space occupied by that wing, which reeled under the most murderous fire. The grenadiers rushed forward at fall charge, retook the mill after an obstinate struggle, and maintained themselves in it. These brave soldiers, commanded by Captain d'Aiguebelles, nearly all perished that day. 5. While these events were passing on the left, General Levis caused the soldiers of the right to retake the bastion whicb they had abandoned in falling back. The Canadians of the Queen's Brigade, who occupied this small redoubt and the pine< wood on the edge of the capp, recovered their ground, and soon charged in their turn, supported by M. de Saint Luc and some Indians. The contest became then no less violent on that part of the line than on the left. All the troops had arrived on the field of battle, and the fire was quicker on both sides. The militiamen were seen lying down to load their arms, rise after the discharge of the artillery, and rush forward to shoot the artillerymen at their guns. Those of Montreal fought with admirable courage, especially the bftt* talion commanded by the brave Colond Rh6ttmtte, Wh\> t^U II 1^ SECOND BAITLE ON THE PLAIN8 OF ABRAHAM. 131 killtil. This brigade, placed in the centre of the French line, was commanded by M. dc Repentigny, It alone arrested in open field the centre of the English army, advancing at full speed, having the B,dvantage of height. It repulsed several charges, and slackened by its firmness and the briskness of ita lire the pursuit of the enemy, who was pressing the grenadier of the left, wad subsequently facilitated for the latter, by tRoveriag them, the means of marching forward anew ; in short, this brigade was the only one that kept its ground throughout the whole of that desperate struggle. 6. Meanwhile the attack which had made tli ' English masters for a moment of the positions held by the French vanguard at the beginning of the battle, had been repulsed, and the latter had everywhere regained their ground. Thus the aggressive movement of Gen. Murray by the St. Foy road had failed, and that check permitted the French to attack him in their turn. 7. LeviS) having observed that the English had weakened their left in order to give greater strength to their right, re- solved to profit by it. He gave orders to his troops to make a bayonet-charge on the left wing of the enemy, and to drive it from the St. Louis road to that of St. Foy ; by this maneuver they outfla'iiked the whole English army, hurled it from the height of the coteai^ St. Genevieve, and cut oflF its retreat to the city. Colonel Poularier darted forward at the head of the Boyal Roussillon brigade, attacked the English with im- petuosity, pierced their ranks through and through, and put them to flight. At the same time their light troops gave way, and the fugitives cast themselves backward and forward from the centre of their army, which interrupted its fire. Levis availed himself of this disorder to charge with his left, which, m its turn, pierced the enemy's right, drove it on before it, and threw it into complete disorder. 8. They then threw themselves everywhere in pursuit of the English ; but their rapid flight, and the short distance to the cify, did not permit them to drive them into the River St. Charles. Yet General Levis might still have carried out his plon, were it not for the blunder of an officer whom he sent to tell the Queen's Brigade to support the charge of the Eoyal ■i ■r 9 132 THE nrm beadeb. Roussillon on the right, and who, instead of having that movement executed, had it placed behind the left wing. 9. The English left in the hands of the victors all their ar- tillery, their ammunition, the tools they had brought to mako intrenchments, and a part of their wounded. Their losses were cousiderable ; nearly a fourth of their soldiers had been killed or disabled. " Had the French, less fatigued, been able to attack the city before it had time to recover from the con- fusion, it would probably have fallen into the hands of its former masters," says Knox, " for such was the confusion that the English forgot to man the ramparts, sentinels deserted their posts, the fugitives ran for safety to the Lower Town, and the gates were even left open for some time." But more could not be expected from the conquerors. To oppose tho twenty-two cannons of the enemy they had had only three small field-pieces, drawn with great difficulty through the marshes. They, too, had sustained great losses, having been obliged to form and remain long stationary under the enemy's fire. They counted four hundred officers killed or wounded, among whora was a brigadier-general, six other officers of rank, and the commander of the Indians. 10. The two opposing armies were nearly equal in strength, because Levis had left several detachments in charge of the artillery, the boats, and the bridge over the River Jacques Cartier, so as to secure his retreat in case of a failure. The cavalry had taken no part in the action. ; 29. The Spirit of the Age. CUM MINOS. Keverend Dr. Ccmuinos, the lenrned and accompliahed pastor of St. Stephen's Church, New York, has, in his leisure moments, contributed to the polite literature of the day, both in prose and poetry. Many of iiitt pocjns are real gems; such as prove the author, had he devoted h.itnsoif to poetry, misflit have taken the nrst rank among the poets of his country. — Dr. Jii'Otonwn, , 1. A WONDERFUL gcnius is the Spirit of the Age I No mat- ter how U'ue or how much needed a maxim may be, one is re- minded of the danger he incurs in uttering it, by the awful vranung that it is not in accordance with the Spirit of the '■■■?■•■ ,. .t THE SPIRIT OF THB AOB. 133 that of St. kited to of h'm isolf to kutry." |o mat- is re- awful lof the Age. The Spirit of the Age knows all things, and has an opinion to express on all subjects — past, present, or future. It is a thousand pities that so learned a spirit can ncTer be tangibly taken hold of and made to speak for himself. But, like certain other spirits, though always busy at work, he is never seen, and though quoted by everybody, never speaka himself. Still, as we do not bear him unlimited veneration, we take the liberty sometimes to bring him fairly before us, in the form we imagine his vague and unsettled nature would choose, were he to become visible. 2. In these instances the great Genius presents himself adorned with a face very much like that of an ape, for his speech imitates wisdom and truth precisely as a monkey imi- tates a man. The body, half human and half Satanic, winds oS in a serpentine manner, emblematic of the crookedness of his philosophy. On his head, in lieu of the Socratic bays, we discern a little Red Republican cap dashed slightly on one side, to make him look interesting ; under his arm he carries a wonderful dictionary, compiled from the leading socialist, progressive, ultra-democratic periodicals of the day. 3. From this book of wisdom, the obliging Genius answers, without stopping to take breath, all the possible difficulties of every art, science, and creed, in a manner which would put all the gray-beard philosophy of olden times to the blush. Noth- ing is too high or too profound for him. Yet, to tell the truth, whenever he affirms a thing, we have a shrewd suspicion that he knows he ought to deny it ; and whenever we hear hun cry loudly for a measure as good, we feel pretty sure that secretly he understands it to be an evil. 4. What he says may often seem plausible enough, but wo prefer to look at his professions more searchingly, and discover what he means. Thus, for example, when he opens his dic- tionary at the word Liberty, and reads a brilliant passage de- scriptive of its greatness and glory, we marvel at his keeping a serious face, and suspect that, were he to state honestly what he means, it would sound very much in this fashion : " Gentle* men, Liberty means leave for me to pick joor pocket, and foi yoa-— nut to complaiiL'' 134 THF. FirTH IlEADER. 6. He tarns over a leaf of his book, and tells us of the [Ail- osopliy of his enlightened school. We translate his definition of philosophy, and it avers that philosophy is the art of prov- ing that two and two, not unfrequently, make five ; that black in many cases looks exceedingly like white, and that persons who wish to preserve their countenances from being burnt bj the sun ought to wear a thick veil, especially at twelve o'clock at night. Does the Genius speak of the upwardness of modern progress ? Then, to our understanding, he means that prog- ress is a faithful imitation of the motion of a crab going down hill. He descants upon the comforts of <>quality. 6. Understood as he means it, no matter what he may say, equality consists in the very pleasant process of cutting oflF the heads of the tall men, and in pulling out the small men, as one might do a spy-glass, so that both become of a size. And when he searches his dictionary to give us the true meaning of his favorite word. Fraternity, his warm description of the peace which it produces puts us in mind of the famous Kil- kenny cats, who fought until they had eaten each other np, all except the tips of their respective tails, which they still wagged in token of defiance. 7. Guided by this key to the true meaning of the learned Genius of the Age, we look to him for an answer to the ques- tions proposed higher up, and we have no doubt that his true view of the case would embody itself in solutions equivalent to the following: "Religion and society," he would say, "aro two orders, one opposed to the other. Religion was made, of course, by the Almighty ; it begins at the altar, ends at the holy-water font at the door, and is bounded by the four walls of the church, The period of its duration is from Sun- day morning until Sunday evening. Society was invented by the Devil, and it rules the week from Monday morning until Saturday night. Business, politics, and amusements, are thiogsi that lie beyond the verge of morality, and the control ol re- ligion. He who pretends to be religious anywhere but M»ide of the church is a bigot, a hypocrite, a man of the Dark Ages ; and he who outside of the church suits his ooDTeiueiice by canmngly cheatiLg, smoothly lying — ^playiiig» in sk6rt, thf DRATn OF ALONZO T)« AOUILAR. 13.S confidence nuin — is a snifirt man ; in fact, something of an hoDorable man ; and, in fact — if ho take care not to be foond out — he may be one of the most remarkable men of hia age and country." cges; by th« 30. Death of Alonzo db Aouilab. PKESOOTT. Wm. H. PBNooTr— a distinguished American historian, bom in 179ff. 'While all due prui.^e \» given him for the merits of his two great works, ♦' Ferdinand and Inabella," and tiie " Conquest of Mexico," it is much to be regrcited that relijficurt prejudices have in mony instances betrayed him Into grievous error, as well as into gross injustice. " We say it the more freely, as it in almost the only stuiu on an otherwise faultleixt book— a dark or rather a collection ot spots, on the sun. We regret this fault the rthy t Jil. Biv. Dr. Spcuding. «pot, or nitiier a collection or sn more, as such prejudice is wholly nhworth m'ud of Mr. Prescott." the enlightened and moderats 1. For a lo-g period, the south of Spain was occupied by the Moors, the city of Qranada being their capital. They mnch seizing pursuit r would bitterly Buppon ;fia' fol- of Ci- np. and re- rugged 5th they natural aluable alter, at to the the rich rrsed in llessness was in leir wily ;o force heeded mt mo- le could blves no Chris- ^ed into tion and there- I around, DEATH or ALONZO DB AOXHLAB. they poured tl rough the rocky defiles of the inclosnre on the astonished Spaniards. 8. An unlucky cxplosicn, at this crisis, of a cask of pow der into which a spark ^ ^« accidentally fallen, threw a broad glare over the scene, and revealed for a moment the situation of the hostile parties — the Spaniards in the utmost disorder, many uf them without arms, and staggering under the weight of their fatal booty ; while their enemy were seen gliding, like so many demons of darkness, through every crevice and avenue of their inclosures, in the act of springing on their devoted victims. 9. This appalling spectacle, vanishing almost as soon as seen, and followed by the hideous yells and war-cries of the assailants, struck a panic into the hearts of the soldiers, who fled, scarcely offering any resistance. 10. The darkness of the night was as favorable to the dioors, familiar with all the intricacies of the ground, as it was fatal to the Christians, who, bewildered in the mazes of the sierra, and losuig their footing at every step, fell under the swords of their pursuers, or went down the dark gulfs and precipices which yawned all around. 31. Death of Alonzo de Aouilab — continued. 1. Amidst this dreadful confusion, the Count of TJrena succeeded in gaining a lower level of the sierra, where he halted, and endeavored to rally his panic-struck followers. His noble comrade, Alonzo de Aguilar, still maintained his position on the heights above, refusing all entreaties of his followers to attempt a retreat. "When," said he, proudly, **wa8 an Aguilar ever known to fly from the field?" Ilis eldest son, the heir of his house and honors, Don Pedro do Cordova, a youth of great promise, fought at his side. He had r(;ceived a severe wound on the head from a stone, and a iavelin had pierced quite through his leg. With one kneo resting on the ground, however, he made a brave defence with bis sword. j»--r. -i—ivi w THE JTFtn RRAPrn. 2. The sight was too much for his father, and he implored him to suffer himself to be removed from the field. " Let not the hopes of our house be crushed at a single blow," said he. "Qo, my son; live as becomes a Christian knight: live, and cherish your desolate mother 1" All his endeavors were fruit- less, however ; and the gallant boy refused to leave his father's side till he was forcibly borne away by the attendants, who fortunately succeeded in bringing him in safety to the station occupied by the Count Urena. 3. Meantime, the brave little band of cavaliers who re- mained true to Aguilar had fallen one after another ; and the chief, left almost alone, retreated to a huge rock in the middle of the plain, and, placing his back against it, still made fight, though weakened by a loss of blood, like a lion at bay, against his enemies. In this situation, be was pressed 80 hard by a Moor of uncommon size and strength, that he was compelled to turn and close with him in a single combat. 4. The strife was long and desperate ; till Don Alon7X>, whose corselet had become unlaced in the previous struggle, having received a severe wound in the breast, followed by an- other on the head, grappled closely with his adversary, and they came rolling on the ground together. The Moor re- mained uppermost ; but the spirit of the Spanish cavalier had not sunk with his strength, and he proudly exclaimed, as if to intimidate his enemy, "I am Don Alonzo de Aguilar 1" to which the other rejoined, "And I am the Feri de Bijn'Este- par 1" — a well-known name of terror to the Christians, 5. The sound of his detested name roused all the Vhngeanco of the dying hero ; and, grasping his foe in mortal a^ony, he rallied his strength for a final blow. But it was too /ate ; his hand failed, and he was soon dispatched by the dagger of his more vigorous rival. Thus fell Alonzo Hernandez de Cor- dova, or Alonzo de Aguilar, as he is commonly called, from the land where his family estates lay. 6. " He was of the greatest authority among the grandees of his time," says Father Abarea, "for his lineage, personal character, large domains, and the high posts which he filled both in peace and war. More than forty years of his UCe he GENTLE XITKR. 139 Bcrrcd against the infidel ; under the banner of his house in boyhood, and a« leader of that, same banner in later life, as viceroy of Andalasia and commander of the royal armies. 7. "He was the fifth lord of his warlike and pious house who had fallen fighting for their country and religion against the accursed sect of Mahomet. And there is good reason to believe," continues the same orthodox authority, "that his soul has received the reward of a Christian soldier, since he was armed on that very morning with the blessed sacraments of confession and communion." 7 ianco ^y,he his kf his Cor- Ifrora jndeea fsonal 1 filled hf 32. Gentle Eiver. The Had death of Alonzo de Af^uilar and hiA brave companions, as relate^ In the foregoiiig lesson, fell mournfnlly upon the national heart of Spain, and was kept in fresh reniembruncc by the many expressions of sympathy and admiration which it called forth from the populor literature of the country. The following; poem is a ;;ranslation by the Kev. Thomas Percy, Frotestant Bishop of Dromore, in Ireland ^born 1788, died 1811), of one of thu ballnds in which the fate of the hero is commemorated. The trans- lation isfc ind in the "Beliques of Ancient English Poetry," a work editel by Bishop Percy with great taste and judgment, and originally publishec in 1765. It has since been frcc^uently reprinted, and has exerted a most favorable influence upon English poetical literatare of a date subsequent to its publication. 1. Gentle river,* gentle river, Lo, thy streams are stainM with gore; Many a brave and noble captain Floats along thy willow'd shore. 8. All beside thy limpid waters, All beside thy sands so bright, Moorish chiefs and Christian warrion Join'd in fierce and mortal fight. 3. Lords, and dukes, and noble prmces On thy fatal banks were slain; > * llie original is Rio Verde, that ig. River Verde. But verde in Spanish also means ^rrccn; and the translator, not being aware that it Wiw a proper name, substituted yen/^; — an epithet not well suited U » moontain stream. , ^ •: . 140 THE nrrn rrader. Fatal banks, that gave to slaughter All the pride and flower of Spain 4. There the hero, brave Alonzo Fall of wounds and glory, died ; There the fearless Urdiales Fell a victim by his side. 6. Lo, where yonder Don Saavedra* Through their squadrons slow retirM| Proud Seville, his native city, Proud Seville his worth admires. 0. Close behind, a renegado Loudly shouts, with taunting cry, " Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra! Dost thou from the battle fly ? t. " Well I know thee, haughty Christiaa| Long I lived beneath thy roof ; Oft I've in the lists of glory Seen thee win the prize of proof. 8. " Well I know thy aged parents, Well thy blooming bride I know; Seven years I was thy captive, Seven years of pain and woe. 9. " May our prophet grant my wishes. Haughty chief, thou shalt be mine; Thou shalt drink that cup of sori ow Which I drank when I was thine." 10. Like a lion tama the warrior. Back he seiMtfc an ai gry glare; Whizzing came tb< Moorish javelin, Vainly whizzing, through the air. • Don Saavedra is an imag .ary pers nage, no nobleman of UmH name having really i^teen engaged in the t Utle. I *r. PETKR8 ENTRT ITTO ROME. 11. Back the hero, full of furj, Sent a deep and mortal wound ; Instant sank the rcne^^ado, Mute and lifeless, on the ground. 11 With a thousand Moors surrounded, Brave Saavedra stands at bay; Wearied out, but never daunted, Cold at length the warrior lay. 18. Near him fighting, great Alonzo Stout resists the paynim bands, From his slaughter'd steed dismounted Firm intrenched behind him stands. 14 Furious press the hostile squadron. Furious he repels their rage; Loss of blood at length enfeebles; Who can war with thousands wage f 16. Where yon rock the plain o'ershadowi, Close beneath its foot retired, Fainting sank the bleeding hero, And without a groau expired. 141 it taal 83. t^. Peter's Entry mio Eome. ▲ BOHBISHOP HUGHES. Most Reveroad Joiw Hughes, D. D., first Archbishop of New York, eom ii; Tyrovra, Irciund, Id 1798. A few years after his ordination ho wm brought beftvre tlie American public by a controversy and oral disuussion with Rev. Mr. Breckinridge, a Presbyterian minister, which established hi3 rer^utittion ns one of the ablest controversialists of the day. Indeed, bis lif' since then hat* been almost a continual controversy, owing to the rtrpcti-al httacks made upon the Church through him. Soon after he be- MUiio Binlnp of Now YorK, he was called oi to maintain, in a long-pro tiwtnl ^-tnisrarle, tlie freedom of education. His " Dt)bate*^ on the School i^mj-'.iori.'' liii* "Letters to Kirwan," and his "Letters to Brooks," on the iiuiiaguiif nt of cliurch property, arc excellent specimens of close rea.son- lug. keen wit, and polished sarcasm. Innumerable lecturca and letters on various aubjectn connected with Catholic interests have kept the Aroh- biikbop in the front rank of the champions of the Church. 1; It nnist bore been daring the latter portion of tbe reian at 142 THE FIFTTI HEADER. Tiberias Xero Drasas, or in the beginning of the reign (/f Nero, that a traveller, dressed in Eastern costume, was seen approach ing one of the entrances of the imperial city of Rome. He was weary and wayworn. The dust of travel had incrusted itself on the perspiration of his brow He bore in his hand a Bta£f, but not a crosier. His countcLance was pale, but strik- ing and energetic in its expression. Partially bald, what re mained of his hair was gray, crisp, and curly. 2. Who was he ? No one cared to inquire, for he was only one of those approaching the gates of Rome, within the walls of which, we are told, the population numbered from three to four millions of souls. But who was this pilgrim ? He was a man who earned a message from God and his Christ, and who had been impelled to deliver that message in the very heart and centre of Roman corruption and of Roman civiliza- tion, such as it was. 3. His name at that time was Peter. His original nama had been Simon, but the Son of God having called him and his elder brother, Andrew, from the fisherman's bank on thw Sea of Galilee, to be His apostles, changed the name of Simon and called him in the Syriac language, Cephas, which in Latin and English is translated Peter. In Syriac the word signifies a rock, and our Saviour, by changing his name, declared the mission for which he was especially selected. 4. He said to him : "Thou art Cephas, and upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it." He was an Apostle, like his brother and the other ten. But he was more — ^he was the Rock on which the Church was to be built — ^he was the prince of the Apostolic College. And this was the man who was approaching the gates of the city of Rome. Where he slept that night, whether on or under the porch of some princely palace, his* tory has not informed us. But he soon began to proclaim the message which he had from God. To human view the attempt would appear to be desperate. Rome, at that pe- riod, was divided into two principal classes — masters and slaves — both of the same color, and, in many instances, botb IF TB0I7 OOtTLDST BR ▲ BIBD. 143 6. The higher class of those who were not slaves were, at that time, gorged to repletion with the wealth and thu plunder which the triamphant armies of Rome had brought to tiie Imperial capital from the conquered tribes and nations of tiie then known world. These conquered nations, after havitig been plundered, as wc might say, once for all, were still re tained as perpetual tributaries to the exchequer of the Ctesars and of their satellites. The superstitions and idolatries of those nations were all inaugurated in the pagan temples of the Imperial city. Their corruption of morals was also in- troduced, spreading from freemen to slaves, although such was the state of local morals that no imported corruption could add much to the universal depravity. 6. Such was Rome when this eastern stranger entered its mclosures. He preached the Word of Christ, and his preach- ing, even in that polluted atmosphere, brought forth many souls to acknowledge and adore the Crucified. He was sub- sequently joined by St. Paul, and both labored with a com- mon zeal to propagate the doctrine of salvation. They had already made such an impression that the tyrant Nero had them arrested and condemned to death. 7. Peter was crucified, it is generally supposed, on the very spot on which St. Peter's church now stands. The cross was the instrument of punishment for the man of Hebrew origin. But Paul of Tarsus, having been born a Roman citizen, was entitled to a less ignominicas death ; and accordingly he was beheaded at a place called the Three Fountains, some dis- tance from Rome. Nero made the distinction, which is now 60 popular, between what is called temporal and spirit lal. The body was temporal; and Nero did not pretend to go brther than its destruction. 84. If thou couldst be a Bna>. FABBR. 1 If thou couldst be a bird, what bird wouldst thou be? A ftoIicAMoe goU on the billowy 144 THE FIFTH READER. Screaming and wailing when stormy winds raTe, Or anchor'd. white thing 1 on the merry green ware f 2. Or an eagle aloft in the blue ether dwelling, Free of the caves of the hoary Helvellyn, Who is up in the sunshine when we are in shower, A nd could reach our loved ocean in less than an hoar? 3 Or a heron that haunts the Wallachian edge Of the barbarous Danube, 'mid forests of sedge. And hears the rude waters through dreary swamiN flowing, And the cry of the wild swans and buffaloes lowing ? 4. Or a stork on a mosque's broken pillar in peace. By some famous old stream in the bright land of Greeotik A sweet-manner'd householder 1 waiving his state, Now and then, in some kind little toil for his mate? 6. Or a murmuring dove at Stamboul, buried deep In the long cjrpress woods where the infidels sleep. Whose leaf-muffled voice is the soul of the seas. That hath pass'd from the Bosphorus into the trees I 6. Or a heath-bird, that lies on the Cheviot moor, Where the wet, shining eartli is as bare as the floor ; Who mutters glad sounds, though his joys are but few- Yellow moon, windy sunshine, and skies cold and blue ? 1. Or if thy man's heart worketh m thee at all, Perchance thou wouldst dwell by some bold baron's haU, A black, glossy rook, working early and late, Like a laboring man on the baron's estate ? 8. Or a linnet who builds in the close hawthorn bough, Where her small, frighteu'd eyes may be seen looking through ; Who heeds not, fond mother I the ox-lips that shine t On tho hedge-banks beneath, or the glazed oelaodine? or? ireeoOk BSt or; few— Ibltte? 's ball, looking \ ine NOTEL RSADINO. 145 9 Or a swallow that flietb the stmny world over, The trae home of spring and spring-flowers to discover ; Who, go where he will, takes away on his wings Good words from mankind for the bright thoughts he brings I 10. Bat what 1 can these pictures of strange winged mirth Make the child to forget that she walks on the earth ? Dost thou feel at thy sides as though wings were to start From some place where they lie folded np in thy heart? 11. Then love the green things in thy first simple youth, The beasts, birds, and fishes, with heart and in truth And fancy shall pay thee thy love back in skill ; Thou shfdt be all the birds of the air at thy will I 35. KOYEL KEADmo. ANON. 1. It is argued in favor of novel reading, that works of fiction of the present day are, in their general character, so correct in principle, so unexceptionable in narrative, sometimes even BO high-toned in morality, and, in the case of some particular authors, so finished in style, and rich in the varied beauties of good compositions, that they may be perused not only without injury, but actually, under some aspects, with positive advan- tage. As clever delineations of character, too, they are said to afford so deep an insight into human nature, and eo profit- able a knowledge of the world and its ways, as to be in thoie -espects a useful study for the inexperienced. 2. There can be no doubt of the vast improvement of the present period in that description of literary production em- phatically called light. We know by hearsay that the ro- mances of former days were not calculated to promote the health either of mind or heart ; and that they should have been superseded by fictitious works of a more refining tendency 7 14G THK FIJTH BBADER. and a more enlightened character, cannot hot be deemed an adrantage. Yet, according to all the merit they can pogsibly rJaim, and Tiewing them under their very best and most favor* able aspect, they are in many ways, to say the least, extremely dangerous. 3. Novels are in general pictures, and usually very highly wrought pi'^ * n^res, of human passions ; and it has been r^ marked, th:,i< although the conclusion of the ta?ti frequently awards s^al punishment and degradation to some very groai oJQTender, yet that in a far greater number of instances passiob is represented as working out its ends successfully, and attain- ing its object even by the sacrifice of duty— an evil lesson for the heart yet unacquainted with vice, and uncontaminated by the world. It may indeed be safely questioned whether the knowledge of human nature thus acquired is of a profitable kind, and whether experience of life might not, for all practical purposes, be derived from other and puiv^r sources than the teachings of romances. 4. Again, novels, as a class, present false views of life ; and as it is the error of the young to mistake those for realities, they become the dupes of their own ardent and enthusiastie imaginations, which, instead of trying to control and regulate, they actually strengthen and nourish with the poisonous food of phantoms and chimeras. When the thirst for novel reading has become insatiable, as with indulgence it is sure to do, thej come at last to live in an unreal fairy-land, amid heroes and heroines of their own creation. The taste for serious reading and profitable occupation is destroyed — all relish for proyer is lost. In addition to their other disadvantages, many of these books unfortunately teem with maxims subversive of simple faith, and in cordial irreverence for the truths cf re- ligion ; and so it but frequently happens, as the climax of evil, that faith suffers to a greater or lesser extent from their habitual, indiscriminate perusal. 5. As a recreation, light works may, of course, be occasion ally resorted to ; but so many and so great are their attendant dangers, that extreme care should be taken to neutralize their poison by infallible antidotes. The selection of snch works . HOTEL BEADIHO. 14' re- of their ihoold always be left to a religions parent, or a pions and in* telligent friend. They shonld never be made au occupation, bat merely serre as a pastime, and that occasionally. They shonld never be perused in the early part of the day, bnt only in the evening hour, spec'auj laid aside for relaxation. They should never be continued beyond the moderate length of time to which, under prudent and pions direction, yon have limited yourself — never resumed after night prayers, and never read on Sundays. 6. They should not be allowed to engross the mind to the exclusion of all other thoughts ; but more especially during their perusal should the sweet, refreshing, invigorating thought of God's presence be often recalled, and our aspirations ascend to His Throne, that He who is the Author of all the happi- ness we enjoy may bless and sanctify even our amusements. 7. The observance of these conditions no doubt requires some self-control ; but if you cannot exercise that control, neither can you expect to peruse works of fiction without ma* terial, perhaps fatal, injury to your precious soul. If you cannot exercise that control, you should never read novels. If there be one more than another of these conditions to which your are recommended strict fidelity, it is to the first. By referring, for directions in your reading, to ? pious, experienced guide, you will be secured agaiubt making selections among that class of fictitious works impregnated with the venom of anti-catholic maxims. > 8. And, as the spirit of impiety and infidelity so prevalent in the literary world, seeks a medium for its venom no less in works of science than in works of fiction, you will find the ad- vantb^ of applying the foregoing rule in the one case as in the other, never reading a suspected author without having iscertained how far your doubts are well founded. basion kndant their Iworks THE FIFTH READEB. 86. Death of Father Marquette. i. O. 8HBA. JoHW OiLMART Shea IB a native of New York. He has made many valuable contribiitionn to American Catholic Hteratiit«. His writing are ehietiv on historical and archieological HubjcctP. His original '^ History ol tho Catholic MisHionii in America." and his translation (with additioni'i) of De Courcy's " History of the Cnurch in tho United States." are works of great value to the siudent of ecclesiastical history. Mr. Shea has also written " The v ; Book of History," and a short " History of the United States/' for :: jse of schools. 1. Calhly aad cheerfully he saw the approach of death, for which he prepared by assiduous prayer ; his office he regularly recited to the last day of his life ; a meditation on death, which he had long since prepared for this hour, he now Jiade the subject of his thoughts ; and as his kind but simple companions seemed cverwhelmed at the prospect of their approaching loss, he blessed some water with the usual ceremonies, gave his companions directions how to act in his last moments, how to arrange his body when dead, and to commit it to the earth with the ceremonies he prescribed. 2. He now seemed but to seek a grave; — at last perceivuag the mouth of a river which still bears his name, he pointed to an eminence as the place of his burial His companions then erected a little bark cabin, and stretched the dying mis- sionary beneath it as comfortably as their wants permitted them. Still a priest, rather than a man, he thought of his ministry, and, for the last time, heard the confessions of his companions and encouraged them to rely with confidence on the protection of God — ^then sent them to take the repose they so much needed. 3. When he felt his agony approaching, he called them, and taking his crucifix from around his neck he placed it in their hands, thanking the Almighty for the favor of permitting hin to die a Jesuit, a missionary, and alone. Then he relapsed inio silence, interrupted only by his pious aspirations, till at Jast, with the names of Jesus and Mary on his lips, with his eyes raised as if in an ecstasy above his crucifix, with his face radiant with joy, he passed frcm the scene of his labor to God who was to be his reward. y> ^ i 1 TUB CB068 IK THB WaJ>KRNE$8. 149 ' 4. Obedient to his directions, his companions, when the irst outbnrsts of grief were over, laid out the body for burial, and to the sound of his little chapel bell, bore it slowly to the spot which he had pointed out. Here they committed his body to the earth, and, raising a cross above it, returned to their now desolate cabin. Such was the edifying and holy death of the illustrious explorer of the Mississippi, on Saturday, 18th of May, 1675. I they I, and their bin ipsed U at 1 his face God 37. The Gross in the "Wilderness. MBS. HEMANS. If'iLiou. D. Hemans was born in England in 1794 ; died in 1&85. Hei poetry liaa an elevated tone, with a fine appreciation of the beantv of natural and expru:i8ea the domestic attections witu tendoruesa and trutli. 1. SiLENt and mournful sat an Indian chief, In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb; His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grieC And his arms folded in majestic gloom, And his bow lay unstrung beneath the mound, Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around. 2. For a pale cross above its greensward rose, Telling the cedars and the pines, that there Man's heart and hope had struggled with his woes. And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer, — Now all was hush'd ; and eve's last splendor shone, With a rich sadness, on the attesting stone. 8. There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild. And he, too, paused in reverence by that graTe, Asking the tale of its memorial, piled Between the forest and the lake's bright wave; Till, as a wind might stir a withered oak. On the deep dream of age his accents broke. 4. And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said — " I listenM for the words which, years ago, 150 THR Firm HRADBB. Phss'd o'er these waters ; thongh the voice is 3ed^ Which made them as a singing fountain's flow, Tct, when I sit in their long-faded track, Sometimes the forest's mnrmnr gives them back. 6. "Ask'st thou of him whose house is lone beneath f I was an eagle in my youthful pride, When o'er the seas he came with summer's breath. To dwell amidst us on the lake's green side. Many the times of flowers have been since then; Many, but bringing naught like him again. 6. " Not with hunter's bow and spear he came, O'er the blue hills to chase the iiying roe; Not the dark glory of the woods to tame, Laying their cedars, like the com stacks, low; But to spread tidings of all holy things. Gladdening our souls as with the morning's wiogl. 1, " Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met, I and my brethren that from earth are gone, Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tonef He told of one the grave's dark lands who broke, And our hearts bum'd within us as he spoke 1 8. " He told of far and sunny lands, which lie Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell: Bright must they be! for there are none that dw, And none that weep, and none that say ' Farewell T He came to guide us thither; — ^bat away The happy call'd him, and he might not stay. • "We saw him slowly fade — athffst, perchance^ For the fresh waters of that lovely clime; Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance, And on his gleaming hair no touch of time; Therefore we hoped — but notr the lake looks ditt^ For the green sununer comes and finds not him. ' • THE CROSS nr THl WILDERNESS. 15 J 10. "We gathered roand him in the dewy hour Of one still morn, beneath his chosfln tree? From his clear voice at first the words of power Came low, like moanings of a distant sea; Bat sweli'd, and shook the wilderness ere long, As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong. 11. "And then once more they trembled on his tongde, And his white eyelids flntter'd, and his head Fell back, and mists npon his forehead hang^~ Know'st thou not how we pass to join the dead? It is enough! he sank npon my breast, — Oar friend that loved us, he was gone to rest f 12. " We buried him where he was wont to pray, By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide; We rear'd this cross in token where he lay, For on the cross, he said, his Lord had died I Now hath he surely reach'd, o'er mount and wave. That fiowery land whose green turf hides no grave! i8. " But I am sad — I mourn the clear light taken Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone, The pathway to the better shore forsaken. And the true words forgotten, save by one. Who hears them faintly sounding from the past, Mingled with death-songs, in each fitful blast." 14. Then spoke the wanderer forth, with kindling eye: " Son of the wilderness, despair thou not. Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by, And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot; Heaven darkly works, — ^yet where the seed hath beei^ There shall the fruitage, glowing, yet be seen '* Vf'f THE nrXH nEADICR. 38. Early Days at Emmettsburo. MRS. SKTON. M Bs. E. A. Sinm, foundreM of the Sinten of Chiirit^ in the United Htatea, was a convert to the Catholic faith. The followinp lett'ini were written to two of her friendn, ahortly after she had com.iieuced the erso hand we at every step discover, and of whose sublime concej' -i<;)ns we everywhere observe the mani- festations in his admirable system of creation ? There breathes not such a person ; so kindly have we all been bles«ed with that intuitive and noble feeling — admiration. 2. No sooner has the returning sun again introduced the vernal season, and caused millions of plants to expand their leaves and blossoms to his genial beams, than the little hnm- mittg-bird is seen advancing on fairy wings, carefully visiting every opening flower-cup, and, like a curious florist, removing from each the injurious insect that otherwise would ere long cause their beauteous petals to droop and decay. 3. Poised in the air, it is observed peeping cautiously, and with sparkling eye, into their innermost recesses, while the ethereal motions of its pinions, so rapid and so light, appear to fan and cool the flower, without injuring its fragile texture, and produce a delightful murmuring sound, well adapted for lulling the insects to repose The prabies, the fields, the orchards, the gardens, nay the deepest shades of the forest, are all visited in their turn, and everywhere the little bird meets with pleasure and with food. 4. Its gorgeous throat in brilliancy and beauty baffles all eompetition. Now it glows with a fiery hue, and again it ii -g-^-j ■ ^ DKSCRrmON OF NATCRK. 163 changed to the deepest velvety black. The tipper parts of its delicate body are of resplendent changing green; and it throws itself thrcagh the air with a swiftness and vivacity hardly conceivable. It moves from one flower to another like a gleam of light, upward, downward, to the right, and to the left. In this manner it searches the extreme northern portions of our country, following, with great precaution, the advances of the season, and retreats, with equal care, at the approach ot Autumn. aU litii 44. Desceiption of Nature in the Christian Fatherb. HUMBOLDT. ^ Albxakdkb Von Hukboldt, a German baron, bom in Berlin, 1769, and died in 1859, the most distincuished savant of the nineteenth century. Ha was the autlior of niany profound and erudite works on natural ancf scien^ Ufio subjects. 1. At the period when the feeling died away which had animated classical antiquity, and directed the minds of men to a visible manifestation of human activity, rather than to a passive contemplation of the external world, a new spirit arose. Christianity gradually diffused itself, and wherever it was adopted as the religion of the State, it not only exercised a beneficial influence on the condition of the lower classes by inculcating the social freedom of mankind, but also expanded the views of men in their communion with nature. The eye no longer rested on forms of the Olympic gods. The Fathers of the Church, in their thetorically correct and often poetically imaginative language, now taught that the Creator showed himself in inanimate no le9 j than in animate nature, and in the wild strife of the elements, no less than in the still activity of organic development. 2. At the gradual dissolution of the Roman dominion, cre- ative imagination, sunplicity, and purity of diction, disappeared from the writings of that dreary age; first in the Latin terri- tories, and then in Grecian Asia Minor. A taste for solitude, for mournful contemplation, and for a moody absorption of mind, may be traced simultaneously, in the style and coloring of the language. 164 THE FIFTH READER. I I 8. Whenever a new element seems to develop itself in th« feelings of mankind, it may almost invariably be trhced to an earlier, deep-seated, individual germ. Thus the softness ol Mimnermus has often been regarded as the expression of a general sentimental direction of the mind. The ancient world is not abruptly separated from the modem, but modificatioiii m the religious sentiments and the tenderest social feelings ol men, and changes in the special habits of those who exercise an influence on the ideas of the mass, must give a sudden predom- inance to that which might previously have escaped attention. ' • 4. It was the tendency of the Christian mind to prove from the order of the universe, and the beauty of nature, the greatness and goodness of the Creator. This tendency to glorify the Deity in his wor! s gave rise to a taste for natural descriptions. The earliest and most remarkable instances of this kind are to be met with in the writings of Minucius Felix, a rhetorician and lawyer at Rome, who lived in the beginning of the third century, and was the contemporary of TertuUian and Philostratus. 5. We follow with pleasure the delineation of his twilight rambles on the shore near Ostia, which he describes as more picturesque, and more conducive to health, than we find it in the present day. In the religious discourse entitled Octavius, we meet with a spirited defence of the new faith against the attacks of a heathen friend. 6. The present would appear to be a fitting place t" 'ntro« duce some fragmentary examples of the descriptions of nature, which occur in the writings of the Greek fathers, and which are probably less known to my readers than the evidences afforded by Roman authors, of the love of nature entertamed by the ancient Italians. 7. I will begin with a letter of Basil the Great, for which I have long cherished a special predilection. Basil, who was born at Cesarea, in Cappadocia, renounced the pleasures ol \ Athens when not more than thirty years old, and, after visiting the Christian hermitages in Caelo-Syria and Upper Egypt, retired to a desert on the shores of the Armenian rive> Iris He thus writes to Gregory of Nazianzen : "^ - . > , DESCRIPTION or NATtJRF,. K.- 1 8. " I believe I may at last flatter myself with having found the end of my wanderings. The hopes of bein^ united with thee — or I should rather say, ray pleasant dreams, for hopes have been justly termed the waking dreams of men — have re- mained unfuliilled. God has suffered me to find a place, such aa has often flitted before our im ^inations; for that which fancy has shown us from afar is now made manifest to me. A high mountain, clothed with thick woods, is watered to the north by fresh and overfldwing streams; at its foot lies an extended plain rendered fruitful by the vapors with which it is moistened; the surrounding forest, crowded with trees of dif- ferent kinds, incloses me as in a strong fortress. 9. " This wilderness is bounded by two deep ravines: on the one side the river rushing in foam down the mountain, forms an almost impassable barrier; while on the other, all access is Impeded by a broad mountain ridge. My hut is so situated on the summit of the mountain, that I can overlook the whole plain, and follow throughout its course, the Iris, which is more beautiful, and has a more abundant body of water, than the Strymon near Amphipolis. 10. " The river of my wilderness, which is more impetuous than any other that I know of, breaks against the jutting rock, and throws itself foaming into the abyss below; an object of admiration to the mountain wanderer, and a source of profit to the natives, from the numerous fishes that are found in its waters. Shall I describe to thee the fructifying vapors that rise from the moist earth, or the cool breezes wafted over the rippled face of the waters ? 11. " Shall I speak of the sweet song of the birds, or of the rich luxuriance of the flowering plants ? What charms me beyond all else, is the calmness of this spot. It is only visited occasionally by huntsmen ; for my wilderness nourishes herds of deer and wild goats, but not bears and wolves. What other spot could I exchange for this ? Alemacon, when he had found the Elchinades, would not wander farther." 12. In this simple description of scenery and of forest life, feelings are expressed which are more intimately in unison with thoRe of modern times, than &uy ohing that has been transmitt* jnfj THK Firrn bkadcb. ed to VLH from Qreek or Roman antiqnllty. From the lonely Alpine hut, to which St. Basil withdrew, the eye wanders over the hnmid and leafy roof of the forest below. The place of rest, which he and hif; friend Gregory of Nazianzen had long; desired, is at length found. The poetic and mythical allusion at the close of the letter falls on the Christian ear like an echo from another and earlier world. 13. Basil's Homilies on the He^semeron also give evidence cf his love of nature. He describes the mildness of the con- stantly clear nights of Asia Minor, where, according to hin expression, the stars, " those everlasting blos.soms of heaven," elevate the soul from the visible to the invisible. 14. When in the myth of the Creation, he would praise the beauty of the sea, he describes the aspect of the boundleos ocean-plain, in ali its varied and ever-changing conditions, " gently moved by the breath of heaven, altering its hue as it reflects the beams of light in their whiter blue, or roseate hues, and caressing the shores in peaceful sport." We meet with the same sentimental and plaintive expressions regarding nature in the writings cf Gregory of Nyssa, the brother of Basil the Qretst. 15. " When," he exclaims, " I see every ledge of rock, every Talley and plain, covered with new-bom verdure ; the varied beauty of the trees, and the lilies at my feet decked by nature with the double charms of perfume and of color ; when in the distance I see the ocean, toward which the clouds are onward borne, my spirit is overpowered by a sadness not wholly devoid of enjoyment. 16. "When in antnmn, the fruits have passed away, the leaves have fallen, and the branches of the trees, dried and shrivelled, are robbed of their leafy adornments, we are in- stinctively led, amid the everlasting and regular change of nature, to feel the harmony of the wondrous powera pervading nil things. He who contemplates them with the eye of the floul, feels the littleness of man amid the greatness oif the Universe." • It. While the Qreek Christians were led by their adoration of the Deity, through the contemplation of his works, to a .1 -■.'v'.i-'.-- . THE VTROm MARTYR. 1«7 n poetic delincatiou of natnre, they were at the same time, daring the earlier ages of their new belief, and owing Uf the peculiar bent of their minds, full of contempt for all works of human art. ThoB Chrysostom abounds in passages like the following : 18. " If the aspect of the colonnades of sumptuous buildings would lead thy spirit astray, look upward to the vault of heaven, and around thee on the open fields, in which herdii graze by the water's side. Who does not de(»pi8e all the crea- tions of art, when, in the stillness of his spirit, he watches with admiration the rising of the sun, as it pours its golden light over the face of the earth ; when, resting on the thick grass beside the fhurmoring spring, or beneath the sombre shade of a thick and leafy tree, the eye rests on the far-receding and hazy distance ?" 19. Antioch was at that time surrounded by hermitages, in one of which lived Chrysostom. It seemed as if Eloquence had recov'ired her element — freedom — from the fount of nature i0 the mountain regions of Syria and Asia Minor, which wer* then corered with forests. the and ire in- fge of fading )f the the 46. The Yirgin Marttb. MASSINOEB. Philit Massinokr was born at Salittbcry, a. d. 1584. The " VirgiQ Martyr," the first printed of Masnin^er's works, appeared in 1G22; bat there can be little doubt that he had written mucn before that puriod. His literary career was a constant struggle, for fortune never smiled apon him. Hia writings breathe a spirit incomparably nobler and manlier tnan that of his contemporaries generally ; they are wholly free from the servile political maxims, and, in a large measure, from the grave '.>d'»nces against religion and morals with which the stage in his time abourti-d. Their merit consists less in the vigor with which they delineate ^^^iori than in their dignity and refinement of style, and the variety of the'r ''^rfsification !(> wit they have no pretensions. Tkeplae« o/eQB40ution. Antonlaa, Theopbilns, Dorothea, he. Ant. See, she comes ;— How sweet her innocence appears ! more like To Heaven itself than any sacrifice That can be offered to it. By my hopes Of joys hereafter, the sight makes me doubtfiil ICS THE FIFTH READER. lo my belief ; nor can I thiDk oar godfl Are good, or to be serred, that take (lelight In offerings of this kind ; that, to maintain Ti'ieir power, deface thin masterpiece of nature, W hicb they themselves come short of. She asceddo^ And every step raises her nearer heaven I She smiles. Unmoved, by Mars I as if she were assured Death, looking on her constancy, would forget The use of his inevitable hand. Theo. Derided too 1 Dispatch, I say 1 Dor. Thou fool I Thou gloriest in having power to ravish A trifle from me I am weary of. What is this life to me ? Not worth a thought. Or, if it be esteem'd, 'tis that I lose it To win a better : even thy malice serves To me but as a ladder to mount up To such a height of happiness, where I shall Look down with scorn on thee and on the Tvorld} Where, circled with true pleasures, placed aboTe The reach of death or time, 'twill be my glory To think at what an easy price I bought it. There's a perpetual spring, perpetual youth j No joint-benumbing cold, or scorching heat, Famme nor age, have any being there. Forget for shame your Tempd ; bury in Oblivion your feign'd Hesperian orchards : — The golden fruit, kept by the watchful dragon. Which did require a Hercules to get it. Compared with what grows in all plenty there, Deserves not to be named. The Power I serve . Laughs at your happy Araby, or the Elysian shades ; for He hath made his bowers Better, indeed, than you can fancy youre.. kU qcmvN ELizADtmi of iicnoabt. ley Dor. Thoa glorious niiaister of the Power I serre (For thou art more than mortal), is't for me, Poor sinner, thou art pleased awhile to leave Thy heavenly habitation, and vonchsafest, Thongh glorified, to take my servant's habit? For, put off thy divinity, so look'd My lovely Angelo. Angela. Know, I am the same : And still the servant to your piety. Your zealous prayers and {nous deeds first won me (But 'twas by His command to whom you sent thorn) To guide your steps. I tried your charity. When, in a beggar's shape, you took me up, And clothed my naked limbs, and after fed, As you believed, my famished month. Learn all. By yoor example, to look on the poor With gentle eyes ; for in such habits often Angels desire an alms. I never left yon, Nor will I now ; for I am sent to carry Your pure and innocent soul to joys eternal, Your martyrdom once suffer'd. 46. Queen Elizabeth of Hunoabt. MONTALEMBEBT. Cocirr MoNTAUBiCBEKT is one of the most distinguished statesu. noblemen of France. He is cherished by every Catholio heart lur at* defence of Catholic principles, his opposition to godless education, and steady devotion to the interests of the Church. 1. Generosett to the poor, particularly that exercised by princes, was one of the most remarkable features of the age in which she lived ; but we perceive that in her, charity did not proceed from rank, still less from tLe desire of acquiring praises or purely human gratitude, but from an interior and heavenly inspiration. From her cradle, she could not bear the sight of a poor person without feeling her heart pierced with grief, and • -9 170 THK rilTH READER. I, it i i? f t i DOW that her husband had granted her full liberty in all that concerned the honor of God and the good of her neighbor, she anreservedly abandoned herself to her natural inclination to Bolace the snffering members of Christ. 2. This was her ruling thonght each hour and moment : to the use of the poor she dedicated all that she retrenched from the superfluities usually required by her sex and rank. Yet, notwithstanding the resources which the charity of her husband placed at her disposal, she gave away so quickly all that she possessed, that it often happened that she would despoil her- self of her clothes in order to have the means of assisting the unfortunate. 3. Elizabeth loved to carry secretly to the poor, not alone money, but provisions and other matters which she destined for them. She went thus laden, by the winding and rugged paths that led from the castle to the city, and to cabins of the neighboring valleys. 4. One day, when accompanied by one of her favorite maid- ens, as she descended by a rude little path (still pointed out), and carried under her mantle bread, meat, eggs, and other food to distribute to the poor, she suddenly encountered her husband, who was returning from hunting. Astonished to see her thus toiling on under the weight of her burden, he said to her, " Let us see what you carry," and at the same time drew open the mantle which she held closely clasped to her bosom ; bat beneath it were only red and white roses, the most beautiful he had ever seen — and this astonished him, as it was no longer the season of flowers. 5. Seeing that Elizabeth was troubled, he sought to console her by his caresses; but he ceased suddenly, on seeing over her head a luminous appearance in the form of a crucifix. He then desired her to continue her route without being disturbed by him, and he returned to Wartbourg, meditating with recollec- tion on what God did for her, and carrying with him one Oi these wonderful roses, which he preserved all his life. 6. At the spot where this meeting took place, he erected a pillar, surmounted by a cross, to consecrate forever the remem* brance of that which he had seen hovering over the bead <^ f )iisoIe |er her le then |ed by jolleo- )ne ot '.ted a smem- of iiQES OF FAUB. 171 1- I m his wife. Among the anfortanate who particularly attracted her compassion, those who occapied the greatest part in bet heart were the lepers; the mysterioas and special character ol their malady tendered them, throughout the middle ages, objects of a solicitude and affection mingled with fear. 47. Ages op Faith. BT KEXELM H. DIOBT. Ksincuc H. DioBT, in his " Compitum, or Meeting of the Ways, ' and his " MorcB Catholici, or Ages of Faith," devotes all the resources of hie profound erudition to the middle ages. The latter work is one of the most remarkable literary productions of our times, for its varied learning, its deep, reverential tone, its sincere and fervent piety, and its noble ap- preciation of Catholic honor and Catliolic heroism, a. U. Digby is a na- tive of England. 1. In the third stage of this mortal course, if midway be the sixth, and on the joyful day which hears of the great crowd that no man could number, I found me in the cloister of an abbey, whither I had come to seek the grace of that high festival. The hour was day's decline ; and already had " Placebo Domino " been sung in solemn tones, to usher in the hoars of special ?Jiarity for those who are of the suffermg Church. A harsh sound from the simultaneous closing of as many books, cased m oak and iron, as there were voices in that full choir, like a sudden thunder-crash, announced the end of that ghostly vesper. 2. The saintly men, one by one, slowly walked forth, each proceeding to his special exercise. Door then shutting after door gave long echoes, till all was mute stillness, and I was left alone, under cloistered arches, to meditate on the felicity of blessed spirits, and on the desire which presses both the •iving and the icmates of that region in which the soul is purged from sinful stain, to join their happy company. Still, methought I heard them sing of the bright and puissant angel ascending from the rising of the sun — and of the twelve times tv, elve thousand that were signed ; and of the redeemed from every nation and people and language ; and of the angebj who itood ftround the throne of Heaven. i^(v ,>^: m \ i ' 173 THE FirrH KEADKR. 3. It seemed now as if I heard a voice like thai whicli said to Dante, "What thou heardst was sung that freely thou mightst open thy heart to the waters of peace, that flow dif* fused from their eternal fountain." What man is there so brutish and senseless to things divine, as not to have some- times experienced an interval like that which is described by him who sung of Paradise, to whom the world appeared as if itretched far below his feet, and who saw this globe '* So pitiful of semblance, that perforce It moved bin smiles ; and bim in truth did bold For wisest, who esteems it least — whose thoughts Elsewhere are fix'd, him worthiest call'd and best ?" * 4. But soon the strained sense will sink back to it — for the human spirit must perforce accomplish, in the first place, its exercise in that school which is to prepare it for the home it •nticipates above. Yet I felt not disconsolate nor forgetful itf the bright vision. My thoughts were carried backwards to »ges which the muse of history had taught me long to love ; tor it was in obscure and lowly middle-time of saintly annals fhat multitudes of these bright spirits took their flight from a lark world to the Heavens. 6. The middle ages, then, I said, were ages of highest grace «o men — ages of faith — ages when all Europe was Catholic ; when vast temples were seen to rise in every place of human concourse, to give glory to God, and to exalt men's souls to ianctity ; when houses of holy peace and order were found amidst woods and desolate mountains — on the banks of placid lakes, as well as on the solitary rocks in the oceian ; ages of ganctity which witnessed a Bede, an Alcuin, a Ber- nard, a Francis, and crowds who followed them as they did Christ ; ages of vast and beneficent intelligence, in which it pleased the Holy Spirit to display the power of the seven gifts in the lives of an Anselm, a Thomas of Aquinum, and the saintly flocks whose steps a cloister guarded : ages of the highest civil virtue, which gave birth to the laws and institu* tions of an Edward, a Lewis, a Suger ; ages of the noblest * Gary's DanU. f. v: I ■*. "f -riiitrniiiiiriifli '[ i'\: AOKS OF FAmi. 173 liuh said cly thou flow dif' there so ,ve some- jribed by ired as if —for the place, its fi home it forgetful kwards to r to love ; tly annals it from a hest grace Catholic ; of human 8 souls to ere found banks of le ocean ; in, a Ber- they did ) which it the seven inum, and ges of the nd inatitu* he noblest art, which beheld a Giotto, a Micha«l Angelo, a Raffaclo, a Dominichino ; ages of poetry, which heard au Avitus, a Caed mon, a Daute, a Shakspeare, a Calderon ; ages of more thai mortal heroism, which produced a Tancred and a Godfrey ; ages of majesty, which knew a Charlemagne, an Alfred, and the sainted youth who bore the lily ; ages, too, of England's glory, when she appears, not even excluding a comparison with the Eastern empire, as the most truly civilized country on the globe ; when the sovereign of the greater portion of the western world applied to her schools for instructors — when she sends forth her saints to evangelize the nations of the north, and to diffuse spiritual treasure over the whole world — when heroes flock to her court to behold the models of reproachless chivalry, and emperors leave their thrones to adore God at the tombs of her martyrs ! as Dante say«, '* No tongue So vast a theme could equal, speech and thought Both impotent alike." 6. In a little work which embodied the reflections, the hopes, and even the joys of youthful prime, I once attempted to survey the middle ages in relation to chivalry ; and though in this we had occasion to visit the cloister, and to hear as a stranger who tarries but a night, the counsels of the wise and holy, we were never able to regard the hoase of peace as our home ; we were soon called awcy from it to return to the world and to the courts of its princes Now I propose to conunence a course more peflceial and unpretending, for if only supposes that one has left '»s world, and withdrawn from these vain phantoms of honor and glory, which distract BO often the morning of man's day. Thus we read that i» youth many have left the cloister, dazzled by the pomp and circumstance of a wild, delusive chivalry, who, after a little while, have hastened back to it, moved by a sense of earthly vanity ; there " To finish the short pilgrimage of life, l^till jpeeding to its dose on restless wing.' * Dante. Purg. 20. 174 THE FIFTH READER. 'f Lti •I Hi) 'J t. Yes, all is vanity but to love and serve God I Mea have found by long experience that nothing but divine lovt can satisfy that restless craving which ever holds the soul, " finding no food on earth ;" that every beauty, every treas- ure, every joy, must, by the law which rules contingency, van- ish like a dream : and that there will remain for every man, sooner or later, the gloom of dark ai,d chaotic night, if he is not provided with a lamp of faith. Those men who, reason- ing, went to depth profoundest, came to the same conclusion ; they found that the labors of the learned, and the visions of the poet, were not of their own nature different in this lopect from the pleasures of sense : ** 'Tis darkness all : or shadow of the fleoh, Or else its poison." 48. Ages of Faith — continued, 1. This was their experience. That labor of the mind, or that fond ideal ecstasy, did not necessarily secure the one thing needful — the love of Jesus. In a vast number of instances it led to no substantial good : its object was soon forgotten, or the mind recurred to the performance with a sense of its im- perfections. 2. Still the heart cried, Something morel What, said they, can be given to it? What will content it? Fresh labor? fresh objects? Ah! they had already begun to eus- pect how little all this would avail; for, in hearkening to " the saintly soul, that shows the world's deceitfulness to all who hear him," they had learned to know that it might in- deed be given to their weakness to feel the cruel discord, but not to sot it right — to know that it was but a vain, delusive motive which would excite them to exertion from a desire of pleasing men ; for men pass rapidly with the changliig s> grave 1 3. Well might they shudder at the thought of this eternal chilliness, this spiritual isolation, this bitter and unholy state 1 Truly it was fearful, and something too much for tears 1 Sweet Jesus, how different would have been their state, if they had sought only to love and serve thee 1 for thy love alone can give rest and comfort to the heart — a sure and last ingjoy:— Other good There is, where man finds not his happiness ; It is not true fruiticin ; not chat blest Essence of every g(>od, the branch and root. 4. Changed, then, be the way and object of our research, and let the converse to that which formerly took place hold respecting our employment here ; and if we shall again meet with knights and the world's chivalry, let it be only in the way of accident, and, as it were, from the visit of those who pass near our spot of shelter ) and let our place of rest hence- forth be in the forest ana the cell. 5. Times there are, when even the least wise can seize a constant truth — ^that the heart must be devoted either all to the world, or all to God. When ttay, too, will pray, and make supplications urged with weeping, that the latter may be their condition in the mortal hour, that they may secure the rest of the saints for eternity. 6. Returning to that cloisteral meditation, how many thought I, throughout the whole world, have heard this da} the grounds and consummation of the saints' feUcity I how many have been summoned onward, and told the step?! were near, and that now the ascent might be without diffioultj gained ? and yet, "A scanty few are they, who, when they hear ' ., Such tidings, hasten. Oh, ye race of men I ^ 176 THK Firrn readfr. } 1 'IV I " f. J'' I- if. Though born to «o»r, why iuffer ye A wnd So slight to bafBe ye T'' 7. But for those who seemed to feel how sweet was that solemn accent, eight times sang, which tanght them who were blessed, would it not be well, when left alone, and without distraction, if they were to take up histories, and survey the course which has been trod by saintly feet, and mark, as ii from the soul-purifying mount, the ways and works of men on earth, keeping their eyes with fixed observance bent upon the symbol there conveyed, so as to mark how far the form and i)A;ts of that life, in ages past, of which there are still so many monuments around them, agreed, not with this or that modem standard of political and social happiness and gran- deur, but with what, by Heaven's sufferance, gives title to divine and everlasting beatitude ? 8. Such a view would present a varied and immense hori- zon, comprising the manners, institutions, and spirit of many generations of men long since gone by. We should see in what manner the whole type and form of life were Christian, although its detail may have often been broken and disordered ; for instance, how the pursuits of the learned, the consolations of the poor, +he riches of the Church, the exercises and dis- positions of the young, and the common hope and consolation of all men, harmonized with the character of those that sought to be poor in spirit. 9. How, again, the principle of obedience, the Constitution of tb? CLurch, the division of ministration, and the rule of government, the manners and institutions of society, agreed with meekness and inherited its recompense. Further, how the sufferings of just "nen, nd the provisions for a penitential spirit were in accordance with the stffe of those that were to mourn and weep there. 10. How the character of men in sacred orders, the zeal o, the laity, and the lives of all ranks, denoted the hunger and thirst after justice. Again, how the institutions, the founda- tious, and the recognized principle of perfection, proclaimed * Dante, Farad. 12. Carey's translaticn. • THB SHEPnERD'8 60N0 177 as that 10 wero urithout vey the k, as ii men oo pon the >nD and still so or that id gran- title to ise hori- of many 1 see in hristian, )rdered ; eolations and dis- isolation t sought stitution rule of r, agreed her, how nitential were to le zeal o. nger ami founda* oclaimed 4 41611 merciful Moreorer, how the philosophy which prevailed, and the spiritual monuments which were raised by piety and genius, evinced the clean of heart. 11. Still farther, how the union of nations, and the bond of peace which existed even amid savage discord, wars, and confusion ; as also, how the holy retreats for innocence, which then everywhere abounded, marked the multitude of pacific men. And, finally, how the advantage taken of dire events, and the acts of saintly and heroic fame, revealed the spirit which shunned not suffering for sake of justice. 49. The Shephebd's Sono. TA880. ToRQUATo Ta880 — an Italian poet of the sixteenth century. He wrotf much, but his "Jerusalem Delivered" gained him the greatest renown; during his life it excited universal favor, and has ever since been instlv regarded as one of the great poems of the world. ** Jerusalem Deli vc red " is a history of the crusades, related with poetic license. Clement VIII. invited Tasso to Rome, that he might receive the laurel crown — an honor which had not been conferred upon any one since tha days of Petrarch. But scarcely was the day of coronation abont to dawn when the poet felt his dissolution approaching. He requested liberty to retire to the monastery of St. Onofno. On hearing that his last hour wan near, he joyfully returned thanks to God for having brought him to so secure a haven. A few days before his death, one of the monks sought ld raise his spirits by speaking to him of the triumphal honors preparing for him at the Capitol. Tasso replied — " Glorv, glory, nothino^ but glory. Two idols have reigned in my hca»„ - ; ' decided my life — love ana that vapor you call glory. The one has always uetrayed me; the other, after fleemg me for forty years, is roudy to-day to crcwn — what? — a corpse. Laurels for Tasso 1 It is a winding sheet he requires ! I feel too well to-day that on earth all is vanity, all but to love and serve God. But," he added, as his head sunk on liis breast, "a!) the rest is not worth a quarter of an liour's trouble." On receiving a plenary indulgence from the Pope, he said — "This was the chariot on which he hoped to go crowned, not with laurel as a poet into the Capitol, but with glory, as a saint, to Heaven." Feeling his mortal agony at hand, he ilosely embraced the cracifix, and murmuring, " lotc thy hands, Lord !" peacefully resigned his spirit. I. Safe stands our simple shed, despised our little storo ; Despised by others, but so dear to me, That gems and crowns I hold in less esteem ; Prom pride, from avarice, is my spirit free, And mad ambition's visionary dream. My thirst I quench in the pellucid streano. i ■ !' ;. ; m * Hli! Hiif 178 THE FIFTH READER. Nor fear lest poison the pure wave pollutes ; With flocks my fields, my fields with herbage teem ; My garden-plot supplies nutritious roots ; And my brown orchard bends with Autumn's wealthieit fraits. 2. Few are our wishes, few our wants ; man needs But little to preserve the vital spark : These are my sons ; they keep the flock that feeds, And rise in the gray morning with the lark. Thus in my hermitage I live ; now mark The goats disport amid the budding brooms ; Now the slim stags bound through the forest dark ; The fish glide by, the bees hum round the blooms ; And the birds spread to heaven the splendor of their plmiUR 8. Time was (these gray hairs then were golden locks), When other wishes wanton'd in my vein? ; I scom'd the simple charge of tending flocks, And fled disgusted from my native plains. Awhile in Memphis I abode, where reigns The mighty Caliph ; he admired my port. And made me keeper of his flower-domains ; And though to town I rarely made resort. Much have I seen and known of the intrigues of cotiii. I Long by presumptuous hopes was I beguiled, And many, many a disappointment bore ; But when with youth false hope no longer smiled, And the scene pall'd that charm'd so much before, — I sigh'd for my lost peace, and brooded o'er The abandoned quiet of this humble shed ; Then farewell State's proud palaces 1 once more To these delightful solitudes I fled ; And in their peaceful shades harmonious days haye tod •X-fi^"^ ■'»!■'■ I l>lliM»MIIWim» WAK OF 1812 AND DSATH OP GEN. BHOCK. 179 60. Wak of 1812 AND Dkath of Gen. Bbocx. I 1. TiiE American Government ftsaembled at the Niagara frontiers a force of 6,300 men ; of this force, 3,170 (900 o whom were regular troops) were at Lewiston, under the com mand of General Van Rensselaer. In the American reports this army is set down at 8,000 strong, with 16 pieces of field ordnance. To oppose this force Major-Qenero' Brock had part of the 4l8t and 49th Regiments, a few corapanif;8 of militia, and about 200 Indians, in all 1^500 men ; bat so dispersed in different posts at and between Fort Erie and Fort George, that only a small number was available at any one point. 2. Before daylight on the morning of the 13th of October, a large division of General Van Rensselaer's army, numbering between 1,300 and 1,400, under Brigadier-General Wads worth, effected a landing at the lower end of the village of Queenston (opposite Lewiston), and made an attack upon the position, which was defended with the most determined brave- ry by the two flank companies of the 49th Regiment, com- manded by Captains Dennis and Williams, aided by such of the militia forces and Indians as could be collected in the vi- cinity. Captain Dennis marched his company to the landing, place opposite Lewiston, and was soon followed by the light company of the 49th, and the few militia who could be hastily assembled. Here the attempt of the enemy to effect a pas- ijage was for some time successfully resisted, and several boats were either disabled or sunk by the fire from Mie one-gun bat tery on the heights and that from the masked battery, about a mile below. Several boats were, by the fire from this last battery, so annoyed, that falling before the landing-place, they were compelled to drop down with the current and re-cross tt the American side. A considerable force, however, had effect ed a landing some distance above, and succeeded, in gaining the summit of the mountain. No resistance could now be offered to tiie crossing from Lewiston, except by the battery at Vro- mont's Point, half a mile below, and from this a steady and harass! Qg fire was kept up, which did considerable execution. 180 THE FIFTH RKADEtL ! ^l Ht :i' ■m V i Uli 3. At this juncture Sir Isftuc Brock arrived. He hod for days 8U8i)ected tiiis i vasioii, and on tiie preceding evening ho called bis staff togtliier and gave to each the neet i-*ary id* Ktructious. Agreeable to his usual custom hv rose uelore day- light, and, hearing the cannonade, awoke Major Glegg, and called for his horse Alfred, which Sir James Craig had pre- sented to him. He then galloped eagerly from Fort Geor'ije to the scene of action, and with two aides-de-camp passea p the hill at full gallop in front of the light company, und( a heavy fire of artillery and musketry from the American shore. On reaching the 18-pounder battery at the top of the hill, they dismoanted and took a view of passing events, which at that moment appeared highly favorable. But in a few niiu utes a firing was heard, which proceeded from a strong de- tachment of American regulars under Captain Wool, who, as just stated, had succeeded in gaining the brow of the heights in rear of the battery, by a fisherman's path up the rocks, which being reported as impossible, was not guarded. Sir Isaac Brock and his aides-de-camp had not even time to re- mount, but wer(; obliged to retire precipitately with the twelve men stationc*! In ihe battery, which was quickly occupied by the enemy. Captain Wool having sent forward about 150 regulars, CaptaiD Williams' detachment of about 100 men advanced to meet them, personally directed by the General, who, observing the enemy waver, ordered a charge, which was promptly executed ; but as the Americans gave way, the re- sult was not equal to his expectations. Captain Wool sent a reinforcement to his regulars, notwithstanding which, the whole was driven to the edge < f the bank. Here some or the American officers were on the point of hoisting a white flag with an intention to surrender, when Captain Wool tore it off and reanimated his dispirited troops. They now opened a heavy fire of musketry, and, conspicuous from his cross, hiS height, and the enthusiasm with which he animated his littlo band, the British commander was soon singled out, and he fell about an hour after his arpval. 4. The fatal bullet entered his right breast, and passed through his left side. He had but that instant said, " Push THE BATFLE OF QITKENSTON lIEIOnTS. 181 on the York Volunteers !" and he liTod only lonj:^ enongh to request that his fall might nut be noticed, or prevent the ad- ?an(;e of his brave troops ; adding a wish which could not be distinctly understood, that some token of remembrance should be transmitted to his sister. He died unmarried, and on the same day, a week previously, he had completed his forty-third year. The lifeless corpse was immediately conveyed into a house close by, where it remaine*^ until the afternoon, onpep« ceived by tbe enemy. His Pr al Aide-de-camp, Lieuten- ant-Colonel McDonell of t • I the Attorney-Gen- eral of Upper Canada, a fine -■' n young man, was mor- tally wounded soon after his cb ■ i, una died the next day, at the early age of twenty-five years. Although one bullet had passed through his body, and he was wounded in four places, yet he survived twenty hours, and during a period of excru- ciating agony his thoughts and words were constantly occu- pied with lamentations for his deceased commander and friend. He fell while gallauily charging up the hill with 190 men, chiefly York Volunteers, by 'which charge the enemy was compelled to spike tiie 18-pounder in the battery there. 60^. The Battle of Queenston HEiaHT8. 1. At this time, about two in the afternoon,, the whole British and Indian force thus assembled was ahout 1,000 men, of whom 600 were regulars. In numbers the Americans were about equal — courage they had, but they wanted the confidence and discipline of British soldiers. 2. After carefully recouuoitering. Gen, Sheaffe, who had ar« rived from Fort George, and who had now assumed the com- mand, commenced the attack by an advance of his left flank, composed of the light company of the 41st, under Lieutenant Mclntyre, supported by a body of militia and Indians. After a volley, t le bayonet was resorted to, and the American righii driven in. The main body now advanced under cover of the fire from the two tl ree-pounders, and after a short conflict forced the Americans over the firat rid^^^e of the heights to ,*. ^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) i %* 1.0 I.I 14^121 |2.5 lAO 2.0 U 1.25 1.4 1 1.6 < 6" ► V] ' sible to urge a single man to cross the river to reinforce tbf THE BATTLE OF QUEENSTON HEIOHTB. 183 col- 49th trmj on the heights, and that army haring nearly expended its ammunition, boats were immediately sent to coTer their retreat ; but a desultory fire which was maintained npon the ferry from a battery on the bank at the lower end of Queens- ton, completely dispersed the boat», and many of the boatmen rdanded and flod in dismay. Brigadier-General Wadsworth was, therefore, compelled, after a vigorous conflict had been maintained for some time upon both sides, to surrender him- self and all his officers and 900 men between three and four o'clock in the afternoon. 5. The loss of the British army was 16 killed and 69 wounded ; while that on the side of the Americans was not less than 000 men, made prisoners, and one gun and two col- ors taken, and 90 killed and about 100 wounded. But amongst the killed of the British army, the government and the country had to deplore the loss of one of their bravest and most zealous generals in Sir Isaac Brock, and one whose memory will long live in the warmest affections of every Ca- nadian and British subject. The country had also to deplore the loss of the eminent services and talents of Lieutenant- colonel McDonell, Provmcial Aide-de-camp and Attorney- general of the Province, whose gallantry and merit rendered him worthy of his chief. « 6. The gratitude of the people of Canada to the memory of Brock was manifested in an enduring form. They desired to perpetuate the memory of the hero who had been the in- strument of their deliverance, and they were not slow in ex- ecuting their design ; and whilst his noble deeds were still fresh in the memory of all, the Provincial Legislature erected a lofty column on the Queenston heights, near the spot where he fell. The height of the monument from the base to the summit was 135 feet ; and from the level of the Niagara River, which runs nearly under it, 485 feet. The monument was a Tuscan column on rustic pedestal, with a pedestal for a statue ; the diameter of the base of the column was U^ feet, and the abacus of the capital was surmounted by an iron railing. The centre shaft containing the spiral staircase wai ten feet in diameter. 184 TBI FIFTH RBADEB. ;i ! T. On Good Friday, the Uth of April, 1840, a vagabond of the name of Lett introduced a quantity of gunpowder into the monument with the fiendish purpose of destroying it, and the explosion effected by a train caused so much damage as to render the column altogether irreparable. Lett had been compelled to fly into the United States for his share in the Tebellion of 183t, and well knowing the feeling of attachment to the name and memory of General Brock which pervaded all classes of Canadians, he sought to gratify his malicious and vindictive spirit, and at the same time to wound and insult the people of Canada by this atrocious deed. 8. After the first monument had remained in the dilapi- dated condition to which it was reduced for some years, a new and beautiful column has a short time ago been raised on its site. It is thus described : 9. Upon the solid rock is built a foundation, 40 feet square and .10 feet thick, r" massive stone ; upon this the structure stands in a grooved plinth or sub-basement 38 feet square and 27 feet in height, and has an eastern entrance by a massive oak door and bronze pateras, forming two galleries to the interior 114 feet in extent, round the inner pedestal, on the north and south sides of which, in vaults under the ground floor, are deposited the remains of General Brock, and those of his aide-de-camp. Colonel McDonell, in massive stone sar cophagi. On the exterior angles of the snb-basement are placed lions rampant 1 feet in height, supporting shields witL the armorial bearings of the hero. 10. The column is of the Roman composite ordef 95 feet In height, a fluted shaft, 10 feet diameter at the base ; the loftiest column known of this style ; the lower one enriched with laurel leaves, and the flutes terminating on the base with palms. 11. The height from the ground to the top of the statne is 1 90 feet, exceeding that of any monumental column, ancient or modem, known, with the exception of that on Pish-street Hill, London, England, by Sir Christopher Wren, architect, in commemoration of the great fire of 1666, 202 fee^ in^h, which exceeds it in height by 12 feet. .•f- ^^ ADYIOE TO A TOUNO GBTTIO. 185 61. Advice to a Touno Cerno. POPB. Alczandzb Popk will always be popular while the EnglUh lanf^.agi remains an it is. One of his merits was M mould the language of poetrf into pliancy and softness :— before his time there was maon nij^dneas ic the diction even of the most celebrated poets. Some of his pieces are r* pnlsive to the sentiments of religion ana morals. He died in 1744. 1. 'Tis not enoagh, taste, judgment, learning join ; In all yon speak, let trnth and candor shine ; That not alone what to your sense is dae . ' All may allow, but seek your friendship too. Be silent always, when you doubt your sense, And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence. ;. 3. Some positive, persisting fops we know, V Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so : ... . But you^ with pleasure, own your errors past, ;j^ r And make each day a critic on the last. ;.; .,, 'Tis not enough your counsel to be true : ^; Blunt truths more mischief than slight errors do ; .;>,>.;,. Hen must be taught, as if y< a taught them not, V- And things unknown proposed, as things forgot. 8. Without good breeding truth is disapproved ; That only makes superior sense beloved. ^ ' Be niggard of advice on no pretence ; ' \^ 1\ For the worst avarice is that of sense. -^ ' * • ? With mean complacence ne'er betray your trust, J Nor be so civil as to prove unjust. , U, Fear not the anger of the wise to raise ; ';' Those best can bear reproof, who merit praise. * 4. But Where's the man who counsel can bestow, Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know ; Unbiass'd, or by favor, or by spite ; r Not dully prepossess'd, nor blindly right ; Though leam'd, well-bred; and, though well-bred, sinc«re{ Modestly bold, and humanly severe ; 1 [ i I i IS6 , . V THE FIFTH BKADBB. Who to a friend his faults can freely show, And gladly praise the merit of a foe ? 6. Blc^ with a taste exact, yet unconfined ; A knowledge both of books and human kind ; Generous converse, a soul exempt Arom pride, And love to praise with reason on his side ; Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame ; Still pleased to praise, yet not afraid to blame ; Averse alike to flatter or offend ; Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend f v.f 52. Loss AND Gain. DB. NEWMAN. JoBH HxNRT Newman, D.D., superior of the Oratory in England,' bom Slat February, 1801. In 1845 he became a convert to the Catbolic faith, u ordained pnest in Kome, May *2ti, i»47. tie was appointed ; of the CathoUo University of Ireland, which office he filled for i sarn. Dr. Newman is undoubtedly one of the leading minds of it century. His English style ia unrivalled in any age for majesty^, copiousness, and long-drawn but auptained harmony. Hia learning if rector eral yearn, sev- the » IB quite a marvel among Englishmen, and is united with a profound and Kubtle analytic genius. " Loss and Gain." and *' Callista," are works ot fiction iu which he has displayed as singular a versatility. 1. The conversation flagged ; Bateman was again busy with his memory, and he was getting impatient, too ; time was slippmg away, and no blow struck. Moreover, Willis was beginning to gape, and Charles seemed impatient to be re- . leased. " These Romanists put things so plausibly," he said to himself, " but very unfairly, most unfairly ; one ought to ^ be up to their dodges. I dare say, if the truth were known < Willis has had lessons ; he looks so demure. I dare say h is keeping back a great deal, and playing upon my ignorance. Who knows ? perhaps he's a concealed Jesuit." 2. It was an awful thought, and suspended the course of bis reflections some seconds. " I wonder what he does really ^ think ; it's so difficult to get at the bottom of them ; they won't tell tales, and they are under obedience; one never Laows when to believe them. I suspect he has been wofully ■• r^ LOSS AND OAIN. 187 disappointed with Romanism, he looks so thin ; but of coane he won't say so : it hurts a man's pride, and he likes to be consistent ; he doesn't like to be laughed at, and so he makes the best of things. 3. " I wish I knew how to treat him ; I was wrong ia baying Reding here ; of conrse Willis would not be confiden- tial before a third person. He's like the fox that lost his tail. It was bad tact in me ; I see it now ; what a thing it is to have tact I it requires very delicate tact. There are so many things I wish to say about Indulgences, about- their so seldom communicating; I think I must ask him about the Mass." So, after fidgeting a good deal within, while he was ostensibly employed in making tea, he commenced his last as- sault. 4. " Well, we shall have you back again among us by next Christmas, Willis," he said ; " I can't gife you greater law ; I am certain of it ; it takes time, but slow and sure. What a joyful time it will be 1 I can't tell what keeps you ; yoa aire doing nothing ; you are flung into a corner ; you are wasting life. Whai keeps you ?" Willis looked odd ; and then simply answered, " Grace." Bateman was startled, but recovered himself ; " Heaven forbid," he said, " that I should treat these things lightly, or interfere with you unduly. 6. " I know, my dear friend, what a serious fellow you are ; but do tell me, just tell me, how can you justif;^ the Mass, as it is performed abroad? how can it be called a 'reasonable service,' when all parties conspire to gabble it over ; as if it mattered not a jot who attended to it, or even understood it 7 Speak, man, speak," he added, gently shaking him by the shoulder. 6. " These are such difficult questions," answered Willis *'mu8t I speak? Such difficult questions," he continued rising into a more animated manner, and kindling as he went on ; "I mean, people view them so differently ; it is so diffi- cult to convey to one person the idea of another. The idea of worship is different in the Catholic Church from the idea of it in your Church ; for, in truth, the religions are differ ent. Don't deceive yourself, my dear Bateman," he said tem< T t- i t J < 1 "l 1 fl ii^ t L 188 THX FIFTH READER. derly, "it is not that oars is yonr religion carried a little farther — a little too far, as you would say. No, they differ in kind, not in degree ; ours is one reli^on, yours another. 1. '* And when the time comes, and come it will for you, alien as you are now, to submit yourself to the gracious yoke of Christ, then, my dearest Bateman, it will be faith which will enable you to bear the ways and usages of Catholics, which else might perhaps startle you. Else, the habits of years, the associations in your mind of a certain outward be- havior, with real inward acts of devotion, might embarrass you, when yon had to conform yourself to other habits, and to create for yourself other associations. But this faith, of which I speak, the great gift of God, will enable yon in that day to overcome yourself, and to snbmit, as your judgment, your will, your reason, your affections, so your tastes and likings, to the rule and usage of the Church. 8. " Ah, that faith should be necessary in such a matter, and that what is so natural and becoming under the circum- stances, should have need of an explanation ! I declare, to me,'' he said, and he clasped his hands on his knees, and looked forward as if soliloquizing, " to me nothing is so con- soling, so piercing, so thrilling, so overcoming, as the Mass, said as it is among us. I could attend masses forever, and not be tired. It is not a mere form of words — it is a great action, the greatest action that can be on eiArth. It is not the invocation merely, but, if I dare use the word, the evoca- tion of the Eternal. He become*) present on the altar in flesh and blood, before whom angels bow and devils tremble. This is that awfUl event which is the end, and is the interpretation, of every part of the solemnity. 9. " Words are necessary but as means, not as ends ; they are not mere addresses t.o the throne of grace, they are in* struments of what is far higher — of consecration, of sacrifice. They hurry on as if impatient to fulfil their mission. Quickly they go, the whole is quick ; for they are all parts of one in- tegral action. Quickly they go ; for they are awful words of sacrifice, they are a work too great to delay upon ; as when it was said in the beginning, ' What thou doesit, do quickly. LOBS AND GAIN. 189 Qoicklj they paos ; for the Lord Jesas goes with .hem, as He passed along the lake in the days of His flesh, quickly calling first one and then another. 10. " Quickly they pass ; because as the lightning which shine th from one part of the heaven unto the other, so is the coming of the Son of Man. Quickly they pass ; for they are OS the words of Moses, when the Lord came down in a cloud calling on the Name of the Loi'd as He passed by, ' The Lord, the Lord God, merciful and gracious, long suffering, tend abundant in goodness and truth.' And as Moses on the mountain, so we, too, ' make haste and bow our heads to the earth, and adore.' So we, all around, each in his place, look out for the great Advent, ' waiting for the moving of the water.' "' - ' -■..■,-••■ ■ ■■■*■:' 11. " Each in his place, with his own heart, with his own wants, with his own thoughts, with his own intentions, with his own prayers, separate but concordant, watching what is going on, watching its progress, uniting in its consummation ; not painfully and hopelessly following a hard form of prayer Crom beginning to end, but like a concert of musical instru- ments, each different, but concurring in a sweet harmony, we take our part with Qod's priest, supporting him, yet guided by him. 12. " There are little children there, and old men, and am- ple laborers, and students in seminaries, priests preparing for mass, priests makmg their thanksgiving ; there are innocent maidens, and there are penitents ; but out of these many minds rises one eucharistic hymn, and the great Action is the measure and the scope of it. And oh, my dear Bateman," be added, turning to him, "you ask me whether this is not a formal, unreasonable service ? It is wonderful !" he cried, rising up, "quite wonderful. When will these dear good people be enlightened ? O Wisdom, strongly and sweetly dis posing all things ! O Adonai I Key of David, and Ex- pectation of nations — come and save us, O Lord our God 1" 13. Now, at least, there was no mistaking Willis. Bate* man started, and was almost frightened at a burst of enthn- nasm which he had been far from expecting. " Why, Willis," 1. 190 THS FIFTH READEB. I : t II II t I ! I J he said, " it w not true, then, after all, what we heard, that 70a were somewhat dubious, shaky, in your adherence to Ro- manism ? I'm sure I beg your pardon ; I would not for the world have annoyed you, had I known the truth." Willis's face still glowed, and ho looked as youthful and radiant as he bad been two years before. 14. There was nothing ungentle in his impetuosity ; a smile, ahnost a laugh, was on his face, as if he was haU ashamed of his own warmth ; but this took nothing from its evident sincerity. He seized Bateman's two hands, before the latter knew where he was, lifted him up out of his seat, and raising his own mouth close to his ear, said in a low' Yoice, " I would to God, that not only thou, but also all who hear me this day, were both in little and in much such as I am, except these chains." Then, reminding him it had grown late, and bidding him good-night, he left the room with Charles. 15. Bateman remained awhile with his back to the fire after the door had closed ; presently he began to give expression to his thoughts. " Well," he said, " he's a brick, a regulai brick ; he has almost affected me myself. What a way tliose fellows have with them ; I declare his touch has made my heart beat ; how catching enthusiasm is t Any one but I might really have been unsettled. He is a real good fellow ; what a pity we have not got him I he's just the sort of a mao we want. He'd make a splendid Anglican ; he'd convert half the dissenters in the country. Well, we shall have them in time ; we must not be impatient. But the idea of his talking of converting me / ' in little and in much,' as he worded it I By the by, what did he mean by ' except these chains V " 16. He sat ruminating on the difficulty ; at first he was inclined to think that, after all, he might have some misgiv- ings about his position ; then he thought that perhaps he had a hair shirt or a catenella on him ; and lastly, he came to the conclusion that he had just meant nothing at all, and did but finish the quotation he had begun. After passing some little time in this state, he looked towards the tea-tray; poured himself out another cup of tea ; ate a bit of toast ; took the i i i TUE LAST IIOUR3 OF LOUIS XTI. 101 eoals off the fire ; blew out one of the candles, aud taking up the other, left the parlor, and wound like an omnibus up the ■teep twifltmg staircase to his bedroom. 63. The Last Hours of Louis XVI. ALISON. 81B Abohibald Aluon— son of the well-known author of the " Enaaj on Tatite." was born in Scotland, in 1792. His tfroat work is *'The llin- tory of Europe, from the ooinmencemont of tho French Revolution, to the restoration ortlie BourbonH." His stvle is rich and flowing, and he writeii like a man who has no winh to be unfuir; but his point of view in alwn,vf that of an Englishman and a tory. His History has been written too rap- idly, and often betrays marks of haste, which destroys its value as an authority. 1. His last interyiew with his family presented the most heart-rending scene. At half-past eight, the door of his apartment opened, and the Queen appeared, leading by the hand the Princess Boyal, and the Princess Elizabeth ; theyaU rushed into the arms of the King. A profound silence ensued for some minutes, broken only by the sobs of the afflicted family. 2. The King took a seat, the Queen on his left, the Prin- cess Boyal on his right, Madame Elizabeth in front, and the young Danphin between his knees. This terrible scene lasted nearly two hours, the tears and lamentations of the royal family, frequently interrupting the words of the King, suffi> ciently evmced that he hunself was communicating with the intelligence of his condemnation. At length, at a quarter-past ten, Louis arose ; the Royal parents gaye, each of them, theil blessing to the Daaphin, while the Princess still held the King embraced around the waist. As he approached the door they uttered the most piercing shrieks. " I assure you,'' sai he, " I will see yoa again in the morning at eight o'clock.' "Why not at seven?" they all exclauned. " Well, then, a seven," answered the King. " Adieu, adieu 1" 3.' These words were pronounced with so mournful an ac tent, that the lamentations of the family were redoubled, and 102 THE Fimi RKADEB. > ■ the PrliiccNH Royal fell fainting at his feet. At length, wish* iiig to put an end to 8o trying a scene, the King embraced them all in the tenderest manner, and tore himself from their armH. 4 The remainder of the evening he spent with his confes- •or, the Abb^ Edge worth, who, with heroic derotion, dis charged the perilous duty of assisting his monarch in bis last moments. At twelve he went to bed, and slept peacefully til] five. He then gave his last instruction to Cl^ry, and put into hifl hands the little property that still remained in his hands, » ring, a seal, and a lock of hair. " Give this ring,'' said he, " to the Queen, and tell her with how much regret I leave her ; give her also the locket containing the hair of my chil- dren ; give this seal to the Dauphin, and tell them all what I baffer at dying without receiving their last embrace, but I wish to spare them the pain of so cruel a separation.'^ He then received the Holy Sacrament, from the hands of his con- fessor, from a small altar erected in his chamber, and heard the last service of the dying, at the time when the rolling of the drums, and the agitation of the streets, announced the ;)reparation for his execution. 6. At nine o'clock, Santerre presented himself in the Tem- i»le. " You come to seek me," said the King. " Allow mc *. minute." He went into his closet, and immediately return* td with hifl Testament in his baud. " I pray you," said he, •'give this packet to the Queen, my wife." " That is no con- cern of mine," replied the representative of the municipality. ' I am here only to conduct you to the scalTold." The King then asked another to take charge of the document, and said to Santerre, " Let ns be off." In passing through the court of the Temple, Louis cast a last look at the tower which con- tained all that was most dear to him on earth, and immedi- ately summoning all his courage, seated himself calmly in the carriage beside his confessor, with two gendarmes on the op- posite side. During the passage to the place of execution, which occupied two hours, he never failed reciting the psalms which were pointed out to him by the good priest. Even th€ soldiers were astonished at his composure. f QOD 8 SHARE. 108 6. The streets wero filled with an immense crowd, who be* Iicld in silent dismay the moarnful procession. A large body of troops sorroundcd the carriage. A double file of National Guards, and a formidable array of cannon, rendered hopeless any attempts at rescue. When the procession arrifed at the place of execution, between the gardens of the Tuileries and the Champs Elys^es, he descended from the carriage, and un- dressed himself without the aid of the executioners, but testi- fied a momentary look of indignation, when they began to bind his hands. M. Edgeworth exclaimed with almost in- spired felicity, "Submit to this outrage as the last resem- blance to the Saviour, who is about to recompense your suf- ferings." ^ > 7. At these words, he resigned himself, and walked to the foot of the scaffold. Here he received the sublime benedic- tion of his confessor, " Son of St. Louis, ascend to heaven !'' He no sooner mounted, than advancing with a firm step to the front of the scaffold, with one look he imposed silence on twenty drummers, placed there to prevent him from being heard, and said with a loud voice : " I die innocent of all crimes laid to my charge. I pardon the authors of my death, and pray God that my blood may not fall upon France. And you, my people — " At these words, Santerre ordered the drt}ms to beat ; the executioners seized the King, and the de* sceuding axe terminated his existence. One of the assistants seized the head, and waved it in the air ; the blood fell on the heroic confessor, who was on his knees by the lifeless body of hih sovereign. 64. Good's Shabe. XoLBOD. .- V;^'" , Donald McLbod is a convert to the Catholic faith. He haa written a •'Life of Mary, Queen of Scots," a " Life of Sir Walter Scott," both ad- mirable specimens of biography. He has contributed several other works to tlie atock of American literature. 1. Ar the distance of some leagues from Fribourg, in the ancient county of Gruyfere, lived, in the good old time, th" excellent Count Peter III. ; and, when his race was ran, t 9 ^ / 194 THE Firrn reader. departed this life in a good Christian manner, learing hia memory and his property to his widow Wilhelmette. 2. The lady Wilhelmette had, in her province, a certain mountain, fruitful in snows and torrents, very grand to look at, but very unproductive. To this she joined some acres of good pasture-land, and gave it all to the Carthusians, Asking them to pray for her, for her young son, and foi? good Count Peter the departed. To it she gave the name of Theil-Oottes, or Pars-Dieu — the share of God ; and got Bochard, monk o* Val Saint, appointed the first Prior. 3. The monks went stoutly to work ; they cleared the forest, they terraced parts of the mountain-side, they brought soil thither with much labor, and sowed abundantly, and planted. And soon the voice of pray&r made sweet the soli- tudes, and alms were ready for the wandering poor ; and the cross upon the tower and the mellow bell told the poor inoan^ taineer that God was beside him. 4. Little by little, the people gathered round and built their humble houses there ; and the wilderness smiled, and there was another home of torrents won from rough Nature for a house of prayer. This was in a. d. 1308. In the year ISOOt the ancient convent was burned down ; but the monks con trived to build it up again, without diminishing their alms And so it stood until that melancholy Revolution, lifting up radicalism, drove the good fathers from their home, and left the empty halls of " God's Share'' to tell to the wandering ■tranger the story of their benevolence. 65. Old Times. OBIFFIN. / Obrald GiuTriN, n difttingninhed novelist nnd dramatist of the preioo eimtury, was born near Limerick, in 1808. At an early age, wlien his tulon* were winning him fame nnd popularity in London, whither he hnd repaired, AH he pleasantly expresnea it in one rf his letters, '* with the modest desirn of riviillinff Scott and throwing Sliuknpeare ir.to the shade," he suddenly withdre w from the path of liteniture, nnd became a devoted Brotlier of the Chriatian Schools, in which sphere of asefulness he died, in 1840, at lh« Mrly (m« of 87. Some of Qriffiu's novvlSj and eapeoiaUy '* The CoUegians * OLD TIMES. 195 '•Sail Dhn," "Tranr's AmVtion," and ••T«lcii of the Five 8en««i," an •anal to any thitifr of tlic kind in our lungiiH)^. Him (rrcHt hi^(:'i\ir* iM THE nm BSADER. The sally waving o*er ray head, Still sweetly shades my frame, Bat ah, those happy days are fled, And I am not the same ! Old times 1 old times t 1 1 f 6. Oh, come again, ye merry times I Sweet, sunny, fresh, and calm ; And let me hear those Easter chimet, And wear my Sunday palm. If I could cry away mine eyes, My tears would flow in vain ; If I could waste my heart iii sighs. They'll never come again I Old thnes I old times 1 #. 55. Character of the Irish Peasantry, babkingtoit. 8m Jonah Barrinoton was born in Quoon'a county, Ireland, in 1787: Jied, 1884. He was a Judge of the Court of Admiralty, and a member oi the Irish Parliament:. Ilo has left behind u valuable work on a most in- teresting period of Irish history, entitled " Rise and Fall of the Iri»h Na- tion." His Per$onal Skttchea of the men of his times are inimitable in their way. 1. The Irish peasantry, who necessarily compose the great body of the population, combine in their character many of those singular and repugnant qualities Which peculiarly desig- nate the people of different nations ; and this*remarkable-con trariety of characteristic traits pervades almost the whol current of their natural dispositions. Laborious, domestic, accustomed to want in the midst of plenty, they submit to hardships without repining, and bear the severest privations with stoic fortitude. The sharpest wit, and the shrewdest Hubtilty, which abound in the character of the Irish peasant, generally lie conced,led under tiie semblance of dullness, or the appearance of sunplicity ; and bis language, replete with the \<<. 9.- OHAXACTEB OF THE IRISH PEASANTBT. 19T keenest humor, possesses an ul^< ^ of cqniTOcation, which never fails successfully to evade a - 'Ct answer to an nnwelcome question. 2. Inquisitive, artful, and penetrating, the Irish {)ea8anl learns mankind without extensive intercourse, and has an in- Ktinctive knowledge of the world, without mingling in its societies ; and never, in any other instance, did there exist a people who could display so much address and so much talent lo the ordinary transactions of life as the Irish peasantry. 3. The Irish peasant has, at all periods, been peculiarlj distinguished for unbounded but indiscriminate hospitality, which, though naturally devoted to the necessities of a friend, is never denied by him even to the distresses of an enemy.* To be in want or misery, is the best recommendation to his disinterested protection ; his food, his bed, his raiment, are equally the stranger's and his own ; and the deeper the distress, the more welcome is the suflferer to the peasant's cottq,ge. 4. His attachment to his kindred are of the strongest na> ture. The social duties are intimately blended with the natural disposition of an Irish peasant : though covered with rags, oppressed with poverty, and perhaps with hunger, the finest specimens of generosity and heroism are to be found in his unequalled character. 5. An enthusiastic attachment to the place of their nativity is another striking trait of the Irish character, which neithei time nor absence, prosperity nor adversity, can obliterate or diminish. Wherever an Irish peasant was born, there he wishes to die ; and, however successful in acquiring wealth or rank in distant places, he returns with fond affection to renew his intercourse with the friends and companions of his yonth and his obscurity. <> It has been remarked that the English and Irish people form ILeii judgment of strangers very differently:— an Englishman suspects stranger to be a rogue, till ho finds that he is an honest man ; th Irishman conceives every person to be an honest man till he finds him out to be a rogue ; and this accounts for the very striking differeno* in their conduct and hospitality to strangers. 198 / THE FIFTH READER. ill; I :' 11 6. An innate spirit of insubordination to the laws has bees strongly charged upon the Irish peasantry: but a people to wrhom the punishment of crimes appears rather as a sacrifice to revenge than a measure of prevention, can never have the same deference to the law as those who are instructed in the principles of justice; and taught to recognize its equality. It lias, however, been uniformly admitted by every impartial writer on the affairs of Ireland, that a spirit of strict justice has ever characterized the Irish peasant.'*' 7 Convince him by plain and impartial reasoning, that he is wrong ; and he withdraws from the judgment-seat, if not with cheerfulness, at least with submission : but, to make him respect the laws, he must be satisfied that they are impartial ; and, with that conviction on his mind, the Irish peasant is as perfectly tractable as the native of any other country in the world. 8. An attachment to, and a respect for females, is another characteristic of the Irish peasant. The wife partakes of all her husband's vicissitudes ; she shares his labor and his mis- eries, with constancy and with affection. At all the sports and meetings of the Irish peasantry, the women are always of the company : they have a great influence ; and, in his smoky cottage, the Irish peasant, surrounded by his family, seems to forget all his privations. The natural cheerfulness of his dis- position banishes reflection ; and he experiences a simple happiness, which even the highest ranks of society might justly envy. - ' <* Sir John Davis, bttorney>general of Ireland, who, in the reign ot James the First, was employed by the king to establish the English laws throughout Ireland, and who made himself perfectly acquainted with the character of the inhabitants, admits that " there were nc people under heaven, who loved equal and impartial justice bektei Uian the Irish." v=- "^'•4' ' I ST. FRANCES OF ROME. 199 57. St. Frances of Koms. LADT FULLERTOir. Imdt O. FruKKTON— Born in England, in 1812. She is a iiveit to ibc Catholic i'aitli, niid a writer of con.sideruble merit. Her''£llen Middle- U>n " and "Grmtly Manor" were wriilen proviouu to her conversion. Her "Lndy Bird," and her beautiful "Life of St. Frances of Koine," are the vorkrt of a later period, and bear the unmistakable stamp of falth-inspircd getiiuK. 1. There have been saints whose histories strike us as par- tiealariy beautiful, not only as possessing the beauty which always belongs to sanctity, whether exhibited in an agec servant of God, who for threescore years and more has borne the heat and burden of the day, or in the youth who has of- fered up the morning of his life to his Maker, and yielded it into His hands before twenty summers have passed over his head ; whether in a warrior king like St. Louis, or a beggar like Benedict Labr^, or a royal lady like St. Elizabeth, of Hungary ; but also as uniting in the circumstances of their lives, in the places they inhabited, and the epochs when they appeared in the world, much that is in itself poetical and m- teresting, and calculated to attract the attention of the his- torian and the man of letters, as well as of the theologian and the devout. 2. In this class of saints may well be included Franceses Romana, the foundress of the religious order of the Oblates of Tor di Specchi. She was the model of young girls, the example of a deyout matron, and finally a widow, accordmg to the very pattern drawn by St. Paul. She was beautlM, courageous, and full of wisdom, nobly bom, and delicately bronghi up. Rome was the place of her burth, and the scene of her labors ; her home was in the centre of the great city, in the heart of the Trastevere ; her life was full of trials and hair-breadth 'scapes, and strange reverses. 3. Her hidden life was marvellous in the extreme. Yisious of terror and of beauty followed her all her days ; favors such as were never granted to any other samt were vouchsafed to her ; the world of spirits was continually thrown open to her Bight ; aud yet, in her daily conduct, her character, and her 200 THE FIFTH RFJIDER. W h I i i ways, minnte details of which have reached as, there is a simplicity as well as a deep hamility, awful in one so highly gifted, touching in one so highly favored. 4. Troubled and wild were the times she lived in. Perhaps, if one had to point out a period in which a Catholic Christiun would rather not have had his lot cast, — one in which there wai most to try his faith and wound his feelings, — he would name tiic end of the fourteenth century, and the beginning of the fifteenth. War was raging all over Europe ; Italy was torn by inward dissensions, by the rival factions of the Guelphs and the Ghibellines. 5. So savage was the spirit with which their conflicts were carried on, that barbarism seemed once more about to over- spread that fair land ; and the Church itself was afflicted not only by the outward persecutions which strengthen its vitality, though for a while they may appear to cripple its action, but by trials of a far deeper and more painful nature. Heresy had torn from her arms a great number of her children, and re- peated schisms were dividing those who, in appearance and even in intention, remained faithful to the Holy See. 6. The successors of St. Peter had removed the seat of their residence to Avignon, and the Eternal City presented the aspect of one vast battle-field, on which daily and hourly conflicts were occurring. The Colonnas, the Orsinis, the Sa rellis, were every instant engaged in struggles which deluged the streets with blood, and cut off many of her citizens in the flower of their age. Strangers were also continually invading the heritage of the Church, and desecrated Rome with mas- sacres and outrages scarcely less deplorable than those of the Huns and the Vandals. 7. In the capital of the Christian world, ruins of recent date lay side by side with the relics of past ages ; the churchos were sacked, burned, and destroyed; the solitary and in- destructible basilicas stood almost alone, mournfully erect amidst these scenes of carnage and gloom ; and the eyes of the people i ". Rome were wistfully directed towards that tutelary power which has ever been to them a pledge of prosperity uud peace, and whose removal the signal of war and of misery ¥^: i > BPBINa. 901 68. Spring. ^'■ LONOVKLLOW. Mr. LoNsntDW is an ac:omplished American pc«t and aeholar : bom In 1807. " Evanjfe.ine," " Toe Golden Legend," and " The Song of Iliuwa tha " are his longest and most finiaheo poema. He ia also {lopuUr as • prose writer. 1. It was a sweet carol, which the Rhodian children saog of old in Spring, bearing in their hands, from door to door, » swallow, as herald of the season : " The swallow is come I The swallow is oome 1 Oh, fair are the seasons, and light Are the days that she bring* With her dusky wings, And her bosom snowy white 1" 2. A pretty carol, too, is that, which the Hungarian boys, on the islands of the Danube, smg to the returning stork in Spring : "Stork! stork! poor stork! Why is thy foot so bloody ! ...,-, A Turkish boy hath torn it : . Hungarian boy will heal it With fiddle, fife, and dram." But what child has a heart to sing in this capridons climo of ours, where Spring comes sailing in from the sea, with wet and heavy cloud-sails, and the misty pennon of the East wind nailed to the mast ? 3. Yes, even here, and in the stormy month of March even, there are bright warm mornings, when we open our windows to inhale the balmy air. The pigeons fly to and fro, and we hoar the whirring sound of wings. Old flies crawl out of the cracks, to sun themselves, and think it is Summer. They die in their conceit ; and so do our hearts within n?, wL«n thi cold sea-breath comes firom the eastern sea, and agsdo, , " The driving hail Upon the window b^ats with ioj flail.** 9» I , t i ! 302 THE FirrH KPADJ5R. 4. The red-flowering maple is first in blossom : its beaotiful parple flowers unfolding a fortnight before the leayes. The moosewood follows, with rose-colored bads and leaves ; and the dogwood, robed in the white of its own pure blossoms. Then comes the sudden rain-storm ; and the birds fly to and fro, and shriek. Where do they hide themselves in such storms? at what firesides dry their feathery cloaks ? At the fireside of the great, hospitable sun ; to-morrow, not before : they must sit in wet garments until then. 5. In all climates, Spring is beautiful : in the South it is intoxicating, and sets a poet beside himself. Tbe burds begin to sing : they utter a few rapturous notes, and then wait for an answer from the silent woods. Those green-coated musicians, the frogs, make holiday in the neighboring marshes. They, too, belong to the orchestra of nature, whose vast theatre 16 again opened, though the doors have been so long bolted with icicles, and the scenery hung with snow and frost like cobwebs. 6. This is the prelude which announces the opening of the scene. Already the grass shoots forth. The waters leap with thrilling pulse thiough the veins of the earth, the sap through the veins of the plants and trees, and the blood through the ▼ems of man. What a thrill of delight in Spring-time ! what a joy in being and moving I 7. Men are at work in gardens, and in the air there is an odor of the fresh earth. The leaf buds begin to swell and blush ; the white blossoms of the cherry hang upon the boughs, like snow-flakes ; and ere long our next door neighbors will be completely hidden from us by the dense green foliage. The May flowers open their soft blue eyes. Children are let loose in the fields and gardens ; they hold buttercups under each others' chin, to see if they love butter ; and the little girls adorn themselves with chains and curls of dandelions, pull out the yellow leaves, and blow the down from the leafless stalk. 8. And at night so cloudless and so still ! Not a voice of living thing, not a whisper of leaf or waving bough, not a breath of wmd, not a sound upon the earth nor m the air t And overhead bends *he blue sky, dewy and soft and radiant ■•A:\ WATBKOe S BKKBEUF AND LALKMANT. 208 irith innumerable stars, like the in?ertcd bell of some blue flower^ sprinkled with golden dust, and breathing fragrance ; vr if the heavens are overcast, it is no wild storm of wind and tain, but clouds that melt and fall in showers. One does not wish to sleep, but lies awake to hear the pleasant sound of tho dropping rain. It was thus the Spring began in Heidelberg. •:i^ ■r^> /fA/ 59. MASTrBDOii OF Fathers de Bbebetjf and Lalb- MANT. BSY. J. B. A. FBBLAND. AbbA J. B. A. Fkblanp, a contemporary French-Oanadiao writer of cipal tioiw oil a Hii*tory of Ciiuada,' by the AbW Bra*henr ;" " Notes on th« considerable eminence. His principal publiniied works are, " ObHerva- Rt'gi!«ter« of Notre Dame do Qnel>ec ;" "A Voynjje to Labrador;" "A Course of Canadian History:" '* Journal of a Voyage to the Coast of Gu>pe; "Life of Moiise'jrtienr Ples.is," &o., &o. Abb^ Ferland WM boru in Montreal, on Chriatinas Day, 1S05. 1. Meanwhile those Indians who had entered Fort St. Ig- natius would have the pleasure of torturing the two Jesuits. The latter were already in expectation of the torments re* served for the prisoners. Father Brebenf had even, a little before, announced his death as near at hand. 2. They were, in the first place, beaten with sticks, then fastened to the stake, and tortured with fire and iron ; round the neck of each hung a string of red-hot axes, and round their waist is fastened a strip of bark soaked in burning pitch and resia, while, in derision of Holy Baptism, boiling water is poured on their head. Some recreant Hurons show them- selves even more cruel than the fierce Iroquois, and add insult to cruelty. " You have told us," say they, " that the more people su£fcr in this world, the happier they are in the other ; well, we are your friends, since we procure you greater happi- ness in heaven. You ought to thank us for rendering you such good service." 8. In the height of his torments. Father Gabriel Lalemant nused his eyes to hearen, and clasping his hands, begged of S04 xnc nFTH nKATtrn. II!! Qod to assist him. Father dc Brcbcaf stood like a rock, in* vensible to fire and iron, without uttering a single cry, nor even so muoh as a sigh or groan. From time to time he lifted bis voice to annoance the truth to the heathens, and to encour- age the Christians whom they were torturing around him. Exasperated by the holy freedom with which he spoke to them, his executioners cut off his nose, then his lips, and thrust a red-hot iron into his mouth. The Christian hero maintained the greatest composure, and his aspect was so firm and resolute that he seemed still to command his tor* mentors. 4. They then brought near to Father de Brebeuf his younger companion covered with fir-bark, which they prepared to se* on fire. Throwing himself at the feet of the elder missionary. Father Lalemant commended himself to his prayers, and re- peated the words of the Apostle St. Paul, " We are made a spectacle to the world, and to angels, and to men.'^ Dragging ' Ff^t^er Xal^ant back to his stake, they set fire to the barks that covered^ £lm ; and his tormentors stood still to enjoy the pleasure of seeing him bum slowly, and to hear the groans which he could not repress. 5. Rendered furious by the smell of blood, the Iroquois now surpassed themselves in refinements of cruelty ; they tore out Father Lalemant's eyes, and replaced them by burning coals ; they cut pieces of flesh from the thighs of the two missionaries, which they baked on the coals, and devoured before their eyes. 6. Father de Brebeuf 's torture lasted about three hours ; he died on the very day of his capture, the 16th of March, 1649, about four o'clock p. m. After his death the savages tore out his heart, which they shared among them ; they hoped that whosoever eat of it, might obtain a portion of their victim's courage. The tormentors then threw themselves upon Father Gabriel Lalemant, who was tortured without interruption till nine o'clock the following morning. Even then he was indebted for the termination of his misery to the compassion of an Iro- quois, who, tired of seeing him languish a day and a night, put on end to his sufferings with a blow of his tomahawk. THE WILD LILT AND THK PA8RION FLOWKB. 905 7. Father Gabriel Lalcmant, nephew of the two misaionarief of that name, had Ix-eu but six months in the Huron countrj. Bom in Paris of a family distinguished in the profession of the law, he had taught. the sciences for several years. Not- withstanding the feebleness of his frame, and the delicacy of his constitution, he had for years solicited the favor of being sent on the perilous Canadian mission. Although one of the last to reach the scene of combat, he had the happiness o! being one of the first to secure the crown of martyrdom. He was but thirty-nine years old when he had the glory of dymg, ftonouncing the Qospel. 60. The Wild Lily and thk Passion Floweb. ROUQUBTTK. RxT. A. RouQCETTE is (i native of New Orlcnns. IIIh French poems, under the title of Le$ Savane$, were received witli inneh encouragement in France. He has written u beautiful and poetical treatise on tlie solitary life, entitled La T/tebatde en Amtriqxu, and ti volume of EngliHli pueniR, called '' Wild llowers." He in a perfect master of the melody of the Eng^liith; •nd that he is a poet by nature appears in every line, and more strikingly in his prose than in his verse. Mr. Kouquette was oraaioed a priest in lS4o. 1. Sweet flower of light, The queen of solitude, > ; ; ; The image bright ; ; ,^ i ' Of grace-born maidenhood, . ♦ Thou risest tall ' ^ Midst struggling weeds that drdop :-^ . « Thy lieges all, ' ; ' . They humbly bow and stoop. * 9. Dark colored flower, How solemn, awful, sad I- I feel thy power, king, in purple clad ! With head reclined, ' TboQ art the emblem deal •>;' h:.':r A^ w arte TBK Firm READEB. I r I !l!i!^ I y Of woes divine ; The flower I most rerere t • The lily white, The parplo passion flower ^ Mount Thabor bright. The gloomy Olive-bower. Snch is our life, — Alternate joys and woei, Short peace, long strife, Few friends and many feet I 4 My friend, away All wailings here below : The royal way To realms above is woe I To suffer much Has been the fate of Sainti { Our fate is such : — Away, away all plaints t • 61. Illumination at St. Petu'i. DK. ENOLAND. ■'-... Biglit Reverend John Enoland.D.D., first Bishop of Churleaton, 8. C, WM bom in Cork, in 1786, c! id in Clinrlcston in 1842. Dr. Enfi^land was man of great natural abilities, and profound and varied attainments. He was one of the greatest prelates the American Church hasvet had. As a writer and an orator he hod no superior, and few eqnals. He lias enriched our literature with essays on almost every subiect bearing upon the inter' ests of Catholicity in thi» .uun'ry. His worKa were collected and pub- lished, in five octavo volumes, by his successor, Dr. Reynolds. 1. In ray last I gave a brief description of the proces- sion and first vespers '>f ihe festival of St. Peter and Paul, on the 28th ult. Prepare dou:^ had been made for iDuminat- ing the exterior of the church of St. Peter's as soon ss night ihouid fall. Xo descripti»>/i cp . convey o your readers an ^ nxUXUIATlOV AT BT. PETBbV 207 adequate idea of the spectacle which hia presents. The dome is 8omew^'•t larger than the church of St. Mary of the Martyrs, which ..:> the old Pantheon ; and this is uol uulv 8ur> moijting the roof, but raised considerably uh<>To it. T',^ FaniiieoD is much larger than the Circuit '* Church, io Me« t- Uig«treet. Imagine this as only one of three domes, u/ which it is indeed far the largest, elcyatcd considerably aboTC the roof of a church, the faqade of which is a grand pil< of architecture; t\m d^mo is half surrounded by columns, a. '1 the one by which tlic entablature over them is crowned, i» closely ribbed to iU Mimmit ; over this is a ball, in which I was one uf ight perse ns, standing erect, and we had room for at, lea' I four oi.urs, and this ball surmounted by a cross. 9, < .m the sides of the front two wings of splendid archi* tecturo projcrt forward, upwards of eighty feet ; at their ex- tremities are lofty columns, o?er which run the proper entab- latures, crowned by pediments ; from these the immense colon- nades recede almost semicircularly from each wing, sweeping with their hundreds of pillars round the immense piazza, capar ble of containing probably one hundred thousand human be- ings upon the area within their embrace. 3. In the centre of this is a rich Egyptiaii obelisk, resting upon the bocks of four lions couchant upon the angles of a fine pedestal. Half way from this obelisk, at each ride toward the colonnade, are the two magnificent fonntuns, probably the most superb in the world. Each appears to be a spacious marble vase, elevated upon a sufficiently strong, but gracefully delicate stem ; the summit of this vase is at the elevation of about twelve feet. From its centre rises to nearly the same height another still more slender and deli- cately-shuped etem, from whose summit is projected to a con- sider" ' '.. height, a water-spout, which gracefully bending near its summit, and yielding to the direction of the wind, as it forms its curve and descent^ is separated into a sort of spark- ling spray of pearls and silver intermixed; twelve other simi- * The CirciUar Church, oim of lh« priacipol buildings in Charlestoiiy teatk Carolina. 208 THE FIFTH liEADER. lar Rpouts shoot round this central liquid cohimn, diverging from it on every side as they rise, and falling with a similaf appearance at somewhat of a less elevation. 4. They seem in the distance to be like rich plumes of some gigantic ostrich, gracefully waving in the breeze, while the lescending shower is received in the capacious vase, from A' hose interior it is conducted to various fountains in the city. Hundreds of statues lift their various forms, appearing larger than life, over the frieze and cornice of the colonnade ; while at the foot of the majestic flight of steps by which you ascend to the portico of the church, two ancient statues of St. Peter and St. Paul have for centuries rested upon their pedes- tals. 5. The .fapade of the church itself is surmounted by the co- lossal statues of the Twelve Apostles. The illumination con- sisted of two parts. The lamps for the first part were dis- posed closely, in colored paper, along the architectural lines of this mighty mass, along the ribs of the domes, around the ball, and on the cross. 6. To me, as I looked from the bridge of St. Angelo, the scene appeared like a vision of enchantment. It seemed as if a mighty pile of some rich, black, soft material, was reared in the likeness of a stupendous temple, and the decorations were broad lines of burning liquid gold. The ball and the cross were seen as if detached and restmg in the air above its sum- mit. It was indeed a becoming emblem of the triumph of a crucified Redeemer over this terrestrial ball. After I had parsed the bridge, and as I approached the piazza, the front of the church, and the expanse of the colonnade, exhibited their lines of light. The specks which formed those lines glowed now more distinct and separate, and though their con- tinuity was lost, their symmetry was perfect and magnificent. 7 . The immense piazza was thronged with carriages, and persons on foot; while a division of the Papal dragoons, one of the finest and best disciplined bodies of cavalry in existence, moved in sections and single files through the multitude, calmly, but steadily and firmly, preserving order in a kind, polite, bat determined maimer. Scarcely a word is heard \v ILLUMIKATION AT 8T. PETKR'S. 209 abore a whisper ; an accident is of so rare an Dccarreace as not tu be calculated npon. 8. The cardinal secretary of state has a gallery in front of the church, to which foreign ambassadors, and a few other strangers of distinction are invited. I observed Captain Reed and his lady in this gallery, and many of our officers were promenading below. About an hour elapsed from the com- mencement, when the motion of a brighter light was observed towards the summit of the cupola, a large star seemed tc shoot upwards to the cross, and, as if by a sudden flash from heaven, the whole edifice appeared to blaze in the glare of day. 9. A thousand lights, kindled by some inconceivably rapid communication, shed their beams upon every part of the build- ing. Pillars and pilasters, with their vases, shafts, and cap- itals ; mouldings, friezes, cornices^ pediments, architraves, panels, doors, windows, niches, images, decorations, enrich- ments, domes — all, all with their faint lines of golden light, nollr softened to a milder lustre, revealed in brilliant relief to the enraptured eye. 62. Illumination at St. Peter's — continued, 1. The fountains were magnificently grand, and richly pore, and softened into a refreshing white. The multitude was silent. The horses were still. The glowing cross, elevated above the Vatican hill, beamed to the wide plains and distant mountains its augury of future glory, because of past humilia- tions. The crowd began to move ; the low buzz of conversa- tion, and then the horses' tramp ; then followed the rattling of wheels. 2. And while tens of thousands remained yet longer, othei lliousands moved in various directions to their homes, or to distant elevated points, for the sake of a variety of views. I went to the magnificent Piazza del Popolo. It was literally a desert ; but in its stillness, and the dereliction of its obelisk, its fouciaiiis, and its statues, by the very contrast lo the scene that I hod left, there arose a feeling of new sublimity. It 210 THE FirrH READER. was more deep, it was more solemn ; but it was less elevated, not so overpowermg, nor so impressiye as that to which it succeeded. 3. My object was to ascend from this p.a<;e to the Monte Finclo, the commanding view from which would enable me to look over the city at the great object which attracted every eye. But the gates of the avenue at this side were closed, and 1 had to go to the Piazza di Spagna, and there to ascend by the immense and beautiful flight of steps to the Trinita del Monti. Standing here, in front of the convent of the La- dies of the Sacred Heart, the view of St. Peter's was indeed superb. 4. I proceeded up towards the public gardens lately formed on the summit of this ancient residence of so many of the re- markable men of five-and-twenty ages. At various intervals, I stopped and turned to view the altered appearance presented by the mass of light, as seen from those different positions. As I contemplated it, I reflected that 'it must soon be exfln- guished, like the transient glories of the philosophers, the he- roes, the statesmen, the orators, who successively passed over the spot on which I stood. 5. An humble fisherman from Galilee, and an obscure tent- maker from Tarsus, were confined in the dungeons of this city. Seventeen hundred and sixty-eight years had passed away since one of them was crucified with his head downwards on the Vatican Hill, and the other was beheaded on the Ostiao Way. They had been zealously faithful in discharging the duties of their apostleship. 6. In the eyes of men, their death was without honor; but it was precious in the sight of God. Grateful and admiring millions from year to year proclaim their praises, while the Church exhibits their virtues as proofs of the Saviour's grace, as models for the imitation of her sons. Oh, let my soul die [th(! death of] the just, and let my last end be like to theirs I Translated from this earth, they live in heaven. Tried for a time, and found faithful, they enjoy a glorious recompense I t. The Qod that wo serve is merciful lu bestowing his ILLUMINATION AT ST. PETERS. 2U grace, and is exceedingly bountiful in crowning his own gifla, by giving to us, through the merits of his Son, a recompense for those acts of virtue which he enables us to perform. I found myself again near the summit of the steps. I descended, and retired to my home, re6ecting upon the wonders wrought by the Most High, through the instrumentality of those two great saints, the celebration of whose festival had thus cum menced. 8. The ardent Peter and the active Paul. The name changed to signify the office to which he should be raised. The vicegerent of Heaven's King, bearing the mystic keys, with powers of legislation and of adrai listration rested upon him ; who of himself weak, but who, sustained by Christ, was strong. "Before the cock shall crow twice this night, thou shall thrice deny me. Yes ! Satan hath desired to have thee, that he might sift thee as wheat ; but I have prayed for thee, that thy faith fail not. And thou once converted, confirm thy brethren." 9. The strongest power that hell can muster in its gates to make a furious assault upon that Church, the weighty ad- ministration of which shall rest upon you, and upon those that shall succeed you, shall from time to time be marshalled and sent forth for the destruction of that body which the Sa- viour organized, like a well-ordered kingdom upon earth, for the attainment of heaven ; but the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. The dynasties of nations have perished, the palaces of the Caesars are in ruins, their tombs have mouldered with the bodies they contained, but the successors of Peter continue. 10. Under the orders of Nero, the two apostles were con' signed to what was imagined to be destruction. The vanlta of the tyrant's golden palace are covered with vegetation Standing on the unseemly ruins of the remnant of this mon ster's monument, by the side of the Flaminian Way, througli the obscurity of the night the Christian peasant looks towards that blaze of light which, from the resting-place where the relics of the head of the Church and of the doctor of the Gentiles arc found, breaks forth and irradiates the Eternal 212 THE hfte readeb. City and its monumental environs. If Peter is elevated ii Biation, Paul is not less glorious in merit. 11. He, too, looked back with sorrow on that day when he held the clothes of those who slew Stephen. But how nobly did he redeem his error I A vessel of election tc bear the good odor of Christ into the palaces of kings 1 a tor ^ rent of eloquence flowing into the barren fields of a vwn phi< losophy, to fertilize and adorn 1 A rich exhibition of virtue, winning by its beauty, attracting by its symmetry, and excit- ing to activity by emulation 1 A glowing meteor of benedic- tion, dissipating the clouds,, and warming the hearts of the beholders to charity on earth, that they might be fitted for glory in heaven t 63. The Son's Retubn. OEBALD OBIFFIN'. i I 1. On a sudden, she heard voices outside the window. Alive to the slightest circumstance that was unusual, she arose, all dark as it was, threw on her siMple dress in haste, and groped her way to the front door of the dwelling. She recognized the voice of a friendly neighbor, and opened the door, supposing that he might have some interesting intelli- gence to communicate. She judged correctly. " Good news I good news I Mrs. Reardon ; and I give you foy of them this morning. What will you give me for telling who is in that small boat at the shore ?" " That small boat 1— what ?— where ?" 2. "Below there, ma'am, where rm pointmg my finger. Don't you see them coming up the cia^ioyrar^ you ?" " I cannot- — I cannot, it isi so dark," the widow replied, endeavoring to penetrate the glbdni.' " Dark ! — and the broad sun shining down upon them this whole day 1" " Day I — the sun ! O my Alinighty Father 1 save me." " What's the matter ? Don't you see them, ma'am ?" 3. " See them ?" the poor woman ezclauned, placing hef THE son's EKTTBN. 2\^ hands on her eyes, and rariellng aload in her aphony . " Oh ! I shall never see liim more 1 I am dark and blind !" The peasant stalried baok and blessed himself. The next instant the poor widow was. caught in the arms of her son. " Where is she ? My mother I O my darling mother 1 1 am come back to you. Look I I have kept my word.'* ■ ^ 4..Jkhe strove, wifli, a sudden effort of self-restraint, U keep her ihisfokun^'VcCret, and wept without speaking, upor the neck of her long-absent relatir©, who attributed her tears to an excess of happiness. But when he presented his yonng wife, and called her attention to the happy, laughing foces and healthful cheeks of their children, the Svatideridg' 6f her eyes and the confusion of her manner left tt nci longer possible to retain the secret. 5. " My good, kind boy," said she, laying her hand heavily on his arm, " you are returned to my old arms once more, and I am grateful for it — but we cannot expect to have all we wish for in this world. O my poor boy 1 I can never see you — I can never see your children 1 I am blind." The young man uttered a horrid and piercing cry, while he \6skyd his clenched hands above his head, and stamped upon ^he earth in sudden anguish, y •' Blind 1 my mother! O Heaven 1 is this the end of all myf oils and wishes ? To come home, and find her dark forever 1 Is it for this that I have prayed and labored ? Blind and dark 1 O my poor mother I O Heaven 1 O mother, mother 1" ' 6. " Hold, now, my boy — where are you ? What way is that for a Christian to talk? Come near me, and let me touch yqur k^nds. Don't add to my sorrows, Richard, my child, by'^tittel'iilg a word against the will of Heaven. Where are you ? Come near me. Let ifae hear you/say that you are resigned to this and all other vrettatidns of the great Lord of all light. Say this, my child, and your virtue will be dearer to me than my eyes ! 4-K n»7 good Richard I you may be sure the Almighty neverr^strikes us except it is for our sins, or for our good. I thougnt to9 much of you, my child, and the Lord saw that my heart was straymg to the world again, and he has stiuck me for the happiness of both. Let me hear that '<*^ ! 1 2U THK FIFTH READER. yoG are satisfied. I can see joar heart still, and that is dec nv to me than your person. Let me see it as good and datiful ^ as I knew it before you left me." 7. The disappointed exile supported her in his arms. " Well, well, my poor mother," he said, " I am satisfied. Since you are the chief suflferer, and show no discontent, it would be too unreasonable that I should mnrmi^. The will of Hea||en be done I but it is a bitter — bitter stroke." Again he folded his dark parent to his bosom, and wept aloud ; while his wife, retiring sqftl J to a distance, hid her face in her cloak. /)>Her children clung -imh fear and anxiety to her side, and [gazed with affrighted faces upon the afflicted mother and son. 8. But they were not forgotten. After she had repeatedly embrac<^d her recovered child, the good widow remembered her guest];. She extended her arms towards that part of ^ room at which she heard thf^ ^fittl^fl^-ftnij mbaMg^'oJP the younger mother. " Is that my dalighter's Yoice ?" she asked — " place her in my arms, Richard. Let me feel the mother of your children upon my bosom." The young woman flung herself into the embrace of the aged widow. " Young and fair, I am sure(" the latter continued, passing her wasted fin- , gers over the l^ooming cheek of the good American. " I can feel the roses upon this cheek, I am certain. But what are these ? Tears ? My good child, you should dry our tears uistead of adding to them. Where are your children ? Let me see — ah 1 my heart — let me feel them, I mean — ^let me take them in my arms. My little angels 1 Oh ! if I could only open my eyes, for one moment, to look upon you aU — ^but for one little instant — I would close them again for the rest of my life, and think myself happy. If it had happened only • one day — one hour after your arrival — but the will of Heaven be done 1 perhaps even this moment, when we think onr- . selves most miserable, He is preparing for us some hidden ^,' blessing." 9. Once more the pious widow was 3orrect in her conjec- ture It is true, that day, which all hoped should be a day of % vA rapture, was spent by the reujited family in tears and rrniht- ^ li^. But ProvidoQce did not indeed intend that creftturei* ^ •• THB BON 8 RRTURN. 215 who had serred him so faithfully should be visited with ir. ^re than a temporary sorrow, for a sblgh^ ^ad unaccustomed transgression. 10. The news of the widow's misfortune spread rapidly through the conntcr, and excited universal sympathy — foi few refuse their cop^iSCTStion to a fellow-creature's sorrow, even of those who would accord a tardy and measured sympathy to ilia good fortune. Among those^hp heard with real pity the story of their distress, was a^tirgeon who resided in the neighborhood, and who felt all that enthueiastic devotion to his art, which its high importance* to thei^elfkre of 'mankind was calcplate^, to e:$:(pite in a generous mind. This gentleman took an early opportunity' ol^ visiting the old widow when she was alone in the cottage. The simplicity with which she told her story, and the entire resignation which she expressed, interested and touched him deeply. 64 The Son's Return — continued, 1. " It is not over^with me yet, sir," she concluded, "far still, when the family are talking around me, I forget that I am blind ; and when I hear my son say something pleasant, I turn to see the smile upon his lips ; and when the darkness reminds me of my loss, it seems as if I lost my sight over again I" 2. The sui^eon discovered, on examination, that the blind- ness was occasioned by a disease called cataract, which obscures, by an unhealthy secretion, the lucid brightness of the crystal line lens (described in a former chapter), and obstructs the 3ntrance of the rays of light. The improvements which mod- ern practitioners have made in this science render this disease, which was once held to be incurable, now comparatively <,'a8y of removal. The surgeon perceived at once, by the condition of the eyes, that, by the abstraction of the injured lens, he rould restore sight to the afflicted widow. 8 UnwilUng, however, to excite her hopes too suddenly W'\ r- 316 THE riFTH READER. or prematurely, he began by asking her whether, for a chance of recoTering the use of her eyes, she would submit to a little pain? The poor woman replied, " that if he thought be could ouce more enable her to behold her child and his children, she would be content to undergo any pain which would not endanger her existence." A. " Then," replied her visitor, " I may inform you, and I have the strongest reasons to believe, that I can restore your sight, provided you agree to place yourself at my disposal fo: a few days. I will provide you with an apartment in my honse, and your family Ehall know nothing of it until the cure is eifected." 6. The widow consented ; and on that very evening the operation was performed. The pain was slight, and was en< dured by the patient without a murmur. For a few days after, the surgeon insisted on her wearing a covering over her eyes, until the wounds which he had found it necessary to inflict had been perfectly healed. 6. One morning, after he had felt her pulse and made the necessary inquiries, he said, while he held the hand of the widow : — " I think we may now venture with safety to remove the covering. Compose yourself now, my good old friend, and suppress all emotion. Prepare your heart for the reception of a great happiness." ' • v . 7. The poor woman clasped her hands firmly together, and moved her lips as if in prayer. At the same moment the covering fell from her brow, and the light burst in a joyous flood upon her soul. She sat for an instant bewildered, and incapable of viewing any object with distinctness. The first upon which her eyes reposed was the figure of a young man bending his gaze with an intense and ecstatic fondness upou herh, and with his arms outstretched as if to anticipate the recognition. The face, though changed and sunned since she had known it, was still familiar to her. She started from her seat with a wild cry of joy, and cast herself upon the bosom of her son. . *v , / IBE OHEUWELL WATEB-LILT. 217 8. She embraced him repeatedly, then removed him to a distance, that she might have the opportanity of riewing him with greater distinctness, and again, with a borst of tears, flung herself npon his neck. Other voices, too, mingled with theirs. She beheld her daughter and their children waiting eagerly for her caress. She embraced them all, retaming from each to each, and perusing their faces and persons as if she would never drink deep enough of the cup of rapture which her recovered sense afforded her. The beauty of the young mother — the fresh and rosy color of the children — the glossy bri^htaess of their hair — their smiles — their movements of joy — all afforded subjects for delight and admiration, such as she might never have experienced, had she never considered them in the light of blessings lost for life. The surgeon, who thought that the consciousness of a stranger's presence might impose a restraint upon the ft. 'ngs of the patient and her friends, retired into a distant comer, where he beheld, not without tears, the scene of happiness which he had been made instrumental in conferring. 9. " Richard,'' said the widow, as she laid her hand upon her son's shoulder, and looked into his eyes, " did I not judge aright when I said that even when we thought ourselves the most miserable, the Almighty might have been preparing for as some hidden blessing ? Were we in the right to murmur?" The young man withdrew his arms from his mother, clasped them before him, and bowed down his head in silence. 65. The Chsbwbll Watbr-Lily. VABEB. I. How often doth a wild flower bring Fancies and thoughts that seem to spitiig From inmost depths of feeling 1 Nay, often they have power to bless With their uncoitured loveliness, Aod fiar itxi^ the aching broMt It .X SI 8 TBI Wirm BIADBb There goes a bearenl j thought of nfl With their soft inflaence stealing. How ofteL, too, can ye unlock, Dear wild flowers, with a gentle shodt, The wells of holy tears ! ,/ While somewhat of a Christian light Breaks sweetly on the mourner's sights To calm unquiet fears I Ah 1 surely such strange power is giveo To lowly flowers like dew from heayen ; Vor lessons oft by them are brought, Deeper than mortal sage hath taught^ Lessons of wisdom pure, that rise From some clear fountains in the skiet* 2. Fairest of Flora's lovely daughters That bloom by stilly-running waters, Fair lily 1 thou a type must be Of virgin love and purity ! Fragrant thou art as any flower That decks a lady's garden-bower. But he who would thy sweetness knoWy Must stoop and bend his loving brow To catch thy scent, so faint and rare, " ; Scarce breathed upon the Summer air. And all thy motions, too, how free, ^ t And yet how fraught with sympathy I So pale thy tint, so meek thy gleam, . v Shed on thy kindly father-stream I Still, aa he swayeth to and fro, How true in all thy goings, As if thy very soul did know The secrets of his flowings. i 8. And then that heart of living gold, ■^J; ,- Which thou dost modestly infold, And screen from man's too searchii^ vlfH^ ' *^^.^^ithinthyrob^of8oowyhuQl,_ ,, ,,: . ./ ...-■ ■■:-vr-v,/ ; ■ :■ -m.. ^ '-,".:■■■■■■• ' t' \ ' - -. '-' ■ . '. '■' -' ■ ' ^'" ■ - ■ ■^^ ■ •■ ■■■■■•■' '..^■.'■. ■ . ( ' ■ "f .;.. >•• ,;■>...,.».,>■■>.- ^ ..:■.., : ■T -. ■ V * XDWASD THE OOlTFBSftOB. Td cftrelesfl man thon seem'gt to roam Abroad upon the riTer, In all tbj raovements chain'd to home^ Faat-rootcd there forever : Link'd by a holj, hidden tie, Too snbtle for a mortal eye, Nor riretcd by mortal art, Deep down within thy father's heart. Emblem in truth thon art to me Of all a daughter ought to be I How shall I liken thee, sweet flower, That other men may feel thy power, May seek thee on some lovely night, And say how strong, how chaste the miglil^ G%e tie of filial duty. How graceful, too, and angel-bright, The pride of lowly beauty 1 Thon sittest on the varying tide Afl if thy spirit did preside, With a becoming, queenly graco, As mistress of this lonely place ; A quiet magic hast thon now To smootili the river's ruffled brow, And calm his rippling water, And yet, so delicate and airy, ISioar art to him a very fairy, A widow'd father's only daughter. ai» 66. iiiDWABD THE CoNFBSSOB* HtmAHV, Jom LiK«AiB>, D. D., was born, in En(;land, '^"\\.\i the completion of the " History of Enirlan ., in 1771 ; died in IMl. ' History of England," in ten volumcB, the literary fame or Dr. Lingard became established thronghont Enrope. Car- dinal Wiseman sj^eaks of this history, and its learned author, in tne follow- ing terms : — '* It is a Providence that in history we have imd given to tho •#MMMMiitM4Uci>Id|||Mdi wkowfigMitk iooiit inU iMi taMnr r ' '"^ 220 THE FIFTH EEADRB. '!>] In each •uoocMlvfi ircneration, m it aeein hin work wtnndlnff calm and •rvct uniiditt tho Hhonit of potty prctcndera to usurp Win Htatiuii. When lliima ahull have fairly lakKn hin place amon^ the cluMnicul writers of our tonjfuc, and Maraulay shall have been trannfurrod to the shelves of roninncos and povtH, hikI each thus have rucoivcd his due meed of praine, then L.nKur.l will he Htill more conHpicuousaH tho only inipnrtiul historian of our country." 1. If wc estimate the character of a sovereign by the test of popular affection, we must rank Edward among the best princes of his time. The goodness of his heart was adored by his subjects, who lamented his death with tears of undissembled grief, and bequeathed his memory as an object of veneration to their posterity. The blessings of his reign are the' constant theme of our ancient writers : not, indeed, that he displayed any of those brilliant qualities which attract admiration, while they inflict misery. 2. He could not boast of the victories which he had achieved: but he exhibited the interesting spectacle of a king, negligent of his private interests, and wholly devoted to the welfare of his people ; and, by his labors to restore the dominion of the laws, his vigilance to ward off foreign aggression, his con- stant, a^. i ultimately successful, solicitude to appease the feuds of Ills nobicS, — if he did not prevent the interruption, he secured, at least, a longer duration c f public tranquillity, than had been enjoyed iii England for half a century. "3. fle ..as pious, kind, and compassionate ; the father of the poor, and the protector of the weak ; more willing to give than to receive, and better pleased to pardon than to punish. Under the preceding kings, force generally supplied the place of justice, and the people were impoverished by the rapacity of the sovereign. But Edward enforced the laws of his Saxon predecessors, and disdained the riches that were wrung from the labors of his subjects. 4. Temperate in his diet, unostentatious in his person, pur guing no pleasures but those which his hawks and hounds afforded, ho was content with the patrimonial demesnes of the crown ; and was able to assert, even after the abolition of that fruitful source of revenue, the Danegelt, that he possessed a greater portion of wealth than any of his predecessors had «i\jo7od. To himj tho principle that tbo king cnn do no wroug, 0Mika.*9 OITKB or AMNRBTT TO CATO. t91 our tongue, was literally applied bj the gratitude of bia people, who, if thpy occasionally complained of the meafun- of the povcrn- ment, attribated the blaoic not to the monarch himself, of whose benevolence they entertained no doubt, bat to tho ministers, who had abused hi; confidence, or deceived liil t-n-ilulity. 5. It was, however, a fortunate circumstance for the memorj of Edward, that he occupied the interval between the DanisU and Norman conquests. Writers were induced to view his character with more partiality, from the hatred with which they looked upon his successors and predecessors. They were foreigners; he was a native: they held the crown by conquest; be by descent: they ground to the dust the slaves whom they had made; he became known to his countrymen only by his benefits. Hence he appeared to shine with purer light amid the gloom with which he was surrounded ; and whenever tho people under the despotism of the Norman kings, had any opportunity of expressing their real wishes, they constantly called for " the laws and customs of the good King Edward '' 67. CfiSAB's Offer of Amnesty to Oato. ADDISON. JoflEFH Addison— One of the best of a class of writers known as "th« wits of Queen Anne's time." His writings were chiefly essays publlahed In the "Spectator," "Tatler," and " Guardian." He died 1719. Decius. Caesar sends health to Cato. Gate. Could he send it To Cato's slaughter'd friends, it would be welcome. Are not your orders to address the senate ? Decius. My business is with Cato : Caesar sees The straits to which you're driven ; and as he knows Cato's high worth, is anxious for his life. Cato. My life is grafted on the fate of Rome : WoiUd he save Cato, bid him spare his country. Tell your dictator this ; and tell him, Cato ^^ Disd^uis a life which he has power to offer. ^y: 222 'M mm f'- ^ THE FIFTH REAOKR. Decius. Rome and her senators submit to Cmst ^ Her generals and her consuls are no more, Who chcck'd his conquests, and denied his trimnphs. Why will not Cato be this Caesar's friend? Goto. Those very reasons thou hast urged, forbid it Decius. Cato, I've order« to expostulate. And reason with you as from friend to friend. Think on the storm that gathers o'er your head, And threatens every hour to burst upon it ; Still may you stand high in your country's honors, Do but comply, and make your peace with Csenr. Rome will rejoice ; and casts its eyes on Cato, As on the second of mankind. Goto. No more I I must not think of life on such conditions. Decius. Ctesar is well acquainted with your TirtnM , And therefore sets this value on your life : Let hun but know the price of Cato's friendship, And name your terms. Goto. Bid him disband his legions, Restore the commonwealth to liberty, Submit his actions to the public censure, And stand the judgment of a Roman senate. Bid him do this, — and Cato is his friend. Decius. Cato, the world talks loudly of your wisdom- Gato. Nay, more, — thongh Cato's voice was im^ci employ'd To clear the guilty, and to varnish crimes, Myself will mo.unt the rostnmi in his favor, And strive to gain his pardon from the people. Decius. A style like this becomes a conqueror. Goto. Decius a style like this becomes a Roman. Decius. What is a Roman, that is Caesar's foe? Goto. Grt^ater than Caesar ; he's a friend to virtue, Decius. Consider, Cato, you're in TJtica; . •( And at the head of your own little senate : ' You don't now thunder in the capitol. With all the mouths of Rome to second 700. '^" THE DI800NTENTED MILLBB. 223 Cato. Let him consider that, who drives as hither, rns Cesar's sword hath made Rome's senate little, And thinn'd its ranks. Alas ! thy dazzled eye Beholds this man in a false, glaring light, Which conqaest and saccess have thrown apon him. Didst thoa bat view him right, thou'dst see him black With murder, 'treason, sacrilege, and crimes That strike my soul with horror but to name them. I know thou look'st on me, as on a wretch Beset with ills, and covcr'd with misfortunes ; But, Decius, mark my words, — millions of worlds Should never buy me to be like that Cesar. Decius. Does Cato send this answer back to Cssar, For all his generous ceres, and proffer'd friendship? Cato. His cares for me are insolent and vain. Presumptuous man 1 the gods take care of Cato. Would Cesar show the greatness of his soul, Bid him employ his care for these my friends, And make good use of his ill-gotten power, By sheltering men much better than himself. Decius. Your high, unconquer'd heart makes yott forget That you're a man. You rash on yoar destractioii— But I have done. When I relate hereafter The tale of this unhappy embassy, All Rome will be in tears. 68. The Discontented Millbb. GOLDSMITH. OLivBit OoLDmiTH was born, 1781, at Pallasmore, eoantj Longford, Ire- nitil. Ah a poet, essayist, dramatist, and novelist, Ooldsiaith occupies a hlyh position among the English classics. His novel of " The Vicar o Wuketield," his poems of "The Traveller" and "Deserted Village," and Um drama, " She Stoops to Conquer," are each models in their kind. His hist ricHi writings are chiefly compilatious, and not very reliabUi as autbori* tics. Di. d April 4th, 1774, r : 1. WifANO, the miller, was naturally avaricious; nobody loved mouey better than he, or more respected those who had M i 224 THE FIFTII READER. it. When people would talk of a rich man in company, Whang would say, "I know him very well; he and I have been long acquainted ; he and I are intimate." But, if ever a poor man was mentioned, he had not the least knowledge of the man; he might be very well for aught he knew; but he was not fond of making many acquaintances, and loved to choose his company. 2. Whang, however, with all his eagerness for riches, was poor. He had nothing but the profits of his mill to support him; but, though these were small, they were certain; while it stood and went he was sure of eating; and his frugality was such that he every day laid some money by, which he would at intervals count and contemplate with much satisfaction. Yet still his acquisitions were not equal to his desires; he only found himself above want, whereas he desired to be possessed of affluence. 3. One day, as he was indulging these wishes he was in- formed that a neighbor of his bad found a pan of money under ground, having dreamed of it three nights running before* These tidmgs were daggers to the heart of poor Whang. " Here am I," says he, " toiling and moiling from morning till night for a few paltry farthings, while neighbor Thanks only goes quietly to bed and dreams himself into thousands before morning. Oh, that I could dream like him I With what pleasure would I dig round the pan 1 How slyly would I caiTy it home I not even my wife should see me: and then, oh! the pleasure of thrusting one's hand into a heap of gold up to thti elbow 1" 4. Such reflections only served to make the miller unhappy; be discontinued his form/^r assiduity; he was quite disgusted with small gains, and bis customers began to forsake him. Every day he repeated the wish, and every night laid himselr down in order to dream Fortune, that was for a long time unkind, at last, however, seemed to smile on his distresses, and indulged him with the wished-for vision. He dreamed that under a certain part of the foundation of his mill there was '.concealed a monstrous pan of gold and diamonds, buried deep in the ground, and coyered with a large flat stono. LORD JA&TBS OF DOUGLAS. 5. lie concealed his good luck from every person, as ia usual in money-dreams, in order to have the vision repeated the two succeeding nights, by which he shoula be certain of ita truth. His wishes in this, also, were answered; he still dreamed of the same pan of money in the very same place Xow, therefore, it was past a doubt; so, getting up earljf the third morning, he repaired alone, with a mattock in his hand, to the mill, and began to undermine that part of the wall to which the vision directed him. 6. The first omen of success that he met was a broken ring; digging still deeper, he turned up a house-tile, quite new and entire. At last, after much digging, he came to a broad flat stone, but then so large that it was beyond a man's strength to remove it. " Here I" cried he, in raptures, to himself ; "here it is; under this stone there is room for a very large pan of diamonds indeed. I must e'en go home to my wife, and tell her the whole affair, and get her to assist me in turn* ing it up." 7. Away, therefore, he goes, and acquaints his wife with every cbcumstance of their good fortune. Her raptures on this occasion may easily be imagined. She flew round his neck and embraced him in an ecstasy of joy; but these trans- ports, however, did not allay their eagerness to know the exact sura; returning, therefore, together to the same place where Whang had been digging, there they found — ^not, indeed, the expected treasure — ^but the mill, their only support, under* mined and fallen. 69. Lord James of Douglas. AYTOUN. "Wm. Edmonimtounb Attottn, was born at Fife, in Scotland, in 1818. Hnk writings have cliieily t)ppc"<,red in Blackwood's Magazine. From his na- tional and hibtorical balliicb, published in that periodical, the volume oi " The Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers^" lias been made up. We know of no ballads in our tongue, more spirit-stirring or ennobling in sentiment, than •• The Execution of Montrose," "Burial March of Dundee," " Edinbnrgb •ftor FloddoQ," "' Tbo near! of tho Bruce," ifto. 10* h ■f 926 THE FIFTH READRB. 1 " The Moors have come from AfHes To spoil and waste and slay, And King Alonzo of Castile Mast fight with them to-day." ** Now shame it were," cried good Lord " Shall never be said of me That I and mine have tnm'd aside From the Cross in jeopardie I S. " Have down, have down, my merry men Have down unto the plain ; We'll let the Scottish lion loose Within the fields of Spain I" " Now welcome to me, noble lord, Thou and thy stalwart power ; Dear is the sight of a Christian knight, Who comes in such an hoar 1 8. " Is it for bond or faith yoa come, Or yet for golden fee ? Or bring ye France's lilies here, Or the flower of Borgondie ? " u God greet thee well, thou valiftnt Ungy Tliee and thy belted peers — Sir James of Douglas am I called, And these are Scottish spears. 4 . *' We do not fight for bond or plight, Nor yet for golden fee ; Bat for the sake of oar blessed Lord, Who died upon the tree " We bring our great king Robert's heart Across the weltering wave, , To lay it in the holy soil '■' Hard by the Savionr's gr»f«. V' THE jEsnrre. 227 & ** Trae pilgrims \i e, hj land or sea, Where danger bars the way ; And therefore are we here, Lord EJng, To ride with thee this day 1" 70. The Jesitits. MRS. 8ADLIBB. Mart A. Sadukr— bom in Cooto Hill, county Cavan. IreU>d. Itra. Bodlwr emigrated to America in earl^ life, but not before sno had aoqaired that thorough knowledge of the Irish people which has enabled her to draw so many truthful pictures of the different classes among them. Sho has been a contributor to several of our leading Catholic journals in the United States and the Canadas. Her translations from the French are numerous, and some of them valuable. Her fame chiefly resta, however, on her original stories of Irish life at home and abroad. ** New Lights," " Willy Burke," "The Blakes and Flanagans," "The Confessions of an Apostate," " Elinor Preston," <&c., are well known to the Catholics of America. Her last an<^ greatest work, ** The Conf«derate Chieftains," is a work of much labor and research. 1. The world never saw such an order as the Jesuits, never dreamed of such a mission as theirs, until it sprang into sud- den existence from the divine genius of Ignatius Loyola, at the very moment when Christendom most i^ecded such a powerful auxiliary. When the revolutionary doctrines of the Reformation were sweeping like a torrent over many of the countries of Europe, and men were asking themselves in fear and teiTor when and where was the devastating flood to bo arrested in its coarse, the Almighty, ever watching over the interests of his Church, suddenly raised up a mighty dyke in presence of the great waters, and all at once the/ rolled back to their centre in the far north, and the fairest climes of old Europe' were saved from their ravages, 2. This new bulwark of the Everlasting Church was no other than the Society of Jesus, one of the grandest con- ceptions that ever emanated fi. m the brain of mortal man. So admirably fitted for the task before it, so well versed in nil human science, yet so simple and so humble in their re- ligious character, so full of the loftiest and most chivalrous devotion, and so utterly detached from earthly things, did the Jes its appear before the world, that its dazisled vision could 228 THE Finn READER. Bcarcc comprehend whut manner of men they wore, those first disciples of Ignatiu?, the nucleus and foundation of that heroic ordar since so well known in e?ery quarter of the- habitable globe. 3. The martial character of its founder, who had fought with distinction in the Spanish wars, impressed itself on hia order, and gave to it that lofty sentiment of heroism which distinguished it from all other monastic institutions then ex- isting. It was to combat the pernicious innovations of the great heresy of the sixteenth century that the Jesuits were called into existence; and as instruments for that chosen work, they were from the first endowed with every quality that might insure success. 4. The arch-heretics of the day professed to unshackle the human intellect by leading it into all science, and far beyond the range prescribed by Romish tyranny. The Jesuits met them more than half way, with the open volume of science in their hand. The heretics professed to be learned ; the Jesuits were more learned than they, for they mastered all knowledge, sacred and profane, which could tend to elevate mankind, and in every branch of science and literature they soared to heights where the enemies of religion might not follow. 5. They combated the foe with his own arms, and the world saw, with amazement, that the sons of Ignatius were the true enlighteners of J;he age, for the light which their genius threw on human learning came direct from the source of truth. The heretics were world-seeking and world-wor« shipping ; the Jesuits trampled the world under their feet, and crucified the ancient Adam within them. Many of the earlier Jesuits wer^! the sons of noble, and some even of princely families ; among others, St. Ignatius himself, St. Francis Xa- vier, St. Francis Borgia, St.. Louis Gonzaga, and St. Stanis luus Kotska. 6. But they cheerfully resigned the world, and enlisted un der the banner of Christ in the Society which bore his name Armed only with the cross, their standard at once and thcif weapon, they went forth to fight and to jonquer, strong in faith, humility, and charity ; strong, too, in the gift of elo , I EDUCATION. 229 qnence, and radiant with the light of science. The first Jes- aits were men mighty in word and work, endowed eren with tlie gift of miracles, like unto the first Apostles, and that for a similar purpose, — to bear testimony of the truth before the heretic and the unbeliever, and to establish the authority of God's Church on earth. 7. Animated with the spirit which descended on Ignatius luring his lone night-watch in the chapel of Our Lady o) Montserrat, the Jesuits were everywhere seen in the thickest of the contest, then raging all over Europe, between truth and religion on the one side, and error and heresy on the other. Wherever the Church needed their powerful succor, wherever human souls were in danger, there were the sons of Loyola seen, with lance in rest, to rescue and to save. The burning plains of Africa, the idolatrous countries of Asia, the wilds of the New World, and the swarming cities of old Eu- rope, all were alike the scenes f''' the Jesuits* herculean labors 8. They taught, they preached, they guided the councils of kings, they knelt with the penitent criminal in his cell, they consoled the poor man in his sorrows and privations, they traversed unknown regions in search of souls to save, they ate with the Indian in his wigwam, and slept on the cold earth, with only the sky for a covering, and often, veiy often, they sufifered tortures and death at the hands of the mthless savage. East, west, north, and south, tho e&ith hoj been saturated with their blood, and Christianity spran|i, vp A««r7> where in the footprints washed with their blood. 71. Education. -•■' « 'v ""» ' ■>.■■'■■'--- UIOBT. I. The ancients say that the essentifrl things in *he ednettiou of the young are to teach them to worship the goas, to revere their parents, to honor their elders, to obey the laws, to sub- mit to rulers, to love their friends, to be temperate in refraininj< f^m pleasures — objects not one of which the moderns would r" 230 THE PIFTH READr R think of entering into a philosophic plan of edacaiion; sinee it is notorious that with them the direction of the energies and passions is always excluded from it. 2. The modems have determined, practically at least, that the whole of education consists in acquiring knowledge, and that the only subject of deliberation is respecting the mode best calculated to further that end in the shortest tune, and with the least possible expenditure. With them, the person who can speak or argne on the greatest number of subjects, with the aur of knowing all about each of them, is the best educated. 3. The modems generally appland that system of public education which nourishes what tney call a manly spirit, by which the boy is made bold and insolent, and constantly ready to fight or contend with any one that offers the smallest oppo* sition to his will ; which makes hira resemble the son of Strepsiades returning from the school of the Sophists, of whom his father says, with joy, " In the first place, I mark the ex- pression of your countenance: your face indicates at once tha« yoa are prepared to deny and to contradict. Tours is the Attic look." 4. Hence, many of their young men are like those who were disciples of the Sophists, ot whom Socrates says, they were fair and of good natural dispositions — what the modems would term of polished manners, but insolent through youth. The rules given to youth for conversation, in his treatise on the manner in which men should hear, approaches nearer to the mildness and delicacy of Christian charity than, perhaps, any other passage in the heathen writers. He inculcates what approaches to its modesty, its patience, in attending to others, and waiting for the voluntary self-corrections of those with whom they converse, and its slowness to contradict and give offence. 6. But all this falls very short, and indeed can yield not the slightest idea, of the effects of education upon the young in the ages of faith, when the Catholic religion formed its basis, and directed its whole system in all its objects, manners, and details. " The soul of the child," says St. Jerome, " is to be f EDUCATION. 231 edacated with the 7icw of its bccomi ig a temple of Qod. It should hear nothing bat what pertains to the fear of God. Let there be letters of ivory," he continues, " wifV .vhich it may play — and let its play be instmction. No learned man or noble rirgin should disdain to take charge of its instmction." 6. These obsenrations will hare prepared us to feel the bcanty of the following examples : — We read of St. Blier, that while a child he gave admirable signs of piety and grace. Nothing conld be imagined more sweet, benign, gentle, and agreeable than his whole manner : he seemed like a little angel in human flesh, who used to pray devoutly, visit holy places, converse with saints, and obey the commandments of God ▼ith the utmost diligence. t. 1/hristine de Pisan says of Louis, due d'Orldans, son of King Charles Y., that the first words which were taught him were the Ave-Maria, and that it was a sweet thing to hear him say it, kneeling, with his little hands joined, before an image of cor Lady; and that thus he early learned to serve God, which he continued to do all his life. And Dante, in the " Paradise," conmiemorating the youthful graces of St. Dominic, says of him, " Many a time his nurse, on entering, found That he had risen in silence, and was prostrate, As who should say, ' My errand was for this.' " 8. The old writers love to dwell upon the description of this age. Thus the young Archduke Leopold of Austria is de- scribed as having the looks, as well as the innocence, of an angel ; and it is said that the mere sight of him in Charcb used to inspire people with devotion. The young St. Francis Regis, while at college at Pny, was known to all the inhabit- ants of the town under the title of the Angel of the College. There might have been seen a young nobleman employed in collecting the poor little boys of the town, and explaining tc them the Christian doctrine ! What school of ancient philo- sophy ever conceived any tiling like this ? 10 ^,..; ■ :,\ ::^imm^!.^$ 232 THE rim: reader. 72. Education — contimud. 1 In the first place then let it be remembered, that the mind of the young must ever be devoted 'cither to an idea or tc sense, — either to an object of faith (and youth is peculiarly qualified for possessing faith), or to that visible form of good which ministers to animal excitement. If the citadels of the souls of the young be left void of pure and noble images, they will be taken possession of by those that are contrary to them ; if not guarded by the bright symbols of beauteous and eternal things, error and death, moral death, with all its pro- cess of intellectual degradation, will plant their pale flag there. 2. Ad with the intellectual direction, so it is with the manners and intercourse of youth ; for these will ever be directed after one of two types — either by the spirit of sweetness and love, or that of insolence and malignity. All systems of education that are merely human, and under the guidance of rationalism, will never nourish and fortify, when they do not even recog- nize and extol the latter ; for being formed on merely natural principles, all that belongs to man's unkindness will have free scope to be developed within their dominions ; and, therefore, disobedience, dissipation, the will and ability to oppress weaker companions, will entitle the youth, who has sufficient tact, to know how far precisely these qualities may be exercised with the applause of animal minds, to the enviable character or possessing a manly spirit. He will discover, too, that his father has only one desire respecting him, like that of Jason in the tragedy, whose sole prayer for his sons is, that he may Bee them grow to manhood, well nourished and vigorous, that they may be a defence to him against his enemies. 3. In studies also, emulation will be carried to an excess, which renders the youthful mind obnoxious to all the worst attendants of ambition, so that under these modern systems, while education conduces to victory, their victory, as Socrates says, will often undo the work of education. 4. Plato had so sublime a sense of just education, that he 8T. AOKES. 933 acknowledges, that the good when yonng, will apponr to b# weak and simple, -^nd that they will be easily deceived by the anjust — and he, too, would not allow the young to acquire that knowledge of the world, which was so carefully excluded from Catholic schools — but which is now thought so essential to children. 5. ** He is only good who has a good soul ; which h« cannot possess who has a personal acquaintance with evil." ' 6. Are we disposed to question this proposition I Hear what Fuller acknowledges, " Almost twenty years shice," says he, " I heard a profene jest, and still remember it." 7. The old poet, Claude de Morcnne, acknowledges in one of his pieces, that he had read certain poems in his youth, which had done an injury to his imagination and his heart, which nothing could repair. This is the dreadful effect of renouncing the ancient discipline. Such is the stain which reading of this description impresses upon the mind, that the moral consequences seem among those which never may bo cancelled from the book whi;reiu the past is written. 73. St. Agnes. TKNNT80IT. A. TsmfTCov, the present poet laureate of England, is a popalar and Tolaminous writer. He has a rich yet delicate taste in the use of langntfte, and a desoriptive power unparalleled by any other living poet. 1. Deep on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon; My breath to heaven like vapor goes; May my soul follow soon 1 The shadows of the convent-towers ; Slant down the snowy sward, ' Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead mft to my Lord. Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, * Plato deRepub., lib. iii. 231 THE PTTTH READER, I Or thlfl first inow-drop of the ye«r That in my bosom lies. As these white robeH arc soiPd and darkp To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; 80 shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee; 80 in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord I and far^ Through all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star. In raiment white and clean. He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go ; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strews her lights below, And deepens on and up I the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom wait% To make me pure of sin. The sabbaths of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide — A light upon the shining sea — The Bridegroom with his bride I T4. Inftoel Philosophy ▲«!> Litbbatubb. ROBERTS OS. ^ RoBKRTftON— a distinffnishcd writer and Icctarer (r^the day. Ha U a n« live of Scotland, and ut present holds die honorabk position of Professor ol' History in tho Iribh University. 1 The infidel philosophy of the la age w.^a the child of the Reformation. Towards tiue dose jf the sixttenth centuy. INFIDEL PHILOeorHT AND LITKBATURB. 235 » sect of dciRtfl hod sprang np in Protestant Switzerland. As early as the reign of James the First, Lord Herbert, of Ciierbury, commenced that long series of English deists, coi»- listing of Chubb, Collins, Shaftesbury, Toland, Bolingbroke. the friend of Voltaire. Bayle, who at the commencement of the eighteenth century, introduced infidelity into France, Mixa a IVotestant; and so was Rousseau, the eloquent apostle of deism, and who did nothing more than doTolop the principles of Protestantism. 2. Voltaire and his fellow-conspirators against the Chris- tian religion, borrowed most of their weapons from the arsenal of the English deists; and the philosopher of Ferney was, in his youth, the friend and guest of Bolingbroke. So Protest- antism, which often, though falsely, taunts the Catholic Church with having given birth to unbelief, lies, itself, clearly open to that imputation. Let ns take a glance at the character of the leaders of the great anti-Christian confederacy in France. 3. Bayle was a writer of great erudition, and extreme sob- tlety of reasoning. His " Dictionnaire Philosophique " is, even at the present day, often consulted. Montesquieu, one of the moiit manly intellects of the eighteenth century, unfortunately devoted to the wretched philosophy of the day the powers which God had given him for a nobler purpose. His strong sense, indeed, and extensive learning (marded him against the wilder excesses of unbelief; but tte husence of strong re- ligious convictions left him without a (x>mpass and a chart on the wide ocean of political and ethical investigations. 4. Rousseau was a man of tbe most impassioned eloquence and vigorons reasoning; bat a mind withal so sophistical, that, according to the just observation of La Harpe, even truth itself deceives us in his writings. His firm belief in the existence of the Deity, and the immortality of the soul, as well as in the necessity of virtue for a future state of happi- ness, and some remarkable tributes to the Divinity, and the blessed influences of the Christan religion, give, at times, to the p&ges of Rousseau a warmth and a splendor we rarely find in the other infidel writers of the last century. 5. Inferior to Rousseau in eloquence and logical power, th« ^'1 236 THE riFTB REA.DEB. IW sophist of Ferncy possessed a more yarions and versatile tal- ent. Essaying philosophy and history, and poetry — tragic, comic, and epic ; the novel, the romance, the satire, the i'lir gram, he directed all his powers to one infernal purpose— tie spread of irreligion, and thought his labor lost as long a^ Christ retained one worshipper 1 Unlike the more hnpassioucd sophist of Geneva, rarely do we meet in his writing8 with a generous sentiment or a tender emotion. But all that elc- viites and thrills humanity — the sanctities of religion, the no bleness of virtue, the purity of the domestic hearth, the ex- pansiveness of friendship, the generosity of patriotism, the majesty of law, were polluted by his ribald jest and fiend-likr mockery. " Like those insects that corrode the roots of the most precious plants, he strives," says Count de Maistre, " to corrupt youth and women." 6. And it is to be observed that, despite the great progress of religion in France within the last fifty years ; thdngli the aristocracy of French literature has long rejected the yoke of Voltaire, he still reigns in its lower walks, and tho novel, and the satire, and the ballad, still feel his deadly influence. The only truth which this writer did not assail was, the existence of God ; but every other dogma of religion became the butt of hie ridicule. i,i„ : . /- ; ■ 1. A more advanced phase of infidelity was represented by D'Alembert, Diderot, and others ; they openly advocated ma- terialism and atheism. In the Encyclopedia they strove to array all arts and sciences against the Christian religion. It was, indeed, a tower of Babel, raised up by man's impiety against God. It was a tree of knowledge without a graft from the tree of life. In mathematics and physics only did, D'Alembert attain to a great eminence. Diderot was a much inferior intellect, that strove to make up by the phrenetic vio- lence of his declamation for the utter hollowness of his ideas. It was he who gave to Raynal that frothy rhetoric, and thofce turgid invectives against priests and kings, which the latter wove into his history of the European settlements in the East Bud West Indies. ,^i' ;y;'*5 .iVir,^^.^* ,-UJi*:;.-*!: |«-h.sv^. 'i*. XVFIDEL PHILOSOPHY AND LTTEBATURK. 2n: 75. Infidel Philosophy, etc. — amimued. \. Thk great Buffbn, though he condescended to do homage to the miserable philosophy of his day, yet, by the nobleness of his sentiments, as well as by the majesty of his genius, often rose superior to the doctrine he professed. Bernardine de St. Pierre was another great painter of nature. His better feelings at times led hun to Christianity, but his excessive vanity drove him back to the opposite opin- ions. What shall I say of the remaining wretched herd of materialists and atheists, — a Baron d'Holbach, a Helvetius, a La Mettrie, a Cabanis, and others ? It has been well said by a great writer, that materialism is something below hu- manity. And while debasing man to a level with the brute, it takes from him all the nobler instincts of his own nature; it fails to give him in return those of the lower animals. So deep a perversion of man's moral and intellectual being we «annot conceive. 2. We cannot realize (and happily for us we cannot), that Bwtul eclipse of the understanding which denies God. We have a mingled feeling of terror and of pity, when we contem- plate those miserable souls, that, as the great Italian poet, Dante, says, have lost the supreme intelligential bliss : When that great idea of God is extinguished in the human mind, what remains to man ? Nature abhors a vacuum, said the old naturalists ; with what horror then must we recoil from that void whii:h atheism creates ? — a void in the intelligence, a void in the conscience, a void in the affections, a void in society, a void in domestic life. The human mind is swung from its orbit ; it wanders through trackless space ; and the reign of chaos and old night rutums. 3. What a lamentable abuse of all the noblest gifts of Intel- lect, wit, and eloquence, imagination and reasoning ! And for the accomplishment of what purpose ? For the overthrow of religion, natural and revealed religion, the ' guide of NusfcoBMi the great oDral teacher, which eolTes all the {Mrob* ■:^ 238 THE rXTTB ItBADVB. H [I lenw of life, which tells oar origin and destiny, our duties to our Creator and our fcUow-creatures, the foundation of the family and of the State,— religion, the instructress of youth, and the prop of age ; the balm of wounded minds, and the moderator of human joys ; which controls the passions, yet imparts a isest to innocent pleasures ; which sunriyes the illu- sions of youth, and the disappointments of manhood ; consoles us in life, and supports us in death. 4. Such were the blessings that perverted genius strove to snatch from mankind. Tet the time was at hand, when the proud Titans, who sought to storm Heaven, were to be driven back by the thunderbolts of Almighty wrath, and hurled down into the lowest depths of Tartarus. But, even in regard to literature and science, the influence of this infidel party was most pernicious. How could they understand nature, who rested their eyes on its surface only, but never pierced to its inner depths ? How could they under- stand the philosophy of history, who denied the providence of God, and the free will of man ? How could they comprehend metaphysics, who disowned God, and knew nothing of man's origin, nor of his destiny ? And, was an abject materialism compatible with the aspirations of poetry ? 5. Classical philology, too, shared the fate of poetry and of history ; and in education was made to give place to math ematics and the natural sciences. Hence, from this period dates the decline of philological studies in France. The men of genius of whom infidelity could boast, like Montesquieu, Voltaire, Rousseau, Buffon, and D'Alembert, were men who had been trained up in a Christian country, had reo^ved a Christian education, and whose minds had been imbued with the doctrines and the ethics of Christianity, and had partially retained these sentiments in the midst of their, unbelief. But, lut unbelief sink deep into a nation's mind — let it form its morals, and fashion its manners — and we shall soon see ho^ barbarism of taste and coarseness of habits will be associated with moral depravity and mental debasement. Ijook at the godness literature of the French Republic from 1790 to 1802, and nt that of the Empire.dowa to 1814. What ooBtompt' ■:.■ f % THE DTINO OnCL. ?'?0 ible mediocritj of intellect ; what wretcbed corrnption oi taste! 6. But in the Catholic literntnre, which, after a long sleep, rcTives onder Napoleon, and afterwards under the Bourbons, what fulness of life, what energy do we not discover I What brilliancy of fancy and fervor of feeling in Chateaubriand I What depth of thought and majesty of diction in the philo- sopher, De Bonald 1 What profound intuitions — what force and plausibility of style in the great Count de Maistre I What vigorous ratiocination — what burning eloquence, in De Lamme nais before his fall ! What elevation of feeling and harmony of numbers in the lyric poet, Lamartine 1 Except in the serai- Pantheistic school, represented by Victor Cousin and his friends, French infidelity in the present age, whether in litera- ture or in philosophy, has no first-rate talent to display. Yet of this school, Jouffroy f^'^d repenting his errors, and Victor Cousin himself has lately ned to the bosom of the Church. 76. The Dying Gibl. WILLIAMS. RioHARD Dalton Williaus IS by birth an Irishman. At present, he ia ProfeHsor of BeiUi Lettret in the Catliolic College, Mobile. " lie writes with equal ability on all subjects, whether tlicy be grave or gay, puthetit »ir hamorous."— //dyM*« Balladt of Ireland. 1. Frou a Munster vale they brought her, From the pure and balmy air, An Ormond peasant's daughter, With blue eyes and golden hair. They brought her to the city, And she faded slowly there ; Consumption has no pity For blue eyes and golden luur. 8. When I saw her first reclining. Her lips were moved in prayer. And the setting sun was shining Od her loosened golden hair. v-«i ■<4' 2K i .^ •k THE FIFTH READKR. When our kindly glances met her, Deadly l)rilliant was her eye ; And she said that she was better, While we know that she must dit. She speaks c Munster valleys, The patron, dance, and fair, And her thin hand feebly dallies With her scattered golden hair. WLen silent iy we listen'd To her breath, with quiet care, Her eyes with wonder glisten'd, And she ask'd us what was thei9» The poor thing smiled to ask it, And her pretty mouth laid bai% Like gems within a casket, A string of pearlets rare. We said that we were trying By the gushing of her blood. And the time she took in sighing, To know if she were good. Well, she smiled and chatted gaylj, Though we saw, in mute despair, ' The hectic brighter daily, And the death-dcw on her hair. And oft, her wasted fingers Beating time upon the bed. O'er some old tune she lingers. And she bows her golden head. At length the harp is broken, And the spirit in its strings. As the last decree is spoken. To its source, exulting, springs. Descending swiftly from the skiei^ Hor guardian angel ceme, ITARIE ANTOINinTB. He struck God's lightning fh)m her eyci, And bore him back the flame. 341 t. Before the snn had risen Throngh the lark-Ioyed morning air, Her yonng soill left its prison, Undefiled by sin or care. I stood beside the couch in tears, Wliere, pale and cahn, she slept, Anc though I've gazed on death for yean, I )?u8h not that I wept. I checked with effort pity's sighs. And left the matron there. To close the curtains of her eyes, And bind her golden hair. 77. MaBIB ANTOmETTB. BURKE. EoMimD BcRCE, bom in Dnblin, 1728; died, 1797. As a stateRman and an onitor, the world has, perhaps, never seen a greater than Edmand Burke. A great orator of our own day, says of him : " No one can doubt tlmt enlifrlitened men in all ages will iiang over the works of Mr. Burke, lie was a writer of the first class, and excelled in almost every kind of prose composition." — Lord Brovgham. " In the three principal questions which excited his interest, and called forth the most splendid displays of his eloquence — The contest with the American Colonies, the impeacnment of Warren Hastings, and the French Revoiiition — we see displayed aphilanthropy the most pure, illustrated by a jrenius the most resplendent. . . He was ever the bold and uncompromis- iiifj champion of jastioe, mercy, and tx\xt\i.''^—"AUibon^» ^'' I)ieUwd of those ^fvy iA MARIE ANTOINETTK. 34.3 loldiera who had thiis conducted them throuf^h this famoai triumph, lodged in one of the old palaces of Paris, now con- certed into a Bastile for kings 5. It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the Danphincss, at Versailles ; and iurely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in, — glittering like the morning star, full of life, and spleiiJor, and joy. Oh ! what a revolution I and what a heart I must have, to contemplate without efnotion that elevation and that fall ! Little did I dream, when she added titles of veneration, to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace, concealed in that bosom ; little did I dream that I should have lived to sec such disas- ters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honor, and of cavaliers. 6. I the <^ht ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards, to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone. That of soph- isters, econonusts, and calculators, has succeeded : and the glory of Europe is extinguished forever. Never, never more shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment und heroic enterprise, is gone I It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honor, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage,- while it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half iti. evil, by losing all its groBS&ess. / "'X ^:.Ui»;;Hi-.voi^ ;ui« i^tjuu 4» »;> -.* ' .Mu^ fV . •uU'ih /* \^ \f^: \\\ 944 tBS. JIWTB TUUDSB. 78. TiiK Old feMioBfe. MI88 IflTFORD. Mabt Evwumll MirroRD— born at Almford, in Enfrland, \7H$; di«d, 1863. MiHs MitfDrd'n Hkctchen of rnrnl lite are inimitable in tlicir kind, and her stvle is a model for hucH cunipositionH, Ilcr Herien of Hketohea entitled *' Our Village," and "Belford Regis," form very readable voliunes. 1. The first occupant of Mrs. Duval's pleasant apartments was a Catholic priest, an imigre, to whom they had a double recommendation, — in his hostess's knowledge of the French langnage and French cookery (she being, as he used to affirm, the only Englishwoman that ever made drinkable coffee) ; and in the old associations of the precincts ("piece of a jloister"), around which the venerable memorials of the ancient faith still lingered, even in decay. He might have said, with Antonio, In one of the finest scenes ever conceived by a poet's imagina* vion, — that in which the echo answers from the murdered woman's grave : 2. ** I do love these ancient ruins ; We never tread upon thera but we set Our foot upon some reverend history ; And, questionless, here in this open court (Which now lies open to the injuries Of stormy weather) some do lie interr'd, Loved the Church so well, and gave bo largely to% Thoy thought it should have canopied their bones. Till doomtMlny. But all things have their end : Churches and cities (which have diseases like to men) Must have like death that we have." VfuBaTSB—Duchett of Malfi. 8. The Abb6 Yillaret had been a cadet of one of the oldest families in France, destined to the Church as the birthright of a younger son, but attached to his profession with a serious- ness and earnestness not conmion among the gay noblesse of the old rigime. This devotion, had, of course, been greatly increased by the persecution of the Church which distmguisb ed the commencement of the Revolution. The good Ab))d bad been marked as one of the earliest victims, and had escaped, through the gratitude of an old servant, from the fate which swept off sisters and brothers, and almost ever} individaal, dzcept himself, of a large and floarishing family THE OLD kuiovk. 245 4. PennOcss and solitary, he miidc bis way to England, and fnand an asylum in the town of Bclfurd, at first assisted by the pittance allowed by our government to those unfortunate foreigners, and subsequently supported by hL<) own exertiou as assistant to the priest of the Catholic chapel in Bclford, and as a teacher of the French language in the town and rti^hborhood ; and so complete had been the ravages of the Ili'volution in his own family, and so entirely had he estab- lished himself in the esteem of his English friends, that, when the short peace of Amiens restored so many of his brother imigres to their native land, he refused to quit the country of his adoption, and remained the contented inhabitant of the Priory Cottage. 5. The contented and most beloved inhabitant, not only of that small cottage, but of the town to which it belonged, was the good Abb^. Everybody loved the kind and placid old man, whose resignation was so real and so cheerful, who had such a talent for making the best of things, whose moral al- chemy could extract some good out of every evil, and who seemed only the more indulgent to the faults and follies of others because he had so little cause to reqnure indulgence for his own. 6. From the castle to the cottage, from the nobleman whose children he taught, down to the farmer's wife who fur- nished him with eggs and butter, the venerable Abb6 was a universal favorite. Tliere was something in his very appear- ance — his small, neat person, a little bent, more by sorrow than age, his thin, white hair, his mild, intelligent counte- nance, with a sweet, placid smile, that spoke more of courtesy than of gayety, his gentle voice, and even the broken English, which reminded one that he was a sojourner in a strange laud —that awakened a mingled emotion of pity and respect. 7. His dress, too, always neat, yet never seeming new. coa tribated to the air of decayed gentility that hung about him and the beautiful little dog who was his constant attendant, and the graceful boy who so frequently accompanied him, form- ed an interesting group on the high roads which he frequented ; for the good Abb6 was so much in request as % teaeheTf snd ^' 216 THE FIFTH READIB. the amount of his earnings was bo considerable, that he might have passed for well-to-do in tlic world, had not his charity to his poorer countrymen, and his liberality to Louis and to lira. DuTal, been such as to keep him constantly poor. 79. The Sister op Charftt. GERALD OBIPFIN. 1. She once was a lady of honor and wealth, Bright glow'd on her features the roses of health ; Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold, And her motion shook perfume from every fold: Joy revell'd around her — love shone at her side, And gay was her smile, as the glance of a bride ; -.; .^ And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall, When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de PauL 8. She fell, In her spirit, the summons of grace, That call'd her to live for the sdflfering race ; And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home. Rose quickly like Mary, and answer'd, " I come." She put from her person the trappings of pride. And pass'd from her home, with the joy of a bride. Nor wept at the threshold, as onwards she moved— For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved, 8. Lost ever to fashion — to vanity lost, T)iat beauty that once was the song and the toast- No more in the ball-room that figure we meet, But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat. Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name, For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame ; Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth, ^ For she barters for heaven the glory of earth. 4. Those feet, that to music could gracefully move^ Now bear her alone on the mission of love ; TBS BIBTER OF CBARITT. H^l Those hands that oDce dangled the perfume and gem. Arc tending the helpless, or lifted for them ; That Toice that once echo'd the song of the yain, Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain ; And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl. 5 Her down bed-^a pallet; her trinkets — a bead; Iler lustre — one taper that serves her to read; Her sculpture — the crucifix uail'd by her bed; ller paintings — one print of the thorn-crowned head; Her cushion — the pavement that wearies her knees ; Her music — the psalm, or the sigh of disease ; The delicate lady lives mortified there, And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer. 6. Yet not to the service of heart and of mind, Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined liike Him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief. She strengthens the weary — she comforts the weak, And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick; Where want and affliction on mortals attend, The Sister of Charity there is a friend. T Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath, Like an angel she moves, 'mid the vapor of death ; Where rings the loud musket, and flashes the sword, Unfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord. How sweetly she bends o'er each plague-tainted face> With looks that are lighted with holiest grace ; How kindly she dresses each suffering limb, For she sees in the wounded the image of Him. 8. Behold her, ye worldly! behold her, ye vain I Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain ; Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your daji, Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise. %iS THE nrrn readcr. \l Ye lazy philoRophere — sclf-seekinf^ men, — Ye fireside philanthropiHtH, great ut the pen, How stands in the balance yoar eloqaence weighed With the life and the deeds of that high-born maidf 80. Sir Thomas More to his Dauohtek. Sir Thoxai More, a celehmtcd chancellor of England, who succccJm Cardinal Wolsoj, as I^rd High Chancellor, in 1530, and filled theotJIcc f.r three vearH with HcrupulouB integrity. For liia conscicntirmti scruiiifH to take the o»th of Hnpremucy in favor of that brutal king, Henry Vlil., ha was beheaded in 1585, at the ago of flft^-tlve. He watt the author of the celebrated political romance of '^ Utopia." Dr. Johnnon pronounced the works of More to be models of pure and elegant Htyle. The following letter is addressed to his favorite child, Margaret Koper. 1. Thomas More scndcth greeting to his dearest daaghter, Margaret : My Dearest Daughter — There was no reason why you should have deferred writing to me one day longer, though your letters were barren of any thing of interest, as yon tell me. Even had it been so, your letters might have been pardoned by any man, much more, then, by a father, to whose eyes even the blemishes in his child's face will seem beautiful. But these letters of yours, Meg. were so finished both in style and manner, that not only was there nothing in them to fear your father's cen- sure, but Momus himself, though not in his best humor, could have found nothing in them to smile at in the way of censnre. 2. I greatly thank our dear friend, Mr. Nicols, for his kind- ness. He is a man well versed in astronomy ; and I congratu- late yon on your good fortune in learning from him in tlic space of one month, and with so small labor of your own, so many and sach high wonders of that mighty and eternai Workman, which were found only after many ages, and by watching so many long and cold nights under the open sky. Thus, you have accomplished, in a short time, what took tliu labor of years of some of the most excellent wits the world hA: ever produced. ;/ . v ■ 8. Another thing which you write me, pleaseth me exceed Ingly, that you have determined with yourself to study philoso Mf BIB TIIOMAi MORK TO niS DAUOirTKK. U9 phy 80 diligently, that yoa will regain by your diligence whftV your negligence had lost you. I love you for this, my deaii M»^g, that, whereas I oevor found you a loiterer — your pro- Gciency eridcntly showing how painfully you haTc proceeded therein — yet, such ia your modesty, that you hod rather «tiU accuse yourself of negJigencc, than make any vain boost. Except you mean this, that you will hereafter be so diligent, that your former endeavors, though praiseworthy, may, ofl compared to your future diligence, be called negligence. 4. If this you mean — as I verily think you do — nothing con be more fortunate for me, nothing, my dearest daughter, more happy for you. I have earnestly wished that you might spend the rest of your days in studying the Holy Scriptures, and the science of medicine : these offer the means for fulfilling the end of our existence, which is, to endeavor to have a sound mind in a sound body. Of these studies you have already laid some foundation, nor will you ever want matter to build upon. Id nothing are the first years of life so well bestowed as in humane learning and the liberal arts. 5. By these we obtain that our after age can better strnggto .with the difficulties of life ; and if not acquired in youth, it is uncertain whether at any other time we shall have the advan- tage of so careful, so loving, and so learned a master. I could wish, my dear Meg, to talk long with you about these matters, but here they are bringing in the supper, interrupting me and calling me away. My supper will not be so sweet to me, as this my speech with you is ; but then, we have others to mind as well as ourselves. 6. Farewell, my dearest daughter, and commend me kindly to your husband, my loving son ; who, it rejoices me to heer, is studying the same things you do. You know I alw;.,yfl counselled you to give place to your husband ; but, in thifi respect, I give you full license to strive and be the master, more especially in the knowledge of the spheres. Farewell, agam and agaiu. Commend me to all your School-fellows, but to your master especially. From your father who loves you, Thomas Mori. ■i •*. IV «50 THE FIFTH BEADEB. II i ii 81. Influencb of Gathouoitt ok Civil Libebtt. , • ■ ? . ' DB. SP A LDIKO. - * ' M. J. Spaldiko, D. D., hiehop of Louisville, bom in Kentucky in tli< •arlj part of the prcHciit century. Thi» distinguished prelate and profound theologian, is also an uccomplished scholar^ and an eminent writer, who counts notliing foreign to his purpose, that anects the welfare of men. Iliei reviews, essays, and lectures, are replete with the information most rcqui* kite in our agu. His " Evidences of Catholicitr," '' Review of D' Auhign^'s History of the Reformation," *' Sketches of the early Catholic Missions in Kentucky," and his " Miscellanies," are among our standard works. 1. Of the old Catholic republics, two yet remain, standing monaments of the influence of Catholicity on free institutions. Phe one is imbosomed in the Pyrenees of Catholic Spain, and the other is perched on the Apennines of Catholic Italy. The very names of Andorra and San Marino are enough to refute the assertion, that Catholicity is opposed to republican goy- ernments. Both of these little republics owed their origin directly to the Catholic religion. That of Andorra was founded by a Catholic bishop, and that of San Marino, by a Catholic monk, whose name it bears. The bishops of Urge! have been, and are still, the protectors of the former ; and the Roman Pontiflfs of the latter. 2. Andorra has continued to exist, with few political vicis- Bitudes, for more than a thousand years ; while San Marino dates back her history more than fifteen hundred years, and Is therefore not only the oldest republic in the world, but per- haps the oldest government in Europe. The former, to a territory of two hundred English square miles, has a {K)pula- ,V *■■: '/"■■■ ' I-' THE ICmiSTRT OF AHOELS. 253 82. The Ministry (»p Anoeu. BPXN8BR. EoMimD SnmiB— one of the brightest of that (rnloxy of f loets who ihod instro on the reijjn of £lizaheth. The poetry of Spenser belonjf* t'» Ine firs* order. There it a nalntary purity nnd nobleness about it. Ho i» • connecting link between Chaucer an<* Milton; resembling; the former io his descriptive power, hia tenderness, and his sense of beauty, though iii> ferior ta him in homely vijjor and dramatic insii^ht into character. Ilia •' Fairy Queen" is the chief representative in Enjrlish poetry of the ro- mance wiiich once delighted hull and bower. Notwithstanding \n» polemi- cal allegory of Duessa, a sorry tribute to the age, nothing is more striking than the Catholic tone that belongs to Spenser's poetry. The religion anu the chivalry of the Middle Age.s were alike the inspirers of his song. H« belongs to the order of poets who are rather the monument of a time gont by than an illustration of their own. 1. And is there care in heaven ? And is there love In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, That may compassion of their evils move ? There is : — else much more wretched were the case Of men than beasts : but oh ! th' exceeding grace Of highest God, that loves his creatures so, And all his works with mercv doth embrace, That blessed angels he sends to and fro, Td serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe ! CE OF TUB i How oft do they their silver bowers leave To come to succor us, that succor want I How oft do they, with golden pinions cleave The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant, Against foul flends to aid us militant I They for us fight, they watch and duly ward. And their bright squadrons round about us plant ; And all for love, and nothing for reward : Oh I why should heavenly God to men have such regard 1 Sonnet. 8 Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere j Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his bough ; Sweet is the eglantine, but pricketh near ; " Sweet is the firbloom, but his branches rough; ! ■ ti ii 1 '^ 1 j't 254 THE nrrn readeb. Sweet is the cyprns, but his rind is toagh ; Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill ; Sweet is the broom flower, but yet sour enongb ; And sweet is rooly, but his root is ill : So, every sweet with sour is tempered still ; That maketh it be coveted the more : For easy things, that may be got at will, Most sorts of men do set but liUla «5tore. Why, then, should I account e' lit le pain That endless pleasure shall unto me gainf ■ji 83. The Choice. MILES. OlOMII H. MlU8, College, hiti Alma prone. Hi» two pu , , __, The Choice," and 8tiil more hit ir&gcdy of '^ Mahomet," prove him pos- seMed of a high order of talent. 1. " What do you think of the world, Agnes ? rather a nice place after all — eh ? Oh, I have had my time in it 1" "And so have I," said Agnes. .: " You ought to see more of it, my girl." f .i^ " No, thank you ; I have seen quite enough." " Why, you jade you, what have you seen in a month? It takes one years to see the world as it is, in all its majestically accumulating glory and versatile interest. Poh I" continued the Colonel, " what have you seen ?" 2, " I have seen," returned Agnes, with provoking calmness, *' that its standard of morality is not God's standard ; that wealth and impudence are its virtues ; poverty and modesty Its vices ; that money is its god, its grand governing principle, to which all else is subservient ; that happiness is measured by the purse, and that a comfortable if not luxurious settle* ment in life is the grand goal, in the chase of which eternity Is lost sight of." •'Poh I" iyacnlated the Colonel ^ ^t^i;, ■.4^i,mii—-l7'im THE CnOICB. 255 8. *' I hare seen Catholics almost nniTersally ashamed of the first principles of their faith, and artfully smoothing them OTer to attract their dissenting brethren. I hare seen them dressing so indecently, even when priests are invited, that their pastors ore put to the blush." "That's the priest's fault," mumbled the Colonel. 4. " I have seen," continued Agnes, smiling at the inter luption, " that your happy, merry men and women, are only so because they have a false conscience, which has ceased to accuse them ; I have seen all who have virtue enough to feel, living in perpetual fear of the temptations by which they are surrounded, i have seen that society is but a hollow farce, In which there is neither love nor friendship. I have seen the idol of a thousand worshippers left without a single friend when touched by poverty." 5. The Colonel groaned and looked away from Lcl. " And I have seen," said Agnes, taking her uncle's hand, and modulating her voice to a whisper, " I have seen that, in spite of all this, the world is dazzlingly beautiful, winning, enchanting. And oh, my dear, good uncle, it is not Ood that makes it so I I have felt its insidious fascination. I tell you, uncle, that I have been wandering along the brink of a precipice ; that I could no more live in the world than can the moth live in the candle ; that my only salvation is in that Conventl" > - ^» . , ; 6. The old man knocked the ashes carefully from his cigar, slowly brushed a tear from his eye, and put his arm around LePs neck. "Thank God, you are not a Catholic!" he exclaimed ' There are no Protestant convents to take you from me." With tears streaming down her cheeks. Lei leaned her head on his shoulder. A horrible suspicion ran through the Col- onel's mind. He raised her head in the clear moonlight, and Qutely questioned her, with such a fearful, timid gaze, that per heart bled for him, as she said — "Yes, nncle, I am a Catholic!" f. The cigar fell from his hard — ^his cane rolled on the porch — ^his broad chest sweHed as if his heart was bar&ting— 256 THE PIl^H READEn. m- had tlioy both been dead at his feet, he could scarcely have shown more grief, than at this overthrow of all his plans, thif defeat cf his best diplomacy. " Check-mated !" ho hobbed in uncontrolled agony ; re- puked them sternly from his side, and Iben, spreading hia arms, snatched them both to hia bosom. *' Check-mated Check-mated I" 8. One word: the sermon just preached hj Agnes agftJnst the world, has nothing new in it; Solomon put it all in a nut- shell long ago; it will be found better expressed in f^very prayer-book. To rhe Colonel, it was perfectly puerile, the same old song which saints and raisanthropistR have boca singing together from time iiiimemorial. Only by constant meditation do we comprehend that life is but a preparation for death; and unless this grej '. truth is reatit-ed, where is the folly in living as if time were tbe lUuLn thing and eternity a trifle? 9. The visible present, though brief, and bounded by the grave, is apt to be more insportant than the invisible future. Without atron^ faith, men must live as they do; and all who reprove them for neglecting their souls, in over devotion to their bodies will seem onlv fools, or very good people, who have not weighed well the difficulty of what they propose. Every day we witness the same spectacle — a world, for whom God died upon fne cross, devoting all their time, all their thoughts, to obtaiu material comfort and avoid sorrow: o prayer at night, an ejaculation in the morning — the rest of the day sacred to the body. 10. We see this every day; we do not wonder at it ; it iS all right, all in the order of Providence : the only mystery is, that some weak, pious souls are absurd enough to quit the world, and devote the greater part of their lives to religions exercises; this is the singular part of it. It would be an un- natural state of things, indeed, if all mankind were to make business secondary to religion, and spend as much time in praising God, as they do in making money. ,' 11. Why, the best instructed, the most edifying Catholio parents, cannot help preferring an auspicioas alliance ^tli iii k Tint CBOICIS 2.-7 man for their daaghters, to an eternal anion with Ood m th« solitary cloirtor; and how can we expect the worldly-minded Colonel, who has 'not seen a confessional for forty yean», to i>ot< folder the choice made by Agnes, as any thing else than • burning shame, a living death ? 12. Xh-)iv many of us have realized, by prayer and mcditap *i . : tl ;' ^'javen is all and earth nothing ? How many of us iire truly sjck of the vanity of life, much as we pretend to be, and do not sagely conclude that our neighbors and ourselves are all doing our duty, taking our share of enjoyment with suffiou ut gratitude, and bearing our just proportion of afflio tion with exemplary resignation ? } B. Tbere was a time when monasteries and chapels were as liumerons as castles ; when the Christian world seemed ambitions to live a Christian life ; when self-denial and self- castigation were honored ; when the consecration of a cathe* dral was of more moment than the opening of a railroad ; when there was something nobler than science, and dearer than profit ; when the security of government was in the hu- mility of the people ; when the security of ihe people was in the firmness and purity of the Church ; when there was not, as now, a groundwork of ignorance, pride, and envy, which is either a withering master or a dangerous slave. Yes I there was a time when all this was, and when Agnes might not have been laughed at ; but it was in the dark ages, reader, in those terrible nights before the sunlight of newspapers had illunined the earth. 84. The Choiok — continued. 1. Must it be told that, within a month after her return from the city, Agnes entered the convent as a candidate; that three months later, her long hair was cut to suit the brown cap of the novice ? Until her hair was cut, the Colonel had cherished a hope that she would repent her girlish haste; but when he saw the rain caused by those envious shears, he could not help saying — " It is all over — all over !" r . - .. ^ ' , '^ 1 258 THE riFTH READER. 'S'i'i * ,' i\ t!' i 2. And J 2 who have clung to Agnes, in the hope that she would be induced to marry Melville, or incline to Mr. Almj, or that some romantic young gcuJeman would appear upon the carpet, invested with every virtue and every grace, between whom and our young novice, a sweet sympathy might be estab- lished, which should ultimately lead to better things than the cloister, and supply a chapter or two of delicious sentiment, — eave us, we beseech yon, — for her choice is made, though the ▼ows are not yet taken. 3. Yes I she is lost to the world 1 that sweet, beautiful girl, who laughed so merrily with her load of premiums in her arms; the milk-white lamb among those green hills ; the friend who had gone to change Lei, and who did change her, though she nearly perished in the effort ; the kind protectress who had comforted little Clarence and the Wanderer ; the keen-sighted woman who had penetratixi the secret of Mr. Almy's face ; who had conquered Melville, and reigned supreme in the ball- room, eclipsing all the practised belles of the season 1 4. She tvas lost to the world! that sweet, beautiful girl, who was so well fitted to delight and adorn it ; lost before the first bloom of youth had passed from her cheeks, before ex- perience had dried the first bright waters of hope and trust that are bom in our hearts ; lost before there was any need to seek a refuge from the ills of life in that last resource, a con- Tent I Sh^ is lost to the world, and what matters it what she has gained — what heaven has won ! — so thought the Colonel. 6, Yet, what was his love for Agnes, compared to her mother's — the mother who remembered her baptism, her first cries, her first words, her first caresses; who had counted her first smiles, and treasured them in her heart ; who remembered every incident of her youth, her first lisping prayers, her fi'-st songs, her first visit to mass, her first confession, her first communion, her confirmation : what was his bereavement. t>? hers ? 6. Agnes was her only child, her only companion in prayer, her jewel, her treasure, her all on earth ; a thousand uncles could not have loved her as she did ; their lives had been one, and now tliey are called upon t) live apart. Ob, not apart 1 THE CHOICE. 259 Who shall say apart I When they are repeating, day after day, and night after night, the same deor litanies, when they arc appealing to the same saints, the same angels, the same Blessed Mother, the same Father, Son, and Holy Qhost ; when f hey are liring together in Qod, who shall say the^' are lif iug apart I 7. And thus thought Mrs. Cleveland, and she missed not her daughter's long, dark hair ; and if she shed floods of natu- ral tears, it was not because her daughter was clad in the plain liTery of heaven. And so thought Lei, and she was glad of the CHOICE, though she had now to sit and sew alone, though she had to walk alone, though she had to watch the sun riso and set, and play Beethoven, and listen to the birds and pluck wild flowers, and muse under the old oak-trees without Agues at her side. 8. God 1 how beautiful must the soul be when entering heaven 1 The plainest face, when lit with sanctity, is sublime, and prince and peasant bow down before it, or if they smite, it is in envy. No rouge shall ever tinge thy pale cheek, Sister Agnes ; no ring shall ever glitter on thy white hand ; thy haif shall never be twined into lockets ; thy foot shall never twinkle in the dance I " 9. Thou art the child of God, Sister Agnes I And who will dare to claim thee for the world, as thou kneelest there before the altar, or say that thou wert made for man ? Who would snatch thee thence, thou young companion of the angels, as if thou wert to be pitied and saved ? There is the likeness to God, which the children of earth have lost, and who w^nid bid it fttnish ? if; S60 THE FirrB READXR. Hi i! 1. PI 3, 86. Landing of thb Ursuunks and Hospital Kinsri AT QUKBKC. rBOM TUB HISTORY OF THB UBHVUNKa Of Qt'KBBC. 1. It was on the first day of August, 16219, that the holy Ijand, 80 long and anxiously denlrod, was seen to approach th Canadian shore ; and it was amid the sound of cannons, fifus and drums that this little reinforcement took possession of the post which the Lord had assigned to them on the banks of the St. Lawrence. 2. Great joy there was throughout the whole colony, as we learn from Father Le Jeune, an eye-witness of what he de- Bcribes in the " Relation" of that year : *' And the brave Charles Huault de Montmagny," says he, '* advanced to the water-side with all the military and all the inhabitants of Quebec, who, at that moment, rent the air with their shouts of joy." 3. It was, indeed, dear readers, an auspicious day when first appeared on our shores that young and noble widow,' with the religious who accompanied her 1 Ihey kissed respect' fully the soil of that land, so long the object of their pious hopes and wishes ; and after acknowledging, in suitable terms, the numerous congratulations offered them on the suc- cessful issue of their voyage, they went, accompanied by the military and civil officers, with a crowd of citizens and also of savages, to the Chapel of Our Lady of Succor, built near Fort St. Louis, by Champlain, in 1633. There the Te Deum, Intoned by Father Le Jeune, was caught up by the voices of the multitude, while the cannon from the fort proclaimed the oyo us event far and wide. 4. After the Divine Sacrifice, the Governor, followed by the wliole vast assemblage, conducted the religious to the Castle of St. Louis, where they received the ( ompliments of all tlie most distinguished persons of that day in Canada. M. de Montmaguy Invited the religiou? to take their first repast on Canadian soil at his table. I'lj Madame di la Peltrie, foundress, of the UnulinM of Canuda. MFXBOflF AfiBBT A8 Tt IS. 261 5. They were afterwards conducted, with the same pomp, to the separate dwellings prepared for their reception : the Hospital Nuns to a house in the Upper Town, belonging to the Hundred Associates ; and the Ursulines to a very small dwelling, a species of shop, then the property of the Sieur Juiihercau des ChSitelets, situate at the foot of the hill, nui far from the place where the church of the Lower Town wa isuhsequcutly built. 6. It is said that their first supper was sent them by tho Governor ; as for their bed, it was formed simply of fur branches, for the principal part of the baggage havinir been left at Tadoussac, and the other little effects not being yet brought ashore, the UrsulLnes found themselves without either bed, furniture, or provisions. 7. Well might their thoughts revert to the country they bad left forever. Yet this, dear readers, was but the pre- lude to the life of sacrifice which our venerable mothers led in the bosom of this infant colony. 86. Melrose Abbey as it is. BCOTT. Sin WxtTBs SooTT Is one of the men of whom Seothind i» justly prond. It ii* t)ie pi'tniliftr iiicrit of Scott's writings to liave revived soiiierliiiijf of tliut oliivulious xeiuinifiiit witiiout which society iu(»ts in Borilid pursuits, »ud to liuve tiiriieil l^ack the even of a t«elf-conceitt'il H>fe ti> tlio *' oUlea time." Witii the frank nutnre iiml cordial liiunor wliicli helonjted toCliaU'* XT uud Shuk^'pcare, bcolt po8»e!«!»od also much of their drauiutiu power. 1, If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, Go, visit it by the pale moonlight ; ^ For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild but to flout the ruins gray. When the broken arches are black in night. And each shafted oriel glhnmers white ; v When the cold light's uncertain shower Streams on the ruin'd ceatral tower ; When bnttress and buttress alternately . ' Seem framed of ebon and ivory ; When silver edges the imagery, ' And the sei'oUs that teach thee to U?« aad' dw ( i, SOS tllK FtFTH RCADCB. When distant Tweed is heard to rare, *' And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's gntv^ Then go ; but go alone the while— ' Then view St. Darid's ruin'd pile : And, home retarning, soothly awear,— % Was never scene so sad and fair 1 1-i« m #' f ■ II Again on the knight lookM the chnrchman old, ^ And again he sigh&d heavily ; For he had himself been a warrior bold, And fought in Spain and Italy. And he thought on the days that were long since by, When his limbs were strong and his coorage was high.' Now, slow and faint, he led the way. Where, cloistered round, the garden lay ; ^ The pillar'd arches were over their head. And beneath their feet were the bones of the deacL Spreading herbs and flowrets bright Glisten'd with the dew of night 1 Nor herb nor floweret glistened there But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair. The monk gazed long on the lovely moon, :^ Then into the night he looked forth; And red and bright the streamers light !!. Were dancing in the glowing north. , So had he seen, in fair Castile, The youth in glittering squadrons start \ Sadden the flying jennet wheel, And hurl the unexpected dart. He knew, by the streamers that shot so brigln^ That spirits were riding the northern light. '\ By a steel-clench'd postern-door They ecter'd now the chancel toll ; The darken'd roof rose high aloof ^ On pillars lofty, and light, mm! bdhU f / MELROSR ABBRT AS IT 18. 263 The keystone, that lock'd each ribbM aisle, Was a fleur-dc-lys, or a qnatre-fcaille ; The corbells were carved grotesque and gria ; And the pillars, with chister'd shafts so trim, With base and with capitol flourish'd around, Seem'd bandies of lances which garlands had liottod Fall many a scatchcon and banner riven Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven Aronnd the screened altar's pale I And there the dying lamps did bam Before thy low and lonely urn, O gallant chief of Otterbume, And thine, dark knight of Liddesdale I O fading honors of the dead I O high ambition, lowly laid ! The moon on the east oriel shone Through slender shafts of shapely stone By foliaged tracery combined ; ' Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand 'Twixt poplars straight the osit^r wand, In many a freakish knot, had twined ; Then framed a spell, when the work was dona^ And changed the willow wreaths to stone, The silver light, so pale and faint, '^ Show'd many a prophet and many a saint, Whose image on the glass was dyed. Fall in the midst, his cross of red — Triumphant Michael brandished, ' ^ And trampled the apostate'^ pride. ^" ;j^_ The moonbeam kiss'd the ho'y pane. And threw on the povemdct & «:loodj fttaiik ■.■.JSJ£4S%. ^sm" ;^' i- i '■' V 2*^4 THE FIFTH BEADEU. if! * • Hi!! 87 The First Solitary (jf the ThebaBp •I! OQATBAUBBI AKD. Thp nnine of Chatbacbbiand Btands diatingiiiRfacd air^nf^the literenr men of liiu ic-rn Fruncc, and his vivid imagination und poetical fervor would huv« r.i td<: hiir. cotiitpicuouH ir. any age. Ili» maHtcrpicce ia the ''Genius of rhrir'tianity,'' which contains more brilliant and varied eloquence than any ^orii uf the kind produced by the present century. 1. "To the east of this vale of pahns arose a high moan- tain. 1 directed my course to this kind of Pharos, that seemed to call lue to a haven of security, through the inmiOTable floods and solid billows of an ocean of sand. I reached the foot of the iiiountain, and began to ascend the black and calcined rocks, which closed the horizon on every side. Night de- scended. Thinking I heard some sound near me, I halted, and plainly distinguished the footsteps of some wild beast, which was wandering in the dark, and broke through the dried iihrubs that opposed hiE progress. I thought that I recognized the lion of the fountain. 2. " Suddenly he sent forth a tremendous roar. The echoes of these unknown mountains seemed to awaken for the first tme, and returned the roar in savage murmurs. He had paused in front of a cavern whose entrance was closed with a stone. I behold a light glimmering between the crevices of this rock, and my heart beat high with hope and with wonder. 1 approached and looked in, when, to my astonishment, I really beheld a light shining at the bottom of the cavern. "'Whoever thou art,' cried I, 'that feedest the savage beasts, have pity on a wretched wanderer.' " Scarcely had I pronounced these words, when I heard .the voice of an old man who v/as chanting one of the Scripture cmticles. I cried in a loud tone : " ' Christian, receive your brother.' ^ ' » , 3. " Scarcely had I uttered these words, when a man ap- pfoaclied, broken with age ; his snowy beard seemed whitened with all the years of Jacob, and he was clothed in a garment fonned of the leaves of the palm. " * Stranger,' Raid ho, ' you iir« welcome You behold a ■:l , 1.1! THE FIBST eOLlTART OF THE THEBAIS. 265 Ton behold a man who is on the point of being reduced to his kindred dust. The hoar of my happy departure is arriTed : yet still I have a few moments left to dedicate to hospitality. Enter, my brother, tbe grotto of Paul.' " Overpowered vrith veneration, I followed this founder o Oliristianity in the deserts of the Thebais. 4. " A palm-tree, which grew in the recess of the grotto entwined it 8preadmg branches along the rock, and formed a species of vestibule. Near it flowed a spring remarkable for its transparency ; out of this fountain issued a small rivulet, that had scarcely escaped from its source before it buried itself in the bosom of the earth. Paul seated himself with me on the margin of the fountain, and the lion that had shown me the Arab's well, came and crouched himself at our feet. 5. " * Stranger,' said the anchorite, with a happy simplicity, ' how do the aJBTairs of the world go on ? Do they still build cities ? Who is the master that reigns at present ? For a hundred and thirteen years have I inhabited this grotto ? and for a hundred years I have seen only two men — yourself, and Anthony, the inheritor of ray desert ; he came yesterday to visit me, and will return to-morrow to bury me.' 6. " As he said this, Paul went and brought some bread of the finest kind, from the cavity of the rock. He told me that Providence supplied him every day witii a fresh quantity of this food. He invited me to break the heavenly gift with him. We drank the water of the spring in the hollow of our hands ; and after this frugal repast, the holy man inquired what events had conducted me to this inaccessible retreat. After listening to the deplorable history of my life : t. " * Eudorus,' said he, 'your faults have been great ; but there is no stain which the tears of penitence cannot efface. It is not without some design that Providence has made you a witness of the introduction of Christianity into every land. You will also find it here in this solitude, among the lions, beneath the fires of the tropic, as you have encountered it amidst the bears and the glaciers of the pole. Soldier of Jesus Christ, you are destined to fight and to conquer for tiie faitli God 1 whose ways are incomprehensible, it is thou that liast 12 -;&- MQ THB FIFTH READER. ' I.I r ,'! If J- n eonductcd this young confessor to my f]^otto, that I might unveil futurity to liis view ; that by perfecting him in the knowledge of his religion, I might complete in him by grace the work that nature has begun 1 Eudorus, repose here for the rest of the day ; to-morrow, at sunrise, we will ascend the mountain to pray, and I will speak to yon before I die/ 8. " After this, the holy man conversed with me for a long time on the beauty of religion, and on the blessings it should one day shed upon mankind. During this discourse the old man presented an extraordinary contrast ; simple as a child when left to nature alone, he seemed to have forgotten every- thing, or rather to know nothing, of the world, of its grandeurs, its miseries, and its pleasures ; but when God descended into his soul, Paul became an inspired genius, filled with experience of the present, and with visions of the future. Thus in his person two opposite characters seemed to unite : still it was doubtful which was the more admirable, Paul the ignorant, or Paul the prophet ; since to the simplicity of the former was granted the sublimity of the latter. 9. " After giving me many instructions full of a wisdom intermingled with sweetness, and a gravity tempered with cheerfulness, Paul invited me to offer with him a sacrifice of praise to the Eternal ; he arose, and placing himself under the paira-tree, thus chanted aloud : " ' Blessed be thou, the God of my fathers, who hast had regard to the lowliness of thy servant I " ' solitude, thou spouse of my bosom, thou art about to lose him for whom thou didst possess unfading charms 1 " * The votary of solitude ought to preserve his body in chastity, to have his lips undefiled, and his mind illuminated with divine light. " * Holy sadness of penitence, come, pierce my soul Ijke a needle of gold, and fiU it with celestial sweetness I " * Tears are the mother of \irtue, and sorrow is the foot Btool to heaven,' 10. " The old man's prayer was scarcely ^nished, when I fell mto a sweet and profound sleep. I reposed on the stony eouch which Paul preferred to a bed of roses. The suu was on •'If '1 THE FIRST SOLITARY OK TOR TURBAIS. 267 tbe point of setting when I again opened my eyes Uy the light The hermit said to me : " ' Arise and praj ; take your refreshment, and ld< as go to the mountain.' " 1 obeyed him, and we departed together. For more than iix hours we ascended the craggy rocks ; and at daybreak wa had reached the most elevated point of Mount Colzim. 11. " An immense horizon stretched around us. To the ea«t arose the summits of Horeb and Sinai ; the desert of SUr, and the Red Sea, lay stretched in boundless expanse below ; to the south the mountains of the Thebais formed a mighty chain ; the northern prospect was bounded by the northern plains, over which Pharoah pursued the Hebrews ; while to tiie west, stretching far beyond the sands amidst which I had been lost, lay the fertile valley of Egypt. 12. " The first rays of Aurora, streaming from the horizon of Arabia Felix, for some time tinged this immense picture with Boftened light. The zebra, the antelope, and the ostrich ran rapidly over the desert, while the camels of a caravan passed gently in a row, headed by a sagacious ass, which acted as their conductor. The bosom of the Red Sea was checkered with many a whitening sail, that wafted into its pons the silks and the perfumes of the East, or perhaps bore some intelligent voyager to the shores of India. At last the sun arose, and crowned with splendoi this frontier of the eastern and western worlds ; he poured a blaze of light on the heights of Sinai- - a feeble, yet brilliant in.c.ge of the God that Moses contcir plated on the summit of this sacred mount !" 88. Tee First Solitary — concluded, 1 . " My hoary conductor now broke silence : " ' Confessor of the faith,' said he * cast your eyes around foo. Behold this eastern clime, where all the religions, and all the revolutions of the earth, have had their origin; behold this Egypt, whence your Greece received her elegant divinities, and India her moostrcus and misshapen gods; in these samfl !.! :v|lj I 3iM 808 THE FIFTH READER. regions Jesus Christ himRclf appeared, and the day shall come when a descendant of Ishniael shall re-establish error beneath the Arab's tent. The first system of morality that was com- mitted to writing, was also the production of this fruitful soil. 2. " ' It is worthy of your attention, that the people of tin- East, as if in punishment for some great rebellion of their fore- fathers, have almost always been under the dominion of tyrants ; thus, as a kind of miraculous counterpoise, morality and re- ligion have sprung up in the same land that gave birth to slavery and misfortune. Lastly, these same deserts witnessed the march of the armies of Sesostris and Cambyses, of Alex- ander and Caesar. Ye too, ye future ages, shall send hither armies equally numerous, and warriors not less celebrated 1 Al! the great and daring efforts of the human species have rither had their origin here, or have come hither to exhaust their force. A supernatural energy has ever been preserved in ihese regions whepeiu the first man received life; so.Tie thing miraculons seems still attached to the cradle of creation and ihe source of light and iifiowledge. 3. " ' Without stopping to contemplate those scenes of ho- iian grandeur that have long been closed in endless night, or .0 consider those epochs so renowned in history, but which have passed away like the fleeting vapor, it is to the Christian, above •11 others, that the East is a land of wonders. " * You have seen Christianity, aided by morality, penetraic Jhe civUiised countries of Italy and Greece ; you have seen il mtrodnced by means of charity among the barbarous natious of Gaul and Germany; here, under the influence of an atmos- phere that weakens the soul while rendering it obstinate, amoug a people grave by its political institutions, and trifling by its climate, charity and morality would be insufficient. 4 " * The religion of Jesas Christ can only enter the tempi s of Isis and A mmou under the veil of penitence. To luxury ami effeminacy it must offer examples of the most rigid privaticii. : to the knavery of the priests, and the lying illusions of false divinities, it must oppose real miracles and the oracles of truth: scenes of extraordinary virtue alone can tear away tlio crowd from the enchantments of the theatre and the circus ' THE FIBST 80UTABY OF TUB TtlEBAB. 209 »rhen men have been guilty of great crimes, great expiations are necessary, in order that the renown of the latter may efface the celebrity of the former. 5. " * Such are the reasons for which those missionaries were established, of whom I am the first, and who will be perpetu- ated in these solitudes. Admire in this the conduct of our divine chief, who knows how to arrange his armies according to the places and the obstacles they have to encounter. Con- template these two religions, about to struggle here hand to hand until one shall have humbled the other in the dust. The antient worship of Osiris, whose origin is hidden in the night of time, proudly confident in its traditions, its mysteries, and its pomps, rests securely upon victory. 6. " ' The mighty dragon of Egypt lies basking in the mid°i of his waves, and exclaims : " The river is mine." He belif;ve8 that the crocodile shall always receive the incense of mortals, and that the ox, wliich is slaughtered at the crib, shxll cjver cease to rank as the first of divinities. No, my son, an army shall be formed in these deserts, and shall march to conquest under the banners of truth. From the solitudes of Thebaia and of Scetis shall it advance : it is composed of aged saints, who carry no other weapon than their staffs to besiege the ministers of errc in their very temples. t. " * The latter occupy fertile plains, and revel amidst luxury and sensual gratifications ; the former inhabit the burning sands of the desert, and patiently endure all the rigors of life. Hell, that foresees the destruction of its power, attempts every means to insure its victory: the demons of voluptuousness, of nchea, and of ambition, seek to corrupt these faithful soldiers of th(. cross ; but heaven comes to the succor of its children, and lavishes miracles in their favor. Who can recount the names of so many illustrious recluses — ^the Anthonies, the Serapions, the Macariuses, the Pacomiuses ? Victory declares ill theur favor. The Lord gathers Egypt about him, as shepherd gathers round him his mantle. 8. " ^ Where error once dictated the oracles of falsehood, the voice of truth is now heard ; wherever the false divmities had iostitated a superstitious rite, there Jesas had placed a saint d. w^ 270 TU£ FIFl'U HEADER. 1^ 1 It 1-1 :: ^l-- i-- ■'■ . ■;« 1 :'.\ i Wie grottoes of the Thebais are inhabited, the catacombH of the dead are peopled with the living who are dead to all the passions of the world. The gods, banished from their temples, return to the river and the plough. A burst of triomphant »oy resounds from the pyramids of Cheops even to the tomb of Osymandyas. The posterity of Joseph enters into the laud of Goshen; and this victory, purchased by the tears of its victors, costs not one tear to the vanquished 1' 9. " Paul for a moment, interrupted his discourse, and then iigain addri;>oe(A me. - , " ' Eudo^i's/ said he, 'never more abandon the ranks of the Boldi^ rs of Tcdus Christ. If you are not a rebel to the cause of li 'jfji, ^hat a crown awaits youl what enviable glory will be y M. ■■> i My son, what are you still seeking among men? Hats the ^v- 1 still charms for you ? Do you wish, like the faithless israeiite, to lead the dance around the golden calf? You know not the ruin that awaits this mighty empire, so long the terror and the destroyer of the human race ; know, then, that the crimes of these masters of the world are hastening the day of vengeance. 10. " * They have persecuted the faithful followers of Jesus; they have been drunk with the blood of his martyrs.' " Here Paul again interrupted his discourse. He stretched forth his hands toward Mount Horeb ; his eyes sparkled with animation, a flame of glory played around his head, his wrinkled forehead seemed invested with all the gracefulness of youth : like another Elias, he exclaimed in accents of rapture: 11. "'Whence come those fugitive families that seek an asylum in the cave of the solitary? "Wl: are those people that flock from the four regions of the earth ? Do yc? see yonder terrific horsemen, the impure children of the demons and of the sorcerers of Scythia?' The scourge of God conducts thcra.* Their horses vie with the leopard in speed : numberless a^ the sands of the desert, their captives flock before them. What leek these kiags, clad in the skins of wild beasts, their heads severed with rude hats, and their facps tinged with green.' Wbj 'ThoHuna 'Attila. ' ihe Goths and Lombards. BORATniB. 871 do these naked Rayagcs butcher their prisoners under the walli of the besieged city? ' Hold ! yon monster has dmnk the blood of the Roman who fell beneath his hand I * 12. " ' They all ponr from their native deserts : they march towards this new Babylon. O, queen of cities 1 how art thou fallen t How is the beauty of thy capitol effaced I How are thy plains deserted, and how dreadful is the soU^ido that reigns around! But, lo! astonishing spectacle! the cross appears elevated above the scene of surrounding desolation ! [t takes its station upon new-bom Rome, and marks each magnificent edifice as it rises from the dust. Pad, thou father of anchorites, exult with joy ere thou diest ! Thy children shall inhabit the ruined palaces of the Caesars ; the porticos whence the sentence of exterminating wrath was pronounced against the Christians, shall be converted into religions clou»* ters ; ' and penitence shall consecrate the spots where crimes once reigned triumphant.'" 89. HOBATIUS. :3-^*!. MAOAULAY Thomas BABpraroN Maoaulat was born at the beginning nf the preseut centurr, and died in 1860. As an eBsayist, he is rcmiirkable tor t/r bril- liant rlietorical powers, splendid tone of coloring, and liuppy illustratious. Maeaulay has also written "Lays of Ancient Rome," wnich arc full of animation and poetic fervor. At the time of his death he was engaged in writing the "History of England;" but the volntnes of this work pub- lished, partake more of the character of a brilliant romanoe, than of tru« and dignified history. 1. Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. "Down with him 1" cried false Sextos, With a smile on his pale face ; 18 and Lombards. *The Franks and Vand»»l8. •The Saracen. 'The Theriuss oi DiocletLui, now iobabit^ by the Carthusians. 872 THE FIFTH BKADER. :h ' " Now yield ihee/' cried Lars Poraen^ " Now yield thee to our grace." Round tom'd he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see ; Naught spake he to Lars PorseiiA» To Sextns naught spoke he ; But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home ; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Ro: "O Tiber! father Tiber To whom the Romans pra^ A Roman's life, a Roman's anub Take thou in charge this day I' So he spake, and speaking sheathen The good sword by his side. And, with his harness on his back Plunged headlong in the tide. No sonL.d of joy or sorrow Was heard fiom either bank; But friends and foes in dumb surpnae. With parted lips and straining eyeft Stood gazing where he sank: And when above the surges They saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous ciy, And ever the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer. m But fiercely ran the current. Swollen high by months of rain ; And fast his blood was flowing ; And he was sore in pain, And heavy with his armor, And spent with changing blowi | '''^' ^\^.i^i"" liOKAilUf). .8 8. And oft ihcy thought him sinking, But still again he rose. • Kever, I ween, did swimmer, In such an evil cose, Struggle through t^uch a raging flood Safe to the landing-place. But his limbs were bora*! up bravely By the brave heart within, And our good father Tiber Bare bravely up liis chin. " Curse on him !" quoth false Sextus ; " Will not the villain drown ? But for this stay, ere close of day We should have sack'd the town I" " Heaven help him I" quoth Lars Porsenii " And bring him safe to fihore ; For such a gallant feat of arms Was never seen before." And now he feels the bottom ; Now on dry earth he stands ; Now round him throng the fathers To press his gory hands ; And now with shouts and clapping, And noise of weeping loud, He enters through the river-gate. Borne by the joyous crowd. When the goodman mends his armor, And trims his helmet's plume ; When the goodwife's shuttle merrily Goes flashing through the Icom ; With weeping and with laughter Still is the story told, How well Horatius kep*^ the bridge In the brave days of oid. 12» 274 THE FIFTH UK\bKM. 90. TiiK Exile's Rbtdrbt. ii ^ ■\ i.i m '!!« 'n'S ^U . ;l Mne. 8ADLI KB. 1. Many changes have passed over the face of the Green IhI« •ince I left its rocky shores, — changes public and chaugcH private have taken place among its people — the friends whom I loved and cherished have passed away, ay I every soul; 80 that, with the aid of my altered appearance, I can pass myself off for a stranger, yet there is something in the very atmosphere which breathes of home. The warm hearts and loving eyes that cheered my boyhood are gone, — the living friends are lost to sight, and I miss their enlivening presence, oh I how much 1 — but the inanimate friends — the old familiar scenes remain, 2. I have taken up my abode in the very house of my nativity — ruined it is, and desolate, yet it is the shell which contained the kernel of my affections. The fields are as gi'een, the sky as changeful, the mn jytains as grand, the sacred val- ley as lone and solemn, anO, jslove all, the faith and piety of the people is still the seme, siniple, earnest, nothing doubting, all-performing. 3. Oh I I am not alone here, one cannot be alone here, with the monuments of ages of faith around, and the same faith ever living and acting among the people. I can go and kneel by the graves of my parents, and pray that my end may be like theirs, and I feel that the penitent tears I shed are ac- ceptable to God, and that the spirits of those over whose ashes I weep, may one day welcome me In glory, when the last trace of my guilt is effaced by whatever process God pleases. 4. Here, amid the solitude of the desert city, I meditate on the years I passed in a foreign land, and rejoice that the feverish dream is OT'er. Where I herded my goats, a peasant boy, I muse, an old and wrinkled man, on the path of life I have trodden. I stand at the opposite end of existence, and ask myself what is the difference. I have had since what is called "position," 1 have wealth still — ay I a fortune, but what ol MOUNT OKlK?*T. 275 th»t^ — I am ()\i\, friendless, childless, and alone, burdened with Kiirrowiiig recollections, and ready to sink into the grave, un- honored and unknown. 5. 1 was poor a? 1 unlearned in those days which I now look back on with regret, but I had many hearts to love nio ; " now," said I bitterly to myself, " I dare not breathe my '•arae to any hereabouts, for the memory of ray crime is tra- itional among the people, and, did they recognize me, all '>e vealth I have would not bribe them to look with kindo him who was once an Apostate. 91. Mount Orient. OBRALD QBIFFIN. 1. The M'Orieuts of Mouut Orient, gentle reader, were looked upoa in our neighborhood as people of high fashion, unbounded literary attaijimerits, and the most delicate sensi- bility. They had, until within the last two years, spent the greater portion of their life *' abroad" (a word which has a portentous soand in our village). On their return to Mount Orient, they occasioned quite a revolution in all our tastes and customs : they introduced waltzing, smoking cigars, &c. I have seen their open carriage sometimes driving by my win- dow, Miss Mimosa M'Orient seated on the coach-box, and Mr. Ajax M'Orient, her brother, occupying the interior in a frieze jacket and a southwester, 2. But what added most to their influence was that both were considered prodigies of intellect. Ajax M'Orient had written poems in which "rill" rhymed to "hill," "beam." to " stream," "mountain" to "fountain," and "bilLiw" to "wil- low." Nay, it was even whispered that he had formed a > /I^> 4^^^ f^ % !!■ 276 TUE Firm READER. 8. He was likewise a aniTersbl critic, ooe of thoee agree* ble persons, who know every thing in the world better than anybody else. He would ask you what you thooght of that engraving, and on your selecting a particular group for admi« ration, he would civilly inform you that yon had praised the only defect in the piece. Like the host in Horace, who used to analyze his dishes with his praises in such a manner as to deprive his guests of all inclination to taste them, Ajax would afflict yon with pointing out the beauties of a picture, until yoo began to see no beauty in it. 4. Nor did nature escape him : walk out with him, and he would commend every lake, and rock, and river, until you wished yourself under ground from hun. The wind, the sun, the air, the clouds, the waters, nothing was safe from the taint of his villanous commendation. And then his meta- physics ; it was all well nntil he grew metaphysical: so jealous was he of originality on these subjects, that if yon assented too hastily to one of his own propositions, ten to one but he would wheel round and assail it, satisfied to prove himself wrong, provided he could prove you wrong also. The navigation of the Red Sea was not a nicer matter than to get through a conversation with Mr. Ajax M'Orient without an argument. 5. On the other hand, Miss Mimosa M'Orient was very handsome, a great enthusiast, an ardent lover of Ireland (un- like her brother, who affected the aristocrat, and curled his lip at O'Oonnell) ; with a mind all sunshine and a heart all fire ; a soul innocence itself — ^radiant candor — heroic courage — a glowing zeal for universal liberty — a heart aliye to the tenderest feelings of distress — and a mind, to judge by her conversation, imbued with the deepest sentiments of yirtne. 6. Miss M'Orient had a near relative living under her pro< tection, named Mary de Courcy, who did not seem to have half her advantages. She was rather plain, had no enthusiasm whatever, very seldom talked of Ireland, had so much common sense in her mind that there was no room for sunshine ; i^nd as to fire in her bosom, the academy of Lagoda alone, to al) appearance, could have furnished artists capable of extracting it. She might be candid, but she had too much reserve tc MOUNT ORIENT. an thrust it forth as if for sale ; and she ought have aii innocent heart, bat she was not forever talking of it. Of courage she did not boast mach; and as to oniversal liberty, Mary de Oonrcy, like the knife-grinder, «« seldom loved to meddl* With politiGS, sir." 1. Of her feelings she never spoke at all, and on tne snbject of virtue she conld not compete in eloquence with Miss M'Orient. Still it was a riddle, that while everybody liked Miss de Coorcy, the M'Orients seemed to be but little esteemed or loved by those who knew them well and long. Indeed, some looked upon them as of that class of indiyidnals who in our times have oyemm society enfeebling literature with false sentiment, poisoning all wholesome feeling, taming virtne into ostentation, annulling modesty, corrupting the very springs of piety itself by affectation and parade, and selfishly seeking to engross the world's admiration by wearing their virtues (false as they are) like their jewels, all outside. 8. Thus, while Miss M'Orient-and her brother were rhyming and romancing about " green fields," and " groves,'' and " lang syne," and "negroes," and "birds in cages," and " sympathy," tiad "universal freedom," they were such a pair of arrant scolds and tyrants in their own house, that no servant coold stay two months in their employment. While Miss M'Orient would weep by the hour to hear a blackbird whistle Paddy Carey outside a farmer's cottage, she would, see whole fami- lies, nay whole nations, reduced to beggary, without sheddiiig a tear, nor think of depriving herself of a morocco album to save a starving fellow-creature's life. 9. It was during one of those seasons of distress, which so frequently afflici the peasantry of Ireland, that Mary de Gourcy happened one morning to be watering some flowers that graced the small inclosure in front of Mount Orient House, when a female cottager, accompanied by a group of helpless children, presented themselves before her. Miss dA Courcy and Mimosa both had known the woman in better times, and the former was surprised at her present destitntioo 278 THE FIFTH IlEAOEB. t 10. "Ah! Miss Maryl'' said she, "'tis aU oyer with oa now, since the house and the man that kept it np are gone to- gether. Hush, child ! be quiet I You never again will conit over to us now, Miss Mary, in the summer days, to sit down inside our door, an' to take the cup of beautiful thick milk from Nelly, and to talk so kindly to the children. That's all over now, miss — ^them times are gone." 11. Moved by the poor woman's sorrow. Miss de Gourcy for the first time keenly felt her ntter want of fortune. She determined, however, to lay before Miss M' Orient in the course of the day the condition of their old cottage acquaint- ance, and conceived that she entered the room in happy time, when she found her tender-hearted friend dissolved in tears, and with a book between her hands. Still better, it was a wo)*k on Ireland, and Mimosa showed herprotigie the page, still moistened from the offerings of her sympathy, in which the writer Ii >•! drawn a very lively picture of the sufferings of her countrymen during a period of more than usual affliction. 12. " Such writing as this, dear Mary!" she exclaimed, in ecstasy of woe, " would move me were the sketch at the An-t tipodes ; but being taken in Ireland, beloved Ireland! imagine its effect upon my feelings — I, who am not myself — I have nothing for yon, my good man, go about your business [to an old beggar-man who presented himself with a low botr at the window] — ^who am not myself when Ireland is the "' ')me\ the heart must be insensible indeed that such a pictu. onld not move to pity. '. i3. "Ah! if the poor Irish — [I declare ♦^here are three more beggars on the avenue I Thomas, did not your master give strict orders that not a single beggar should be allowed to set foot inside the gate?] — ah! if tb^ poor — [let some one go and turn them out this instant— ^ we must certainly have the dogs let loose agam] — ^if the Irish poor had many such advo- cates, charity would win its burning way at length even into cold recesses — '* " There's a poor woman wants a dhrop of milk, ma'am," said a servant, appearing at the door. 14. " I haven't it for her — ^let me not be disturbed "exii ^/ xoxnrr OKtBnr. 279 Berrant] — into the cold recesses of CTen un absentee landlord'! heart. The appeal, dear Mary, is perfectly irresistible ; nor can I conceiye a higher gratification than that of lending a healing hand to snch affliction." " I am glad to hear yon say so, Mimosa, my dear," said Mary, " for I have it in my power to give yon the gratifica' tion yon desire." " How, Miss de Coorcy?" said the sentimental lady in an altered tone, and with some secret alarm. 15. Mary de Conrcy was not aware how ¥ride a difference there is, between crying over human misery in hot-pressed small octavo, and relieving it in common life ; between senti- mentalizing over the picture of hnman woe, and loving and befriending the original. She did not know that there are creatures who will melt like Niobe at an imaginary distress, while the sight of actual suffering will find them callous as a flint. She proceeded, therefore, with a sanguine spirit, to explain the circumstances of their old neighbors, expecting that all her trouble would be m moderating the extent of her enthnsiastic auditor's liberality. 16. But she could not get a shilling from the patriotic Miss M'Orient. That young lady had expended the last of her pocket-money on this beautiful book on Irish misery, so that she had not a sixpence left for the miserable Irish. But then she felt for them I She talked, too, a great deal about "her principles." It was not '' her principle," that the poor should ever be relieved by money. It was by forwarding " the march of intellect," those evils should be remedied. As the world became enlightened, men would find it was their interest that hnman misery should be alleviated in the persons of their fellow-creatures, a regenerative spirit would pervade 'society and peace and abundance would shed their light on every land, not even excepting dear, neglected, and down-trodden Ireland. 17. But, as for the widow, she hadn't a sixpence for her. Besides, who knew but she might drink it? Misfortune drives so many to the dram-shop. Well, if Miss de Courcy would provide against that, still, who could say that she wai iSO THE FIFTH BBADEB. not an impostor I Oh, true, Miss M'Orient knew the womai well. But she had a great many other older and nearer acqoaintances ; and it was " ?ier principle/' that charity was nothing without order. In mlgar language, it should always begin at home. At all events, she could and would do lothing. " Ah, Mimosa,'' said Mary, " do you think that vulgar rule las never an exception 7" "Never — ^Mary — never. Send in luncheon" [to a serv- ant]. ■.v,S",ft- . ,;, 92. The Obusadbb. ^ W0BD8W0RTH. '■■A' ■ WtvLuu WoBiMWORTH was boin in England in 1770, and died in 1860 ; he belonged to what is called the *'Za^«-Scliool " of poeta. He has left no poem of any length worthy of admiration throughout ; bat many of hii shorter pieooaare unsurpassed in the English language. 1. Furl we the sails, and pass with tardy oars Through these bright regions, casting many a glance Upon the dreamii^ As to a visible power, in which did blend All that was mix'd and reconciled in thee Of mother's love with maiden purity. Of high with low, celestial with terrene. 93. De Fbontenao. BIBAUD. I. Louis DB BuADi, Ck>unt de Fronte)^, was themost'iDuk tnous governor of New France, under the French dommation He was twice appointed governor, in 1612 and 1689. Colouei of horse in a regiment of cavalry at seventeen, he was made lieutenant-general after twelve years' service, and commanded detachments in Italy, Flanders, and Germany, whilst 4;ho Countess de Frontenac, the friend of Madam de Sevigne and Madam de Maintenon, made herself famous at court Biecoiii> n 1 f' il. . 'I P'i' -1 , ii i^ fiS2 THE FIFTH READER. mended by Turenne, he was the last defender of Candia, which he was forced to evacuate. It was then that he was named governor and lieutenant-general of New France. His first admiuistratioa was not successful ; be was despotic, quarrelled with every one, issued warrants, like the monarch him self, imprisoned or banished the first persons of the colony, had himself called high and mighty lord, and had, like the Viceroy de Tracy, the use of b6dy-guards. He was recalled, and learned to be more moderate. Returning to Canada at the period of the Lachine massacre, that disaster forced him to abandon a project he had entertained of invading New York. He, nevertheless, carried the war into New England, and into the heart of the Iroquois country, and corered him- self with glory by his defence of Quebec against Admiral Phipps ; Louis XIY. had a medal struck in honor of that event. The savages, in particular, regarded him as something more than human ; and the Sioux, as yet but little heard of, sent him ambassadors. Louis de Buade was great both in head' and heart. He has been accused of having been too fond of command, and of carrying the pretensions of power too far ; but these faults disappeared with age and experience. Hence it has been said of him by an eminent French writer, that he had all the qualities of a great man ; the firmness to command, and the mildness and magnanimity to make himself beloved. He was generous, and had the dignity and stateli- ness of a king. He was at Quebec a fitting reflection of Louis XIY. at Yersailles. A word, a look from him electri- fied the martial colonists of Canada ; he was the delight of New France, the terror of the Iroquois, the father of nations allied with the French ; his activity was equalled only by his courage. Frontenac (lied at Quebec in the year 1698, and waa buried in the Church of the BecoUets, which is now no longer In existence. He was more friendly to the Recollets than to the Jesuits, and it was their Superior, Goyer, who pronounced bis funeral oration. That piece of sacred eloquence, with the name of " Buade,'' given to a street of Quebec, and that of " Frontenac," to a county of Upper Canada, are the sole m» mentoes that remain to the country of this great celebrity. TBI OATAOOMBS. Tl' I'i'nv: . 3t' -.!'» ' *y- ' i% ., .. 94. The Catacombs. fi!:. <7-,-i^ ■:l. ' 'i ^^cr^ r ';'.?«,: MANAHAK. . ii 288 Bit. AXBBOflx Manahak, D. D., born in New York city. Re llnUlie4 hustadies at the Prcpaffanda, in Komo, and waa ordained ptieat for th<* diocese of New York. He has recently made a valuable contribution tc Catholic literatore, in hb work entitled '' The Triumph of the Catholio Chnroh." 1. It was in the year 1599 that Bosius, anxious to discover some of the many subterranean cemeteries mentioned by aq- cient writers as situated near the Yia Appia and the Ardeatina, went oat of the Gapena gate, along the Appian road, to the place where our Lord appeared to Peter — thence going along the Ardeatina way to where it is crossed by a road leading from St. Sebastian's to St. Paul's Church — ^he carefully exam- ioed that whole ground in search of some hole that would give him admission into the subterranean city. 2. He perceiyed, at last, in the middle of a field, some arches that led him to suspect he had come upon the object of his desires. He managed to effect an entrance, and made his way down until he found himself standing in the habitations of the dead. Numberless monuments cut out of the clay tell him this at a glance. He hastens along this first road, to its ter- minus, where he finds two others striking off in different directions : he enters the one to the right — it is encumbered and choked up with ruins ; — ^he returns and starts upon the one to the left, along which he journeys until he discovers in the ground, under his feet, a small hole or passage. 3. He creeps into this opening, and almost snake-like keeps moving forwards until delighted with, at last, the sight of high cryptaB into which he is ushered from his narrow winding. Here, in wide halls and endless corridors, he beholds on every side closet-like openings carved out of the side walls for th reception of dead bodies ; some of nobler appearance are dec orated with arches so as to give each its own alcove. He remarks but few nepulchres in the ground- floor, only placed there, no doubt, when no more unoccupied room was left in the walh). 4. The greater part of the tombs are shut with marble 284 TBS TIVTH BEADXB. 11' ■labs, or closed ap with brick-work ; some gape wide open, and there lie the remains of his forefathers uf the first ages of the charch ; short tombs for children are interspersed among the larger ; the same difference appears in the size of the bones ; — some of them are hard ^nd seem almost petrified, while others fall to ashes when touched. Far on in the most hidden recesses he came upon three or four chambers that seemed to have had their walls once whitened, though uo paintings were visible on them ; fragments of inscriptions laj scattered all around the chapels. 5. He more than once found himself in large round halls, Arom which a number of roads started out in every direction, like lines from the centre towards the superficies of a circle, or like the spokes in a wheel. These stretched away endlessly as far as he ever ascertained, and induced him to call this place a labyrinth indeed I Again and again he returned to his exploring expedition, and, often wearied but never satiated, his aikniration gave the palm to this above all the other cem* eteries which he had visited in all the course of his forty years' search. He calls it, in size, beauty and splendor, the chiet one of all -the catacombs. 6. With all his patience and enthusiasm he could not say that he had ever reached the utmost bounds of this vast and extra* ordinary place, although he often spent whole days and nights travelling around through its interminable windings. Every day new outlets made their appearance, — ^new roads were dis- covered, — ^leading out of his best-known districts. It was his belief that these roads and those under St. Sebastian's not only communicated together, but kept on over to St. Paul's, extended to the Annunziata and out to the Three Fountains, and even stretched back as far as the walls of Borne ; and in every thing concerning these catacombs Bosins is a sure guide. 7. And yet, more wonderful to relate I this sepulchral city — already so far down beneath the surface of the earth — ^has its own immense underways, which, laid out on a similar plan, underlie its excavated streets no one knows how far. Staira cut out of the clay invite the astonished visitor to go down CFom the level of this first aotUerrain into a second maze ol TRK OATACOMM. 295 itreets and corridore, ftimished, like the fomior, with their ranges of tombfl (loculi), their chamberH nnd chnpels. Bricli walls are hero foand sapportlug many parts of these sul>6ul>' terranean establishments. 8. Most of the roads have been rendered impassable by i\w clay that has fallen in and encumbered them. They may per- chance be cleared one day by some unterrified adventurer t>at only when those above them shall have first become ex- hausted by his long researches. Even this second underground district has its ovrn under-works still deeper in the bosom of the earth. Short and small steps in the clay take you down from the lower to this lowest of the excavated cemeteries. Upper apartments, basement-rooms and snl>cellar vaults in a house are familiar ideas, but our minds can hardly realize the con- ception carried out as it is here. 9. I can state, however, that I have personally verified the exactness of these discoveries, and stood even in that third, lowest tier of routes, one below the other. Only few roads are opened m the lowest range ; there do not appear to be .many simple tombs there as in the upper catacombs, but a number of larger chambers reserved, one would suppose, for the burial i»f distinguished families. ^ ^ » " - 10. Par away in the outskirts of this subterranean city,— n the most hidden recesses of the catacombs, perpetual foun« tains of limpid water gleam under the light of the visitor's taper : in one sequestered corner, several steps cut in the earth, lead you down to drink of abundant streams of sweet and salubrious water, — streams where, no doubt, many a martyr washed his wounds, and many a pnrsvud and fainting fugitive came, like the panting deer, to be refreshed. These water? have, doubtless, flowed on the head of many a valorous neo- phyte, who sleeps among the martyrs in this subterraneau dormitory. 11. In these deepest corridors you behold the outlines only of some tombs or graves marked in the clay walls, as if ready for the work of being dug out for the next burial. Why was the work suspended ? Were the diggers arrested here by the glorious news of the appearance of the croi>s in the skies, and 2S0 TRi prrra rkadkb. f' r: led to fling awaj their tools and their garments of ndoMi bj Constantine's call to the Catholic faithful to come op in joj and freedom oat of their dismal places of refnge, and drive the remnants of heathen superstition from the city of the Caesars 7 12. So it seemed to me when, filled with the spirit of the place and its memories, I stood and looked upon those onfin- fehed grayes. Then the Chorch of Ood came forth in her deep-dyed purple robes from the catacombs, and fastened the Cross of Christ on the imperial banner, and took her seat on the Vatican mount, our holy Sion hill. When Israel no longer pitched her tents around the ark in the wilderness, Jerusalem rehearsed, amid the splendors of Solomon's temple, the wonders of the laud of bondage, the passage over the sea and through the desert. 13. The Rome of to-day shows how her enduring faith has carried along with it safely, through all vicissitudes, the shrines and tombs and relics of her martyrs. The rites of the Roman Catholic Church shall forever keep alive a grateful, universal and festival remembrance of the pristine scenes of her trials and triumph. Do not the very lights of oar altars burn more brightly to our eyes when we recall the fortitude and devotion that knelt in their first gleam through those dismal chambers ? and do not our censers perfume the sanctuary with recollections of the fragrance of piety that mingled with the first blest incense which they flung around through the foulness and damp airs of our primeval temples ? Throughout the whole world treasures from the catacombs enrich the altar- stones of oar sacrifice. 14. A faithless world looks with amazement on the unfading Roman scarlet, and the pomp and magnificence displayed in the Catholic ceremonial. The most gorgeous embellishments of our solemn services but faintly express the sombre and sub* lime grandeur in whi(!h our minds call ap those ancient solem* nities from which our decorations and our ritual took their rise : when the first Popes administered our sacraments to candidates for the palm of martyrdom, and the august and tremendous sacrifice of the mass was offered up in those exca- vated sanctuaries— whose purple hangings were cloths tinged 'I' THS RELI0I0D8 inUTART ORDRRfl. 2*^7 from the Teini of the followers of the Lamb — whotie mont rare and precioas ornaments were the blood-stained sponges and vials and instrnments of torture — while the renerable lKv*i'!>s of the slaaghtered flock upheld the altar on which the divuM lacrifice was offered ap to Qod. ?■-' r"* I 'tik,-' 1 111* ?'»_i< n.' A' 95. Thr Religious Militart Obdebs. AROHBISnOP pdroxll. •>.• JoHir B. PuRocLL, D. D., Archbiuhop of Cincinnati, wm born tf lb ol February, 1800, in Mallow, County Cork, Ireland. £mi(crated whon a boj to America ; studied in Mount St. Mary's, Emmettsburg ; went to PariSf •lid followed up bis tbeological studies at St. Sulpice, where he was or- dained priest. On his return to the United Staten, Dr. Furccll became Professor of Theology in his Alma Mater, at Emmettsburg, and was sub- sequentlv appointed President of that noble institution. lie wan cunse- crated Bishop of Cincinnati on the 13th of October, 1888, and was since made Archbishop of that province. Although this eminent prelate has not found time amid the onerous duties of his high office to apply himself to literary pursuits, proofs are not wanting that he might attain distinction in the walks of literature. Soon after his consecration as Bishop of Cin- cinnati, he was called upon to defend the doctrines of the Church in a pro* tracted discussion with the Bcv. Mr. Campbell, founder of the Camphell- ites, in which he distinguished himself as well by his skill in dialectics, aa his profound scholastic attainments. The archbishop's lecturer, delivered on various subjects, are admirable specimens of such composition, and have done much for the dttfu»ion of valuable information. What he has done and achieved'for the cause of religion ia well known to the Cutholica of America; and when future historians trace the fortunes of the Clmrch in the New World, the name of PurctU shall be held in honor, as uue of the lirst great patriarchs of the West. 1. By the religious military orders, I mean, 1. The Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, or Hospitallers, or of Rhodes, or of Malta, as the same order has been successively designated. 2. The Templars. 3. The Teutonic Knights ; leaving out of this view the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre, of Galatrava, of St. Jago, of the Sword, and others, which cannot be re^ garded as strictly religious orders, have no such name in Itory, nor rendered such important services to Christendom aa those which I have first named. 2. In the middle of the eleventh century, the merchants of Amalphi, in the kingdom of Naples, who traded with Egypt 288 TRR FIFTH READEB. 'I . 'i in rich merchandise and works of art, and who had often ex- perienced in their visits to the Holy Land the cruelty of Greeks and Saracens, purchased, by costly presents to the Caliph and his courtiers, permission for the Latin Christians to have two hospitals in Jerusalem, one for men and the other for women. The chapels attached to these hospitals were dedicated, respectively, to St. John the Almoner, and St. Mnj^dalen. They were served by self-appointed seculars, whose charity induced them to forego the pleasure of homes and friends, to devote themselves to the care of the sick, the poor, and the stranger, in the Holy City, This was the cradle of tne Knights Hospitallers. 3. The Hospitallers were divided into three bodies, or classes. 1st. Those distinguished by birth, or the rank they had held in the army of th6 Crusaders. 2d. Ecclesiastics who were to superintend the hospitals, and serve as chaplains to the army m peace and war. 3d. Lay-brothers, or servants. A new claesification was afterwards made from the seven diflferent languages spoken by the Knights — i. e., those of Provence, Auvergne, France, Italy, Aragon ; a little later including Castile and Portugal, and England, until she apostatized. 4. The government was aristocratic. The supreme au- thority was vested in a council, of which the Grand Master was president. The different houses of the Order were ad- ministered by preceptors, or overseers, removable at pleasure, and who were held to a strict accountability. The same aus- terities were practised by all, and the necessity of bearing arms was not suffered to interfere with the strict observances of the convent. Purity of life, and prompt obedience to or- ders, and detachment from the world, were the distinguishing virtues of the soldier monks. ' v : : ^ V -' i 5. The Templars were founded by Hugh de Payens and eight others, all natives of France, to protect the pilgrims c,v their way to and from Jerusalem, and to unite with the Hos- pitallers and aid the king of Jerusalem in repelling the inenr- Bious, humbling the pride, and chastising the audacity of the .'■^K THE BELIOIOC8 lOLITABT 0BDEB8. 2S9 5 distinguishing infidelB. They were too prond to serve in hospitals. Their costume was a white mantle, with a red cross on the left breast. Their name was derived from their residence near the Temple. They were approved by Honorins II. Their rule was given them by St. Bernard, by order of the Cooncil uf Troves. Their exemption from what was considered the degrading, or ignoble, obligation of waiting on the sick, drew to the new Order a vast multitude of the richest lords and princes of Europe, so that the Templars soon outshone the Hospitallers in the splendor of wealth — but never in that of virtue. Nevertheless, they continued for centuries to render essential services to Christendom in checking the aggressions of Mohammedanism. 6. The Teutonic Knights commenced their existence on the plain before Ptolemais, or St. Jean d'Acre. Many of these brave Germans, who had followed their gallant Emperor, Frederick I., and his son, the Duke of Snabia, to the holy wars, when wounded in the frequent sorties of the garrison, lay helpless on the battle-field, unable to communicate their wants and sufferings in a language unknown to their brethren in arms. A few Germans, who had come by sea from Bre- men and Lubeck, commiserating the hard fate of their coun- trymen, took the sails of their ships and made tents, into which they collected the wounded, and served them with their own hands. Forty of the chiefs of the same nation united with them in the work of charity, and from this noble asso- ciation sprang a new religious and military order like to those of the Templars and Hospitallers. They were approved by Pope Celestine III., at the prayer of Henry VI. of Germany, in 1192, receiving the name of the Teutonic Knights of the Bouse of St. Mary of Jerusalem. They got this name from the fact of a German having built in Jerusalem a hospital and oratory under the invocation of the blessed Virgin, for the Biek pilgrims from his fatherland. Their uniform was a white mantle, with a black cross ; they were bound by the three vows, like the Hospitallers and Templars. Before being ad- mitted to the Order, they were required to make oath that they were Germans, of noble birth, and that they engaged for 18 ' .1 290 THE FIFTH BEADER. life in the care of the poor and sick, and the defence of the Holy Places. These were the three orders on which Christen* dom relied, more than on the irregular efforts of the Crosaders, for the protection of the Holy Land. .'■■i-} }:i 96. Maby Maodalev. OALLAKAV. Caulanah was born in Ireland in 1795; died in 1829. > was one of the popular contribators to 'Blackwood^s Magarina." Hi« Dnring hia hfe^ » ' if lackwood's J" " "" reputation as a poet is well established. 1. To the hall of that feast came the sinfol and fair ; She heard in the city that Jesns was there ; She mark'd not the splendor that blazed on theur board, Bnt silently knelt at the feet of her Lord. 8. The hau* from her forehead, so sad and so meek, Hung dark o'er the blushes that bam'd on her cbtbtk ; And so still and so lowly she bent in her shame, It seem'd as her spirit had flown from its frame. 8. The frown and the mormnr went round through them all, That one so unhallow'd should tread in that hall ; And some said the poor would be objects more meet. For the wealth of the perfumes she showered at his feet. 4. She mark'd bnt her Sayiour, she spoke but in sighs, She dared not look up to the heaven of his eyes ; And the hot tears gush'd forth at each heave of he* breast, As her lips to his sandals she throbbingly press'd. 1.1 i On the cloud after tempests, as shineth the bow^ In the glance of the sunbeam, as melteth the snow, ' He look'd on that lost one— her sins were forgiyea , Ajid Mary went forth in the beauty of heaven. -fv' DIALOGUE WITH THF GOUT. 291 97. DlALOOVT. WITH THE GoUT TBANKLIN. BcMAXTN Franklin wan born in BoRtnn in 1700. In early life lie wan « printer. He waa a prominent politician before, during, and alter the Rev- olutionary War, a member of tne Continental Congre»H, and subHequentlj Minister of the United States to France, having at an earlier date, been th« agent of the Colonies in England. But he was particularly distinguiahcd for his philosophical discoveries, especially that of the identity of light- ning and electricity. lie died in 1790. 1. Franklin. Eh 1 Oh 1 Eh I What have I done to merit these cruel safferiDgs ? Qout. Many things : yon have ate and drank too freely, and too much indulged those legs of yours ic theu* indolence. Franklin. Who is it that accuses me ? Qout. It is I, even I, the Gout. Franklin. What 1 my enemy in person? ' ■ Qout. No ; not your enemy. Franklin. I repeat it, my enemy ; for you would not only torment my body to death, but ruin my good name. You re- proach me as a glutton and a tippler : now all the world that knows me will allow that I am neither the one nor the other. 2. Qout. The world may think as it pleases. It is always very complaisant to itself, and sometimes to its friends ; but I very well know that the quantity of meat and drink proper for a man who takes a reasonable degree of exercise would be too much for another who never takes any. ^ Franklin. I take — Eh 1 Oh I — as much exercise — Eh I — as I can, Madam Gout. You know my sedentary state ; and on that account, it would seem. Madam Gout, as if yon might flpare me a little, seeing it is not altogether my own fault. 3. Qout. Not a jot: your rhetoric and your politeness are lirown away: your apology avails nothing. If your situation in life is a sedentary one, your amusements, your recreations, at least, should be active. Yon ought to walk or ride ; or if the weather prevents that, play at something. But let us examine your course of life. While the mom* ings are long, and you have leisure to go abroad, what do you do? Why instead of gaining an appetite for breakfast, b| , ' 292 THE FIFTH READER. salntapy exercise, yoa amuse yourself with books, pamphlets, or newspapers, which commonly are not worth the reading, Yet you eat an inordinate breakfast : four dishes of tea, with cream, one or two buttered toasts, with slices of hung beef ; which I fancy are not things the most easily digested. 4. Immediately afterwards, you sit down to write at yout desk, or converse with persons who apply to you on business. Thus the time passes till one, without any kind of bodily ex- ercise. But all this I could pardon, in regard, as you say, to your sedentary condition ; but what is your practice after dinner? Walking in the beautiful gardens of those friends with whom you have dined would be the choice of men ot sense; yours is to be fixed down to chess, where you are found engaged for two or three hours.;, ■ < '^'i 5. This is your perpetual recreation : the least eligible of any for a sedentary man, because, instead of accelerating the motion of the fluids, the rigid attention it requires helps to retard the circulation and obstruct internal secretions. Wrapt in the speculations of this wretched game, you destroy your constitution. What can be expected from such a course of Uving but a body replete with stagnant humors, ready to fall a prey to all kinds of dangerous maladies, if I, the Gout, did not occasionally bring you relief by agitating those humors, and so purifying or dissipating them ? Fie, then, Mr, Franklin 1 But, amidst my instructions, I had almost forgot to administer my wholesome corrections ; so take that twinge, and that. 6. Franklin. Oh I Eh I Oh 1 Oh I As much instruction an yon please. Madam Gout, and as many reproaches ; but pray, Madam, a truce with your corrections 1 Gout. No, sir, no ; I will not abate a particle of what is si much for your good, therefore — Franklin. Oh 1 Eh 1 It is not fair to say I take no exer- cise, when I do, very often, go out to dine, and return in m^ carriage. 1. Oout. That, of all imaginable exercises, is the most slight and insignificant, if you allude to the motion of a car- riage suspended on springs. By observing the degree of heat iv'i i ?; ; i ^ ''I M '!! HAONANl rilT OF A CUKISTIAN EMPEROR. 293 ftbtained by different kinds of motion, we may form an estimate of the quantity of exercise given by each. Thus, for example, if yon turn out to walk in winter with cold feet, iu an hour's time yon will be in a glow all over ; ride on horseback, the name effect will scarcely be perceived by four hours' round trotting ; but if you loll in a carriage, such as yon have men- tioned, you may travel all day, and gladly enter the last inn to warm your feet by a fire. 8. Flatter yourself, then, no longer, that half an hour's airing in your carriage deserves the name of exercise. Provi- dence has appointed few to roll in carriages, while he has given to all a pair of legs, which are machines infinitely more com- modious and serviceable. Be grateful, then, and make a prop- er use of yours. e of what is sv t 98. Magnanimity op a Christian Emperob. SOHLEGBL. . Frederio Von Sohlegel was born in 1772 ; died in 1829. Schlegel WM one of the most distinj^niahed writers of Germany — as a poet, critic, ^^...ay- iRt, and historian. In 1808 he became a Catholic. For many years of his life, in connection with his brotlicr, Augustus William, he was engaged in the publication of the "Athenaeum," a critical journal, which did much towards establishing a more independent spirit in German literature. — (^ dopedia of Biog^'ajpajf. 1. After the downfall of the Carlovingian family, the em- pire was restored to its pristine vigor by the election of tho noble Conrad, duke of the Franconians. This pious, chival- rous, wise, and valiant monarch, had to contend with many difficulties, and fortune did not always smile upon his efforts. But he terminated his royal career with a deed, which alone exalts him far above other celebrated conquerors and rulers, and was attended with more important consequences to after- times, than halve resulted from many brilliant reigns; and this single deed, which forms the brightest jewel in the crown of glory that adorns those ages, so clearly reveals the true nature of Christian principles of government, and the Christian idea of political power, that T may be permitted to notice it briefly. 294 THE FIFTH RBAOKB. i'm 2. When he felt his end approaching, and perceived that of the four principal German nations, the Saxons alone, by their superior puwer, were capable of bringing to a successful issne the mighty struggle in which all Europe was at that critical period involved, he bade his brother carry to Henry, dnk^ of Saxony, hitherto the rival of his house, and who was as mag> nanimous as fortunate, the holy lance and consecrated sword of the ancient kings, with all the other imperial insignia. He thus pointed him out as the successor of his own choice, and in his regard for the general weal, and in his anxiety to main- tain a great pacific power capable of defending the conmion interests of Christendom, he disregarded the suggestions of national vanity, and sacrificed even the glory of his own house. 3. So wise and judicious, as well as heroic, a sacrifice of all selfish glory, for what the interests of society and the necessi- ties of the times evidently demanded, is that principle which forms the very foundation, and constitutes the true spirit, of all Christian governments. And by this very deed Conrad be* came, after Charlemagne, the second restorer of the western empire, and the real founder of the German nation; for it was this noble resolve of his great soul, which alone saved the Germanic body from a complete dismemberment. The event fully justified his choice. The new king, Henry, yictorions on erery side, labored to build a great number of cities, to restore the reign of peace and justice, and to maintain the purity of Christian manners and Christian institutions; and prepared for his mightier son, the great Otho, the restoration of the Christian empire in Italy, whither the latter was loudly and unanimously called. 99. The Maetyedom of St. Agneb,v ^ ■ i:.: ' ^_] »-,:^:-. DK VEB«. Bm AcBRET De Yere — an English poet of the |)reBent day, has written t volame of beautiful poems, distinguished by their true spirit of CathoUi 4«votiou. Angela. '^ V '■ 1 Bearing lilies in our bosom, Holy Agnes, we haye flown THE MABTTBDOM OF 8T. AQNn. MisnonM from the Heayen of HeaTeni Unto thee, and thee alone. We are coming, we are flying, To behold thy happy dying. Agnes. ii Bearing lilies far before yon, Whose fresh odors, backward blown, Dght those smiles upon your faces, Mingling sweet breath with yonr own^ Ye are coming, smoothly, slowly, To the lowliest of the lowly. Angels. Z. Unto Qs the boon was given ; One glad message, holy maid. On the lips of two blest spirits, Like an incense-grain was laid. As it bears ns on like lightning, Glondy skies are round as brightenlqg; Agnes. j 4. I am nerie, a mortal maiden ; I If our Father aught hath said. Let me hear His words and do them. Ought I not to feel afraid. As ye come, your shadows flinging O'er a breast, to meet them springing? ' Angels. 1 Agnes, there is joy in Heayen; Gladness, like the day, is flung O'er the spaces neyer measured, ^ And from every angePs tongue Swell those songs of impulse yema^ All whose echoes are eternal 295 ill * \'?fi. it HU(] THE FIFTH READER. 6 Agnes, from the depth of Heareii Joy is rising, like a spring Borne above its grassy margin, Borne in many a crystal ring ; Each o'er beds of wild flowers glidings Over each low murmurs sliding. t When a Christian lies expiring, Angel choirs, with plumes outspread, Bend above his death-bed, singing ^ That, when Death's mild sleep is fl^ There may be no harsh transition While he greets the Heavenly Yision. Agnes. 8. Am I dreaming, blessed angels ? Late ye floated two in one ; ^ Now, a thousand radiant spirits Bound me weave a glistening zone. Lilies, as they wind extending, ; Roses with those lilies blending. 9. See I th' horizon's ring they circle ; Now they gird the zenith blue ; And now, o'er every brake and billow Float like mist and flash like dew. ft All the earth, with life o'erflowing, Into heavenly shapes is growing I "I'f 10. They are rising 1 they are rising I As they rise, the veil is riven I They are rising 1 I am rising — Bising with them into Heaven I- Bising with those shining legions Into life's eternal regions 1 -■vr . - - .^ ■ _- , , '. -,-:■■. )st hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets among ; But I, the quef'u of a.' Scotland, Maun lie in prison strong. LAMENT OF MABY, QUEKN OF SOOTS. 807 . I was the qaeen o' boonie France, Where happy I hae been ; Fall lightly rose I in the mom, As blithe lay down at e'en ; And I'm the sovereign o' Scotland, And mony a traitor there ; Yet here I lie, in foreign bands, And never-ending care. But as for thee, thou false woman,' My sister and my foe I Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword That through thy soul shall go ; The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee ; Nor the balm thct drops on wonnds of woo Frae woman's pitying e'e. « . My son I' my son ! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine ; And may those pleasures gild thy reign That ne'er wad blink on mine I God keep thee frae thy mother's foes, Or turn their hearts to thee ; And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, Remember him for me I T. Oh, soon, to me, may summer suns . Nae mair Ught up the mom I Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds Wave o'er the yellow com I And in the narrow house of death Let winter round me rave ; And the next tlowers that deck the spring Bloom on my peaceful grave. ' Vlixabeth, queen of England, who unjustly detained her in priion. * James the First, king of England. 308 TBS FIVTH R£ADEB. 105. The Plague of Locusts. FROM Newman's "oallista." 1. The plagae of locusts, one of the most awfal yisitations to which the countries included in the Roman Empire were exposed, extended from the Atlantic to Ethiopia, from Arabia to India, and fiom the Nile and Red Sea to Greece and the north of Asia Minor. Instances are recorded in history of clouds of the devastating insect crossing the Black Sea to Poland, and the Mediterranean to Lombardy. It is as nu- merous in its species as it is wide in its range of territory. Brood follows brood, with a sort of family likeness, yet with distinct attributes, as wc I'ead in the prophets of the Old Tes- tament, from whom Bochart tells us it is possible to enumerate as many as ten kinds. 2. It wakens into existence and activity as early as the month of March ; but instances are not wanting, as in our present history, of its appearance as late as June. Even one flight comprises myriads upon myriads, passing imagination, to which the drops of rain, or the sands of the sea, are the only fit comparisons ; and hence it is almost a proverbial mode of ex- pression In the East (as may be illustrated by the sacred pages to which we just now referred), by way of describmg a vast in- vading army, to liken it to the locusts. So dense are they, when upon the wing, that it is no exaggeration to say that they hide the Bun, from which circumstance, indeed, their name in Arabic is derived. And so ubiquitous are they when they have alighted on the earth, that they simply cover or clothe its surface. 3. This last characteristic is stated in the sacred account of the plagues of Egypt, where their faculty of devastation is also mentioned. The corrupting fly and the bruising and prostrat- ing hail preceded them in the series of visitations, but they came to do the work of ruin thoroughly. For not only the crops and fruits, but the foliage of the forest itself, nay, the small twigs and the bark of the trees, are the victims of tlitir curious and energetic rapacity. They have been known even to gnaw t'de door-posts of the houses. Nor do thov THE PLAGTJB OF LOCrSTS. 300 execato tholr task in so slovenlj a way, that, as they have sue* ceeded other plagues, so they may have successors thei isclvos. 4. They take pains to 8|)oiI what they li-ave. Like the harpies, they smear every thing that tliey touch with a uiistT' able slime, which has the effect of a virus in corroding, or, as some say, in scorching and burning. And then, perhaps, as if all this were too little, when they can do nothing else, they die, as if out of sheer malevolence to man, for the poisonous elements of their nature are then let loose and dispersed abroad, and create a pestilence; and they manage to destroy many more by their death than m their life. 5. Such are the locusts, — whose existence the ancient here- tics brought forward as their primary proof that there was an evil creator; and of whom an Arabian writer shows his national horror, when he says that they have the head of a horse, the eyes of an elephant, the neck of a bull, the horns of a stag, the breast of a lion, the belly of a scorpion, the wings of an eagle, the legs of a camel, the feet of an ostrich, and the tail of a serpent. 6. And now they are rushing upon a considerable tract of that beautiful region of which we have spoken with such admi- ration. The swarm to which Juba pointed, grew and grew, till it became a compact body, as much as a furlong square ; yet it was but the vanguard of a series of similar hosts, formed, one after another, out of the hot mould or sand, rising into the air like clouds, enlarging into a dusky canopy, and then dis- charged against the fruitful plain. At length, the huge, innumerous mass was put iato motion, and began its career, darkening the face of day. 7. As became an instrument of divine power, it seemed to have no volition of its own; it was set off, it drifted with the wind, and thus made northwards, straight for Sicca. Thus they advanced, host after host, for a time wafted on the air, and gradually declining to the earth, ift^hile fresh broods were carried over the first, and neared the earth, after a longer flight, in their turn. For twelve miles did they extend, from front to rear, and their whizzing and hissing could be heard for six miles on every side of them. 810 THE FIFTH READEB. '3 V 1 m m J; ! ! !l fl Mil 1;! 8. The bright snn, though hidden by them, Hlnmined their bodies, and was reflected from their quivering wings; and as they heavily fell earthward, they seemed like the innumerable flakes of a yellow-colored snow. And like snow did they de- scend, a living carpet, or rather pall, upon fields, crops, gardens, copses, groves, orchards, vineyards, olive woods, orangeries, palm plantations, and the deep forests, sparing nothing within their reach, and, where there was nothing to devour, lying helpless in drifts, or crawling forward obstinately, as best they might, with the hope of prey. 9. They could spare their hundred thousand soldiers, twice or thrice over, and not miss them ; their masses filled the bottoms of the ravines and hollow ways, impeding the traveller as he rode forward on his journey, and trampled by thousands under his horse's hoofs. In vain was all this overthrow and waste by the roadside; in vain their loss in river, pool, and water-course. The poor peasants hastily dug pits and trenches as their enemy came on; in vain they filled them from the wells or with lighted stubble. Heavily and thickly did the locusts fall ; they were lavish of their lives ; they choked the flame and the water, which destroyed them the while, and the vast, living hostile armament still moved on. 106. The Plague of Locusts — continued, 1. Thet moved on like soldiers in their rankfi, stopping at nothing, and straggling for nothing ; they carried a broad fur- row, or weal, all across the country, black and loathsome, while it waf* as green and smiling on each side of them, and in front, as it had been before they came. Before them, in tlie language of the prophets, was a paradise, and behind them a desert. They are daunted by nothing; they surmount walls and hedges, and enter inclosed gardens or inhabited houses 2. A rare and experimental vineyard has been planted in a shel- tered grove. The high winds of Africa will not commonly allow the light trellis or the slim pole ; but here the lofty poplar of THB PLAOUE OF ZX)CUST8. 311 mined thelf ngs; and as innumerable did they de- ops, gardens. I, orangeriefl, )tbing within ievonr, lying as best they joldiers, twice ises filled the g the traveller [ by thousands overthrow and iver, pool, and ts and trenches from the wells ithe locusts fall; 5 flame and the he vast, living itinued* iks, stopping at ied a broad fur- and loathsome, I of them, and in ore them, in the behind them a surmount walla abited houses planted in a shel- , commonly allow le lofty poplar of Campania has been possible, on which the vine-plant monnt* BO many yards into the air, that the poor grape-gathcrcra bar* gain for a funeral pile and a tomb as one of the conditions of their engagement. The locusts have done what the winds and lightning could not do, and the whole promise of the vint> age, leaves and all, is gone, and the slender stems are left bare. 3. There is another yard, less uncommon, but still tended with more than common care ; each plant is kept within due bounds by a circular trerch around it, and by upright canes on which it is to trail; in an hour the solicitude and long toil of the vine-dresser are lost, and his pride humbled. There is a smiling farm; another sort of vine, of remarkable character, is found against the farm-house. This vine springs from one root, and has clothed and matted with its many branches the four walls. The whole of it is covered thick with long clusters, which an- other month will ripen. 'n every grape and leaf there is a locust. 4. In the dry caves and pits, carefully strewed with straw, the harvest-men have (safely, as they thought just now) been lodging the far-famed African wheat. One grain or root shoots up into ten, twenty, fifty, eighty, nay, three or four hundred stalks; sometimes the stalks have two ears apiece, and these shoot off into a number of lesser ones. These stores are intended for the Roman populace; but the locusts have been beforehand with them. The small patches of ground belong- ing to the poor peasants up and down the country, for raising the turnips, garlic, barley, and water-melons, on which they live, are the prey of these glutton invaders as much as the choicest vines and olives. 5. Nor have they any reverence for the villa of the civic decurion, or the Roman official. The neatly arranged kitchen garden, with its cherries, plums, peaches, and apricots, is a waste; as the slaves sit around, in the kitchen in the first court at their coarse evening meal, the room is filled with the invad ing force, and the news comes to them that the enemy ha- fallen upon the apples and pears, in the basement, and is at the same time plundering and sacking the preserves of quince and 312 TTHK FIFTH READER. R. !::i ml H'4 ■I t f It ' !l Kii pomcfi^anate, and reYcllinff in the jars of precious oil of Cjrpnu and Mcndes in the store-rooras. 6. They come up to the walls of Sicca, and are flung against theai into the ditch. Not a moment's hesitation or delay; they recover their footing, they climb up the wood or stucco, thi'y surmount the parapet, or they have entered in at the windows, filling the apartments, and the most private and lixurious chambers, not one or two, like stragglers at forage, or rioters after a victory, but in order of battle, and with the a I ray of an army. Choice plants or flowers about the impluvia and xysti, for ornament or refreshment — myrtles, oranges, pom- egranates, the rose, and the carnation — have disappeared. 7. They dim the bright marbles of the walls and the gilding of the ceiling. They enter the triclinium in the midst of the banquet ; they crawl over the viands, and spoil what they do not devour. Unrelaxed by success and by enjoyment, onward they go ; a secret, mysterious instinct keeps them together, as if they had a king over them. They move along the floor in so strange an order that they seem to be a tessellated pavement themselves, and to be the artificial embellishment of the place; so true arc their lines, and so perfect is the pattern they de- scribe. 8. Onward they go, to the market, to the temp'O sacrifices, to bakers' stores, to the cook-shops, to the confectioners, to the druggists ; nothing comes amiss to them ; wherever man has aught to eat or drink there are they, reckless of death, strong of appetite, certain of conquest. They have passed on ; the men of Sicca sadly congratulate themselves, and begin to look about them and to sum up their losses. Being the proprietors of the neighboring districts, and the purchasers of its produce, they lament over the darasta- tion, not because the fair country is disfigured, but because income is becoming scanty, and prices are becomin;^ high. 9. How is a population of many thousandfi to be fed? Where is the grain? where the melons, the figs, the dates, the gourds, the beans, the grapes, to sustain and solace the multi- tudes in their lanes, caverns, and garrets? This is another weighty consideration for the class well-to-do in the world THK Pr.AOCK OF L<)CC«18. 813 The taxes, too, and contributions, the capitation tax, the per- centage ui>on com, the various articles of reveime due to Home, how are they to be paid? How are the cattle to be provided for the sacrifices and the tables of the wealthy? One-half, at least, of the supply of Sicca is cut off. 10. No longer slaves are seen coming into the city from the country in troops, with their baskets on their shoulders, or b(;ating forward the horse, or mule, or ox overladen with its burden, or driving in the dangerous cow or the unresisting sheep. The animation of the place is gone ; a gloom hangs over the Forum, and if its frequenters are still merry there is something of sullenness and recklessness in their mirth. The gods have given the city up ; something or other has angered them. Locusts, indeed, are no uncommon visitation, but at an earlier season. Perhaps some temple has been pol- luted, or some unholy rite practised, or some secret conspiracy has spread. 11. Another, and a still worse, calamity. The invaders, as we have already hinted, could be more terrible still in their overthrow than in their ravages. The inhabitants of the country had attempted, where they could, to destroy them by fire and water. It would seem as if the malignant animals had resolved that the sufferers should have the benefit of this policy to the full, for they had not got more than twenty miles beyond Sicca when they suddenly sickened and died. When they thus had done all the mischief they could by their livmg, when they thus had made their foul maws the grave of every living thing, next they died themselves and made the desolated land their own grave. They took from it its hundred forms and varieties of beautiful life, and left it their own fetid and poisonous carcasses in payment. 12. It was a sudden catastrophe ; they seemed making for the Mediterranean, as if, like other great conquerors, they had other worlds to subdue beyond it ; but, whether they were over-gorged, or struck by some atmospheric change, or that their time was come and they paid the debt of nature, so it was that suddenly tbey fell, and their glory came to naught, and all was vanity to them as to others, and " their stench 14 814 TBB FIFTQ RRADEB. Vl roM ap, and their comiption rose up, because tbej htd doot proudly." 13. The hideoQS swarms laj. dead in the most steaming anderwood, in the g^oen swamps, in the sheltered Talleys, in the ditches and farrows of the fields, amid the monuments of their own prowess, the ruined crops and the dishonored vine- yards. A poisonous element, issuing from their remains, min- gled with the atmosphere and corrupted it. The dismayed peasants found that a plague had begun; a new risitation, not confined to the territory which the enemy had made its own, but extending far and wide as the atmosphere extends in all directions. Their daily toil, no longer claimed by the fruits of the earth, which have ceased to exist, is now devoted to the object of ridding themselves of the deadly legacy which they have received in their stead. 14. In vain; it is their last toil ; they are digging pits, they are raising piles, for their own corpses, as well as for the bodies of their enemies. Invader and victim lie in the same grave, bam in the same heap; they sicken while they work, and the pestilence spreads. A new invasion is menacing Sicca, in the 8hape of companies of peasants and slaves, with their employ* ws and overseers, nay, the farmers themselves and proprietors, the panic having broken the bonds of discipline, rushing from famine and infection as to a place of safety. The inhabitants o^ the city are as frightened as they, and more energetic. They determine to keep them at a distance; the gates are closed ; a strict cordon is drawn ; however, by the continnal pressure, numbers contrive to make an entrance, as water into a vessel, or light through the closed shutters, and any how the air cao not be put in quarantine, so the pestilence has the better of it, and at last appears in the alleys and in the cdlars of Sicca. kSf UODB AT TUB OLD PLAY-ORODND. Sift 107 An Hour at tuk Old Play-Gboumu AHOM I I 8AT an honr to-day, John, Beside the old brook stream; Where we w« ■ e school-boys in old tinui^ When nianhood was a dream; The brook is choked with fiilliiig leavea, The pond is dried away, I scarce believe that yon would know The dear old place to-day I The school-honse is no more, John ; Beneath oar locust-trees, The wild-rose by the window side No more waves in the breeze ; The scatter'd stones look desolate. The sod they rested on Has been ploughed up by stranger haiid% Since you and I were gone. The chestnut-tree is dead, John, And what is sadder now. The broken grape-vine of our swing, Hangs on the wither'd bough; I read our names upon the bark, And found the pebbles rare, Laid up beneath the hollow side. As we had piled them there. Beneath the grass-grown bank, Jolu^ I look'd for our old spring, That bubbled down the alder path. Three paces from the swing ; The rushes grow upon the brink. The pool is black and bare, And not a foot, this many a day, It seems, has trodden there. 31fi THE FIFTH READER. I took the old blind road, John, That wander'd up the hill, 'Tis darker than it used to be, And seems so lone and still; The birds sing yet upon the boughs, Where once the sweet grapes huiufi But not a voice of human kind, Where all our voices rung. I sat me on the fence, John, That lies as in old time, The same half pannel in the path, We used so oft to climb; And thought how o'er the bars of life Our playmates had pass'd on, And left me counting on the spot, The faces that are gone. 108. Christian and Pagan Roms. DR. NKLIOAN. Rbv. William H.'Nklioan, LL. D., was born in Clonrael. County Tip- perary, Ireland. Formerly a minister of the Church of Et f^iand — b'ecnmt ft convert in 1858; studiecf in Kouio, and was ordained priest in New York by Archbishop Hughes in 1857. His work on " Komo, its churches, &c.," gives a striking and correct picture of the Eternal Citv. Hd has also writ- ten an edifying work entitled '' Saintly Characters,'' with others of less note. 1. Rome is a city of contrasts. Like Rebecca, she bears within her two worlds opposed to each other. It is agreeable to pass from one to the other. Having spent the nvorning in Christian Rome, we would now take a glimpse at ancient Rome This makes the chief happiness of the pilgrim. It seems to multiply his existence. We sat down on the eastern part of the Palatine Hill, as the sun was casting his decliniD{> rays on the scene before us. 2. This seems to me to be a place which Jeremias would •dect, to meditate on the ruins of the city. Seatod upon tb« OHRieriAlf AND PAQAH BOMB. S17 dast of the palace of Nero and Aagnstns, he coald have ottered one of his plaintive meSB. Wt thftD the imperial eagle. Eycrjwliere joa see a privileged niin of paganism coming to shelter itself under the wii^ of religion, to escape from utter destruction. Like captives, who find any conditions acceptable, should their lives be spared, the old glories of Rome have submitted themselves to any use that may be made of them. They have become Christian temples, tombs of martyrs, columns, pedestals, and even the pavement in the houses of the victors. They are satisfied if the daughter of heaven deign to touch them with her finger. It is to them an assurance of immortality. They seem to remember the treatment which they received from the hands of the barbarians, and, to escape fresh ravages, they are desi- rous of being adopted by that poor church, whose blood they drank in the day of their glory. 6. How often is the Catholic pilgrim delighted with these obelisks, which were formerly erected to some of the great men of the world ! At their base you find inscribed the name of the hero to whom they were erected; above this, the name of the Pontiff, the successor of the fisherman of Galilee, who dedicated them to St. Peter, St. Paul, or the Mother of God, and placed their statues on the summit of the pillar. Here both history and poetry seem united together. This aspect of defeat and victory, which is to be met with at every step in the Eternal City, affords much instruction. 7. It is to the serious mind a lesson which makes him de- spise all that is of earth, and admire all that is from God. If with feelings like these, the traveller, the artist, and the pil- grim behold all these monuments of antiquity, and if they be the means of detaching him from all that is changing aronnd him, and of nniting him to the things which change not, he may indeed Bay he has seen Rome. ROeEMABY HI THE •GUI TOK 8 STUDIO. dl9 109. R08KMABY IN TUE Sculptor's Sitdio. H UNTINOTON. i. V. HoMnKOTOv, bom in New York in 1815, formeily »n Epincopd.ai niini»ter; since hia conversion to Catholicity entirely tlevoted to htcrury |)nr»iiit«. lie is best known as a novelist, biit has published a voUuiie of poetry and a good maiiv fugitive pieces. His novels indicate an intiaiato acquaintance with the better and more cultivated portion of American so- ciety. His novel of " Rosemary" Is a work of considerable dramatic power, eolorcd with the warm tints of a poet's fancy. Uis " Pretty Plate " is one of the best juvenile stories with which we are acquainted. 1. Rosemary sat with her back to the conntesR, and her face to the old brilliant picture of the glorious Coming, with its angels in sky-blae robes and saints with gilded halos. " A very interesting picture," Rory said. " Very 1 I can hardly take my eyes off from it." " Very well, as yon must look at some point in particolaff sappose that yon look at that picture." "Is the position in which I sit of any consequence ?" " As long as you do not lean back, and continue to look at the picture, it is of no consequence. You may change it whenever you like. Be quite unconstrained in that respect." " I am glad you allow me to sit. I supposed the sitting would be a standing." " Not to-day. Another time I may try your patience further." 2. While Rosemary sat thus, her eyes fastened on the pic- ture, and scarcely seeing O'Morra, who stood near his pile of clay, working it with an instrument into shape, he conversed with her in a tranquil tone. She was pleased though surprised at this, for from the rigid silence he had imposed on the count- ess, she had counted on more than usual taciturnity on his part. First, he gave her a history of the picture, painted by a monk in the fifteenth century. Thence he naturally passed to the subject of which it treated. 3. All representations of so great a theme, the crowning erent of human history, but lying beyond the domain of human experience, were unsatisfactory. Rosemary thought so too. Insensibly he diverged to the mighty scene itself. His lan> guage, remarkably calni and unexcited, but admirably choseot 820 THE FIFTH RBAnga, iilM i»j became soon the oatline of a meditation on the Final Jndg* ment. Circomstance after circumstance taken from Holy Writ came in to heighten the tremendous word-picture, and in the midst of the scene Rosemary and himself were placed as as- BJstants and spectators. " . 4. " We may suppose that our purgation will not have ceased Infore, as it will certainly cease then. What feelings must be ours, in such a case, when we shall have burst the prison of the tomb, to behold the tomb itself, the solid earth, crumble and melt, and yet feel in our own risen bodies the throb of eternal life 1 What a moment 1 the wedding again of the flesh and spirit instantaneously co-glorified ; a fact of which we shall take note with perfect intellectual clearness, even in the same instant that the Beatific Vision breaks upon us with Its infinite vistas of entrancing splendor \" 5. Rosemary's beautiful face kindled like a vase lighted from within ; she leaned a little forward and raised one fair arm towards the old picture, as if she would have spoken. "The resurrection of the flesh, its glorification, its divini- sation almost, is to me one of the most consoling dogmas of our faith. That body is immortal already in my opinion ; it shall breathe and pulsate, shall see and hear, have motion and force and splendor, while God shall be God. What is the grave ? You have lain in it once, yet now you live I What has happened to you in a figure shall happen to us all in real- ity. You ought to feel this vividly — ^you, once the motionless tenant of a tomb I" 6. From that time O'Morra worked on in silence. At last Rosemary timidly glanced at him — ^for she was weary. He was not looking at her at all ; his bright eye was fixed on va- cancy, and his f ngers worked, like a blind man's, in the plastio clay. It was a rude human figure, feminine vaguely, nude, black, dripping wet ; in the body the posture was nearly all that waij evident, and that was roughly outlined ; the head was mas- sively brought out, and under the clay hair, clotted and lumped, was a noble face, upturned to heaven with an expressioii of wonder, awe, joy, and e'vrnest gazing, as upon some marveUoos glory. , , ^ BEUGIOUB ORDXBS. 321 'inal Jadg* Holy Writ and in the laced as as- have ceased Qgs must be tie prison of rth, crumble ;he throb ol gain of the ict of which ness, even in apon U3 with lighted from one fair arm ►ken. m, its divini- ag dogmas of y opinion ; it e motion and What is the live 1 What us all in real- he motionless Qce. At last 1 weary. He ,s fixed on va- in the plastic y, nude, black. iy all that wa:5 lead was mas- id and lumped, expressioii ol le marvellotts 110. Stella Matutina, oka pro nobis.* HUNTINOTON. 1. Gleaming o'er mountain, coast, and ware, What splendor It, foretokening, gave The front of shadow-chasing morn I And, ere the day-star was re-bom. With borrow'd but auspicious light Gladdened the night-long watcher's sight I 8. Fair herald of a brighter sun, And pledge of Heaven's own day begun. When th' ancient world's long night was o'er. So shone, above death's dreaded shore, And life's now ever-brightening sea, The lowly Maid of Galilee. S Lost now in His effulgent ray. Bathed in the brightness of His day, O Morning Star ! still sweetly shine Through that dim night which yet is mine ; Precede for nSe His dawning light, Who only puts all shades to flight t 111. Eeligious Orders. LEIBNITZ. Wm. O. Lbibnitz was born in Leipsio in 1G46 ; died in 1716. Hia aeu entiflo And philosophical attainments entitle h'm to be placed among uiv highest mathematicians and philosophevd of the ago. 1. Since the glory of God and the happiness of our fellow- creatures may be promote^! uy various means, by command or by example, according to the condition and disposition of ' Sldla Matutina, ora pro nobu. Morning Star, pray /or ut ;— one of the nfCniges in the litany of Loretto. 14» 322 TUS FIFTH BEADXB. I, J H 111 .f? ir each, the advantages of that institution are manifest bj which, besidcf} those who are engaged in active and erery-day life, there are also found in the Church ascetic and contempla* tive men, who, abandoning the cares of life, and trampling its pleasures under foot, devote their whole being to the contem piation of the Deity, and the admiration of his works ; or who, freed from personal concerns, apply themselves exclu- sively to watch and relieve the necessities of others ; some by instructing the ignorant or erring ; some by assisting thci needy and afflicted. 2. Nor is it the least among those marks which commend to us that Church, which alone has preserved the name and the badges of Catholicity, that we see her alone produce and cherish these illustrious examples of the eminent rirtues and of the ascatic life. Wherefore, I confess, that I have ardently admired the re- ligious orders, and the pious confraternities, and the other similar admirable institutions ; for they are a sort of celestial soldiery upon earth, provided, corruptions and abuses being removed, they are governed according to the institutes of the founders, and regulated by the supreme Pontiff for the use of the universal Church. 3. For what can be more glorious than to carry the light of truth to distant nations, through seas and fires and swords, — to traffic in the salvation of souls alone, — to forego the allurements of pleasure, and even the enjoyment of conversa- tion and of social intercourse, in order to pursue, undisturbed, the contemplation of abstruse truths and divine meditation,— io dedicate one's self to the education of youth in science and in virtue, — to assist and console the wretched, the despairing, *;he lost, the captive, the condemned, the sick, — ^in squalor, in chains, in distant lands, — undeterred even by the fear of pestilence from the lavish exercise of these heavenly offices of charity I 4 The man who knows not, or despises these things, haa but a vulgar and plebeian conception of virtue ; he foolishly , measures the obligations of men towards their God by the perfonctory discharge of ordinary duties, and bf tluit MT FATUKRB OROWIliO OLD 838 frozen habit of life, devoid of zeal, and even of soal, which prevails commonly among men. For it is not a counsel, as some persuaue themselves, but a strict prcc '^t, to labor with every power of soul and body, no matter in whot condition of life we may be, for the attainment of Christian perfection, with which ueither wedlock, nor children, nor public office, are incompatible (although they throw difficulties in the ^ay); but it is only a counsel to select that state of life which ia more free from .earthly obstacles, upon which selection oar Lord congratulated Magdalen. 112. "My Father's growing old." SLIZABRTH O. BJLBBXB. 1. Mr father's growing old; his eye Looks dimly on the page ; The locks ''iat round his forehead Ua Are silverM o'er by age ; My heart has leam'd too well the ti^ Which other lips have told, His years and strength begin to fail^ ' My father's growing old." 44 r^-i' 9. They tell me, in my youthful years He led me by his side, ^ And strove to calm my childish fean, My erring steps to guide. But years, with all their scenes of change^ Above us both have roll'd, I now must guide his faltering steps— " My father's growing old." 8. When sunset's rosy glow departs, , With voices full of mirth. Our household band with joyons heart! ^_ Will gather round the hearth, 124 THE FIITII RKADER. H Mil mm um m ii- They look upon his trembling form, His pallid face behold, And turn away with chasten'd to; " My father's growing old." 4. And when each tuneful voice we nuM^ In songs of " long ago," His voice which mingles in our lays Is tremulous and low. It used to seem a clarion's tone, • So musical and bold. But weaker, fainter has it grown— "My father's growing old." 6. The same fond smUe he used to wear Still wreathes his pale lips liow, But Time with lines of age and care Has traced his placid brow. But yet amid the lapse of years His heart has not grown cold, Though voice and footsteps plainly tell-- " My fatheir's growing old." $. My father I thou did'st strive to share My joys and calm my fears, And now thy child> with grateful care, In thy declining years Shall smooth thy path, and brighter scenet By faith and hope unfold; And love thee with a holier love Since thou art " growing old." fi i' . SESIGNATION OF CHARLES Y. 325 113. Charles Y., KMrEFOK of Gebmant, resigns iin DOMINIONS AND KEl IRKS FROM THE WORLD. ill— BOBKBTBON. Dr. William Robkrtson, bom in 1721. atBorthwich, Mid Lothian, Scot' UnJ; died 1793. His principal works are the " HiHtory of Charles the Fifths' " History of America," ani' "History of Scotlantl." As an hisio- riiin, RohertHon is remarkable for grace una el'.'gance of style, although Bome of his works are disfigured h} a partisan bias. 1. This great emperor, in the plenitude of his power, and iD possession of all the honors which can flatter the heart of man, took the extraordinary resolution to resign his kingdoms ; and to withdraw entirely from any concern in business or the affairs of this world, in order that he might spend the remain- der of his dajs in retirement and solitude. 2. Though it requires neither deep reflection, nor extraor- dinary discernment, to discover that the state of royalty is not exempt from cares and disappointments ; though most of those who are exalted to a throne, find solicitude, and satiety, and disgust, to be their perpetual attendants, in that envied pre-eminence ; yet, to descend voluntarily from the supreme to a subordinate station, and to relinquish the possession of power in order to attain the enjoyment of happiness, seems to be an effort too great for the human mind. 3. Several instances, indeed, occur in history, of monarchy who have quitted a throne, and bnve ended their days in re- tirement. But they were either weak princes, who took this resolution rashly, and repented of it as soon as it was taken ; or unfortunate princes, from whose hands some strong rival had wrested their sceptre, and compelled thom to descend with reluctance into a private stat'on. 4. Diocletian is, perhaps, the only prince capable of hold- ing the reins of government, who ever resigned them from de- liberate choice ; and who continued, during many years, to enjoy the tranquillity of retirement, without fetching one peni- tent sigh, or casting back" one look of desire towards the power or dignity which he had abandoned. 5. No wonder, then, that Charles's resignation should fiU ! ii i\ iri; ■r\. mm ji :■]. ' piL- m ''li,^: a u I i; Ii 826 TUS FIFTH UEAUUL all Earope with ostoniKhmcnt, mid give rise, both among hii contemporaries aod among the hlHtoriami of that period, to various conjectures concerning the motives which determined a prince, whose ruling passion had been uniformly the love ot power, at the age of fifty-sLx, when objects of ambition oper« ato with full force on the mind, and are pursued with the greatest ardor, to take a resolution so singular and unex> pected. 6. The Emperor, in pursuance of his determination, having assembled the states of the Low Coimtries at Brussels, seated himself, for the last time, in the chair of state ; on one side of which was placed his son, and on the other, his sister the queen of Hungary, regent of the Netherlands, with a splendid retinue of the grandees of Spain, and princes of the empire standing behind him. 7. The president of the council of Flanders, by his com- mand, explamed in a few words, his intention in calling this extraordinary meeting of the state. He then read the instro* ment of resignation, by which Charles surrendered to his sou Philip all his territories, jurisdiction, and authority in the Low Countries ; absolving his subjects there from their oath ol allegiance to him, which he required them to transfer to Philip his lawful heir ; and to serve him with the same loyalty and zeal that they had manifested, during so long a coarse of years, in support of his government. 8. Charles then rose from his seat, and leaning on the shoulder of the Prince of Orange, because he was unable to stand without support, he addressed himself to the audience ; and, from a paper which he held in his hand, in order to as- sist his memory, he recounted, with dignity, but without os* tentation, all the great things which he had undertaken and performed, since the commencement of his administration. 9. He observed, that from the seventeenth year of his age, he had dedicated all his thoughts and attention to public ob^ jects, reserving no portion of his time for the indulgence of his ease, and very little for the enjoyment of private pleasure , that either in a pacific or hostile manner, he had visited Qer- many nine times, Spain six times, France four times, Ital) ■!i RESIGNATION OF CHARLEt Y. 3j: among hU period, to determined the love oi bition opcr- id with the ■ and unex- ktion, having issels, seated a one side of lis sister the th a splendid )f the empire 1, by hia com- Q calUng this ;ad the instru* red to his sou ity in the Low their oath ol nsfer to Philip ne loyalty and g a course of eaning on the was unable to the audience ; in order to as- 3ut without OS- andertaken and inistration. year of his age, )n to public ol> idulgence of his ivate pleasure . lad visited Get- our times, Italj leven times, the Low Countries ten times, England twice, Africa as often, and had made eleven voyagf»8 by soa. 10. That while his health permitted him tu discharge hia daty, and Jie vigor of his constitution waa equal in any de< gree to the arduous office of governing dominions so exten- sive, he had never shunned labor nor repined under fatigue ; that now, when his health was broken, and his vigor ex- hausted by the rage of an incurable distemper, his growing in- firmities admonished him to retire ; 11. Nor was he so fond of reigning, as to retain the scep- tre in an impotent hand, which was no longer able to protect his subjects, or to render them happy; that instead of a sov- ereign worn out with diseases, and scarcely half aiive, he gave them one in the prime of life, accustomed already to govern, and who added to the vigor of youth all the attention and sa- gacity of maturer years ; 12. That if, during the course of a long administration, he had committed any material error in government ; or if, under the pressure of so many and great affairs, and amid the at- tention which he ht, 1 been obliged to give to them, he had either neglected or injured any of his subjects, he now imr plored their forgiveness ; 13. That, for his part, he should ever retain a grateful Bense of their fidelity and attachment, and would carry the remembrance of it along with him to the place of his retreat, as his sweetest consolation, as well as the best reward for all his services ; and in his last prayers to Almighty God, would pour forth his ardent wishes for their welfare. 14. Then turning towards Philip, who fell on his knees and kissed his father's hand, " If," says he, " I had left you, by my death, this rich inheritance, to which I have made such large additions, some regard would have been justly due to my memory on that account ; but now, when I voluntarily resign to you what I might have still retained, I may well ex- pect the warmest expression of thanks on yonr part. 15. " With these, however, I dispense ; and shall consider your concern for the welfare of your subjects, and your love of them, as the best and most acceptable testimony of yonr 1 * 'ir H^i ^ i :1 I i ill m 328 THE FIFTH READER. gratitude to rac. It Ih in your powr, by a wise and virtaoni administration, to justify the extraordinary proof which I give this day of my paternal affi-etion, and to demonstrate that you are worthy of the confidence which I repose in you. 16. " Preserve an inviolal)le rej^ard for religion ; maintain the Catholic faith in its purity ; let the laws of your country be sacred in your eyes ; encroach not on the rights and privi- leges of your people ; and if the time shall ever come when you shall wish to enjoy the tranquillity of private life, may you have a son endowed with such qualities that you can resign your sceptre to hun with as much satisfaction as I give up mine to you." n. As soon as Charles had finished this long address to his subjects, and to their new sovereign, he sunk into the chair exhausted and ready to faint with the fatigue of so extraor< dinary an effort. During his discourse, the whole audience melted into tears ; some from admiration of his magnanimity ; others softened by the expressions of tenderness towards his son, and of loTe to his people ; and all were affected with the deepest sorrow, at losing a sovereign who had distinguished the Netherlands, his native country, with particular marks of his regard and attachment. 114. Resignation of Charles V. — continued, 1. A FEW weeks after the resignation of the Netherlands, Charles, in an assembly no less splendid and with a ceremonial equally popipous, resigned to his son the crowns of Spain, with all the territories depending on them, both in the old and in the new world. Of all hese vast possessions, he reserved nothing for himself, but an aniual pension of a hundred thou sand crowns, to defray tb*? cfc>«rges of his family, and to afford him a s.mall sum for acta of i)«nefi< 'uce and charity. 2. Nothing now remaiDed to detain him from that retreat for which he languisbed. Everv thing having been prepared Bometime for his voyage, ue set o. it for Zuitburg in Zealand, where the fleet had orders j rendezvous. RE8IOMATION OF CIIAKLKS V. 329 nd virtaoni of which 1 tlcinonstrute ,o8e in you. Q J maintain pur country its and privi- T come when life, may you 3U can resign as 1 give up address to his into the chair of 80 extraor- rhole audience magnanimity ; 88 towards his •ected with the distinguished icular marks o( 8. In his way thither, he passed through Ghent : und tiftrr stopping there a few days, to indulge that tender and pirusing melancholy, which arises in the mind of every man in the de- cline of life, on visiting the place of his nativity, and vi<'wing the scenes and objects familiar to him in his early youth, he pursued his journey, accompanied by his son Philip, his duugh tcr the archduchess, his sisters the dowager queens of France and Hungary, Maximilian his son-in-law, and a numerous ret> iuue of the Flemish nobility. 4. Before he went on board, he dismissed them, with marks of his attention or regard ; and taking leave of Philip with all the tenderness of a father who embraced his son for the last time, he set sail under convoy of a large fleet of Spanish. Flemish, and English ships. 5. His voyage was prosperous, and agreeable ; and he ar* rived at Laredo in Biscay, on the eleventh day after he left Zealand. As soon as he landed, he fell prostrate on the ground ; and considering himself now as dead to the world, he kissed the earth, and said, " Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked I now return to thee, thou common mother of mankind." 6. From Laredo he proceeded to Valladolid. There he took a last and tender leave of his two sisters ; whom he w ould not permit to accompany him to his solitude, though they en- treated it with tears : not only f Itiit they might have the con- solation of contributing, by their attendance and care, to mitigate or to soothe his sutkniags, but that they might reap instruction and benefit, by joining with him in those pious exercises, to which he had consecrated the remainder of his days. 7. From Valladolid, he continued his journey to Plazencia ic Estremadura. He haa passed through that city a great many years before ; and having been struck at that time with the delightful situation of the monastery of St. Justus, belonging to the order of St. Jerome, not many miles distant from that place, he had then observed to some of his attendants, that this was a spot to which Diocletian might have retired witb pleasure. , 330 THK FIFTH REXDER. \fy rt ,> Ml "'1 8. The impressioQ had remained so strong on his mind, that he pitched upon it as the place of his retreat. It was seated in a vale of no great extent, watered by a small brook, and sarrounded bj rising grounds, covered with lofty trees. From the nature of the soil, as well as the temperature of the climate, it was esteemed the most healthful and delicious situation in Spain. 9. Some months before his resignation, he bad sent an ar« chitect thither, to add a new apartment to the monastery, for his accommodation ; but he gave strict orders that the style of the building should be such as suited his present station, rather than his former dignity. It consisted only of six rooms, four of them in the form of friars' cells, with naked walls ; the other two, each twenty feet square, were hung with brown cloth, and furnished in the most simple manner. 10. They were all on a level with the ground ; with a door on one side into a garden, of which Charles himself had given the plan, and had filled it with various plants, which he pro- posed to cultivate with his own hands. On the other side, they communicated with the chapel of ''.he monastery, in whieb he was to perform his devotions. 11. Into this humble retreat, hardly sufficient for the com fortable accommodation of a private gentleman, did Charles enter with twelve domestics only. He buried there, in soli< tude and silence, bis grandeur, his ambition, together with all those vast projects, which, during half a century, had alarmed and agitated Europe ; filling every kingdom in it, by turns, with the terror of his arms, and the dread of being subjected to his power. 12. In this retirement, Charles formed such a plan of life for himself, as would have suited the condition of a private person of a moderate fortune. His table was neat but plain ; his domestics few ; his intercourse with them familiar ; all the cumbersome and ceremonious forms of attendance on his per- son were entirely abolished, as destructive of that social ease and tranquillity which he courted, in order to soothe the re- mainder of his days, -v 13. As the mildness of the climiate, together with bis d^ LETTER FBOM PUNT TO MAKCELUNU9. 831 ) mind, tbal wiks seated brook, and •ees. From the climate, situation in td sent an ar- lonastery, for that the style esent station, J of six rooms, ted walls •, the g with brown I . with a door ttself had given ^ which he pro- the other side, astery.invyhicb int for the com an, did Charles d there, in soli- ,ogether with all iry, had alarmed in it, by turns, being subjectea ich a plan of life tion of a private [s neat but plain; I f amiUar ; all the [dance on his per- If that social ease to soothe tbe re- ler witb bis deli^ erance from the burdens and cares of gDvemment, procurer him, at first, a considerable remission from the acute pains with which he had been long tormented ; he enjoyed, perhaps, more complete satisfaction in this humble solitude, than all hia grandeur had ever yielded him. 14. The ambitious thoughts and projects which had so long engrossed and disquieted him, were quite effaced from his mind. Far from taking any part in the political transactions of the princes of Europe, he restrained his curiosity even from any inquiry concerning them ; and he seemed to view the busy scene which he had abandoned, with all the contempt and in- difference arising from his thorough experience of its vanity, as well as from the pleasing reflection of having disentangled himself from its cares. 115. Letter from Pliny to Maroellinus. MBLMOTH. 1. I WRirE this under the utmost oppression of sorrow. The youngest daughter of my friend Fundanus is dead ! Never Barely was there a more agreeable, and more amiable young person ; or one who better deserved to have enjoyed a long, I had almost said, an immortal life I She bad all the wisdom of age, and discretion of a matron, joined wl«/h youthful sweetness and virgin modesty. 2. With what an engaging fondness did she behave to her father 1 How kindly and respectfully receive his friends 1 How affectionately treat all those who, in their respective offices, had the care and education of her I She employed mach of her time in reading, in which she discovered great strength of judgment ; she indulged herself in few diversions, and those with much caution. With what forbearance, with what patience, with what courage, did she endure her last ill- ness 1 3. She complied with all the directions of her physicians ; ihe encouraged her sister and her father; and, when all hei 332 THE FIFTH BEADEB. Btrength of body was exhausted, supported herself by the single vigor of her mind. That indeed continued, even to her last moments, unbroken by the pain of a long illness, or the terrors of approaching death ; and it is a reflection which makes the loss of her so much the more to be lamented. A loss infinitely severe I and more severe by the particular cch juncture in which it happened I 4. She was contracted to a most worthy youth ; the wed ding day was fixed, and we were all invited. How sad a change from the highest joy to the deepest sorrow I How shall I express the wound that pierced my heart, when I heard Fuildanus himself (as grief is ever finding out circumstances to aggravate its affliction), ordering the money he had design- ed to lay out upon clothes and jewels for her marriage, to be employed in myrrh and spices for her funeral 1 5. He is a man of great learning and good sense, who haa applied hunself, from his earliest youth, to the noblest and most elevated studies ; but all the maxims of fortitude which he has received from books, or advanced himself, he now ab- solutely rejects ; and every other virtue of his heart gives place to all a parent's tenderness. 6. We shall excuse, we shall even approve his sorrow, when we consider what he has lost. He has lost a daughter, who resembled him in his manners, as well as his person ; and ex- actly copied out all her father. If his friend Marcellinus shall think proper to write to him, upon the subject of so reasona- ble a grief, let me remind him not to use the rougher argu- ments of consolation, and sach as seem to carry a sort uf reproof with them ; but those of kind and sympathizing humanity. 7. Time will render him more open to the dictates of reason ; for as a fresh wound shrinks back from the hand of the surgeon, but by degrees submits to, and even reqmres the means of its cure ; so a mind, under the first impressions of a misfortune, shuns and rejects all arguments of consolation; but at length, if applied with tenderness, calmly and wiliingl} acquiesces in them. Farewell. TO THE ROBIN. 333 •self by tli« ^ even to het llness, or the ection which amented. A articular ecu ith ; the wed How sad a orrowl How i,whenlheara , circumstances he bad design- narriage, to be lis sorrow, when , daugbter, who ►erson ; and ex- i:arcellinus shall t of so reasona- 16 rongber argu- carry a sort of id sympathizing 116. To THE Robin. BLIZA. COOK. EuKA CooB, 'in English poetess of eoine note, wa4 torn in London, in ISIS. There is a heartines* and a fresh good-niiture ringing tliroiigh every utanza of Miss Cook's poetry, that wins a way for it to every heart, loves nature and makes others love it too. She 1. I WISH I could welcome the spring, bonnie bird, With a carol as joyous as thine ; Would my heart were as light as thy wing, bonnie bird, And thine eloquent spirit-song mine I The bloom of the earth and the glow of the sky Win the loud-trilling lark from his nest ; But though gushingly rich are his paeans on high, Yet, sweet robin, I like thee the best. 8. I've been iiir^ t.- the plumes of thy scarlet-faced srit, And the 'k^ .n thy pretty black eye, 'Till my harpstring of gladness is mournfully mute, And I echo thy note with a sigh. For you perch on the bud-cover'd spray, bonnie bird, O'er the bench where I chance to recline. And you chatter and warble away, bonnie bird, Galling up all the tales of " lang syne." 8 They sung to my childhood the ballad that told Of " the snow coming down very fast ;" And the plaints of the robin, all starving and cold, Flung a spell that will live to the last. How my tiny heart struggled with sorrowful heaves, That kept choking my eyes and my breath ; When I heard of thee spreading the shroud of green leaves, O'er the little ones lonely in death. y rS 834 THX riFTH RKADin. 4. I stood with delight by the frost-cbncker'd pane, And whisper'd, " See, see, Bobby comes ;" While I fondly enticed him again and again, With the handfnl of savory cmmbs. There wer 'ipringes and nets in each thicket and glen, That tojik captives by night and by day; There were cages for chaffinch, for thrush, and for wren, For linnet, for sparrow, and jay. 6. Bat if ever thou chanced to be caught, bonnie bird, With what eager concern thou wert freed: Keep a robin enslaved ! why, Hwas thought, bonnie bird, That " bad luck'' would have followed the deed. They wonder'd what led the young dreamer to rove. In the face of a chill winter wind ; But the daisy below, and the robin above. Were bright thmgs thftt I ever could find. 6. Thou Wert nigh when the voountain streams gladden'd the sight ; When the autumn's blast snote the proud tree ; , In the corn-field of plenty, or dcsArt of blight, I was sure, bonnie bird, to see thP¥. I sung to thee then as thou sing'st to me now. And my strain was as fresh and as wild ; Oh, what is the laurel Fame twines for the brow, ' To the wood-flowers pluck'd by the child I \i-i 7. Oh, would that, like thee, I could meet with all clumge And ne'er murmur at aught that is sent ; Oh, would I could bear with the dark and the fair, And still hail it with voice of content. ,^-...-«5^U.^.- THB XEUOION OF CATHOLICS. 33S ne, How I wish I coald welcome the spring, boonie bird. With a carul as joyous as thine ; Would my heart were as light as thy wing, boniue bird, And thy beaatifol spirit-song mine I and glen, id for wren, lie bird, J bonnie bird, Q deed. r to rove, d. Enns gladden'd ad tree; 5bt, now, • ebrow, ^ , Idl ritb att cbingt it; \ d the fair, 117. The Relioion of Catholiob. DR. DOTLE. Kight Beverond Jakes Dotxe, Inte bishop of Kildare and Leighlin, waa born at Ne ' Ross, County Wexford, Ireland, in 1786 ; died in 1884. Dur- ing the fitt: 9.1 years of Dr. Doyle's episcopacy, he was continually enfi^agod in defending, with voice and pen, the riehts of the Church, and the inter- ests of the people. He lived in a troubled period of Irish history, when the island was convulsed from end to end by the tithe question, and the oppressive exactions of the landlords — when the voice of oppressed millioui» was thundering in the ears of the British government for Catholic emanci- pation ; and on all those great questions, Dr. Doyle exercised a powerful influence. His letters written over the signature of J. K. L., on all the mat topics of the day, political and religious, are classed among the ablest documents of the kind ever written. 1. It was the creed, my lord, of a Charlemagne and of a St. Louis, of an Alfred and an Edward, of the monarchs of the fecdal times, as well as of the Emperors of Greece and Rome ; it was belieyed at Venice and at Genoa, in Lucca and the Helvetic nations in the days of their freedom and great- ness ; all the barons of the middle ages, all the free cities of later times, professed the religion we now profess. You know well, my lord, that the charter of British freedom, and the common law of England, have their origin and source in Cath- olic times. 2. Who framed the free constitutions of the Spanish Goths ? Who preserved science and literature, during the long night of the middle ages ? Who imported literature from Constantino pie, and opened for her an asylum at Rome, Florence, Padua, Paris, and Oxford ? Who polished Europe by art, and refined her by legislation? Who discovered the New World, and opened a passage to another ? Who were the masters of arch- itecture, of painting, and of music f Who invented the com- Das8, and the art of |irint*'ng? Who were the poets, the his- 536 THE rrmn readfr. •fi . i; torians, the jurists, the men of deep research, and profound lit- crature ? 3. Who have exalted human nature, and made man appear aj^ain little less than the angels ? Were they not almost cx- rlusively the professors of our creed ? Were they who crcatcti and possessed freedom under every shape and form, unfit for h(!r enjoyment ? Were men, deemed even now the lights of the world and tb( inefactors of the human race, the deluded victims of a s^a. .': 340 TBI niTH READER. Oh ! may we aye, whate'er betide^ In Christian joy and mirth, Sing welcome to the blessed daj That gave our Saviour birth ! 'if : < '^1 ' 120. The Truce of God. F RBDRT. Fbiobt— late profensor of history in St. Mary^s College, Baltimore, hai with great impartiality and truthfuluess, compiled an ancient and modero history for the use of schools. 1. Another excellent institution that owed its existence to (he middle ages, and for which humanity was also indebted to the happy influence of religion, was the sacred compact usually termed the Trtice of Ood. From the ninth to the eleventh century, the feudal system, however beautiful in many of its principles, had been a constant source of contentions and wars. Each petty chieftain arrogated to himself an almost unlimited use of force and violence to avenge his wrongs, and pursue his rights, whether real or pretended. As, moreover, vassals were obliged to espouse the quarrels of their immediate lords, rapine, bloodshed, and their attendant miseries were to be seen everywhere ; nor could the most pacific citizens depend on one moment of perfect security, either for their properties or their lives. 2. Religion, by her divine and universally revered authority, was alone capable of raising an efficacious barrier against this torrent of evils. Experience having already shown the impos- sibility of stemming it at once, prudent measures were taken gradually to diminish its violence. Several bishops ordered under penalty of excommunication, that, every week, durinj, the four days consecrated to the memory of our Saviour's passion, death, burial, and resurrection, viz., from the afternoon of Wednesday till the morning of the following Monday, what- ever might be the cause of strife and quarrel, all private hos- tilities should cease. >^ ' r 8. Shortly after, the same prohibition was extended to the THK UIOH-BOBM LADTB. 841 whole time of Adrent and Lent, including HCTcral weeki) both after Christmas and after Easter-Sunday. This beneficiui in- Htitution, which originated in France towards the year 1040, was adopted in England, Spain, etc., and was confimiod bj general popes and councils : nor roust it be thought that it remained a dead letter; its success, on the contrary, wa? «o remarkable, that the pious age in which the experiment was made, hesitated not to attribute it to the interposition of Heayen. 4. Thus, by the exertions of ecclesiastical anthority, the horrors and calamities of feudal tvar began to be considerably lessened and abridged. Its ravages were restrained to three days in the week and to certain seasons of the year; during the intervals of peace, there was leisure for passion to cool, for the mind to sicken at a languishing warfare, and for social habits to become more and more def*ply rooted. A consider- able number of days and weeks afforded security to all, and all, being now shielded by the religious sanction of this sacred compact, could travel abroad, or attend to their domestic affairs, without danger of molestation. 5. Such was the splendid victory which the religion of Christ won over the natural fierceness of the ancient tribes of the north ; a victory whose completion was also due to her influence, v aen the Crusades obliged those restless warriors to torn against the invading hordes of the Saracens and Turks, those weapons which they had hithertc used against their fel- low-christians. 121. The Highborn Ladyb. MOORK. Thomas Moums was born in Dublin, in 1780, died in 1852. No poet ever moulded the English tongue into softer or more melodious strains than Moore, and none, in any language, ever adorned his verse with more sparkling gems of wit, fancy, and sentiment. His "LallaKookh" liaa never been equalled in any tongue, and bis " Irish Melodies " have been translated into almost every European language. Poetry must lose its charms when the lays of Moork shall be unsought, un3ung. His orcMM^ bovever, is by ^o means equal to his poetry. 842 THB rirra bxadbb. I. In Tain all the knights of the Underwald wooM her, Phough brightest of maidens, the proudest was she ; Brare chieftains they sought, and joung minstrels thej sued her, Bat worthy were none of the high-born Ladye. ' " Whosoever I wed," said this maid, so excelUng, " That knight must the conq'ror of conquerors be ; He must place me in halls fit for monarcbs to dwell in \-^ None else shall be Lord of the high-bom Ladye l" S. Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking round her ' ' ' - '" On knights and on nobles of highest degree. Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her, " And worshipped at distance the high-bom Ladye. At length came a knight from a far land to woo her, With plumes on his helm, like the foam of the sea ; His yizor was down — but, with voice that thrill'd throngh her. He whisper'd his vows to the high-bom Ladye. 8 " Proud maiden 1 I come with high spousals to grace thee^ In me the great conq'ror of conquerors see ; Enthroned in a hall fit for monarchs Pll place thee, > And mine thon'rt forever, thou high-bom Ladye 1" ( (■ ■«■ m The maiden she smiled, and in jewels arrayed her. Of thrones and tiaras already dreamt she ; And proud was the step, as her bridegroom conveyM her . , In pomp to his home, of that high-bom Ladye. A. ''But whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have you led me ? ' V . Here's naught but a tomb and a dark cypress-tree ; ■t ADTIOB TO ▲ TOUXO ULDT. 343 I ber, ras she ; istreU ibe) ye. - 0T8 be ; dwell in ;— adye l" coking TOttud If tkit tbe bright palace in which thoa wcnldst wed owT" With scorn in her glaooe, said the high-bom Ladye. " 'Tis the home," he replieear to men, and yet more contemptible to the younger part of their own sex, and have no relief, bu in passing their afternoons in visits, where they are never ac ceptable ; while the former part of the day is spent in spleei and envy, or in vain endeavors to repair by art and dress ttie ruins of time. Whereas, I have known ladies at sixty, to whom all the polite part of the court and town paid their ad- dresses, without any further view than that of ei\}oying the pleasure of their conversation. I am ignorant of any one quality that is amiable in a man, which is not equally so in a woman ; I do not except even modesty and gentleness of na* ture. Nor do I know one vice or folly which is not equally detestable in both. 7. There is, indeed, one infirmity which is generally allowed yon, I mean that of cowardice; yet there should seem to be something very capricious, that when women profess their ad* miration of valor in our sex, they should fancy it a very grace- ful, becoming quality in themselves, to be afraid of their own shadows ; to scream in a barge when the weather is calmest, or in a coach at the ring ; to run from a cow at a hundred yards distance ; to fall into fits at the sight of a spider, an earwig, or a frog. At least, if cowaf-dice be a sign of cruelty (as it is generally granted), I can hardly think it an accom- plishment so desirable as to be thought worth improving by affectation. ' 123. A Catholio Maiden op the Old Times. BOTOE. Rkt. J. Boros — a native of the north of Ireland, for several years pastoi «f the Catholic Church in Worcester, Mass. Under the name of Pa^U PtpptrgroMy ho has writteu " Shandy Maguire," an excellent story of Irish life, " The SpaewLfe," and '* Mary Lee." Mr. Boyce is an agreeable write? »fflotion. 1. "Wht dost thou look at me so pityhigly, good pil- 8^ THE FIFTH READER. ■ 1 ^r M:?! : * ii- \l I .ifi grim ?'' said Alice. " Is my father dead ? Speak, I entreat thee I" The mendicant seemed not to hear her voice. He gazed at her as if she were a statue on a pedestal, bending forward and leaning on his long polestaff. At length, his lips began slightly to tremble, and then his eyes, which kept moving leisurely over her face and form, scanning everj feature, be< came gradually suffused with tears. 2. " My father's dead !" said Alice, in a voice scarcely audible, as she saw the pilgfim's tears fall on his coarse gabardine. The words, though but few, and uttered in almost the tone of a whisper, were yet so full of anguish and despair, that they instantly recalled the stranger's wandering thoughts. Slowly the old man stretched out his hands, and gently laid them on the head of the fair girl, saying, in accents trem- ulons with emotion, — 3. " Thy father lives, my child, and sends thee his blessing by these hands ; receive it, and that of an old outcast idso^ who loves thee almost as well." Alice knelt and raised her eyes towards heaven in speech- less gratitude. Then, taking the beggar by the hand, she im- printed a kiss on his hard, sunburnt fingers. " Hast seen my father?" she inquired. 4. " Ay, truly have I. He is still at Brockton, with the faithful Reddy, who seldom leaves him even for a moment. I informed him of thy place of refuge, and he will soon ven- ture hither to see thee." " How looks he ? Is he much altered ?" 5. " Nay, I cannc ' answer thee in that, my child, having but seen him for the first time in seventeen years. It will be seventeen years come Holentide since we parted at Annie's grave — I mean at his wife's grave. I shook his honest hand for the last time across her open tomb, ere the earth had entirely covered her cofiSn from my sight. And, since that day, we have been both learning to forget each other, and the world also — he in his little library at Brockton, whence he hath ■hat oat all profane converse, and I in the woods and wilds A OATHOUC MAIDEN OF THB OLD TIMES. 847 3f England, a roaming oatcast, withoot a shelter or a home." 6. "So thoQ didst know my mother, good man?" said Alice, laying her hand on the beggar's arm, and looking up wistfully in his face. "Thy mother?— ay, I knew her — once," he replied, with suppressed emotion. "Then speak to me of my mother. I long to hear some one speak of her. People say she was very kind and gentle. Alas I I never saw her. She died in giving me birth ; and so there's a void in my heart I would fain fill up with her image. Say, pilgrim, canst paint her to ^ly fancy ? I will listen to thee most attentively." 7. The mendicant turned his head aside, and drew his hand quickly across his eyes. " Pardon, me, good man," said Alice, as she saw the mo- tion, and understood it ; "I fear me I have awakened some painful recollection." "Nay," replied the mendicant, "it is but a foolish weak- ness." And he raised himself up to his full height, and planted his staff firmly against the rock, as if to nerve himself for the trial. ^ ^ ^ \ .. 8. Father Peter and Nell Gower were conversing at the farther end of the cell, and casting a look occasionally in the direction of the speakers. " Nell saith I am somewhat like my mother. Good man, dost think so ?" inquired Alice. " Like thy mother, my fair child ? Ay, thy face is some- what like. But the face is only a small part — a hundred such faces were not worth a heart like hers." " She was so good ?" 9. " Ay, and so noble, and so grand of soul." "Ahl"- " And yet so humble, so charitable, so pure, and so truly Catholic. Hold, I'll question thee as to the resemblance, and then tell thee, mayhap, in how much thou'rt like thy mother." " Speak on," said Alice ; " I'll fuiswer thee right faithfully.'' 348 THE FIFTH READER. h: > < •I 5 sj aiT>vlsed at the solemn sound, bat the mendicant seemed not *,) notice it. " Hast worshipped thy God in the night and in the morning ?" " She hath," "Hast been frequent at the s&cred confessionid and the holy altar?" " She hath," responded the same voice, a third time. 11. "Dost love thy religion better than thy life?" de- manded the pilgrim, in a sterner tone, still leaning on his< staff, and looking steadily at the young girl. "Answer for thyself, maiden." " Methinks I do," she at length replied, casting her eyes bashfully on the ground, and playing with the chain of her cross. " But I'm only a simple country girl, and have not yet been greatly tempted." " Good," said the mendicant. "And art ready to sacrifice thy Ufe for thy faith?" " Ay, willingly I" responded Alice, in a tone of increased confidence. — '- ^ ^ ^i .,>' ^ 12. " Hearken to me, child. Thy religion is a low, mean, and contemptible thing. It is driven out from the royal courts and princely halls of thy native land, where it once ruled triumphant, to dwell with the ignorant and the poor. It is forced co seek shelter in woods and caves. It is banished the presence of the great and powerful, despised and scoffed at even by the learned ; nay, it is flung from their houses hke a ragged garment, nnd fit only to be worn by wretched beggars like myself 1 Ha, girl 1 thy religion is the scorn of thy com- peers — like the Christian name in the times of the Diocletians, it's a disgrace and dishonor to acknowledge it." 13. " I care not," said Alice ; "was not my Redeemer tic- Bpised for his religion ?" bn'.',^ ., .-., MASCO BOZZABIS. 849 obeg u at meet* ,nt corner onnd, but Homing?" il and the ime. life?" de- ing on h\& A.n8wer for ig her eyes hain of her d have not to sacrifice of increased a low, mean, royal courts once ruled poor. It 13 vanished the id scoffed at houses like a iched beggars of thy com- e Diocletians, ** And art bold enough to meet the contemptoons smiles, and withstand the winks aud nods, of the enemi^ of thj faith, as thou passest them by ?" « Alice answered not in words, but she raised the cross from her bosom, where it hung, and reverently kissed the lips of the image of the Saviour. The mendicant understood the silent reply, and proceeded : 14. " But of thy father. Wouldst abandon hun to pre- serve thy faith ? Wouldst see him dragged on a hurdle to the gallows, amid the shouts of the rabble, when thy apostacy woe ' 1 save him ?" " What I is he a prisoner ?" she cried, fearing the mendicant had hitherto been only preparing her for some dreadful an- nouncement. " Nay, answer me, maiden. Wouldst save thy father by apostasy ?" 15. " Never 1" responded Alice, raising herself to her full height, and crossing her arms on her breast as she spoke. "Never I I love him as fondly as ever daughter loved a parent — ^nay, I would give my life cheerfully to save his ; but I would see him hanging on the gallows at Tyburn till the wind and sun had bleached his bones, rather than renounce the religion of my God and the honors of my ancestors I" "Hat thou wouldst, girl?'' said the mendicant, catching her hand, and gazing full in her face. "Then thoa hast learnt, to feel as a Catholic." 124. Marco Bozzabis. HALLBOK. FiTz OREsmc Hallbok— an American poet, com at Gnilford, Conneoti- cut, in 1795. His poetry is musical, ana fiili of vigor, evincing a retined tasto, aud a heart alive to every generous and noble sentiment. [Marco Bozzarlfl, the Epaininindas of modern Greece, fell in<« night nttack npoQ the Turkish camp at Laspt, the sit* of the ancient Plauea, August M, 1828, and eX' l>knd in the mouient of victory.] • 1. At midnight, in his guarded tent, : The Turk was dreaming of the hoar .1 ■ ■ ■ ' i.< vS 350 THK FLFHU TiEADEB. When Grei.'ce, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power: In dreams through camp and court he bore The trophies of a conqueror; In dreams his song of triumph heard ; Then wore his moDarch\? signet ring, — Then press'd that monarch's throne, — a kiog ; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wiBg, As Eden's garden bird. S. An hour pass'd on, — the Turk awoke ; That bright dream was his last ; He woke, to near his sentries shriek, — "To arm,. ! tbey come 1 the Greek 1 the Giraekf He woke, to die mldsit flavne and smoke, And shout, fcin'l groaw, and sabre-stroke. And deatii bhots falling thick and fast . . As liglttnings from the mountain cloud ; And heard, with voice as trumpet load, Eozzaris cheer his band : — ;- " Strike — till the last arm'd foe expires I Strike—for your altars and your fires ! Strike — for the green graves of yonr sires I God, and your native land!" .; , ;. , I 8. They fonght, like brave men, long* and well; liiey piled the ground with Moslem slaini They conquer'd; but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile, when rang their proud hnirah. And the red field was won; Then saw in death his eyelids close, Calmly, as to a night's repose. Like flowers at set of sun. 'ir- i. Oome to the bridal chamber, DeathI Come to the mother's when she feels i ICAROO BOZZABIB. 851 s; ^]fOC^P For the first time her first-bom's breath; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke; Come in consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake shock, the ocean storm; Come when the heart beats high and warm. With banquet song, and dance, and wine,— And thou art terrible: the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, And all we know, or dream, or fear, Of agony, are thine. 6. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. BozzarisI with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, B>est thee: there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. We tell thy doom without a sigh; For thou art Freedom's now. and Fame'a^-- One of the few, the immortal lamei, That were not bom to diet I II y . » \ ■*■ '-'-^Kr. ■> ^ .■ /^ 'I; 352 THE FIFTH UEADEB. ■u ill: nil' i I- h !.r M 11 i In all my miHcrics; but thou host forced me Out of thy honest truth to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes ; and thus far hear me, Cromwell { And, when I am forgotten, — as I shall be, — And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention Of me must more be heard of, — say, I taught thee ; Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all th<* ^.:pths and shoals of honor, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it. Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ; By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by't ? Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that hate thee ; Corruption wins not more than honesty ; Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence enrious tongues. Be just, and fear not : Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's ; then if thou fall'st, CromweH I Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king : And, Prithee, lead me in : There take an inventory of all I have. To the last penny; 'tis the king's : my robe And my integrity to Heaven, is all [ dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell 1 Had I but served my God with half the zeal [ served my king, He would not in mine age Have left me naked to mme enemies ! Crom. Good sir, have patience. Wol. So I have. Farewell rhe hopes of court * my hopes in heaven do dweL ' \ BOMB BATKD BY PRMALR VIRTUE. 357 in hee; it ate tbee ; r not : y's, Cromwell I Q^ettl dwdL 127. Rome bated nv Female Virtue. nooK. Nathankl Hook, a native of Knf;lan<'• i>; I fiGO THE riFTH READEIl. father, ami never fall short of him in yirtue ; and may job in them find your consolation I — Farewell.' 10. " We started up at the sound of this word, and with loud cries of lamentation ran to hiqj to receive his last em- l.«races. I led his elder son by the hand ; Volumnia had the younger in her arras. He turned his eyes from us, and put- ting ufi back with his hand * Mother,' said he, ' from this rao- nicnt you have no son : our country has taken from you the stay of your old age. Nor to you, Volumnia, will Marcius be henceforth a husband ; mayst thou be happy with another more fortunate I My dear children, you have lost your father.' 128. Rome saved by Female Virtue — continiied. 1. " He said no more, but instantly broke away from us He departed from Rome without settling his domestic affairs, or leaving any orders about them ; without money, without 8ervants, and even without letting us know to what part of the world he would direct his steps. It is now the fourth year since he went away ; and he has never inquired after his family, nor, by letter or messenger, given us the least account r;f himself : so that it seems as if his mother and his wife, were the chief objects of *hat general hatred which he shows to his country. 2. " What e',^ccess then can you expect from our entreatiefl to a man so implacable ? Can two women bend that stubborn heart, which even all the ministers of religion were not able to soften ? And indeed what shall I say to him ? What can f reasonably desire of him ? — that he would pardon ungrateful citizens, who have treated him as the vilest criminal ? that he would take compassion upon a furious, unjust populace, which had no regard for his innocence ? and that he would betray a nation, which has not only opened him an asylum, but has even preferred him to her most illustrious citizens in the com- mand of her armies ? 8 " With what face can I ask him to abandon such generona HOME SAVED BY FEMALK VIRTUK. 361 ; and may jon ? word, and with eive his ^^^^ ^in- alumnia had the rom us, and put- i 'from this mo- :en from you the nia, will Marciua ppy with another 3 lost your father.' jE — continued. )ke away from us lis domestic affairs, nt money, without w to what part of is now the fourth .r inquired after his IS the least account ;r and his wife, were ilch he shows to his from our entreaties bend that stubborn igion were not able ohim? What can pardon ungratefnl , criminal? that he ust populace, which It he would betray a Ian asylum, but has citizens in the coin- ludon such generooa protectors, and deliver himself again into the hands of his most bitter enemies ? Can a Roman mother, and a Roman wife, with decency, exact, from a son and a husband, compli- ances which must dishonor him before both gods and men ? Mournful circumstance, in which we have not power to hate the most formidable enemy of our country I Leave us there- fore to our unhappy destiny ; and do not desire us to make it more unhappy, by an action that may ca'st a blemish upon our firtue." 4. The women made no answer but by their tears and en- treaties. Some embraced her knees ; others beseechcd Yo- lumnia to join her prayers to theirs ; all conjured Veturia not to refuse her country this last assistance. Overcome at length by their urgent solicitations, she promised to do as they desired. The very next day, all the most illustrious of the Roman women repaired to Veturia's house. There they presently mounted a number of chariots, which the consuls had ordered to be made ready for them ; and, without any guard, took the way to the enemy's camp. 5. Coriolanus, perceiving from afar that long train of char- iots, sent out some horsemen to learn the design of it. They quickly brought him word, that it was his mother, hi, wife, and a great number of other women, and theu* children com- ing to the camp He doubtless conjectured what views the Romans had in so extraordinary a deputation ; that this was the last expedient of the senate ; and, in his own ^lind, he de- termined not to let hunself be moved. 6. Bat he reckoned upon a savage inflexibility that was not in his nature ; for going out with a few attendants to receive the women, he no sooner beheld Veturia attired in mourning, her eyes bathed in tears, and with a countenance and motion that spoke her sinking under a load of sorrow, than he ran hastily to her ; and not only calling her mother, but addincr to that word the most tender epithets, embraced her, wept over her, and held her in his arms to prevent her falling. Tiie like tenderness he presently after expressed to his wife, highly commending her discretion in liaving constantly remained with 16 --«= I i if!. 662 THK FIFTH READER. his motlicr, since his departure from Rome, And then, witk the warmest paternal affection, he caressed his children 7. When some time had been allowed to those silent tears hf joy, which often flow plenteously at the sudden and unex pected meeting of persons dear to each other, Veturia entered upon the business she had undertaken After many forcible appeals to his understanding and patriotism, she exclaimed : " What frenzy, what madness of anger transports my son Heaven is appeased by supplications, vows, and sacrifices : shall mortals be implacable ? Will Marcius set no bounds to his resentment ? But allowing that thy enmity to thy counti ;• is too violent to let thee listen to her petition for peace ; yet be not deaf, my son, be not inexorable, to the prayers and tears of thy mother. 8. " Thou dreadest the very appearance of ingratitude to- wards the Volsci ; and shall thy mother have reason to accuse thee of being ungrateful? Call to mind the tender care I took of thy infancy and earliest youth ; the alarms, the anx< iety, I suflfered on thy account, when, entered into the state of manhood, thy life was almost daily exposed in foreign wars ; the apprehensions^ the terrors, I underwent, when I saw thee so warmly engaged in our domestic quarrels, and, with heroic courage, opposing the unjust pretensions of the furious plebe- ians. My sad forebodings of the event have been but too well verified. Consider the wretched life I have endured, if it may be called life, the time that has passed since I was deprived of thee. 9. " Marcius, refuse me not the only request I ever made to thee ; I will never importune thee with any other. Cease thy immoderate anger ; be reconciled to thy country ; this is all I ask ; grant me but this, and we shall both be happy Freed from those tempestuous passions which now agiatte tby soul, and from all the torments of self-reproach, thy days v"\ flow smoothly on in the sweet serenity of conscious virtue and as for me, if I carry back to Rome the hopes of an ap proaching peace, an assurance of thy being reconciled to thj country, with what transports of joy shall I be received 1 In vrbat honor, in what delightful repose, shall I pttd8 tb# ms FRIARS AKD HIE KNIGHT. 366 d theo, wiH lildren ) silent tears len and unex jtiiria entered many forcible le exclaimed: ,ort8 my son tnd sacrifices: t no bomids to to thy counti J 'or peace ; yet le prayers and ingratitude to- eason to accuse B tender care I ilarms, the anx- into the state of in foreign wars ; when I saw thee and, with heroic te furious plebe- jeen but too well Indured, if it may e I was deprived remainder of my life I What immortal glory shall I have acquired !" 10. Coriolanua made no attempt to in^.ernipt Veturhi while she was speaking ; and when she had ceased, he still coniinu«'d ia deep silence. Anger, hatred, and desire of reveng(!, bal- anced in his heart those softer passions which the sight and discourse of his mother had awakened in his breast. Ycturia j>erceiving his irresolution, and fearing the event, thus renewed her expostulation : " Why dost thou not answer me, my son ? Is there then such greatness of mind in giving all to resent- ment ? Art thou ashamed to grant any thing to a mother who thus entreats thee, thus humbles herself to thee ? If it be so, to what purpose should I longer endure a wretched life ?" As she uttered these last words, interrupted by sighs, she threw herself prostrate at his feet. His yife anu children did the same ; and a.l the other women, with uiited voices of mournful accent, begged and implored his pity 11. The Volscian officers, not able unmoved to behold this scene, turned away their eyes : but CorioLmus, almost beside himself to see Veturia at bis feet, pass onately cried out : " Ah ! mother, what art thou doing ?" And tendorly pressing her hand, in raising her up, he added, in a low voice, " Rome is saved, but thy son is lost I" Ea.'ly the next morning, Coriolanus broke up his camp, aiid peaceably marched his army homewards. Nobody had the boldness to contradict his orders. Many were exceedingly dissatisfied with his conduct ; but others excused it, being more affected with his filial respect to his mother, than with their own interests. 129. The Fbiaes aito the Kotght. K. H. DIOBY. 1. Two friars of Paris, travelling in the depth of winter, came at the first hour of the night, fatigued, covered with mud, and wet with rain, to the gate of a house where they hoped to receive hospitality, not knowmg that it belonged to 364 THE FIFTH READER. I h' ,ap -.■i^S:^ % knight who hated nil frinrs, and who for twenty years had ncTer made his conte^f^ioll. Tho mother of the family replied to their petition, " I know not, good fathers, what to do. If I admit you nnder oar roof, I fear my husband ; and if I send you away cruelly in this tempestuous night, I shall dread the indignation of God. Enter, and hide yourselves till my hus- band returns from hunting, and has supped, for then I shall be able to supply you secretly with what is needful." 2. Shortly, the husband returns, sups joyfully, but, per- C'-i v'ug that his wife is sad, desires to know the cause. She replies that she dares not disclose it. Pressed and encour- aged, she at length relates what has happened, adding, that tiikii fears God's judgment, seeing that his servants are aflflicted Vtrith cold and hunger, while they are feasting at their pase. The knight, becoming more gentle, orders them to be led lui h from their hiding-place, and to be supplied with food. 3. The poor friars came forth, and drew near the fire ; and when he sees their emaciated faces, humid raiment, and their feet stained with blood, the hand of the Lord is upon him, and from a lion he becomes a lamb. With his own hands he washes their feet, places the table, and prepares their beds, bringing in fresh straw. A fter the supper, with altered look and tone, he addresses the elder friar, and asks whether a shameless sinner, who hath not confessed since many years, can hope for pardon from God ? 4. " Yea, in sooth," replied the friar ; " hope in the Lord and do good, and he will deal with thee according to his mercy ; for in whatever day the sinner repents, he will remem- ber his iniquity no morr," The contrite host declares that he will not then defer au^ longer approaching the sacraments ''This very night," said he, "I will u ijurden my conscience lest my soul should be required of me." The friar, however Uttle suspecting danger of death, advised him to wait till morning. All retired to rest ; but during the night the friar became alarmed, rose, prostrated himself on the earth, and b^^sought God to spare the sinner. 6. In the morning, however, the master of the house was C.)und dead. The man of God, judging from what had passed CATHOLIC BUIR8. 30.*, y years bad imily rcvVied it to do. If and if 1 send all dread the fi till my hus- . then 1 shall ,ful." illy, but, per- le cause. She a and encour- j, axlding, that its are afflicted at their ease. hero to be led ■d with food. i,r the fire ; and ment, and their •d is upon him, is own hands he tres their beds, fth altered look asks whether a ice many years, ope in the Lord Lccording to his k, he will remem- I declares that he J the sacraments In my c tory of St. Philip Neri. Ho is a poet, culm, subdued, free iVou all t>jrba< lence, peaceful and serene. Ilis poetry in of a very high order ~J>ri Brownton^ 1. Where once oar fathers oflfer'd praise and prayer, And sacrifice sublime ; Where rose upon the iucense-breathing air The chant of olden time ; — Now, amid arches mouldering to ilie -^fxrth, The boding night-owl raves ; And pleasure-parti«'S dance in idle mirth O'er the forgotten graves. S. Or worse ; the heretic of modern days Has made those walls his prize ; And in the pile our Faith alone could raise, That very Faith denies I God of our fathers, look upon our woe I How long wilt thou not hear ? H )w long shall thy true vine be trodden low, Nor help from thee appear ? ^.t ill' =i2 1 « ■ 866 THE FIFTH liEADER. 8. Oh, by our glory in the days gone by ; Oh, by thine ancient love ; Oh, by our thousand Saints, who ceaselen ety Before thy throne above ; Thou, for this isle, compassionaf'* though just Cherish thy wrath no more ; Bat build again her temple from the daSt, And our lost hope restore 1 pnl i PI 131. Gil Blab akd the Parabitb. LE 8 AGE. Alain Sbn£ Lb 8aoe, a oelebrnted French novelist and dramatic writer, born in 1608, died in 1747. He is principally remembered foi his novel of " Gil Bias," which first appeared in 1715. 1. When the omelet I had bespoken was ready, I sat down to table by myself ; and had not yet swallowed the first mouthful when the landlord came in, followed by the man who had stopped him in the street. This cavalier, who wore a long sword, and seemed to be about thirty years of age, ad- vanced towards me with an eager air, saying, " Mr. Student, I am informed that you are that Signor Gil Bias of Santil- lane, who is the link of philosophy, and ornament of Oviedo I Is it possible that you are that mirror of learning, that sub- lime genius, whose reputation is so great in this country? You know not," continued he, addressing himself to the inn- keeper and his wife, " you know not what you possess I You have a treasure in your house 1 Behold, in this young gen- tleman, the eighth wonder of the world !" Then turning to me, and throwing his arms about my neck, " Forgive," cried he, "my transports 1 I cannot contain the joy that your pi^sence creates." 2. I could not answer for some fime, because he locked me BO closely in his arms that I was almost suffocated for want of breath ; and it was not till I had disengaged my head from OIL BLAB AND THE TARAAITK. igb jnBi lost, ABtTB. t and dramfttic writer, bered foi hsa novel of 1 ready, I sat down rallowed the first owed by the man javalier, who wore ,y years of age, ad- ng, " Mr. Student, dil Bias of Santil- Qamentof Oviedol learning, that sub- in this country? himself to the inn- ou possess I Yo« [in this young gen- Then turning to «' Forgive," cried the joy that your his embrace that I replied, "Signer Cavalier, I piness in having such a son as I he could not enough admire. 5. All the while he pliod me with wine, and insisted upon I m :ii: yi 'ii :% .-^.iS iJ68 THE FTFTH EEADKR. my domg him justice, while I toafited health for health ; a ci^ comatance which, togc^^er with his intoxicating flattery, put me into such good hunior, that, seeing our eccond oraeU't half devoured, I asiced the landlord if he had no fish in th» h'/use, Signor Corcuelo, who, in all lik( liliood, had u ftliow-feeling with the parasite, replied, " I have a delicate trout ; but th»>so who eat it must pay for the sauce ; — 'tis a bit too dainty for your palate, I doubt." " What do you call too dainty ?" said the sycophant, raising his voice ; "you're a wiseacre, in ileed ! Know that there is notliing in this house too good fo. Signor Gil Bias of Santillane, who deserves to be entertained like a prince." 6. I was pleased at his laying hold of the landlord's last words, in which he prevented me, who, iinding myself oflFended, said, with an air of disdain, "Produce this trout of yours, Gaffer Corcuelo, and give yourself no trouble abojit the con- sequence." This was what the innkeeper wanted. He got it ready, and served it up in a trice. At sight of this new dish, I could perceive the parasite's eye sparkle with joy; and he renewed that coriiplaisance — I mean for the fish — which ho had already shiVwn for the eggs. At last, however, he was obliged to g^Te out, lor fear of accident, being crammed to the very throat. 1. Having, thereiore, eaten and drunk sufficiently, he thouglit proper to conclude the farce by rising from table and accost- mg me in these words : " Signer Gil Bias, I am too well satis- fied with your good cheer to leave you without offering an im- portant advice, which you seem to have great occasion for. Henceforth, beware of praise, and be upon your guard against everybody you do not know. YVa may meet with other peo- ple inclined to divert themselves with your credulity, and, per- haps, to push things still further ; but don't be duped again, nor believe yourself (though they should swear W) the eight: wonder of the world." So saying, ho laughed in my face, and stalked Hway. ^ .=?>! ,!i . •5*31^ ' •."^ !:^' Photographic Sdences Corporation 33 WIST MAIN STRUT WEBSTiR,N.Y. 14S«0 (716)172-4303 ^ f 870 THE FirtH tUEABER. ,-::i ^ I' ' " i 7? Mi .^; And yc'll sorootinies come and see me where I am lowl^ laid ; I shall not Torget /e, fiibther, I shall hear ye where ye pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. 4. I have been wild and wayward; bnt you'll forgive me now; Tou'll kiss me, my own mother, npon my cheek and brow: Nay, nay; you most not weep, ror let }oar grief be wild; You should not fret for me, mother, yon have another child Oh, I will come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; Though you^ll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face: Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say. And be often, often with yon. When ydn think Via far away 6 Good-night, good-night I When 1 have said gbbd^iigbl for evermore, And ye see me carried out from the threshold of the door, Don't let Effie come and see me till my grave be growing green; She'll be a better child to yon than ever I hate be^n. She'll find my garden tools upon the grand^ry floor ; Let her take 'em, they are hers ; I shall nev6r garden more. But tell her, when I'm gone, td^^lni tlid tosebtish that I set, j About the parlor window and the box of nignonette. 6. Good-night, sweet mother! call me when it begins tc dawn ; .' , < . . , All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at mom. But I would see the sun tise upon the glad niew year ; 8o, if you're waking, call me— call me early, mother dearf ▲NZX^DOTB OF KlUQ CHARLES II. OF SPAIN. 371 irken what you jkrtnfarawAy 183. Anbcdotr of Kino Charles II. of Spain. OATHOLIO WRRKLT IN8TBU0TOB. 1. On the 20th of February, 1685, this king went to tak« t drive in the environs of Madrid. The day was reniarkably fiue, and the place was crowded with people. Suddenly, u priest in sarplice, attended by only a boy, approached ; and the king, doubting whether he was gomg to give the holy communion, or only extreme unction, questioned him, and was answered that he was bearing the holy Yiaticum to a poor man in a cottage at some distance, and had been able to pro* cure no better attendance, owing to tho fineness of the day, which had left no one at home. 2. In an instant, the king opened the carriage-door, and leaping out, fell upon his knees and adored the Blessed Eu- charist ; then, with most respectful words, entreated the priest to take his place, shut the carriage-door, then walked at the side, with his hat in his hand. The way was long and tedious, but the good king went it cheerfully, and arrived at the cot- tage, opened himself the carriage, handed down the priest, and knelt while he passed. He entered into the poor house, and after the Holy Sacrament had been administered, went up to the bed, consoled with kind words the dying man, gave him an abundant alms, and made ample provision for an only daughter whom he left. 3. He now insisted on the priest again taking his place in the carriage. But the good curate, seeing how fatigued the king was, entreated him not to think of walking back, and at length, yielding to his importunities, he consented to go in the second carriage, while the priest went alone in the first. When they reached Madrid, the king got out, and again took his place, uncovered, by the carriage door. 4. But by this time the whole city was in commotion, The Confraternity of the Blessed Sacrament came forth with lighted tapers, and the nobility came forth in crowds, to follow the footsteps of their sovereign. In magnificent state, the procession reached the church of St. Mark, where benediction was given, and when the king came out, a vast multitude as 872 THE FIFTH EEADRR. ■embled there, greeted him with a burst of enthnsiastic ap> plaosc, which showed how far from lowering hinaself in his subjects' eyes, is a sovereiga who pays due homage to the King of kings. i. _ .; ♦#; 134. Sfuutual Advantages of Cathouo Citibs* ■II u I '.: .:i 1. In a modem city men in the evening leare their honsea for a banquet ; in a Catholic city they go out for the benedic- tion. The offices of the Church, morning and evening, and even the night instructions, were not wanting to those who were still living in the world ; and if the intervals were passed in study, or other intellectual exercise, it was a life scholastic and ' ^*nost monastical. The number of churches always open^ the frequent processions, and the repeated instructions of the clergy, made the whole city like a holy place, and were, with- out doubt, the means of making multitudes to choose the strait entrance, and to walk in the narrow way. There are many who have no idea of the perfection in which great numbers, in every rank of society, pass their lives in Catholic cities, not even excepting that capital which has of late been made the nurse of so much ill. 2. ^ut wherever the modem philosophy h 'eated, as it were, an atmosphere, that which is spiritual jo confined, closed, and isolated, that its existence is hardly felt or known. The world appears to reign with uniispnted possession, and that, too, as if it had authority to reign. And yet thei« are tender and passionate souls who have need of being unceas- ingly preserved in the path of virtue by the reign of religious exercises, who, when deprived of the power of approaching at the hour their inclinations may suggest to the sources of graco, are exposed to great perils, and who perhaps sometimes do incur in consequence, eternal death. 'ri- '■«7.*"'^'** "' " Ah rae, how many perils do enfold Tlie righteous luuOf to make hiai didly fall 1" ON LldTEK WRITINO. 373 insiaatic ap» ottself in his oage to the to CrriBS. 5 their bonsea r the benedic- evening, and to those who Is were passed life scholastic ;8 always open, ructions of the ind were, with- loose the strait lere are many lat nombers, in lolic cities, not teen made the 8 Hoade of Prayer, why close thy gates ? Is there ac noor in all nature when the heart should be weary of prayer f when man whom God doth deign to hear in thee as his temple, should have no incense to offer before thy altar, no tear to confide to thee 7 Mark the manners, too, of the multitude that loiters in the pnblic ways of every frequented town. See, how it meekly kneels to receive a benediction from the bishop who happens to pass by ; and v;'hcn the dusk comes on, and the lamp of the sanctuary begljis to burn brighter, and to arrest the eye of the passenger through the opened doors of churches, hearken to the sweet sotmd of innumerable bells which rises from all sides, and see what a change of movement takes place among this joyous and innocent people : 4. The old men break off their conversation on the benches at the doors, and take out their rosaries ; the children snatch up their books and jackets from the green in token that play is over ; the women rise from their labor of the distaff ; and all together proceed into the church, when the solemn litany soon rises with its abrupt and crashing peal, till the bells all toll out their last and loudest tone, and the adorable Victim i« raised over the prostrate people, who then isnne forth and re tire to their respective homes in sweet peace, and with an ex* pression of the utmost thankfulness and joy. 5. The modems in vain attempt to account for the difference of manners in these Catholic cities, and in their own, by re- ferring to their present prosperity and accumulation of wealth ; these cities in point of magnificence incomparably surpassed theirs, and with respect to riches, they were not superior, for peace was in their sti'ength, and abundance in their towers. ♦ » 135. On Letter Weitinw. faUl" BLACKWOOD S MAOAZINK. 1. EnsTOLARY as well as personal intercourse is, according to the mode in which it is carried on, one of the pleasantesf 374: THE FIPTH READKB. i ur most irksome things in the world It is delightful to drop in on a friend without the solemn prelnde of invitation and acceptance, to join a social circle, where we may suffer our minds and hearts to relax and expand in the happy conscious* ness of perfect security from invidious remark and carping criticism ; where we may give the reins to the sportiveness of innocent fancy, or the enthusiasm of warm-hearted feeling ; where we may talk sense or nonsense, (I pity people who can- not talk nonsense), without fear of being looked into icicles by the coldness of unimaginative people, living pieces of clock- work, who dare not themselves utter a word, or lift up a little finger, without first weighing the important point in the hair balance of propriety and good breeding. 2. It is equally delightful to let the pen talk freely, and nn- premeditatedly, and to one by whom we are sure of being un- derstood; but a formal letter, like a ceremonious morning visit, is tedious alike to the writer and receiver ; for the most part spun out with unmeaning phrases, trite observations, complimentary flourishes, and protestations of respect and at- tachment, so far not deceitful, as they never deceive anybody. Oh, the misery of having to compose a set, proper, well-worded, correctly-pointed, polite, elegant epistle 1 one that must have a beginning, a middle, and an end, as methodically arrangnl and portioned out as the several parts of a sermon under three heads, or the three gradations of shade in a school-girPs first landscape I 3. For my part, I v/ould rather be set to beat hemp, or weed in a turnip field, than to write such a letter exactly every month, or every fortnight, at the precise point of tune from the date of our correspondent's last letter, that he or she wrote after the reception of ours ; as if one's thoughts bubbled up to the well-head, at regular periods, a pint at a time, to be bottled off for immediate use. Thought I what has thought to do in such a correspondence? It murders thought, quenches fancy, wastes time, spoils paper, wears out innocent goose-quills. " I'd rather be a kitten, and cry mewl than one of those same " prosing letter-mongers. 4. Sorely in this age of invention something may be strwb ON LBTTEB WRITIMO. 875 out to obriate the necessity (if sach De<.*e8sity exists) of so tasking, degrading the human intellect. Why should not a sort of mate barrel-organ be constmcted on the plan of those that play sets of tones and country dances, to indite a cata- logue of polite epistles calculated for all the cercmonion-s observ- ances of good breeding ? Oh, the unspeakable relief (could such a machine be invented) of having only to grind out an an- swer to one of one's " dear, five hundred friends !" 5. Or, suppose there were to be an epistolary steam-engine. Ay, that's the thing. Steam does every thing now-a-days. Dear Mr. Brunei, set about it, I beseech yon, and achieve the most glorious of your undertakings. The block machine at Portsmouth would be nothing to it. That spares manual tabor ; this would relieve mental drudgery, and thousands yet nnbom . . . but hold! I am not so sure the female sex in general may quite enter into my views of the subject. 6. Those who pique themselves on the elegant style of their billets, or those fair scriblerinas just emancipated from board- ing-school restraints, or the dragonism of their governess, just beginning to taste the refined enjoyments of sentimental, con- fidential, soul-breathing correspondence with some Angelina, Seraphina, or Laura Matilda ; to indite beautiful little notes, with long-tailed letters, upon vellum paper, with pink margins, sealed with sweet mottoes, and dainty devices, the whole de- licionsly perfumed with musk and attar of roses ; yonng ladies who collect " copies of verses," and charades, keep albums, copy patterns, make bread seals, work little dogs upon foot- stools, and paint flowers without shadow— oh ! no ! the epis- tolary steam-engine will never come into vogue with those dear creatures. They must etjoy the " feast of reason, and the flow of soul," and they must write — ^yes ! and how they to write I ;, - .. ; ' 7. But for another genus of female scribes, unhappy inno ents 1 who groan in spirit at the dire necessity of having to nammer out due of those aforesaid terrible epistles ; who, taving in due form dated the gilt-edged sheet that lies out- spread before them in appalling whiteness, having also .felici- tously achieved the graceful exordium, "My dcto Mrs. P,'' 376 THE FIFTH READEB. "tl OP " My dear Lady V," or " My dear any thing else," feel that they are in for it, aud must say something I Oh, that something that most come of nothing I those bricks that mast be made without straw! those pages that must be filled with words ! Yea, with words that must be sewed into sen- tcnccs I Tea, with sentences that must seem to mean some thing ; the whole to be tacked together, all neatly fitted and dovetailed so as to form one smooth, polished surface 1 8. What were the labors of Hercules to such a task I The* very thought of it puts me into a mental perspiration ; aud, from my inmost soul, I compassionate the unfortunates now (at this very moment, perhaps) screwed up perpendicularly in the seat of torture, having in their right hand a fresh-nibbed patent pen, dipped ever and anon into the ink-bottle, as if to hook up ideas, and under the outspread palm of the left hand a fair sheet of best Bath post (ready to receive thoughts yet unhatched) on which their eyes are riveted with a stare of disconsolate perplexity infinitely touching to a feeling mind. 9. To such unhappy persons, in whose miseries I deepl} t^ym- pathize. . . . Have I not groaned under similar horrors, from the hour when I was first shut up (under lock and key, I be- lieve) to indite a dutiful epistle to an honored aunt ? I re- member, as if it were yesterday, the moment when she who had eiyoined the task entered to inspect the performance, which, by her calculation, should have been fully completed. I remember how sheepishly I hung down my head, when she snatched from before me the paper (on which I had made no farther progress than "My dear ant"), angrily exclaiming, " What, chUdI have you been shut up here three hours to call your aunt a pismire ?" From that hour of humiliation I have too often groaned under the endurance of similar penance, and I have learned from my own sufferings to compassionate those of my dear sisters in affliction. To such nnhappy persons, then, I would fain offer a few hints (the fruit of long expe- rience), which, if they have not already beqp suggested by their own observation, may prove serviceable m. the hour ol emergency. 10. Let them— or suppose I address myself to one partic» THE ART OF DoOK-KEEPIKG. 871 hing else," [ling I Oh, bricks that U8t be filled ed into seii- mean some ly fitted and rface 1 itaskl The- ration; and, •tunates now sndiculariy in I fresh-nibbed )ttle, as if to the left hand thoughts yet th a stare of eeling mind. 3 1 deeply jym- r horrors, from and key, I be- i aunt ? I re- when she who J performance, illy completed, lead, when she I had made no ily exclMming, ee hours to call miUationlhaye ar penance, and (assionate those ihappy persons, ; of long expe- suggested by (^ the hour ol ' to one partic* Uur Bofferer ; there is something more confidential in that man* ner of communicating one's ideas As Moore says, " Iloart speaks to heart." I say, then, take always special care to write by candlelight, for not only is the apparently unimport* ant operation of snuffing the candle in itself a momentary re- lief to the depressing consciousness of mental vacuum, but not unfreqnently that trifling act, or the brightening flame of the taper, elicits, as it were, from the dull embers of fancy, a sym- pathetic spark of fortunate conception. When such a one occurs, seize it quickly and dexterously, but, at the same time, with such cautious prudence, as not to huddle up and contract in one short, paltry sentence, that which, if ingeniously han- dled, may be wiredrawn, so as to undulate gracefully and smoothly oyer a whole page. 11. For the more ready practice of this invaluable art of dilating, it will be expedient to stock your memory with a large assortment of those precious words of many syllables, that fill whole lines at once ; " incomprehensibly, amazingly, decidedly, solicitously, inconceivably, incontrovertibly." An opportunity of using these, is, to a distressed spinster, as de- lightful as a copy all m's and n's to a child. " Command you may, your mind from play.'' They run on with such delicious smoothness I f 136. Thb Art of Book-Keepino. THOMAS HOOD. ^i^J^: Thomas Hood, born in 1798; died, 1845. One of the best of the later English huinoriuts. Hia poetry is indeed clmracterizcd by the true inurka of Keuoine humor, which is ever based on real pathos and refined sensi- bility. 1. How hard, when those who do not wish to lend, thus lose, their books, Are snared by anglers, — folks that fish with literary Hooks, — Who call and take some favorite tome, but never read it through; — They thus complete their set at home^ by making one at voa 878 THE PIFTU READKR. 1, of my " Spenser" quite bereft, last winter tore was shaken: Of " Lamb" IVe bat a quarter left, nor could I save mj "Bacon;" And then I saw mj " Crabbe," at last, like Hamlet, back- ward go ; And as the tide was ebbing fast, of course I lost mv "Rowe." m B. My " Mallet" served to knock me down, which mokes me thus a talker; And once, when I was out of town, my " Johnson" proTed a "Walker." , While studying, o'er the fire, one day, my "Hobbes,** amidst the smoke, They bore my " Oolman" clean away, and carried off mj ^ "Coke." .-«,-■; u They picked my " Locke," to me far more than Bramah'a patent worth, And now my losses I deplore, without a " Home" on earth. If once a book you let them lift, another they conceal. For though I caught them stealing " Swift," as quickly went my " Steele." 8. " Hope" is not now upon my shelf, where late he stood elated; , But what is strange, my " Pope" himself is excommniu- cated. ' My little "Suckling" in the grare is sank to swell the ravage; And what wa^ Omsoe's fate to sare, 'twas mine to lose — a "Savage." i Even "Glover's" works I cannot put my frozen bands upon; ' Though ever since I lost my " Foote," my '' Banyan" haf f : -^ "been gone. -^ THE ABT or BOUK KKKl'lNU. 871 My "Hoylc" with "Cotton" went oppresa'd; my "Tny. lor," too, must fail; To sare mj " Qoldsmith" from arrest, in rain I offered "Bayle." i I " Prior" Bonght, but could not see the " Hood" so lato in front ; And when I turned to hunt for "Lee," oh I where was my "Leigh Hunt"? ^ .^^ I tried to laugh, old cfure to tickle, yet could not "Ticide" touch; And then, alack! I missed my "Mickle," — and surely Mio* kle's much. ban Bramah'8 'Tis quite enough my griefH to feed, my sorrows to excuse, To think I cannot read my "Reid," nor eren use my "Hughes;" My classics would not quiet lie, a thing so fondly hoped ; LUce Dr. Primrose, I may cry, my " Liyy" has eloped. 5^ My life is ebbing fast away; I suffer from these shocks. And though I fixed a lock on " Gray," there's gray upon my locks ; Fm far from " Young," am growing pale, I see my "But- ler" fly; And when they ask abont my ail, His " Burton" I reply. They still hare made me slight returns, and thus my griefs divide; For oh! they cured me of my "Boms," and eased my " Akenside." But all I think I shall not say, nor let my anger bum, For, as they never found me " Gay," they have not left me " Sterne." 380 TBI rilTH RK4DIB. i'li 187. TiiK Alhambka bt Moonlight. , • , .. - - , v . ^ IRVING. [Tb« n*lae« or msU* mIM the Albambra, eontlito of tbc remalna of • rtrj tUrn- live fttxt ■ncient pll« of bulldlngi In HpAin, •rtcUxl bjr the Moon wbi-n lb«jr -A^n rulcra of lb* eounirjr.l 1. I HAVE given a picture of my apartment ou my first tak ing possession uf it: a few cvcuings have produced a thorou^'ti cbango in the scene and in my feelings. The moon, which then was invisible, has gradually gained upon the nights, unil now rolls in full splendor above the towers, pouring a flood of tempered light into every court and hall. The garden be- neath my window is gently lighted up ; the orange and cit* ron trees are tipped with silver ; the fountain sparkles in the moonbeams ; and even the blush of the rose is faintly visit)le 2. I have sat for hours at my window, inhaling the sweet- ness of the garden, and musing on the checkered features of those whose history is dimly shadowed out in the elegant me< morials around. Sometimes I have issued forth at midnight, when every thing was quiet, and have wandered over the whole building. Who can do justice to a moonlight night in such a climate, and in such a place ! 3. The temperature of an Andalusian midnight in summer, is perfectly ethereal. We seem lifted up into a purer atmos- phere : there is a serenity of soul, a buoyancy of spirits, an elasticity of frame, that render mere existence ei\joymcDt. The effect of moonlight, too, on the Alhambra, has something like enchantment. Every rent and chasm of time, every mould- ering tint and weather-stain disappears ; the marble resumes its original whiteness ; the long colonnades brighten in the moonbeams ; the halls are illuminated with a softened radi- ance, until the whole edifice reminds one of the enchanted palace of an Arabian tale. 4. At such a time, I have ascended to the little pavillou, called the queen's toilet, to enjoy its varied and extensive prospect. To the right, the snowy summits of the Sierra Nevada would gleam, like silver clouds, against the darker firmament, and all the outlines of the mountains would be ni«T Kl.Vn OF RF.VFNOK. 881 •oftened, yet delicately defined. My dolipfht, however, would Iw to lean OTer the parapet of the Teeador, and j^nze down up(M) Oranada, spread out like a map below ine ; all l)iiri«>(i in deep rcjwse, and its white palaces and convert sleepiii;?, M it were, in the moonHhinc. 6. Sometimes, I wonld hear the faint sonnds of eastanefs from some party of dancers lin^erin}^ in the Alameda ; at •ther times, I have heard the dubious tones of a guitar, and the notes of a single voice rising from some solitary street, and have pictured to myself some youthful cavalier serenading his lady's window — a gallant custom of former days, but now sadly on the decline, except in the remote towns and villages of Spain. 6. Such are the scenes that have detained me for many an hour loitering about the courts and balconies of the ca.stle, enjoying that mixture of reverie and sensation which steal away existence in a southern climate, and it has been almost morning before I have retired to my bed, and been lulled to deep by the falling waters of the fountain of Lindaraxa. 138. Best Kind of Revenge. OHAMBBRS. Robert CHAysxiw, born in Pcebloa, Scotland, in 1802. Ho and liif brother William, have written numerous works in varionn departments oi literature. They are also known as eminent Scotch publishers. 1. Some years ago, a warehouseman in Manchester, Eng- land, published a scurrilous pamphlet, in which he endeavored to hold up the house of Qrant Brothers to ridicule. William Grant remarked upon the occurrence, that the man would live lo repent what he had done ; and this was conveyed by some tale-bearer to the libeller, who said, " Oh, I suppose he thinkfl I shall some time or other be in his debt ; but I will take good care of that." It happens, however, that a man in business cannot always choose who shall be his creditors. The pam- phleteer became a bankrupt, and the brothers held an aocep^ 88S THK FUTH READES. f^. ance of his which had been indoraed to them bj the drawer < who had also become a bankrupt. 2. The wantonly-libelled men had thns become creditors of the libeller I They had it in their power to make him re- pent of his audacity. He could not obtain his certificate without their signature, and without it he could not enter into business again. He had obtained the number of signatures required by the bankrupt law, except one. It seemed folly to hope that the firm of " the brothers" would supply the defi- ciency. What I they, who had cruelly been made the laugh- ing-stocks of the public, forget the wrong and favor the wrong-doer? He despaired. But the claims of a wife and children forced him at last to make the application. Hum* bled by misery, he presented himself at the count mg-house of the wronged. 3. Mr. William Grant was there alone, and hw first words to the delinquent were, "Shut the door, sir I" — sternly uttered. The door was shut, and the libeller stood tremblhig before the libelled. He told his tale, and produced his certificate, which was instantly clutched by the injured merchant. " You wrote a pamphlet against us oncel'' exclaimed Mr. Grant. The supplicant expected to see his parchment thrown into the fire. But this was not its destination. Mr. Grant took a pen, and writing something upon the document, handed it back to the bankrupt. He, poor wretch, expected to see " rogue, scoun- drel, libeller," inscribed, but there was, in fair round charac- ters, the signature of the firm. 4. " We make it a rule," said Mr. Grant, " never to refuse signing the certifiqate of an honest tradesman, and we have never heard that you were any thing else." The tears started into the poor man's eyes. " Ah," said Mr. Grant, " my say- ing was true. I said you would live to repent writing that pamphlet. I did not mean it as a threat. I only meant that some day you would know us better, and be sorry you had tried to injure us. I see you repent of it now." "I do, I do I" said the grateful man. " I bitterly repent it." " Well, well, my dear fellow, you know us now. How do you get on ? Wbajb ore you gouig to. dp?" The. poor ni^ .sU^tpd that k^ ( . WHO IS MT NEIOHBORT 883 the drawer. * had friends who coold assist him when his certificate was ob> tained. " But how are you off in the mean time ?" 5. And the answer was, that, haying given up every fa^ thing to his creditors, he had been compelled fo stint his family of even common necessc^ries, that he might be enabled to pay the cost of his certificate. " My dear fellow, this will not do your family must not suffer. Be kind enough to take this ten-pound note to your wife from me. There, there, my dear fellow! Nay, don't cry; it will be all well with you yet. Keep np your spirits, set to work like a man, and you will raise your head among us yet." The overpowered man en- deavored in vain to express his thanks : the swelling in his throat forbade words. He put his handkerchief to bis face, md went oat of the door crying like a child. 139. Who is my Keiqhbok? ANON. 1. Tht neighbor ? It is he whom thoa Hast power to aid and bless : Whose aching heart and burning brow Thy soothing heart may press. Thy neighbor ? 'Tis the fainting poor, Whose eye with want is dim ; Whom hanger sends from door to door | Go thoa and comfort him. S. Thy neighbor? 'Tis that weary man, Whose years are at their brim, Bent low with sickness, cares, and pain { Go thoa and comfort him. Thy neighbor ? 'Tis the heart bereft Of every earthly gem ; \- 3S4 THE rilTII I:i;.U)EIl. / Widow and orj)han, helpless left ; Qo thou and shelter them. 9. Thy neighbor ? Yonder toiling slare, Fetter'd in thought and limb, Whose hopes are all beyond the grare ; Go thou and ransom him. Whene'er thou meet'st a human form Less favor'd than thine own, Remember 'tis thy neighbor worm, Thy brother, or thy son. 4. Oh ! pass not, pass not heedless bj ; Perhaps thou canst redeem The breaking heart from misery ; Go share thy lot with him. I li 140. Edwin, King of Korthumbria. LINOABD. 1. Attended by Paulinus, he entered the great council, re- quested the advice of his faithful witan, and exposed to them the reasons which induced him to prefer Christianity to the worship of paganism. CoiflB, the high priest of Northumbria, was the first to reply. It might have been expected, that prejudice and interest would have armed him with arguments against the adoption of a foreign creed ; but his attachment to paganism had been weakened by repeated disappointments, and he bad learnt to despise the gods who had neglected to reward his services. 2. That the religion which he had hitherto taught was use- less, he attempted to prove from his own misfortunes ; and avowed his resolution to listen to the reasons and examine the doctrine of Paulinus. He was followed by an aged thane, whose discourse offers an interesting picture of the sunplicitj EDWIN, KINO OF NORTHUMBRIA. 3So of the age. " When," said he, " king, you and your minis- ters are seated at :» in the depth of winter, and the cheer- ful fire blazes on the :, arth in the middle of the hall, a sparrow perhaps, chased by the wind and snow, enters at one door of the apartment, and escapes by the other. 3. " Daring the moment of its passage, it enjoys the warmth ; when it is once departed, it is seen no more. Snch is the ua tiire of man. Daring a few years his existence is visible ; but what has preceded, or what will follow it, is concealed from the view of mortals. If the new religion offers any informa- tion on subjects so mysterious and important, it must be wor- thy of our attention." To these reasons the other members assented. 4. Paulinus was desired to explain the principal articles of the Christian faith ; and the king expressed his determination to embrace the doctrine of the missionary. When it was asked, who would dare to profane the altars of Woden, GoiflS accepted the dangerous office. Laying aside the emblems oi the priestly dignity, he assumed the dress of a warrior ; and despising the prohibitions of Saxon superstition, mounted the favorite charger of Edwin. By those who were ignorant of his motives, his conduct was attributed to temporary in- sanity. 5. But disregarding their clamors, he proceeded to the nearest temple, and bidding defiance to the gods of his fa- thers, hurled his spear into the sacred edifice. It stuck in the opposite wall ; and, to the surprise of the trembling spectators, the heavens were silent, and the sacrilege was unpunishe^.. «%»."-' * S86 THS Firrn BEtLDta. 14]. Cleanliness. I I ! ! filt: 'im m ADD I BO IT. 1. Cleanliness may be defined to be the emblem of parity of mind, and may be recommended under the three following heads : as it is a mark of politeness, as it produces affection, and as it bears analogy to chastity of sentiment. First, it is a mark of politeness, for it is uniyersally agreed upon, that no one unadorned with this virtue, can go into company without giving a manifold offence ; the different nations of the world are as much distinguished by their cleanliness, as by their arts and sciences ; the more they are advanced in civilization, the more they consult this part of politeness. 2. Secondly, cleanliness may be said to be the foster-mother of affection. Beauty commonlv produces love, but cleanliness preserves it. Age, itself, is not unamiable while it is preserved clean and unsullied ; like a piece of metal constantly kept smooth and bright, we look on it with more pleasure than on a new vessel cankered with rust. I might further observe, that as cleanliness renders us agreeable to others, it makes us easy to ourselves ; that it is an excellent preservative of health ; and thsit several vices, both of mind and body, are inconsistent with the habit of it. 3. In the third place, it bears a great analogy with chastity of sentiment, and naturally inspires refined feelings and pas< sions ; we find from experience, that through the prevalence of custom, the most vicious actions lose their horror by being made familiar to us. On the contrary, those who live in the neighborhood of good examples, fly from the first appearance of what is shocking : and thus pure and unsullied thoughts ar^ naturally suggested to the mind, by those objects that perpet ually encompass us when they are beautiful and elegant in their kind. ' : , 4. In the East, where the warmth of the climate makcn cleanliness more immediately necessary than in colder coun- tries, it is a part of religion ; the Jewish law (as well as the Mohaimaedan, which in some things copies after it), is filled THERi. WERE IfKRRT DATS IN ENGLAND. 187 with bathings, parifications, and other ntcR of the like nature ; and we read several injunctions of this kind in the Book of Denteronomy ...,...., ^ , Sv, mblem of purity three following )dnces affection, ent. First, it is ed upon, that no company without )ns of the world I, as by their arts tt civilization, the the foster-mother re, but cleanlin<»8fl dile it is preserved antly kept smooth re than on a new observe, that as makes us easy to re of health ; and are inconsistent logy with chastity [feelings and pas- rh the prevalence horror by being Ise who live in the je first appearance ied thoughts wn bjects that perpet [ul and elegant in I Ihe climate makeu In in colder coun- jw (as well as the after it), is filled i'-f'/J oj 142. There were Merry Days in ENOLANDi /. K. OABPXNTBB. ' ' Oo call thy nons : instmct them what a debt They owe their ancestors ; and make them swear To pay it — by transmitting down entire Those sacred rights to which themselves were born." '''- — • Aksnsidb. I. There were merry days in England — and a blush is on my brow, When I think of what our land has been, and what our homes are now ; When our peasantry and artisans were good as well as brave. And mildly heard the blessed truths the old religion gave. There were merry days in England when a common lot wtt felt, When at one shrine, and in one faith, the peer and peasant knelt ; A faith that link'd in holy bonds the cottage and the throne, Before a thousand priests uprose — with each a creed — his own I 8 There were merry days in England, when on the villag green. The good old pastor that they loved, amid his flock wa seen ; The parish church, that, even then, had seen an earlier day. There only, like their forefathers, the people went to pray 3S8 THE FUTH RKADRB. Tliere were merry days in England — now mark the Sabbath day, How many scoflf the fanes wherein their good forefatben lay; Some " new light " glitters in their path — ^bat let the truth be told, And who can say he's happier now than those who lived of old? I. There were merry days in Engkind — ere England's direst foes To clamor forth sedition, in their wickedness arose ; To riot in the scenes from which, once, Britons would recoil ; To wreck a thousand hearths and homes, and — fatten on the spoil I I There were merry days in England — ere those traitors snapp'd the chord — The bond of faith and truth that bound the poor man to the lord ; When the people lored their rulers, their religion, and their laws, And the welfare of the nation was to all a sacred cause. wy^ ti I There were merry days in England — there were joys w* never knew, Ere our poor men were so many, and our rich men were w few ; When by honor and integrity our sires would stand o fall- Before the great King Mamuon was the king that govera'a j aUl MEMOHY AMD UOP& 389 143. Memort and Hafb. es, and — ^fatten on there were joys t« PAULDIirO. Jaxbi Kibkb PATi^Dmo. born at Pkwlings, on the Ilnda' n, in 1779. Panld- in(;'» writings are voluininouH, and many of thvm of irreat int«rc«t. The k-At kuuwn, aro *' Tiie Dutchman's Fireaide," and " Weittward Ho!" 1. Hope is the leading-string of youth; memory the staff ol age. Yet, for a long time they were at ?ariance, and scarcely erer associated together. Memory was almost always grave, Day, sad and melancholy. She delighted in silence and repose, amid rocks and waterfalls ; and whenever she raised her eyes from the ground, it was only to look back over her shoulder. Hope \\ iS a. smiling, dancing, rosy boy, with sparkling eyes, and it was impossible to look upon him without being inspired by his gay and sprightly buoyancy. Wherever he went, he diflfused gladness and joy around him ; the eyes of the young sparkled brighter than ever at his approach ; old age, as it cast its dim glances at the blue vault of heaven, seemed in- spired with new vigor ; the flowers looked more gay, the grasi more green, the birds snng more cheerily, and all nature seemed to sympathize in his gladness. Memory was of mortal birth, but Hope partook of immortality. 2. One day they chanced to meet, and Memory reproachod Hope with being a deceiver. She charged him with deluding mankind with visionary, impracticable schemes, and exciting expectations that led only to disappointment and regret; with being the ignis fatuus of youth, and the scourge of old ago. Bat Hope cast back upon her *be charge of deceit, and main- tained that the pictures of the past were as much exaggerated by Memory, as were the anticipations of Hope. He declared that she looked at objects at a great distance in the past, he k the future, and that this distance magnified every thing. " Let us make the circuit of the world," said he, " and try the experiment." Memory reluctantly consented, and they went their way together. 3. The first person they met was a school-boy, loungii^ ji^zily along, and stopping every moment to gaze around, as if anwilling to proceed ou his way. By and by, he sat down, 890 THE FIFTH READER. ■J! .i :/ ^^i■• ! I . M :r: and burst into tears. "Whither m fast, my good lad?" asked Hope, jeeringly. " I am going to school," replied the lad, " to study, wiien I would rather, a thousand times, be at play; and sit on a bench with a book in my hand, while I long to be sporting in the fields. But never mind, I shall be a man soon, and then I shall be as free as the air." Saying this, he skipped away merrily. iii the hope of soon being a man " It is thus you play upon the inexperience of youth," said Memory, reproachfully. 4. Passing onward, they met a beautiful girl, pacing slowly and with a melancholy air, behind a paity of gay young men and maidens, who walked arm in arm with each other, and were flirting and exchanging all those little harmless courtesies which nature prompts on such occasions. They were all gayly dressed in silks and ribbons ; but the little girl had on a sun. pie frock, a homely apron, and clumsy, thick-eoled shoes. " Why do you not join yonder group," asked Hope, " and par- take in their gayety, my pretty little girl ?" "Alas!'' replied she, " they take no notice of me. They call me a child. Bat I shall soon be a woman, and then I shall be so happy!" In- spired by this hope, she quickened her pace, and soon was seen dancing along merrily with the rest. 5. In this manner they wended their way from nation to nation, and clime to clime, until they had made the circuit of the uniyerse. Wherever they came they found the human race, who, at this time, were all young (it being not many years since the first creation of mankind), repining at the present, and looking forward to a riper age for happiness. All anticipated some future good, and Memory had scarce any thing to do but cast, looks of reproach at her young com* panion. 6. "Let us return home," said she, "to that delightfu spot where I first drew my breath. I long to repose amonj, its beautiful bowers ; to listen to the brooks that murmured a thousand times more musically; to the birds that sung a thousand times more sweetly; and to the echoes that were softer than any I have since heard. Ah I there is nothing on earth so enchanting as the scenes of my early youth!" Hopt y^M f .. MKMOnT AND HOPE. SUl ny good lad?" 3ol," replied the and times, be ai ay band, while I mind, I shall be he air." Saying oon being a man of youth," said rirl, pacing slowly •f gay young men I each other, and armless courtesies hey were all gayly girl had on a sim. thick-soled shoei. iHope, "and par. "Alasl'' replied 1 me a child. Bat )esohappyr In- and soon was seen ay from nation to nade the circuit of found the humau . being not many ), repining at the ige for happiness, emory had scarce at her young corn- indulged himself in a sly, significant smile, and they proceeded on their return home. 7. As they journeyed but slowly, many years elapsed ere they approached the spot from which they had departed. It 60 happened one day, that they met an old man, bending un- der the weight of years, and v;alking with trembling ste{>.s leaning on his staff. Memory at once recognized him as the youth they had seen going to school, on their first onset in tiie tour of the world. As they came nearer, the old man re- clined on. his staff, and looking at Hope, who, being immortal, was still a blithe, young boy, sighed, as if his heart was break- ing. " What aileth thee, old man ?" asked the youth. " What aileth me ?" be replied, in a feeble, faltering voice. " What should ail me, but old age ? I have outlived my health and strength ; I have survived all that was near and dear ; I have seen all that I loved, or that loved me, struck down to the earth like dead leaves in autumn; and now I stand like an old tree, withering, alone in the world, without roots, without branches, and without verdure. I have only just enough of sensation to know that I am miserable, and the recollection of the happiness of my youthful days, when, careless and full of blissful anticipations, I was a laughing, merry boy, only adds to the miseries I now endure." 8. " Behold 1" said Memory, " the consequence of thy de- ceptions," and she looked reproachfully at her companion. " Behold!" replied Hope, " the deception practised by thyself. Thou persuadest him that he was happy in his youth. Dost thou remember the boy we met when we first set out to gether, who was weeping on his way to school, and sighed to be a man ?" Memory cast down her eyes, and was silent. 9. A little way onward they came to a miserable cottage, at the door of which was an aged woman, meanly clad, and shaking with palsy. She sat all ulone, her head resting on her bosom, and, as the pair approached, vainly tried to raise it up to look at them. " Good-morrow, old lady, and all happiness to you," cried Hope, gayly, and the old woman thought it was a long time since she had heard such a cheering saluta* tion. "Happiness!" said she, in a voice that quivered with 392 THE f::tii ukad! b. '■II weakness and iiirin])ity. " TlnppiiieKKl I Iiavc not known It Kinee I was a llttlj; girl, without care or Rorrow. Oh, 1 re« member those delightful days, when I thought of nothing but the preaout moment, nor cared for the future or the past. When I laughed, and played, and sung, from morning till night, and en?ied no one, and wished to be no other than I was. But those happy times are passed, ncTcr to return. Oh, could I but once more return to the days of my child* hood!" The old woman sunk back on her seat, and the tears flowed from her hollow eyes. Memory again reproached her companion, but he only asked her if she recollected the little girl they had met a long time ago, who was so miserable be- cause she was so young ? Memory knew it well enough, and said not another word. 10. They now approached their home, and Memory was od tiptoe with the thought of once more enjoying the unequalled beauties of those scenes from which she had been so long separated. But, some how or other, it seemed that they were sadly changed. Neither the grass was so green, the flowers 80 sweet and lovely, nor did the brooks murmur, the echoes answer, nor the birds sing half so enchantingly, as she remem- bered them in time past. "Alasl" she exclaimed, "how changed is every thing ! I alone am the same t" " Every thing is the same, and thou alone art changed," answered Hope. " ThoQ hast deceive'd thyself in the past, just as much as I deceive others in the future." 11. "What are you disputing about?" asked an old man, whom they had not observed before, though he was standing close by them. " I have lived almost fourscore and ten years, aiKi my experience may, perhaps, enable me to decide between you." They told him the occasion of their disagreement, ana related the history of their journey round the earth. The old man smiled, and, for a few moments, sat buried in thought. lie then said to them : " I, too, have lived to see all the ho[)os of my youth turn into shadows, clouds, and darkness, and vanish into nothing. I, too, have survived my fortune, my friends, my children; the hilarity of youth, and the blessing of health." " And dost thou not despair V said Memory. " No, LOVK UF iX>t:t and Hirnpl<» mites. The reptile imiiK'diately lowere his varioj^Ht^il lerk, ofN>ii.s « passage with his head through the sleiulir rrass, n i<' »«"jnnM <> creep after the musician, halting when he uait^, and again i Mowing hitu when he resumes his march. In this way he was led ^youd the limits of our camp, attended by a great uiiml)erof ^jxi'to/- tors, both savages and Europeans, who could b< ircely I 'lieve their eyes. After witnessing this wonderful effec of meiody, th^ u ^' m'^iv unanimously decided that the maryeli jus serpent tthi>«Ld Li. permitted to escape. 146. Two Views of Natubb. H A T E A T7 B R I A N D . 1. We often rose at midnight and sat down upon deck, wher# we found only the officer of the watch and a few sailors silent- - iy smoking their pipes. No noise was heard, save the dashing of the prow through the billows, while sparks of fire ran with a white foam along the sides oi the vessel. Qod of Chris • tians 1 it is on the waters of the abyss and on the vast expanse of the heavens that thou hast particularly engraven the char- acters of thy omnipotence I Millions of stars sparkling in the azure of the celestial dome — the moon in the midst of the fir- mament — a sea nnboanded by any shore — infinitude in the skies and on the waves — ^proclaim with most impressive e£fect the power of thy arm t Never did thy greatness strike me with profounder awe than in those nights, when, suspended between thi^ ' tars and the ocean, I beheld immensity over my head and immensity beneath my feet 1 2. I am nothing ; I am only a simple, solitary wanderer, and often have I heard men of science disputing on the subject of a Supreme Holwr. without understanding them ; but I have invariably remarked, that it is in the prospect of the sublime scenes of nature that this unknown Being manifests himself to the human hetaH. One evening, after we had reached th« 396 THE FIFTH READER. \4\\ ^? 'f ! beaatifal waters that bathe the sliores of Virginia, there wm a profound calm, and every sail was furled. I was engaged below, when I heard the bell that summoned the crew to prayers. I hastened to mingle my supplications with those of my travelling companions. The officers of the ship were on the (|uarter-deck with the passengers, while the chaplain, with a book in his hand, was stationed at a little distance before them ; the seamen were scattered at random over the poop ; we were all standing, our faces toward the prow of the ves- sel, which was turned to the west. 3. The solar orb, about to sink beneath the waves, was seen through the rigging, in the midst of boundless space , and, from the motion of the stern, it appeared as if it changed its horizon every moment. A few clouds wandered confusedly in the east, where the moon was slowly rising. The rest of the sky was serene ; and toward the north, a water-spoufc, forming a glorious triangle with the luminaries of day and night, and glistening with all the colors of the prism, rose from the sea, like a column of crystal supporting the vault of heaven. 4. He had been well deserving of pity who would not have recognized in this prospect the beauty of God. When my companions, doffing their tarpaulin hats, entoned with hoarse voice their simple hymn to Our Lady of Good Help, the pa- troness of the seas, the tears flowed from my eyes in spite of myself. How aflFecting was the prayer of those men, who, from a frail plank in the midst of the ocean, contemplated the sun setting behind the waves 1 5. How the appeal of the poor sailor to the Mother of Sorrows went to the heart 1 The consciousness of our insig- nificance in the presence of the Infinite, — our hymns, resound- ing to a distance over the silent waves, — the night approach- ing with its dangers, — our vessel, itself a wonder among so many wonders, a religious crew, penetrated with admiration and with awe, — a venerable priest in prayer, — the Almighty bending over the aby >s, with one hand staying the sun in the west, with the other raising the moon in the cast, and lending, through all immensity, an attentive ear to the feeble voice of TWO 7IKW8 OF NATURB. Hdl \a, there vrm wab engaged the crew to with those of ship were on chaplain, with istance before ,ver the poop ; aw of the ves- ■be waves, waa (undless space, as if it changed ered confusedly ^g. The rest of a water-spout, ries of day and prism, rose from ig the vault of would not have ^od. When my [ned with hoarse ,d Help, the pa- eyes in spite of [those men, who, ioutemplated the his creatures, — all this constituted a scene which no power of art can represent, and which it is scarcely possible for the heart of man to feel. 6. Let us now pass to the terrestrial scene. I had wandered one evening in the woods, at some distance f*om the cataract of Niagara, when soon the last gliromerin<^ of daylight disappeared, and I enjoyed, in all its loneliness the beauteous prospect of night amid the deserts of the Now World. 7. An hour after sunset, the moon appeared above the trees in the opposite part of the heavens. A balmy breeze, whicii the queen of night had brought with her from the east, seem- ed to precede her in the forests, like her perfumed breath. The lonely luminary slowly ascended in the firmanent, now peacefully pursuing her azure course, and now reposing on groups of clouds which resembled the summits of lofty, snow- covered mountains. These clouds, by the contraction and expansion of their vapory forms, rolled themselves into trans- parent zones of white satin, scattering in airy masses of foam, or forming in the heavens brilliant beds of down so lovely to the eye that you would have imagined you felt their softness and elasticity. 8. The scanery on the earth was not less enchanting : the soft and bluish beams of the moon darted through the inter- vals between the trees, and threw streams of light into the midst of the most profound darkness. The river that glided at my feet was now lost in the wood, and now reappearing, glistening with the constellations of night, which were reflect- ed on its bosom. In a vast plain beyond this stream, the ra- diance of the moon reposed quietly on the verdure. 9. Birch-trees, scattered here and there in the savanna, and agitated by the breeze, formed shadowy islands which floated on a motionless sea of light. Near me, all was silence and repose, save the fall of some leaf, the transient rustling of a sudden breath of wind, or the hooting of the owl ; but at a ilistauce was heard, at intervals, the solemn roar of the Falls of Niagara, which in the stillness of the night, was prolonged fjom desert to desert, and died away among the solitary forests 'i\ U aos THE FIFTU UEADER. 10. The grandenr, the astonishing solemnity of the scene, cannot be expressed in language ; nor can the most delightful nights of Europe afford any idea of it. In vain does imagina- tion attempt to soar in our cultivated fields ; it everywhere meets with the habitations of men : but in those wild regions the mind loves to penetrate into an ocean of forests, to hover round the abysses of cataracts, to meditate on the banks oi lakes and rivers, and, as it were, to find itself alone with Gcd. |i I 147. The Holt "Wells of Ireland. VBASEB. JoHK Frabbr, more generally known by bis nom deplume, '* J. De Jean," wa8 bom near Birr, in King's county, on tlie banlcs of the river BroHhs, and died in Dublin in 1849, about 40 years of age. He was an artisan— u cabinet-maker; a steady and unassuming workman, — enjoying the respect of his fellow-workmen, and the friendship of those to whom he was known by his literary and poetic talents. He possessed much mental power,— and had his means permitted him. to cultivate and refine his poetic mind, lie would have occupied a higher position as a poet than is now allotted him. As it is, he has clothed noble thoughts in terse and harmonious language: in his descriptive ballads he depicts, in vivid colors, the scenery of his na- tive district, with all the natural fondness of one describing scenes hal- lowed by memories of childhood and maturcr years. 1. The holy wells — the living wells — the cool, the fresh, the pure — A thousand ages roU'd away, and still those founts endure, As full and sparkling as they flow'd, ere slave or tyrant trod The emerald garden set apart for Irishmen by God I And while their stainless chastity and lasting life have birtb Amid the oozy cells and caves of gross, material earth, The scripture of creation holds no fairer type than they— That an immortal spirit can be link'd with human clay I 2 How sweet, of old, the bubbling gush— no less to antlered race. Than to the hunter, and the hound, that smote them in thi chasel THE HOLY WKLL8 OF IRELAND. 39D y of the scene, most delightful a does imagina- it everywhere ise wild regions Drests, to hover a the banks oi ilone with Gcd. LAND. I«m«,"J.l>e Jean," )f the river Brostis, [e WB9 an artisan— u enjoying the respect whom he was known mental power,— atid his poetic mind, he 18 now allotted him. irmonious lan>ruage : fie scenery of his na- icribing scenes hol- |ol, the fresh, the ise founts endure, slave or tyrani lo less to antlere^ Imote them in thi In forest depths the water-fount beguiled the Druid's love. From that celestial fount of fire which wann'd from worldi above ; Inspired apostles took it for a centre to the ring, When sprinkling round baptismal life — salvation — from the spring ; And in the sylvan solitude, or lonely mountain cave. Beside it pass'd the hermit's life, as stainless as its wave. 3 The cottage hearth, the convent wall, the battlemented tower, Grew up around the crystal springs, as well as flag and flower ; The brooklime and the water-cress were evidence of health, Abiding in those basins, free to poverty and wealth : The city sent pale sufferers there the faded brow to dip, And woo the water to depose some bloom upon the lip ; The wounded warrior dragged him towards the unforgotten tide. And deemed the draught a hcavenlier gift than triumph to his side. i. The stag, tae hunter, and the hound, the Druid and the saint. And anchorite are gone, and even the ILneaments grown faint. Of those old ruins, into which, for monuments had sunk The glorious homes that held, like shrines, the monarch and the monk ; So far into the heights of God the mind of man has ranged, It leam'd a lore to change the earth — ^its very self it changed To some more bright intelligence ; yet still the springs en* dure. The same fresh fountains, but become more precious to the poor 1 5 For knowledge has abused its powers, an empire to erect. iOO THE FIFTH READER. !^l v.: U ' K'i ' •; ***J ^ For tyratits, on the rights the poor had given them to pro tect ; Till now the simple elements of nature are their all, That from the cabin is not filch'd, and lavished in the hall — And while night, noon, or morning meal no other plentv brings, No beverage than the water draught from old, spontaneous springs, They, sure, may deem them holy wells, that yield, from day to day. One blessing which no tyrant hand can taint, or take away. 148. Wants. PAULDIKO. \ 1. Everybody, young and old, children and graybeards, has heard of the renowned Haroun Al Raschid, the hero of East- em history and Eastern romance, and the most illustrious of the caliphs of Bagdad, that famous city on which the light of learning and science shone, long ere it dawned on the benight- ed regions of Europe, which has since succeeded to the diadem that once glittered on the brow of Asia. Though as the suc- cessor of the Prophet he exercised a despotic sway over the lives and fortunes of his subjects, yet did he not, like the East- ern despots of more modern times, shut himself up within the walls of his palace, hearing nothing but the adulation of his dependents ; seeing nothing but the shadows which surrounded him ; and knowing nothing but what he received through the nedium of interested deception or malignant fnlsehood. 2. That he might see with his own eyes, and hear with his own ears, he was accustomed to go about through the streets of Bagdad by night, in disguise, accompanied by Giafer the Barmecide, his grand vizier, and Mesrour, his executioner ; one to give him his counsel, the other to fulfil his commands promptly, on all occasions. If he saw any commotion among the people, he mixed with them and learned i^M cause ; and ii WAnrn. 40] Lhem to pro ir all, n the hall- other pleutj , spontaueous ield, from day or take away. jraybeards, has e hero of East- st illustrious of ich the light ot on the benight- a to the diadem ,ugh as the suc- sway over the it, like the East- f up within the adulation of his [hich surrounded ed through the ilsehood. td hear with his lough the streets d by Giafer the Ixecutioner ; one [l his commands mmotion among 1,8 cause ; and il In posring a house he neard the muaningH of distress, or the complaints of suffering, he entered, for the purpose of admiih istcring relief. Thus he made himself acquainted with the condition of his subjects, and often heard those salutary truths which nerer reached his ears through the walls of his jmiUico, )f from the lips of the slaves that surrounded him. 3. On one of these occasions, as Al Raschid was thus per- (tinbulatiug the stieets at night, in disguise, accompanied by ills vizicr and his executioner, in passing a splendid mansion he overheard, through the lattice of a window, the complaints of some one who seemed in the deepest distress, and silently ap- proaching, looked into an apartment exhibiting all the signs of wealth and luxury. On a sofa of satin embroidered with gold, and sparkling with brilliant gems, be beheld a man richly dressed, in whom he recognized his favorite boon companion Bedreddin, on whom he had showered wealth and honors with more than Eastern prodigality. He was stretched out on the gofa, slapping his forehead, tearing his beard, and moaning piteously, as if in the extremity of suffering. At length, start- mg up on his feet, he exclaimed in tones of despair, "0 Al- lah! I beseech thee to relieve me from my misery, and take away my life 1" 4. The Commander of the Faithful, who loved Bedreddin, pitied his sorrows, and being desirous to know their cause, that he might relieve them, knocked at the door, which was opened by a black slave, who, on being informed that they were strangers in want of food and rest, at once admitted them, and informed his master, who called them into his pres- ence and bade them welcome. A plentiful feast was spread before them, at which the master of the house sat down with his guests, but of which he did not partake, but looked on, sighing bitterly all the while. 5. The Commander of the Faithful at length ventured to ask him what caused his distress, and why he refrained from partaking in the feast with his guests, in proof that they were welcome. " Hath Allah afflicted thee with disease, that thou canst not enjoy the blessings he has bestowed ? Thou art sur- rounded by all the splendor that wealth can procure ; thj 402 THE FIFTH UEAUEIl. i-if?; dwelling is a palace, and its apartments are adorned with all the luxuries which captivate the eye, or adminifltcr to the gratification of the senses. Why is it then, O my brother, that thou art miserable ?" 6. " True, O stranger !" replied Bedreddin. " I have all f hese. I have health of body ; I am rich enough to purchase all that wealth can bestow, and if I required more wealth and honors, I am the favorite companion of the Commander of the Faithful, on whose head lie the blessings of Allah, and of whom I have only to ask, to obtain all I desire, save one thing only." 7. " And what is that ?" asked the caliph. " Alas I I adore the beautiful Zuleima, whose face is like the full moon, whose eyes are brighter and softer than those of the gazelle, and whose mouth is like the seal of Solomon. But she loves another, and all my wealth and honors are as nothing. Tine want of one thing renders the possession of every other of no value. I am the most wretched of men ; my life is a burden, and my death would be a blessing." 8. *' By the beard of the Prophet," cried the caliph, " 1 swear thy case is a hard one. But Allah is great and power- ful, and will, I trust, either deliver thee from thy burden, oj give thee strength to bear it." Then thanking Bedreddin for his hospitality, the Coounander of the Faithful departed ¥rith his companions. jr- ;iIl^ 149. Wants — contintted. 1. Taking their way toward that part of the city mhabited by the poorer classes of people, the caliph stumbled over something, in the obscurity of night, and" was nigh falling to the ground: at the same moment a voice cried out, "Allah, preserve me 1 Am I not wretched enough already, that 1 must be trodden under foot by a wandering beggar like ray- self, in the darkness of night !" 2. Mezi'our the executioner, indignant at this insult to the Commander of the Faithful, was preparing to cut off his head, WAHTB. 403 when AI Raachid interpoRed, and inqaifed v. T the beggar hit naiiie, and why he was there sleeping in the Rtrect8 at thai hour of the night. " Mashallah," replied he, " I sleep in the street because I have nowhere else to sleep ; and if I lie on a satin sofa, my pains and infirmities would rob me of rest. Whether on divans of silk, or in the dirt, all one to me, for neither by day nor by riigh» do 1 know any rest. If I close my eyes for a moment, my dreams arc of nothing but feasting; and I awake only to feel more bitterly the pangs of hunger and disease." 3. " Hast thou no home to shelter thee, no friends o' kindred to relieve thy necessities, or administer to thy infirmi- ties?" " No," replied the beggar; " my house was consumed by fire; my kindred are all dead, and my friends have deserted me. Alas 1 stranger, I am in want of every thing — health, food, clothing, home, kindred, and friends. I am the most wretched of mankind, and death alone can relieve me." 4. "Of one thing, at least, I can relieve thee," said the caliph, giving him his purse. " Go and provide thyself food and shelter, and may Allah restore thy health." The beggar took the purse, but instead of calling down blessings on the head of his benefactor, exclaimed, " Of what use is money? it cannot cure disease;" and the caliph again went on his way with Giafer his vizier, and Mesrour his exe- cutioner. 5. Passing from the abodes of want and nusery, they at length reached a splendid palace, and seeing lights glimmering from the windows, the caliph approached, and looking through the silken curtains, beheld a man walking backward and for- ward, with languid step, as if oppressed with a load of cares. At length, casting himself down on a sofa, he stretched out his limbs, and yawning desperately, exclaimed, "0 Allah! what shall I do 1 what will become of me I I am wtarv ol life ; it is nothing but a cheat, promising what it never pur- poses, and affording only hopes that end in disappointment, or, if realized, only in disgust." 6. The curiosity of the caliph being awakened to know the 404 Hi;: ririu utLAUKO. \;.i- cause of his despair, he ordered Mesrour to knock at the doorj which being opened, they pleaded the privilege of strangers to enter for rest and refreshments. Again, in accordance with the precepts of the Koran and the customs uf the East, tiiu strangers were admitted to the presence of the lord of the palace, who received them with welcome, and directed rt- I'reshments to be brought. But though he treated his guests with kindness, he neither sat down with them, nor asked any questions, nor joined in their discourse, walking back and forth languidly, and seeming oppressed with a heavy burden of sorrows. 7. At length the caliph approached him reverently, and said: "Thou seeraest sorrowful, O my brother 1 If thy suf- fering is of the body, I am a physician, and peradventure can afford thee relief ; for I have travelled into distant lands, and collected very choice remedies for human infirmity." \ " My sufferings are not of the body, but of the mind," an« swered the other. " Hast thou lost the beloved of thy heart, the friend of thy bosom, or been disappointed in the attainment of that on which thou hast rested all thy hopes of happiness ?" 8. " Alas I no. I have been disappointed, not in the means, but in the attainment of happiness. I want nothing but a want. I am cursed with the gratification of all my wishes, and the fruition of all my hopes. I have wasted my life in the acquisition of riches that only awakened new de- sires, and honors that no longer gratify my pride or repay me for the labor of sustaining them. I have been cheated in the pursuit of pleasures that weary me in the enjoyment, and am perishing for lack of the excitement of some new want. I have every thing I wish, yet enjoy nothing." 9. " Thy case is beyond my skill," replied the caliph ; and the man cursed with the fruition of all his desires turned his buck on him in despair. The caliph, after thanking him for his hospitality, departed with his companions, and when they had reached the street, exclaimed — " Allah, preserve me 1 I will no longer fatigue myself tn a vain pursuit, for it is impossible to confer happiness on VESuvrca Awr the bat of naplrs. 40t inch a peryetse gemratioL. I see it is all the Ranie, wbc^hfi ft inaD wants ooe thing, erery thing, or nothing. Let uk ^o home ani sleep.' 150. Yesutics and the Bay of Naples. HASKINS. • Kkv. Okorok FoxcRorr Hadkins, Rector nf the Ilonscofthe Augo] Onar- dlati, Boston. Nf r. IliuskitiH is n native of N(;w Kii^land, uti'l ii convert to the Catholic faith. To his piety ntul zeal the ('atholics of Huston are in- debted for tliat truly valuable asylum for boys, the House of the An^ul Guardian. His "Travels in England, France, Italy, and Ireland," ia n pleasing and well-written volume, furnishing some interestinjf views of men and things in the countries visited by him. 1. One of our first promenades, after our arrival in Naples, was along the quay, in order to catch a distant view of Mount Vesuvius. Tl: •'e it was in all its grandeur, vomiting forth that eternal coli jan of smoke ; and as I stood contemplating it, I remembered well the feelings with which, many and many a time while I was a boy, I had read and heard of that «ame Vesuvius, and of its dreadful eruptions, and of the de- struction of Pompeii and Herculaneum, and had in imagination Keen the fiery floods, and the ashes, and the darkness, and felt the trembling of the earth, and fled with the terrified inhab- itants. 2. Little did I then think that these eyes would ever behold that mount, or these feet stand on flags of that lava that had buried Herculaneum ; yet here I was, traversing streets en- tirely paved with that same lava, and there, directly before me, in solemn grandeur, stood that same mountain caldron that had boiled over and ejected it. The evening was warm, and the sky serene and almost cloudless ; and desirous of see- ing the bay and mountain to greater advantage, we step[)ed toto a boat, and bade the boatman row us off for one hour. 3. We glided softly over the glassy surface of the bay for that space of time, and then, having turned our boat's head towards Naples, we contemplated the scene before us with sentiments of admiration altogether indescribable. The sun was just setting in all that blaze of splendor so peculiar to as 406 THE FIFTH READER. ■^'S •■ ! Italian 8un«et. There were a few long, narrow strips of cloud above the horizon, just Rufficient to catch and retain the rich- est of his tints. 4. The deep colorings and changing hues that melted one into the other, and cast their declining radiance on the bosom of the waters, and the peculiar transparency of the deep blue Trtult above, convinced me of that which before I never ho liuved — that in Hn Italian sky and sunset there is something surpassingly beautiful, and such as is never witnessed elsewhere. The sunset, however, was not all. We were in the Bay of Naples, the most magnificent in the world. Before us was that vast and beautiful city itself, numbering four hundred thousand inhabitants, forming a splendid amphitheatre. Its elegant quay, its castles, its palaces, its domes and min&rcts, fringed with sunset hues, afforded a spectacle of extraordirmry beauty. i 5. On the right, at the distance of about six miles, roce Vesuvius, the sun shining on its summit, and reddening with a fiery glow the volumes of smoke that were rolling perpendicu- larly from its mysterious crater. On the wide-extended plain at its foot, and within sight, lay those hapless cities that have so often and so fatally witnessed its terrible i'ud devastating eruptions. There was Torre del Greco, that about fifty years since was completely buried with lava, and Portici, and Resi- ni, and Torre del Annunciata. There also were Herculaneum and Pompeii, whose sad history is but too well known to all. 6. On the left rose the craggy promontory of Pausilippo, and farther distant that of Miseno, and the towns of Pozzuoli and Bala. There were also in view the islands of Ischia and Pro cida, and Capri and Nisida. All was classic ground, and each spot remarkable for some heroic achievement, or venerable as- sociation of a people long since extinct. We /glided homeward in silence, and the regular stroke of the oars beat time to our meditations About an hour after sunset w) landed on the qoay. THELANP. 4oI A of cloud I the rich- nelted one the bosom , deep blue [ never he- Bomething i elsewhere, the Bay of 'ore us was ur hundred leatre. Its id minarets, ttraordinary \ c miles, roce ening with a ' perpendicu- tended plain ies that have devastating lut fifty years lici, and Resi- erculaneum mown to all. ^usilippo, and iPozzuoli anO ;hia and Pro ind, and each venerable as- ied homeward t time to our [andcd on the 151. Irrt.and. BASKIirS. 1. Om the evening of the 24th day of Jnly, we took passag t Liverpool, in the steamer " Iron Dake," for Dahlin, whrr ire arrived on the morning of the 25th. It wan a lovely morn lug : the sun was shining brightly, illamining with pencil oi fire the turrets, cottages, and princely mansions on either shore, and gilding with its mysterious tints the hill of Howth on one side, and the mountains of Wicklow on the other. There is not perhaps a bay in the world, if we except that of Naples, that is so beautiful, and altogether lovely, as the bay of Dul)- lin. It is, moreover, vast, commodious, and perfectly safe. Frigates and merchantmen of the largest size, and yachts beautiful and buoyant as swans, may ride securely on the bosom of its waters. 2. As I stood on the deck of the Iron Duke, inhaling the fragrant land-breeze that rippled the glassy surface of the bay,* thoughts kept crowdmg and crowding upon me — thoughts which I could not banish if I would, and would not if I could. Not so much the surpassing beauties of Dublin Bay ; not the lordly hill of Howth, and the glens and mountains of Wicklow, an(J the distant hills and verdant vales of Meath ; not the islands, and bluffs, and friendly lighthouses along the coast ; not the villas and gardens, that grew every instant more distinct and beautiful as we bowled along ; not the sandy beach, hard and clean as tidy housewife's floor ; nor steep banks and stately promontories ; not these, I say, so much engrossed my mind, as the single, solitary fa«it, that I was now at last, in good, glorious old Ireland. 3. Ireland, all hail I Thou art to me no stranger. Full well I know thee. I have known and honored the a from my earliest childhood. Well do I remember the de light with which I read, and the ardor with which I learned the speeches of thy orators, statesmen, and patriots— of Burke and Grattan, and Curran, and Sheridan, and Emmet, and Ilus* sell, and Phillips ; and how afterwards, a stadent in a Proton |(>8 THE rirrn readeb. ![ fe' -i- ', ' ■fri t:uit c<»Ilejif<', I j^Ioatcd ovrr the works of Dcnn Swift, nm! SicriH', uhii Tom Mo«»pp; and sympathized with thy hnivest Riiiis, iti thi'ir re|Mut((l stnijrjrlcs for freedom; ami adniir»(l tlie exploits of thy warriors and men-at-arms — thy Brian liu- rtiiiihes, and Malachys, ami O'Briens, ami O'Neills, and Sar.>- fioMs, and McCarthys, and Fitzj^eralds, and O'Reillys. 4. Never can I forget the little Irish boy, nay own pnpil, who, in exchange for the letters I tanght him, first taught mf (Jliristianity; nor the Irish servant in my paternal mansion, who first made me acquainted with a Catholic priest — the Rev. Mr. Taylor, whint tb^ fa'L'i in other lands. I .'• CMT OF CAjriDA. 400 152. GoTBftHMRMT OF OaNAOA. MOBBII. 1. In A. D. 1840, the Upper and Lower Proyinces were re anited, and coohtitatcd into the ProYince of Canada, with one LegislatarCf composed, as before, of a Legislative Coun cil nominated by the Crown, and an Assembly of eighty-fou. members elected by the people, forty-two from each Province. Under this Act the government of the country has been con- ducted ; but the Hoose of Assembly has been latterly in- creased to one hundred and thirty members, sixty-fire from each Province, returned by counties, cities, and towns. The Legislative Council, after the death of those members who were nominated by the Crown, will be elective. Before a statute becomes law, the assent of the two legislative bodies and of the Crown is necessary. Money bills originate in the people's House. The power of the Legislature is almost un- checked, regulating taxes, customs, private rights, and the general government of the Province by its Acts, the Queen rarely withholding, as she has the power to do, her assent from a measure. Sessions are required to be held annually, and the duration of the Parliament is four years, though it may be previously dissolved by the Governor-General. 2. The government of the Province is conducted by a Gov- ernor-General appointed by the Crown, who presides at the deliberations of an Executive Council nominated by the Crown, but who must, according to the theory of responsible government in practical force in Canada, possess the confi- dence of the people, as evinced by a majority of the House of Assembly ; and who, consequently, may lose their place on a vote of want of confidence. The Executive Council i composed of the following officials, viz. : a President of the Committees of the Council (who is also Chairman of the Bu- reau of Agriculture, and of the Board of Registration and Statistics), a Provincial Secretary, a Minister of Finance, a Commissioner of Crown Lands, a Receiver-General, one At- torney-General for each section of the Province, the Speaker 18 ill ^i ft \ i^: m ¥ ) i1 410 THB FIFTH RKADEB. of the Legislative Council, a Commissioner of the Board of Public Works, and a Postmaster-General. These incumbents preside orer the public departments indicated by their titles, in addition to exercising the functions of Executiye Council lors. On the acceptance of oflSce, the incumbent elect, already a member of the government, must present himself to the people for re-election. 3. Such is the system of governing by legislative majorities and responsibility to the electors, which is in force in Canada. Practically the government of the Province is self-government, the British Government rarely interposing the weight of its authority, but, on the contrary, distinctly enunciating its de- sire to allow the Province the widest latitude in self-govern- ment, compatible with the colonial relation. In fact, the Canadas enjoy the largest measure of political liberty pos- sessed by any country or people. The public offices, and the seats in the Legislature, are practically open to all. The people, by their representatives in Parliament, regulate aU matters of provincial interest, and by their municipal system they regulate their municipal matters, while they possess and exercise the power of rejecting at the polls those who have forfeited their confidence. The inhabitants of Canada are bound to Britain by the tics of conunon interest, common origin, and filial attachment. Owning a grateful allegiance to their sovereign, they are proud to share the heritage of Brit- ain's ancestral glories, while they are not slow in evincing their sympathy with her straggles, as the munificent grant of iS20,000 sterling, gracefully appropriated by the Legislature to the patriotic fund, and to the widows and orphans of the soldiers of her ally, France, proudly shows. The policy of Britain is a wise one. She is building up on the broad foun- dations of sound political liberty, freedom of thought and conscience, a colony which will one day (though the connection will never be rudely severed), attain the position of a nation, and, peopled by inhabitants knit to Britain by the strongest ties of blood, and identity of feeling, will strengthen her bands and support her position by the reflex influence of sound, national, and constitutional sentiment. the Board of se iDcambenUi )y their titles, lutive Council , elect, already himself to the itive majorities rce in Canada. slf-goTemment, weight of its iciating its de- in self-goTern- In fact, the al liberty pos- afifices, and the 11 to aU. The it, regulate all anicipal system ley possess and hose who have of Canada are irest, common [al allegiance to sritage of Brit- low m eyincing tcent grant of ;he Legislature orphans of the The policy of [the broad foun- ff thought and the connection m of a nation, lythe strongest strengthen her ,x iafloence of IBBAHAM AND THE FIKE-WOKSHirrEK. 411 153. Abraham and the Fire- Worshipper. nOlT0BHOLD WORDS. BcENK — The inside of a Tent, in ichich the Patriarch Abra- ham and a Persian Traveller, a Fire- Worf>hipper, are sitting awhile after supper. # Fire-Worshipper [aside']. What have I said, or done^ that by degrees Mine host hath changed his gracious countenance, Until he stareth on me, as in wrath I Have I, 'twixt wake and sleep, lost his wise lore ? Or sit I thus too long, and he himself Would fain be sleeping ? I will speak to that. [Aloud."] Impute it, my great and gracious lord I Unto my feeble flesh, and not my folly, If mine old eyelids droop against their will. And I become as one that hath no sense Even to the milk and honey of thy words. — With my lord's leave, and his good servant's help, My limbs would creep to bed. Abraham [angrily quitting his seat]. In this tent aeTitr. Thou art a thankless and an impious man. Fire-W. [ri^ng in astonishment], A thankles^ and aa impious man ! Oh, sir. My thanks have all but worshipp'd thee. Abraham. And whom Forgotten? like the fawning dog I feed. From the foot-washing to the meal, and now To this thy cramm'd and dog-like wish for bed.. I've noted thee ; and never hast thou breathed One syllable of prayer, or praise, or thanks. To the great God who made and feedeth all. Fire-W. Oh, sir, the god I worship is the Y\t% The god of gods ; and seeing him not here, lo any symbol, or on any shrine, 412 THX FIFTH BXADXB. J 11 I ■ M w im \ I waited till he bless'd mine ejes at mom, Sitting in hearen. Abraham. O foal idolater 1 And darcst thou still to breathe in Abraham's tent? Forth with thee, wretch; for he that made thy god, And all thy tribe, and all the host of heaven, ■ The in?isible and only dreadful God, Will speak to thee this night, out in the storm. And try thee in thy foolish god, the Fire, ^ Which with his fingers he makes lightnings of. Hark to the rising of his robes, the winds, And get thee forth, and wait him. [A violent storm is heard rising Fire-W. Whatl unhoused; And on a night like thisl me, poor old man, A hundred years of age! Abraham [urging him away]. Not reverencing The God of ages, thou revoltest reverence. Fire-W. Thou hadst a father; — think of his gray haizi, Houseless, and cufif'd by such a storm as this. Abraham. God is thy father, and thou own'st not him. Fire- W. I have a wife, as ag^d as myself, And if she learn my death, she'll not survive it. No, not a day; she is so used to me; So propp'd up by her other feeble self. I pray thee, strike us not both down. Abraham [still urging him]. God made / Husband and wife, and must be owu'd of them, Else he must needs disown them. Fire- W. We have children,— One of them, sir, a daughter, who, next week. Will all day long be going in and out. Upon the watch for me; she, too, a wife. And will be soon a mother. Spare, oh, spare herl She's a good creature, and not strong. Abraham. Mine eari Are deaf to all thmgs but thy blasphemy, * > - And to the commg of the Lord and God, ABBAHAM AND IE rtKB-WORSHIPPKR 41.3 heard rising Who will this night condemn thee. I Abrabam pushes him out; and remains alone, speaking For if ever God came at night-time forth upon the world, 'Tis now this instant. Hark to the huge winds, The cataracts of hail, and rocky thunder. Splitting like quarries of the stony cloads, Beneath the touching of the foot of God ! That was God^s speaking in the heavens, — that laft And inward ntterance coming by itself. What is it i^faaketh thus thy servant, Lord, Making him fear, that in some load rebuke To this idolater, whom thou abhorrest. Terror will sir .y himself ? Lo, the earth quakes Beneath my feet, and God is surely here. [A dead silence; and then a still small voice. The Voice. Abraham 1 Abraham. Where art thou. Lord? and who is it that spefltitS Bo sweetly in mine ear, to bid me turn And dare to face thy presence ? The Voice. Who but He Whose mightiest utterance thou hast yet to learn ? I was not in the whirlwind, Abraham ; I was not in the thunder, or the earthquake; But I am in the still small voice. Where is the stranger whom thon tookest in ? Abraham. Lord, he denied thee, and I drove him forth. The Voice. Then didst thou do what God himself forbore. Havd I, iklthoitgh he did deny me, borne With his injnriousness these hundred years, And couldst thou not endnre him one sole night. And such a night as this ? Abraham, Lord I I have sinn'd, And will go forth, and if he be not dead, Will call him back, and t^ Mm of thy mercies Both to himself and me. The Voik$ Behold, and leaml 414 THE nPTH READER. 1 ''1 * i IM "hr [2%^? Voice retire while it in speaking ; and a fold of th€ tent is turned back, disclosing the Fire-Worshippeb, whi is calmly sleeping, vrith his head on the back of a house- lamb. Abraham. O loving God I the Iamb itself 's his pillow, And on his forehead is a balmy dew, And in his sleep he smileth. I meantime, Poor and proud fool, with my presamptuoas hands, Not God's, was dealing judgments on his head. Which God himself had cradled! — Oh, methinks There's more in this than prophet yet hath known, And Faith, some day, will all in LoTe be shown. %V^^- [ill 164. Pateiotism \nd Christianitt. OHATKAUBBIAND. \ 1. But it is the Christian religion that has inyested pa- triotism with its true character. This sentiment led to the commission of crime among the ancients, because it was car- ried to excess ; Christianity has made it one of the principal affections in man, but not an exclusive one. It commands us above all things to be just ; it requires us to cherish the whole family of Adam, since we ourselves belong- to it, though our countrymen have the first claim to onr attachment. 2. This morality was unknown before the coming of the Chris- tian lawgiver, who had been unjustly accused of attempting to extirpate the passions : God destroys not his own work. The gospel is not the destroyer of the heart, but its regulator. It is to oui feelings what taste is to the fine arts ; it retrenches ail that is exaggerated, false, common, and trivial ; it leaves all that is fair, and good, and true. The Christian religion, rightly understood, is only primitive nature washed from origi- nal pollution. 3. It is when at a distance from our country that we fee] the full force of the instinct by which we are attached to it. For want of the reiUty, we try to feed upon dreams ; for th« PATRIOTISM AN1» CHRISTIANITT. 415 fdd oftht IHIPPEB, who 'c of a house- ) pillow, ids, ITT. \ s invested pa- ent led to the ise it was car- f the principal commands us erish the whole it, though onr tent. ig of the Chris- attempting to work. The regulator. It • it retrenches [ivial ; it leaves •istian religion, ihed from origi- heart is expert in deception, and there is no one who has been Pickled at the breast of woman hot has drunk of the cup of illusion. Sometimes it is a cottage which is situated like th% paternal habitation ; sometimes it is a wood, a valley, a hill, on which we bestow some of the sweet appellations of our native land. Andromache gives the name of Simois to a brook. And what an affecting object is this little rill, which recalls the idea of a mighty river in her native country I Re- mote from the soil which gave us birth, nature appears to us diminished, and but the shadow of that which we have lost. 4. Another artifice of the love of country is to attach a great value to an object of little intrinsic worth, but which comes from our native land, and which we have brought with us into exile. The soul seems to dwell even upon the inani- mate things which have shared our destiny : we remain at- tached to the down on which our prosperity has slumbered, and still more to the straw on which we counted the days of our adversity. The vulgar have an energetic expression, to describe that languor which oppresses the soul when away from our country. " That man," they say, " is home-sick." 5. A sickness it really is, and the only cure for it is to return. If, however, we have been absent a few years, what do wo find in the place of our nativity? How few of those whom we left behind in the vigor of health are still alive I Here are tombs where once stood palaces ; there rise palaces where we left tombs. The paternal field is overgrown \ntlx briers, c- cnltivated by the plough of a stranger ; and the tree beneath which we frolicked in our boyish days has disappeared. 6. Were we asked, what are those powerful ties which bind na to the place of our nativity, we would find some difficulty in answering the question. It i<<, perhaps, the smile of a mother, of a father, of a sister ; it is, perhaps, the recollection of the old preceptor who instructed us, and of the young com- panions of onr childl; vod; it is, perhaps, the care bestowed upon us by a tender nurse, by some aged domestic, so essen- tial a part of the household ; finally, it is something most simple, and, if yon please, trivial, — a dog that barked at night in the fields, a nightingale that reUimed every year ti 416 TBE ITPm BEADrB. fc . :; -i ■'ill- •' the orchard, the nest of the swallow over the window, tlie village clock that appeared above the trees, the churchyard yew, or the Gothic tomb. Yet these simple things demon* Btrate the more clearly the reality of a Providence, as they could not possibly be the source of patriotism, or of the grea virtues which it begets, unless by the appointment of the Al mighty himself. 155. Peteb the Hermit. XIOBAUD. and is justly considered one of the jB^reatest historical works of modern times. Kobson, the Enfi^Iish translator, has disfigured the work by notea of a partisan ana illibertu character, difiering entirely from the spirit of the work. 1. Peteb the Hermit traversed Italy, crossed the Alps, visited all parts of France, and the greatest portion of Eih rope, inflaming all hearts with the sanie zeal that consumed his own. He traveQed mounted on a mule, with a crucitix in his hand, his feet bare, his head uncovered, his body girded with a thick cord, covered with a long frock, and a hermit's hood of the coarsest stuff. The singularity of bis appear- ance was a spectacle for the people, while the austerity of his manners, his charity, and the moral doctrines that he {H^ached, caused him to be revered as a saint wherever he came. 2. He went from city to city, from provhice to province, working upon the courage of some, and upon the piety oi others ; sometimes haranguing from the pulpits of the churches, sometimes preaching in the high-roads or public places. His eloquence was animated and impressive, and filled with those vehement apostrophes which produce sncb effects upon an uncultivated multitude. He described the profanation ot the holy places, and the blood of the Chris- tians shed in torrents in the streets of Jerusalem. 3. Ho invoked, by turns, Heaven, the saints, the dngelei PLTKR THE ItKKMIT. 417 whom he called upon to l)ear witness to the truth of chat ha told them, lie apostrophized >^)unt Sion, the roct of Cal« vary, and tne Mount of Olives, which he made to ."esound with sobe and groans. When he had exhausted epeeeh in painting the miseries of the faithful, he showed the s|)ectatora the crucifix which he carried with him ; sometimes striking hi.s breast and wounding his flesh, sometunes shevlding torrents of tears. 4. The people followed the steps of Peter in crowds. The preacher ot the holy war was received everywhere as a mes- senger from God. They who could touch his vestments es- teemed themselves happy, and a portion of hair pulled from the mule he rode was preserved as a holy relic. At the sound of his voice, differences in families were reconciled, the poor were comforted, the debauched blushed at their errors ; noth- ing was talked of but the virtues of the eloquent cenobite ; his austerities and his miracles were described, and his dis- courses wc . repeated to those who had not heard him, and been edified by his presence. 5. He often met, in his journeys, with Christians from the East, who had been banished from their country, and wan- dered over Europe, subsisting on charity. Peter the Hermit presented them to the people, as living evidences of the bar- barity of the infidels ; and pomting to the rags with which they were clothed, he burst mto torrents of invectives against their oppressors and persecutors. 6. Av tb^j sight of these miserable wretches, the faithful felt, by turns, the most lively emotions of pity, and the fury of vengeance ; all deploring in their hearts the miseries and the disgrace of Jerusalem. The people raised their voices towards heaven, to entreat God to deign to cast a look of pity upon his beloved city ; some offering theur riches, others their prayers, but all promismg to lay down their lives for the deliyerauce of the holy places. il8 THE FIFTH READEB. 156. TuK Celtic Okoss. T. D. McUKB. iH ■' ' 1. Thbouoh storm, and fire, and gloom, I see it stand, Firm, broad, and tall — The Celtic Cross that marks our Fatherland, Amid them all I Druids, and Danes, and Saxons, Tainly rage Around its base ; It standeth shock on shock, and age on age, Star of a scattered race. al. Holy Cross 1 dear symbol of the dread Death of our Lord, Around tbee long have slept cur Martyr-dead, Sward over sward I A hundred Bishops I myself can count Among the slain ; Chiefs, Captains, rank and file, a shining moimt Of God's ripe grain. B. The Monarch's mace, the Puritan's claymore, Smote thee not down ; On headland steep, on mountain summit hoar. In mart and town ; In Glendalough, in Ara, in Tyrone, We find thee still. Thy open arms still stretching to thine own, O'er town, and lough, and hill. 4. And they would tear thee out of Irish soil, ' The guilty fools I How Time must mock their antiquated toll And broken tools I Cranmer and Cromwell from thy grasp retired, ' Baffled and thrown : William and Anne to sap thy site conspired— The rest is known ! iiV CAN TlIK 80U)IKK UK AN ATIIKI8T ? 419 6. Holy Saint Patrick, Father of our Faith. Belcved of God 1 Shield thy dear Church from the impending scathe ; Or, if the ro«' Mast scourge it yet again, inspire and raise • To emprise high, Men like the heroic race of other days, Who joy'd to die 1 6. Fear I Wherefore should the Celtic people fetf Their Church's fate? The day is not — the day was never near — Could desolate The Destined Island, all whose seedy clay Is holy ground — Its cross shall stand till that predestined day, When Erin's self is drown'd I 15T. Oan the Soldibb be an Atheist? OHATBAUBBIAND. 1. Will the soldier who marches forth to battle — that child of glory — ^be an atheist? Will he who seeks an endless life consent to perish forever ? Appear upon your thundering clouds, ye countless Christian warriors, now hosts of heaven I appear 1 From your exalted abode, from the holy city, pro- claim to the heroes of our day that the brave man is not wholly consigned to the tomb, and that something more of him survives than an empty name. 2. All the great generals of antiquity were remarkable for their piety. Epaminondas, the deliverer of his country, had the character of the most religious of men ; Xenophon, that philosophic warrior, was a pattern of piety; Alexander, the ererlasting model of conquerors, gave himself out to be the son of Jupiter. Among the Romans, the ancient consuls cf the republic, a Cincinnatus, a Fabius, a Papirius Cursor, a Paulus 18* i.fl Pi!' " »■'■. ■!• 1 1 '.I ;? I- J :'j 420 THE rn-lU UEAJDRB. iEmiliiLs, a Scipio, plnccd all their reliance on the deity of the Capitol ; Pompey marched to battle imploring the dirine as- HiHtancc ; Cffisar pretended to be of celestial descent ; Cato, his rival, was convinced of the immortality of the soul ; Bru- tus, his assassin, believed in the existence of STg;)ematural powers; and Augustus, his successor, reigned only in the Dame of the gods. 8. In modern times was that valiant Sicambrian, the con queror of Rome and of the Gauls, an unbeliever, who, falling at the feet of a priest, laid the foundation of the empire of France? Was St. Louis, the arbiter of kings, — revered by infidels themselves, — an unbeliever? "Was the yalorous Da Guesclin, whose coffin was sufficient for the capture of cities, — the Chevalier Bayard, without fear and without reproach, — the old Constable de Montmorenci, who recited his beads in the camp, — were these men without religion ? But, irtore wonderful still, was the great Turenne, whom Bossuet brought back to the bosom of the Church, an unbeliever ? 4. No character is more admirable than that of the Chris- tian hero. The people whom he defends look up to him as a father ; he protects the husbandman and the produce of his fields ; he is an angel of war sent by God to mitigate the horrors of that scourge. Cities open their gates at the mere report of his justice ; ramparts fall before his virtue ; he is beloved by the soldier, he is idolized by nations ; with the courage of the warrior he combines the charity of the gospel; his conversation is impressive and instructing ; his words are full of simplicity; you are astonished to find such gentleness in a man accustomed to live in the midst of dangers. Thus the honey is hidden under the rugged bark of an oak which baa braved the tempests of ages. We may safely conclude that in no respect whatever is atheism profitable for the soldier. .i;l JAPAKESB MAKTYBS. 421 158. Japanesb Marttbs. OADDSLL. CtcfUA Mabt Caddbli/— an En^linh •uth)r«M, who hu made nianj (racet'ul «iid interesting; contnbutionn to the Catholic literature of our day. Among others, "Talcs of the Festivals," '* Miner's Daughter," ** Blanche Leslie," and " Missions in Japan and Parafuay." 1. Scarcely had the exiles reached this hospitable aRylam ere another edict was published in Figo, commanding all the remaining Christians to repair to the house of a bonze ap* pointed for the purpose, and in his presence to perform a cer* tain ceremonj, which was to be considered as a declaration of their belief in his teaching. Death was to be the penalty of a refusal ; and two noblemen, named John and Simon, were chosen as examples of severity to the rest. Both were friends of the goTernor, to whom the order had been intrusted, and he did what he could to save them. 2. " If they would but feign compliance with the king'tf decree," or " hare the ceremony privately performed at theii own houses,-" or "bribe the bonze to allow it to be supposed he had received thwr recantation," — each of these alternatives was as eagerly urged as it was indignantly rejected ; and when a band of ruffians dragged John to the bonze's house, and set the superstitious book which was to be the token of his apos- tasy by mam force upon his head, he protested so loudly and vehemently against the violence done to his will, that nothing remained but to sentence him to death. The execution took place in the presence of the governor ; and from the chamber, still reel^g with the blood of one friend, be went to the house of the other on a similar mission, and with equal reluctance. 3. Simon was quietly conversing with his mother when the governor entered ; and the latter could not refrain from weep- ing as he besought that lady to have pity upon them both, and, by advising compliance with the king's commands, to ipare herself the anguish of losing a son, and himself that o. imbruing his hands in the blood of a friend. Touching as waa the appeal, it was made in vain ; for in her answer the Chris* tian mother proved true to her faith ; so that the govemoi ll^ i I «. 'I »• I ■ r m i:-(- II I' ■!-•. &' 422 THE I'IMU KKAUEB. left the house, indignantly doclaring that bj her obstioitcy she was guilty of the death of her Hon. 4. Another nobleman entered soon afterwards, charged with the personal execution of the sentence. This was no unusual method of proceeding, since every Japanese nobleman, strange to say, may at any moment bo called upon to officiate in such cases, it being a favor often granted to persons oi rank to die by the hand of a friend or a servant, rather than by that of the ordinary headsman. Jotivava was a friend of Simon's, and he proceeded with what heart he might to his sad and revolting duty. 5. Knowing his errand well, Simon received him with an affectionate smile, and then prostrated himself in prayer before an image of oar Saviour crowned with thorns, while his wife and mother called for warm water that he might wash, — a ceremony the Japanese always observe upon joyful occasions. Tears of natural regret would flow, indeed, even in the midst of this generous exultation; and Agnes, falling upon her knees, besought her husband to cat off her hair, as a sign that she never would marry again. 6. After a little hesitation, he complied with this request ; prophesying, however, that she and his. mother would soon follow him to heaven ; and then, accompanied by the three Oiffiaques, or officers of the Confraternity of Mercy, whom he had summoned to be present at the execution, they all entered the hall where it was intended to take place. Michael, one of the Giffiaques, carried a crucifix; the other two bore lighted torches; and Simon walked between his wife and mother, while his disconsolate servants brought up the rear. t. An unhappy n legade met them at the entrance, to take leave of Simon ; but struck by the contrast between his own conduct and that of tb» martyr, he burst into tears, and was unable to speak. Mom. eloquently did Simon urge him to re- pentance, unconsciously using almost the very words of his Divine Master, as he htude bim weep, " not for his own ap* proachiBg fate, but for the f II apostasy by which he, a rene- gade, had rendered hi self guilty of hell-fire )" th«i» distrib* Ating his robaries and other obj' '^ts of devotion as memorial! 'ft JAI'ANKBR MAKTYKfl. 423 imnnx hifl friemis he rcfuMetoe to show^ '♦how tall His person is above them all :"— but he seems to find his own level, and wherever he is, to slide into his place naturally ; he is equally at home among lords or gamblers ; nothing can discompose his fixed serenity of look and purpose ; there is no mark of spperciliousness about him, nor does it appear as if any thing could meet his eye to startle or throw him off his guard ; he neither avoids nor courts no- tice ; but the archaism of his dress may be understood to denote a lingering partiality for the costume of the last age, and something lU^e a pFe^criptiye contempt for the finery of this. 162. Social Ghabaotebs. CHATEAUBRIAND, 1. Those characters which we have denommated social , are reduced by the poet to two — ^the priest and the soldier. Had we not set apart the fourth division of our work for the his- tory of the clergy and the benefits which they confer, it would be an easy ta,sk to show here how far superior, in point of variety and grandeur, is the character of the Christian priest to that of the priest of polytheism, 2. What exquisite pictures might be drawn, from the pas« tor of the rustic hamlet to thf pontiff whose brows are encii^ 480 THJt rtm KULDKB. m II >i'- ulr- I n cled with the papal tiara ; from the parish priest of the city to the anchoret of the rock ; from the Carthosian and the inmate of La Trappe to the learned Benedictine ; from the missionary, and the multitude of religious devoted to the al- ieriation of all the ills that afliict hnmanitj, to the inspu^ prophet o^ ancient Sion I 3. Th jrder of yirgins is not less varied or nnmerons, nor less v&.rio'd in its pursuits. Those daughters of charity who consecrate their youth and their charms to the service of the afflicted, — ^those inhabitants of the cloister who, under the protection of the altar, educate the future '^ves of men, while they congratulate themselves on their own union with a heav* enly spouse, — ^this whole innocent family is in admirable corre- spondence with the nine sisters of fable. Antiquity presented nothing more to the poet than a high-priest, a sorcerer, a ves- tal, a sibyl. These characters, moreover, were but accident- ally introduced ; whereas the Christian priest is calculated to act one of the most important parts in the epic. 4. M. de la Harpe has shown in his Melanie what effects may be produced with the character of a village curate when delineated by an able hand. Shakspeare, Richardson, Gold- smith, have brought the priest upon the stage with more or less felicity. As to external pomp, what religion was ever ac- companied with ceremonies so magnificent as ours ? Corpus Christi day, Christmas, Holy-week, Easter, All-souls, the fu- neral ceremony, the Mass, and a thousand other rites, furnish an inexhaustible subject for splendid or pathetic descriptions. 5. The modem muse that complains of Christianity cannot certainly be acquainted with its riches. Tasso has described a procession in the Jerusalem, and it is one of the finest pas- sages in his poem. In short, the ancient sacrifice itself is not banished from the Christian subject ; for nothing is more easj than, by means of an episode, a comparison, or a retrospectiT« Tiew, to introduce a sacrifice of the ancient covenant. THV INDIAN BOAT. 4a] iest of the city hnsian and the ctine ; from the voted to the al- ^ to the inspired If numerous, not of charity who e service of the who, under the res of men, while ion with a heav- admirable corre- itiquity presented a sorcerer, a ves- ere but accident- itis calculated to pic. janie what effects lage curate when Uchardson, Gold- ige with more or igioc was ever ac- ts ours? Corpus All-souls, the fu- ither rites, furnish letic descriptions, hristianity cannot 3S0 has described of the finest pas- •rifice itself is not ihing is more easy oraretrospectiT« iOTcnant. 163. Thf Indian Boat. MOOBB. 1. 'TwAS midnight dark. The seaman's bark Pinft o'er the waters bore him, When, through the night, He spied a light Shoot o'er the wave before him. ** A sail I a sail I'' he cries ; " She comes from the Indian shof% And to-night shall be our prize, With her freight of goMen ore ; Sail on I sail on 1" When morning shone, He saw the gold still clearer ; But, though so fast The waves he pass'd. That boat seem'd never the neaicr 2. Bright daylight came, And still the same Rich bark before him floated ; While on the prize His wistful eyes Like any young lover's doated : ** More sail ! more sail V* he cries. While the waves o'ertop the mast ? And while his boundmg galley flies, Like an arrow before the blast. Thus on, and on, T^ll day was gone, And the moon through heaven did hie hi&tf He swept the main, But all in vain. That boat seem'd never the nigher. 432 • I t'i THE riFTn &EADEB. 8. And many a day To night gave way, And many a morn Hocceoded t While still his flight, Throngh day and night, That restless mariner speeded. Who knows — who knows, what He is now careering o'er ? Behind, the eternal breeze, And that mocking bark, befbre 1 For, oh, till sky And earth shall die, And their death Irave none to rae H^ That boat must flee O'er the boundless sea, And that ship in yarn pursue it. ~t 1 'S *.' 111. 164. Death of Charles II. op England. ROBERTSON. 1. On Monday, the 2d of February, 1685, the king, aftei a ieverish and restless night, rose at an early hour. Though the remedies administered to him were attended with partial success, it soon became evident that the hour of his dissolution was rapidly approaching. 2. His brother, the Duke of York, whose persecution lie nad sometimes weakly consented to, was in his last illness destined to be his ministering angel of consolation. James knelt down by the pillow of the sick monarch, and asked if he might send for a Catholic priest. " For God's sake do," was the king's reply; but he immediately added, "Will it not ex- pose you to danger ?" 3. James replied, " that he cared not for the danger," and sending out a trusty messenger, shortly afterwards introduced to hifi majesty the Rev. Mr. Huddleston, with these word»' ;'^,- DEATH OF CHAELE8 II. OF ENGLAND. 433 p Enqlaiid. " Sir, this worthy man comes to saTO yoar soal." The priest threw himself on his knees, and offered to the djicg monarch the aid of his ministry. 4 To his inquiries Charles replied, "that it was his desire to die in the communion of the Roman Catholic Chnrch ; that he heartily repented of all his sins, and in particular of having deferred his reconciliation to that hoar; that he hopec* for salvation from the merits of Christ his Savioor ; that he par- doned all his enemies, asked pardon of all whom he had offend- ed, and was in peace with all men ; and that he purposed, if God should spare him, to prove the sincerity of his repentance by a thorough amendment of life." 5. The Rev. Mr. Huddleston, having heard his confession, administered to him the holy viaticum, anointed him, and re- tired. About two o'clock in the night, looking on the duke, who was kneeling at his bedside and kissing his hand, the monarch called him " the best of friends and brothers, desired him to forgive the harsh treatment which he had sometimes received, and prayed that God might grant him a long and prosperous reign" — ^words the truest which Charles had ever spoken, uttered ou the threshold of that eternity, where all dissimulation is vain. 6. At noon on the following day, the 6th of Febmary, 1685, the monarch calmly expired. For this singular grace of a death-bed repentance, after a life so scandalous, I have often thought that Charles was in- debted CO the prayers of a holy priest whom, under peculiar circumstances, he had during his exile met with in Germany. The anecdote, with your permission, I will now state. 7. A few years before the restoration, Charles was on a visit to the ecclesiastical elector of Mayence. In the coarse of conversation the elector said to the prince, " There is i my arch-diocese a saintly priest, called Holzhauser, possessing, the gifts of prophecy and miracle, and who, many years ago, and long before the event, foretold the tragic end of your royal father, and is deeply interested in English affairs : would you like to sec him?" " By all means," replied Charles. 8. The priest was accordingly sent for, and thoagh the 19 iU THB mTH READER. night WM ntonnj, he traversed m a boat, at the risk of his life, the Rhine from Bingcn to Maycncv. Having been Introduced to the English prince, the latter qaeationed hiiu much as to the prophecy relative to his father's death. A( that passed in this secret interview, whicii was prolonged fur into the night, is not known. 9. But Holzhauser declared, that on takhg leave »f the prince he mvited him over to England, in case he should ever be restored to the throne of his ancestors. In reply, the holy man observed, he had long burned with the desire to preach the faith in England, and that if his duty to his congregation allowed him, he would accept the invitation. Charles shook hands with him in bidding hun farewell, and he in turn strong- ly commended to the future king the protection of his English and Irish Catholic subjects. \ 165. Keuoion an Essential Element m EDVOATiofl. STAPT. Vkrt Rkv. J. A. Staff, a German priest, and Professor of Moral Theo- logy. From his admirable work on " The Spirit and Soope of Education," we extract the following : 1. To educate is not merely to awaken by some means or other the dormant faculties of the soul, and to give them any training which may happen to strike the educator's fancy. To educate a child, is to rescue the risii^ man from the perdition entailed upon him by Adam's fall, and to render him capable of attaining his true end in this world and in the next. As a citizen of this world, he has to fit hunself for the sphere of action in which Providence intends him to move ; and as a candidate for the kingdom of heaven, with his hopes in eter nity, he has to produce fruits which will last forever. 2. To imagine that it is impossible to bring up a child at once for earth and for heaven, is to betray very little knowl- edge of tUngs. God himself has placed us on earth as in a preparatory school and q> place of probation, imd it ia Hif VRLIOION AH ELBMEMT IN KOrCATlOX. 435 [N Eduoahob. move : and as a win, that whil« we are here we nhoald nil, in onr rp5pectl?6 callings, contribnte our best exertions towards the wolfarc of the whole. For this purpose He has l)€8t<)w*'d cortain tuh-nta upon ns, of the employment of whi/^h Uc will one day demand a strict account Matt. xxv. 15. If wu wish, then, to attain to our true and last end, which reaches from time into eter- nity, we must to the best of our power finish here on earth the taak allotted to ns. "What thin^E a man shall sow, those also shall he reap." Oal. vi. 8. 3. The branch of education which has earth in yiew is most intimately connected with the other, which aims at hearen. The union between them is indissoluble. What is here advanced, would only then involve contradiction, if in speaking of a worldly education — of an education for earth, such an education were meant as would fit youth for purely temporal pursuits ; just as if temporal welfare were man's only end, aud he had after death nothing cither to fear or to hope for. This opinion is, alas I but too prevalent among men. Woe to the child whose educators entertain it, and who is thereby kept in ignorance of its own true and eternal des tiny I Woe to society did this opinion become universal I 4. For man, however, to rise to an intimate union of friendship with God, it is absolutely necessary, under any cir- cumoCances, that God should ^rs^ descend to him, in order to instruct and enlighten hun, to strengthen and to sanctify him by light and grace from above. This is particularly requisite m man's present fallen state, where he is of himself only an object of the Divine displeasure, and moreover corrupted both in mind and body. 5. It is a task beyond the power of finite being to accom- plish, to rescue him now from the grasp of sin, to dissipate the clouds which obstruct his mental vision, to restore him to his former health and vigor, and to deliver his captive will from the unholy fetters of sin and egotism. Omnipotence alone could accomplish this great work, and Omnipotence did accomplish it. The God-man, Jesu? Christ, came in loving obedience to the Will of his Eternal Father, and delivered himself a victim for man's redemption, establishing on earth a 436 THE rirrn rbadeb. 1 ^S §•«"*'' :B '^1 «.', f 'f\ If! :S "" ' i KM'H . l! Hi'' If li: new indtitution of Rolvation, which is to last onto the end of time. 6. Accordingly, there is no salvatioD for man possible nn- IcHs through Christ. Acts iv. 12. Hence, if education in really intended to attain the one great and true object of edu- cation ; if it is intended to furnish the rising generations, ud the J succeed one another on earth, with the means and assist- ance requisite for securing to them their eternal happiness ; it must necessarily be Christian. It must be thoroughly imbued with the spirit of Christianity, breathing forth the life and soul of Christ's religion into the young beings intrusted to it, and not coldly mentioning it to them, as one among other in- stitutions worthy of notice. Unless the educator conducts his little ones to Christ, — their Redeemer as well as his own, — he will inevitably lead them astray. t. Nay, if the spirit of religion is banished from education, education will not so much as promote man's temporal wel- fare. Without religion, there is not such a thing as true love of one's self, or of one's neighbor ; not such a thing as firm and enduring attachment to king and to country ; not such a thing as a sincere union of heart and hand for the advance- ment of the common weal. 8. As Christianity alone unites man to God, so it alono unites man to man ; and the good fruits which it produces, as mentioned by the Apostle {Oal. v. 22), are "charity, joy, peace, patience, benignity, goodness, longanimity, mildness, faith, modesty, continency, chastity.*' The more, on the other hand, man withdraws himself from its influence, the more dis- astrous are the works of the flesh, enumerated by the same Apostle. OcU. V. 19, &c. Compare James, iv. 1, &c. ; and these works, who can deny it, are fraught with ruin both for time and eternity. 9. This profanation of education, the banishment and neg- lect of religion, the foolish attempt to raise and ennoble fallen man by tjie sole instrumentality of his fellow-man, is the greatest bane of modem times. Men may, indeed, be sent forth into the world with fine esthetic feelings, and with a fund of the most varied information, but they belong aisc THE IMMORTAL SOUL OW MAN. 487 the end of fretiaentlj to the class which St. Paal {Rom. i. 39, kc.) describes as filled w>,h all iniquity, malice, furuicutiun, covet- onsness, wickedness, iTnll of enry, .... deceit, muli^^nitj, tlctrocton, hateful to f}od, contumelious, proud, huughty, inventors of evil things, viisobedient to parents, foolish, dis holute, without affection, wit.hout fidelity, &c., kc. 10. " In our schools," so writes a modem author, " Pagao- sm predominates. Christianity has beeu either intentionally banished, or has been allowed to disappear, through indiffer- ence and neglect; or else, where it is still retained, it ia treated as a subject of secondary importance. The atmo- sphere of the school is wholly that of the world. To edu cate, is now to make youth proficient in the arts, and to fit them for money-making. That is what is called for ning grod citizens ; as if a man could be a good citizen without being at the same time a good Christian, and as if Christianity were not the true basis and the bulwark of Christian states ind theur constitutions. 166. The Immortal Soul of Man. —fib *■ BTRON. QsoBttS. Lord Btkon, bom in London in 1788 ; diod in 1824. Of all tli* (^at Engliah poets, Bvron has attained the widest popularity, with the single exception of Shakspeare. If the moral tendency of his poems were only equal to their excellence, then, indeed, we could dwell on them as masterpieces of the art of poetry, but unfortunately, ''" contrary is the case with most of them. Still, Byrou has left behind i"! ° :>> xquisite verses on sacred and rolieious subjects, one of which we here giV^ , It is one of hia boftutifUl Hebrew Melodies. 1 When coldness wraps this snffeiiiiig clay, Ah, whither strays the iinrioirtal mind? ' ; i! It cannot die, it cannot stay. Bat leaves its darkened dust behind. Then, unembodied, doth it trace By steps each planet's heavenly way? •* 1 'i ' Or fill at once the realms of space. ■ J A thing of eyes, that all snrvciy ? V<>M C V4l-t |8S THE niTH RBAOBB. S. Eternal, boandlcss, undccay'd, A thought unseen, but seeing all, All, all in earth, or skioa displaj'd, Shall it survey, shall it recall : Each fainter trace that meinory holii So darkly of departed years, In one broad glance the soul beholde, * And all, that was, at once appean. %. Before creation peopled earth, Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; Ajid where the farthest heaven had birtl^ The spu*it trace its rising track ; And where the future mars or makes, Its glance dilate o'er all to be, While sun is quench'd or system break^ Ftx'd in its own eternity. '•^ • 4. Above, or love, hope, hate, or fear, It lives all passionless and pure ; An age shall fleet like earthly year; Its years as moments shall endure. Away, away, without a wing, O'er all, through all, its thoughts shall tfi A nameless and eternal thing ,' ^ Forgetting what it was to die. ' ' ^'•.- 167. Books as Souboes of Self-Cultiyatiqii. STAFF. 1. The power of embodying and perpetuating thoughts and feelings in visible signs is assuredly one of man's most precious ornaments. By means of it, those who ore now living are enabled to conjure into their presence the ancient world, at well as the most distant scenes and events of the present day, and to ei\joy friendly convcdrse with the great and wise men of BOOKS AS 80US0B OF BKLF-CCLTIVA'nON. 4a» srery age. They may resuscitate into renewed life withui tbemselTes the .. tiiest, the best, and the most noble thoughts and feelings which ever adorned the homan mind. They hare the whole treasore of the world's experience at their own disposal, and they may still follow the mightiest scMils to the heights of scientific, inteilectoal, and moral pre-eminence, of which, without them, the world might never haye had an idea. 2. Reading, however, is not unaccompanied with danger. Nay, in the present state of the literary world, abonnding as it does with bad books, reading may be the source of irrepar- able evil. Accordingly, it is an essential duty for the educa- tor to be most careful in his choice of books for the perusal of the youth under his charge. Let him not be led astray by fine^ounding names, and title-pages prodigal of promises, nor by praise lavished in newspapers and reviews. On the con- trary, he ought to lay it down as a rule, never to give his pupUs a book to read until he has himself read it quite through, and found it, upon careful examination, to be suit- able for them in an int«llectiia], as well as in a religioas and moral point of view. i - , '^ . 3. This is a rule from which he should never depart. There are books written irtentionally for the perusal of youth, and so arranged that the poison is all kept up for the last few pages, at which stage of the work it necessarily produces the most pernicious effects, since the unwary heart of the young reader has already .contracted a friend^ip with the author. Even supposing that the latter is in every respect worthy of confidence, as a man of principle and virtue, the teacher ought not on that account to dispense himself from the rule above mentioned. All works are not intended for all readers, and no one can judge so well as he what is fit for his pupils, and what not. 4. Besides taking this care in choosing their reading-books rhile they are under his immediate guidance, he should, more- over, impress upon them, with all the urgency of true affec: tlon, the necessity which there is that they should in after-life be guided by the opinion of a well-informed and conscientious friend, and neither read nor purchase a book of which he di» 440 THB FUTH BBADKR. if; m i •! ; I- =■ ^ J; ! ! approres. Common prudence demands this. A library, or a bookseller's shop, is like a market, stocked not only with good articles of food, bnt also with snch as are unwholesome and poisonous. In such a market-place, no rational being would content himself with whatever came under his hand first, ana greedily devour it ; but he would, on the contrary, be very cautious in his purchases, in order not to buy a useless or dangerous article. 5. Among the other maladies to which human nature is 8ul:gect, there is one which may be termed a reading mania. Excess in reading is injurious in many respects. Among other writings which are not suited for the peru- sal of the young, those should be named which are calculated to distract their thoughts from serious occupations, and to awaken in their hearts an excessive tenderness of feeling. Even supposing the contents of such works are in themselves of an edifying nature, they are very apt to give rise to* a pas- sion for reading ; and then the taste, once corrupted and ac- customed to a false beauty and sweetness of style, feels disgust for wholesome nourishment, and seeks for food in sUly and dangerous novels and romances. 6. Whoever labors under an inordinate desire of reading, and who, accordingly, reads without distinction every book which he can procure, will unavoidably come, sooner or later, upon bad and dangerous books. The hurried and superficial manner in which he reads is also hurtful to the mental powers. They are thereby overloaded with food, and like the body under similar circumstances, become languid and unhealthy. " Not many things, but much :" such was a maidm of the an- cients on this subject. 7. Read not many books, but read one book well. It mat- ters not how much or how little is read, but what is read should be so with a constant application of the mind. It ib far better and far more profitable for the reader to study one book, so as to comprehend it thoroughly, and to see and feel the spirit and tendency of the writer, than to pemsf^ a ^eat number of books in such a manner as to touch only the surface. MAN^S DESTINT. 441 ibrary, or a f with good )lc8ome and toeing would ad first, ana iry, be very 9, Dseless or m nature is ding mania. for the peru- ,re calculated tions, and to j8 of feeling, in themselyea rise toapas- -upted and ao- p, feels disgust a in silly and re of reading, n every book >oner or later, ind superficial aental powers, like the body ind unhealthy. ,xim of the an- well. Itmat- what is read e mind. It if* sr to study one od to see and in to perusfi a touch only the 8. This inordinate desire of reading being one of the prin* eipal distempers of the present age, the teacher bhonld accus* tom his pupils to read all books slowly, and with reflection, so as to be able to follow the whole train of thought, and to n> tain in their memory, at least the more important points and divisions of the subject. In order to do this, he should strongly advise them not to content themselves with one perusal of a book. 9. In perusing a work for the first time, the reader is too little acquainted with the author's turn of thought, and his peculiarities of character or style. He is as a traveller pass- ing through a foreign country for the first time. The multi- tude and variety of new impressions he receives are apt to form only a dim and confused mass in the mind. This, how- ever, is not the case at a second or third perusal of the same book. 10. He has already contracted an acquaintance with the author; he knows his spirit, and his manner of expressing himself ; many things, which were at first dark and unintelli- gible, are now plain ; many, which before escaped his notice altogether, now start up before him ; what was clear at first becomes now more so, and is more deeply unpressed upon the memory. When there is question of works of more than ordi- nary importance, the trouble of a third, or even more frequent pemsali is always amply repaid. 168. Man's Destiny. 1. Man's destiny is immeasurably exalted. His last end is God. To rise nearer and nearer to God, not as an isolated being, but hand in hand with his fellow-men, in the bonds of brotherly love, and in the position in which Providenci; has placed hhn ; such is his business here on earth. Hence the great command tells him, "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with thy whole heart, and with thy whole soul, and with thy 19* ^42 THB FIFTH REAOEB. V'-] whole mind, and thj neighbor aa thjself. On these two commaDdmeDt8 dependeth the whole law and the propheti." Matt. xxii. 87, &c. 2. The great dnty of parents and edncators is, then, to train np their yonng^, and yet weak fellow-creatores, to this their noble end. No nat. ral faculty dare be destroyed. AU ehoald be develope : hhi developed in such a manner as to render them directly conducive to the one end in yiew^ which is to raise man to God. , . , , 8. At all events, none should be hinderances or obstacles to this end. Did a man speak not merely with the tongues of men, bat also with those of angels, did be know all mys- teries, and all knowledge, and had not charity, he were noth- ing. And, again, what doth It profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and suffer the loss of his own soul ! 1 Cor. iM, 1, &c. ; Matt. xvi. 26. 4. Man fell, and now, in his present state of corruption, groaning, as he does at his birth, under the load of original sin, he can find salvation nowhere but in and through his IH* vine Redeemer, Jesus Christ. In sep-eiration from him, there is no salvation. The name of Jesus is the only name in which mortal man can be rescued from perdition. Acts iv. 12. 5. Accordingly, the work of true education is to conduct youth to Jesus Christ. He has a right to them. He paid for them with his blood. He has made them the temples c? the Holy Spirit by baptism. He intrusts them for a short time to parents and teachers, and when he asks them back, he expects to find them well prepared for the fulfihuent of his all-wise and loving intentions. 6. Hence emanates the great truth, which cannot be too often repeated, that education should be thoroughly religious and Christian in its external forms, as in its inward spirit. If it is ever to restore to life, and to adorn with fVesh blossoms and with wholesome fruits, the withered tree of fallen human- ity, it must itself be animated in all its branches by the living and life-^ving breath of Christianity. Accordingly, active charity, flowing from a lively faith, or the filiiU love of €loc^ has been, on every occasion, daring the coame of tUs toeatiee, ' ' ' n BINOEN ON TUK RHINk. 443 held up ag the point most worthy of notice, as being the ai^ canum, or great secret in education. 7. The end of education is to insure man's happiness for time and for eternity. This, however, it cannot do without religion. For without religion there is not such a tiling as true love of self, or of one's neighbor ; and without this love, no real happiness is attaipiible, even on this earth, either by ndividuals in particular, or by society in general. 8. Well, then, may the following words of an author, lately deceased, be repeated here in conclusion : " We should merit respect by our virtue ; and to our virtue we should impart worth and duration by religion. Amid all the vicissitudes of life, let it be the guiding-star in our firmament. The shades of night may lower over us, rocks may surround us, still in its blessed light we will be ever able to steer on our course in safety 1" Happy the world, if both educators and educated reduced this advice to practice 1 169. BiNQSK ON THE RhINB. , HOH. MBS. KOSTON. Caboukx Eluuuubhi SiJiAH NoBVOV, ft ffrand-dAughtsr of th« fiunoiu Richard Biinaley Sheridan, is only second to Mrs. nemans among th« female poets of oar age. She has been called *' the Byron of fooudo poeta," and akhough her poetry may not have all tiie wild paiuion that breathes in Byron's, it is oharecteriied oy a depth and intensity of feeling that nuM it far above wh«t is aaaaUy written by females. A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears ; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebb'd away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier falter'd, as he took that comrade's hand. And he said, " I never more ahaU see my own, my ilativ« hiad ; if .1, 4 ? ?l iH TliK FirrU READER. Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mioi^ For I was born at Bingen — at Bingen on the Rhine. n. "Tell my brotbe^rs and companions, when thij mee( aui crowd around To hear my monrnM story in the pleasant rlncyai J gronnd, That we fonght the batt]>j brarely, and wLeo the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, bftneatii th«) setting snn. And midst the dead and dying, were some grown old iiv w^rq^ The death wonnd on their gallant breasts, ti^o last of n^t^y 8( i» rs ; Bat some w*;re jonug — i^ad suddenly beheld life's mom de- cline • \ '-' And one bad come from Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine ! ■*i •> ' " Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage : For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whatever they would, but kept my father's sword. And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, x^r'i: t- - -'-.v^-^ -r-^i On the cottage-wall at Bingen — calm Bingen on the Rhine I ^«v---"- " Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping ..■-1 head,....,y .yv _,^-.w When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread ; . . r mc'Pt aik BIMOEH ON TH2 HBIXE. 445 Bat to look apon them proudly, with a calm and steadfafi eye, For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die. And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame ; 4.nd to hang the old sword in its place (my father's swon and mine), For the honor of old Bingen— dear Bingen on the Rhine I " There's another — ^not a sister ; in the happy days gone by. You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry, — too fond for idle scorning, — T Oh I friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometunes hear- lest mourning ; Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen My body will be out of pain — ^my soul be out of prison), I dream'd I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the Tine-dad hUls of Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine I les fierce and " I saw the blue Rhine sweep along — I heard, or aeem'd to hear. The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; >■ ,^ r - . . , . / ..■ ,-.v-4::«;- «- '^v-^- f And her glad blue eyes were on me as we passed with friendly talk Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remember'd walk. And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine : But we'll meet no more at Bingen — cloved Bingen on th« Rhint I" m\ A4S ii' 1 i * ] ; ft- li THX FIFTH READER. VII. Hia Toice grew faint and hoarser — his grasp wom childiMh weak, — Hia eyes pat on a dying look, — be sigh'd and ceased tc speak ; His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,-^ The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land — was dead ! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and cahnly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown ; Yea, calmly on that dreadfol scene her pale light seem'd to shme, i.8 it shoae on di^taat Bmgen — fair Bingen oa the Bhioe I 170. On Good Bkeedino. / . AVON. s' ;, •,- . ■ . ■ f.,cC J .. 1. As learning, honor, and yirtae are absolntely necessary to gain yon the esteem and admiration of mankind, politeness and good breeding are equally nee jssary to make you agree- able in conyersation and conmion life. Great talents are above the generality of the world, who neither po'^ioss them themselves, not judge of them rightly in others; but all people are judges of the smaller talents, such as civility, affability, and an obliging, agreeable address and manner, because they feel the effects of them, as makic^ society easy and pleasing. 2. Good sense must, in many cases, determine g^od breed- ing; but there are some general rules o,, it that always hold true. For example, it is extremely rude not to give proper attention, and a civil answer, when people speak to you; or to go away, or be doing something else, while they are speaking to you ; for that convinces them that you despise them, and do not think it worth your whUe to hear or answer what they eay. It is also very rude to take the best place in a room, or to seize inunediately upon what you b'ke at table, without ON GOOD BEEEDINO. 447 offering first to help others, ae if you conNidoretl imhody bal younelf. On the contrary, yoa should always itul 'uvor to procure all the couTenieiices yoa can to the peo|ilf! you are with. 3. Besides being civil, which is absol tely necessary, tho perfection of good breeding is to be civ ii with ease, and in a becoming manner; awkwardness can proceed but from two causes, either from not having kept good company, or from not having attended to it. Attention is absolutely necessary for improving in behavior, as, indeed, it is for every thing else. If an awkward person drmks tea or coffee, he often scalds his mouth, and lets cither the cup or the saucer fall, and spills the tea or coffee on his clothes. 4. At dinner his awkwardness distinguishes itself partico- larly, as he has more to do. There he holds his knife, fork, and spoon differently from other people ; eats with his knife, to the great danger of his lips ; picks his teeth with his fork; and puts his spoon, which has been in his mouth twenty times, into the dishes again. If he is to carve, he can never hit the joint; but, in his vain efforts to cut through the bone, scat- ters the sauce in eviirybody's face. He generally daubi him- self with soup and grease, though bis napkin is commonly stuck through a button-hole and tickles his chin. When he drinks, he coughs in his glass, and besprinkles the company. 5. Besides all chis, he has strange tricks and gestures, such as snuffing up his nose, making faces, putting his fingers in his nose, or blowing it, so as greatly to disgust the company. His hands are troublesome to him when he has not something m them ; and he does not know where to put them, but keeps them in perpetual motion. All this, I own, is not in any de- gree criminal ; but it is highly disagreeable and ridiculous in company, and ought > most carefully to be guarded against by every one that desires to please. 6. There is, likewise, an awkwardness of expression ana words which ought to be avoided, such as false English, bad pronunciation, old saymgs, and vulgar proverbs, which are so many proofs of a poor education. For example, if, instead oi^ Baying that tastes are different, and that every man has hit I ^i 448 THi nrtn rkadeo. li ^ 1 ! own peculiar one, you fihoHid rc|>eat a vulgar proverb, and Ray that " what is one man*9 meat is another man's poi«on." or else, " Every one to his liking, as the good man said when he kisKed his cow," the company would bo j>ersuuded that y.>u had never associated with any but low persons. 7. To mistake or forget names, to speak of '* What-d'ye call-him," or " Th;ijgum," or " How-n(i with many a shepherd's tale, And many a poet's dream ; Where darkly lowers the northern pine, Where the bright myrtle blooms, And on the desert's trackless sands, Arise the ancient tombs. S. The hands that raised them, long ago, In death and dast have slept, And long the grave hath seaPd the founts Of eyes that o'er them wept ; Bat still they stand, like sea-marks left Amid the passing waves Of generations, that go down To their forgotten graves. B. For many an early nation's steps Have pass'd from hill and plain ; Their homes are gone, their deeds forgot^ Bat still their tombs remain — « To tell, when time hath left no trace Of tower or storied page, Oar ancient earth how glorions was Her early heritage. 4 They tell us of the lost and moam'd, When earth was new to tears ; The bard that left his taneful lyre, The chief that left his spears ; Ah! were their lights of love and fame On those dark altars shed, ' . .: v» To keep andimm'd through time and change^ The memory of the dead ? :t procee8, when, forgetful of all fortitude ami HellH^ontrol, nh« turned hack, and falling on hi8 neck, ki^Hed him again and again. Sir Thomas did not epeak ; but notirithMtanding his efforts at firmness tears fell rapidly from his eyes ; neither was it until his adopted daughter, Margaret Clement, ha;h, in 1718: died in 1800. H( known by his " Lectures on Rhetoric.'' Though somewhat hard He i.«« beat and dry in style and manner, this work forma a useful guide to the young atudcnl. Dr. blairis also known ns the author of a luurued and elabort'te di»»erlu- tion on MacPherson's *' Poems of Ossian." 1. Whatever promotes and strengthens virtue, whatever calms and regulates the temper, is a source of happiness. De* 454 THE FHTH RKADXB. I \ i ■• ( ■ n t MP Totion produces these effects in a remarkable degree. It in* spires composure of spirit, mildness, and benignity; weakcna the painful, and chorishes the pleasing emotions ; and, by these means, carries on the life of a pious man in a smooth and placid tenor. 2. Besides exerting this habitual influence on the mind, de* Totion opens a field of enjoyments to which the ricious an entire strangers ; enjoyments the more valuable, as they pecu< liarly belong to retirement, when the world leaves us ; and to adversity, when it becomes our foe. These are the two seasons, for which every wise man would most wish to provide some hidden store of comfort. 3. For let !iim be placed in the most favorable situation which the human state admits, the world can neither always amuse him, nor always shield him from distress. There will be many hours of vacuity, and many of dejection in his life. If he be a stranger to God, and to devotion, how dreary will the gloom of solitude often prove 1 With what oppressive weight will sickness, disappointment, or old age, fall upon his spirits. 4. But for those pensive periods, the pious man has a relief prepared. From the tiresome repetition of the common vani- ties of life, or from the painful corrosion of its cares and so^ rows, devotion transports him into a new region ; and sur- rounds him there with such objects as are the most fitted to cheer the dejection, to calm the tumults, and to heal the wounds of his heart. If the world has been empty and delu- sive, it gladdens him with the prospect of a higher and better order of things about to rise. 5. If men have been ungrateful and base, it displays before him the faithfulness of that Supreme Being, who, though every other friend fail, will never forsake him. Let us consult our experience, and we shall find, that the two greatest sources of inward joy, are, the exercise of love directed towards a deserv- ing object, and the exercise of hope terminating on some high und assured happiness. Both these aw) supplied by devo- tion ; and therefore we have no reason to be surprised, if, on some occasions, it fills the hearts of good men with a satisfac tion not to be expressed. _ ON PRIDB. 455 1 in a smooth 6. The refined pleasures of a pious mind are, in many re- spects, superior to the coarse gratifications of sense. The^ are pleasures which belong to the highest powers and Wst affections of the soul ; whereas the gratifications of senile rc< side in the lowest region of our nature. To the latt(>r, th( soul stoops below its native dignitj. The former, raise i* aboTe itself. The latter, leave always a comfortless, often a mortifying remembrance behind them. The former, are re- viewed with applause and delight. 7. The pleasures of sense resemble a foaming torrent, which after a disorderly course, speedily runs out, and leaves an empty and offensive channel. But the pleasures of devotion resemble the equable current of a pure river, whicu enlivens the fields through which it passes, and diffuses verdure and fertility along its banks. 8. To thee, Devotion 1 we owe the highest improvement of our nature, and much of the enjoyment of our life. Thoo art the support of our virtue, and the rest of our souls, in this turbulent world. Thou composest the thoughts. Thou calm< est the passions. Thou exaltest the heart. Thy commum'ca^ tions, and thine only, are imparted to the low, no less than to the high; to the poor, as well as to the rich. 9. In thy presence worldly distinctions cease : and under tby influence, worldly sorrows are forgotten, i ju art the balm of the wounded mind. Thy sanctuary is aver open to the miserable ; inaccessible only to the unrighteous and im- pure. Thou beginnest on earth the temr>«r of heaven. In thee, the hosts of angels and blessed spirits eternally rejoice. 174. On Pride. POPE. Alzxandir Pope was bom in London in 1088; died in 17i4. As poet, Pope holds u Crst place. In his " Riipe of the Lock " lie hax hlendci the moBt delicate satire with the most lively fancv, and produced the fines •nd most brilliant mock'-heroic poem in the worlii. Ilia " Essuy on Man," " Essay on Criticism," and •' Temple of " "" Maaty end el^pance of stylo. Fame," are each uoiturpa&sed \» 4^6 THE Firrn reader. K. f'^"^ I /' I-*? kh 1 fl ■ i ' i : 5; ■' : ?: '' . . 1. Of all the causes which conspire to blind Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind. What the weak head with strongest bias rales, Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools. Whatever nature has in worth denied, She gives in large recraits of needful pride 1 For, as in bodies, thus in souls, we find What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defe.ice, And fills up all the mighty void of sense. 2. If once right reason drives that cloud away, Truth breaks upon us with resistless day. Trust not yourself ; but, your defects to know, Make use of every friend — and every foe. A little learning is a dangerous thing ; \ Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring: There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain ; And drinking largely sobers it e^ain. S. Fired at first sight with what the muse imparts, In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, While, from the bounded level of our mind. Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind; But more advanced, behold, with strange surprise^ New distant scenes of endless science rise I So, pleased at first the towering Alps we try, Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky; Th' eternal snows appear already past, And the first clouds and mountains seem the last| But, those attain'd, we tremble to survey The growing labors of the lepgthen'd way; Th' increasing prospect tires our wondering eyes ^ Hiils peup o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise. ill U !■>*■.• \ f' '. ▲DHEEENCE TO PRINCIPLE COMMANIJB RESPECTI. 457 175. Adherence to Pkincl^'le commands Respect. MISS BROWNSON. Sarao II. Bbownson, daiiffhter of Dr. O. A. Brownsoii, though BtiH young in yeam, haH already evinced considerable talent for literary coiiip<>- sition. Her " Marian Elwood," publinhcd anonymoualy, with other kiiiuII- er works, which have only met the eyes of herfrientift. jQ-^'cat'; a range *'bit myself? Am I then to break the laws of my church, listen not to the voice of my conscience, violate my duty *o my God, because people want to look at me ? Shame on you, uncle I" " I did not mean that at all — but after meeting™" 8. " I will dress myself in my prettiest costume, and with Catherine as a guide, go to meet you, and I promise to en- dure, without a shade of scorn, the whole battery of your friends' eyes. If they ask questions, are you to shrink ? An* you not naan enough to say your niece follows her oton con kH MOUNT LKBANON AJTD ITB CF.DAWI. 459 ■dence, in preference to their prejudices ? Tljey'll scorn me Let them. I should scorn myself had I not princii^le, rrli gion, and character enough to do my duty in the face of n whole world's opposition. I know it is mortifying to you — I nm sorry it is, but I must go." 9. " You are determined ?" " I am, sir." " You are right," he answered, " and it shall never be said that James Weston could not appreciate firmness, though in an erring cause. I will go with yon." 176. Mount Lebanon and rrs Cedars. PrTTKKSON. JxxBa Lairo Pattkraon, M, A., an Eneliah >rcnJe!nan, who a fow yuare Bince made a viHit to the Holy Land, and publiHlicdan interestinfiC aivount of bis *' Tour in Ejfypt, Palestine, and Syria." After vi«itiiij( tho iioly places, Mr. Patterson Dccame a convert to the Catholic faith. 1. About seven we were in motion, and had a most delight ful ride over the crest of Lebanon. The view of tlie valley and Anti-Lebanon, and of the amphitheatre on the west side, is magnificent. We passed through several patches of snow, and found the air proportionately <*f>ld. From the crest <«f the mountain, the broad valley of B'scheiTi looks like a rocky glen : the village of that name, and Eden, appeared to the right. Higher up the valley spreads, and near the right flanking mountains the deep green cedars are nestled. 2. The cedars aj>jf>ear about two hundred in number, of which some eight or ten are very large. We measured three of the largest, and found them res|->cctively thirty-seven feet ten inches, twenty -eight feet, and thirty-one feet in girth. On the north side of the four knolls on which the cedars stand (and in the midst of which our tent is pitched) is a deep ravine, 3. The general effect from here is beautiful. On the whole, I should say that the associations and the general effect of the cedars render thera well worth a visit ; but, in themselves, trfivellers have a little overrated them. This evening we haw 400 XnE FTFTH READEH. Ml I (I been watching the sunset from one of the trees in the fork of whose huge branches, or rather trunks, we sat. Between two of these we had a view of the yalley and sea-horizon beyond, lit up by the changing sunset lights, and of one single bright star, among the deiicOite foliage of the trees, which I shall not easily forget. 4. We left the cedars with some regret thafc we had not resolved at once to stay there some days. I went up to the chapel, and the priest came to me, as I was going away, and gave rae the benediction, laying the gospels on my head. He also made mo a present of a small cornelian antique seal, which I shall cherish as a pleasant remembrance of him and his mountain charge. 5. At eight o'clock we started for Duman, a summer res- idence of the patriarch of the Maronites, where he now is. To reach it, we had to cross the head of the valley, and de- scend it for three or four miles on the south side. As we got lower, we found tlie ground more cultivated and very fertile, and the views most beautiful. Looking back, we saw the glen or ravine of gray limestone rocks, along which we were scrambling, terminated in an advanced amphitheatre of richly- tinced sandstone, above the centre of which the deep-given cedar grove was seen ; while, far above, the grand semicircle of the highest range of Lebanon swept round. Its warm col- oring w as patched with snow here and there, contrasting with wonderful beauty with the deep sky above. 6. Looking before us, the winding glen yawned below. Its broken gray crags are set off by verdant patches of corn, and by vineyards and mulberry groves, and intersected in a thou- sanr! places by clear streams of water, glittering in the sun. But if nature, thus prodigal of beauty, charmed the way, much more was it beguiled by the moral aspect of the inhabitants ol Lebanon. At evoy mile we saw the small chapel, neatly built of squared stones, surmounted by its modest bell-gable ; at every turn the courteous but hearty greeting of the peas- ants, a cheery pleasant-faced race, reminded us that we were once more in a Catholic country. ?v 1 UV THE 8IEOR OF i^CEBBC DT MONIGOMERT, 4«1 177. ThK SlKOE OF QUKUKC HY MoNTaoMKKf. 1. Montgomery divided his troops into fo>ir IkkHcs. The first, composed of Colonel Livingston's Canadians, was to make a feigned attack in the direction of St. John's Gate ; the seiMiud corps, conimanded by Major Brown, was ordered to threaten the citadel. Whilst the garrison, watching the inovenients of these two divisions, should be occupied with tiie ; r.'i THK SmOE OP QULBHC BY MUNTODMKKT. 468 1. At daybreak tin? cucmy^M column occupie further on. A handful of Canadians, who had thrown tln'mselves forward, defended the ground foot by foot with much obstinacy, despite the great superiority of their enemies, who cried several times Dumiug some of the citizens, " Friends, are you there T" On rcHching the last barrier they put up la'ders to cross it, but the fire of its defenders became so «' v^, Mmt they were ft reed t<} retire and take refuge in tin' .• ''hen a militia- mun of the town, nam<}d Charland, a i la? ust as he wa9 intrepid, advanced amid a shower ol .^iu^ci , and drew th4 ladders inside the barricade. This barrier was defended by the company of Captain Dumas, engaged at the moment with the Americans, who were firing from the houses. The com- batants thus pla(.'ed formed un angle, of which the side [>arallel with the cape was occispied by the assailants, and the side catting the line of the cape tt right angles and running ?>> the river, was defended by the besieged, who had a battery on their right Capt. Dumas soon beheld coming to his assistance Capt. Marcoux's Canadians, artillerymeu and English infantry. 8. General Carleton, having learned the retreat of the column which had attacked Pres-de-Yille, and seeing by their ma- noeuvres that the troops which bad threatened St. John's Gate and Cape Diamond had not meant to make a serious cttack, concentrated bis principal forces on the Saut-au-Matelot. Ho ordered Captain Laws to take 200 men, to leave the Upper Town by Palace Gate, and plunging right into St. Charleo- Btreet and the old Saut-an-Matelot-street, to attack the enemy vigorously in the rear. He, at the same time, charged Cap- tain McDougaU to support him with his company. Laws ei> tered a house where he found several American officers in consultation. Seeing him, they drew their swords, but he told them he was at the head of a strong detaehment, and that they would all be massacred if they did not sjirrendet immediately ; this they did, after satisfying themselves, by looking through a window, thiit he was actually followed bj ft i&rge number of uieo. ^, IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // /. z % 1.0 1.1 l£g ^m lll£& m m !: 1^ IIIIIM II 1 1.25 1 1.4 u ^ 6" - ► Hiotpgraphic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 873-4503 S. ^ \ ^ \\ 164 THB FIFTH BCADCR. 9. Gen. Carleton had likewise sent an onler to Major Kaimc and Captain Dambourgcs to go with a strong detachment to sustain the troops who were fighting In the Lower Town. When they reached that point it was resolred to assume tlie offcnsiYC, and attack the houses held bj the enemy. Imm(> (liately Captain Dambourges and the Canadians leaped oyci the barricades, and placed their ladders against the first house occufHed by the Americans, which was carried. Major Naime did as much on his side. These two officers thus took the houses one after the other. The Americans found themselves assailed on all sides at once. Hemmed in in front, briskly attacked from the rear, snrrounded by superior forces, haring their line of retreat cut off, they vainly held out for some time ; they were forced to lay down their arms. Arnold's whole column were taken prisoners ; and the governor, profiting by his vic- tory, carried St. Roch's battery, which had never ceased firing on the city durii^ the attack. 10. The fire had been very brisk at Sant-an-Matelot, and the loss there was believed considerable ; but it was happily found to be very trifling. That of the Americans was great in pris- oners, and the fall of Montgomery was irretrievable. His body was found half buried under the snow, with twelve others, at a short distance from the barrier by which he had hoped to make his way into the city. The officers of his army, who were prisoners, and not knowing what had become of him, having recognized his sword in the hands of an offi- cer of the garrison, were no longer uncertain as to his fate, and bnrst into tears. The governor had him decently interred inside the city, with military honors, desiring thereby to honor the memory of a general who had distinguished himself by bis moderation and homanity ever since he had commandrd tlie troops of Congrosa. \ CHAMPLAIV 46A Cham PLAIN. H.J. MOBOAN. BnniT i. iioHoiky, % Canadian writer, aatlur :f » work entitlMi ** Bio^»phie& of Celebrated CaQailians." 1. Samuel de Champlain, a name rendered illastrioas in our annals from his services in not only founding the ancient city of Quebec, bat in establishing Canada ; in spreading civiliza* Uon, repelling the attacks of the hordes of Indians, and tlms saving the Kves of the early French settlers ; in exploring the country and its valuable resources, and thus bringing its name conspicuously before not only his own nation, but many others. 2. He was of a noble family of Brouage, in the province of Saintonge, in France. He commanded a vessel, in which he made a voyage to the East Indies about the year ItiOO, and acquired a high reputation as an able and experienced officer. After an absence of two years and a-half he returned to France, at a time when it Avas resolved to prosecute the discoveries which had been commenced in Canada by Cartier. The Marquis de la Roche, and Cha,pvin, governors of Canada, had endeavored to establish a colony, and the latter was succeeded by De Chatte, who engaged Champlain in his service in 1603. Champluin sailed March 16th, accompanied by Pontgrav^, who had made many voyages to Tadoussac, at the entrance of the Saguenay into the St. Lawrence. After theur arrival at this place, 26th May, they, in a light bateau, ascended the St, Lawrence to the Falls of St. Louis, which bounded thr discoveries of Cartier in 153t>. This was in the neighborhood of Hochelaga, but that Indian settlement was not then in existence. After making many inquiries of the natives, and exploring much of the country along the St. Lawrence, he sailed for France in August. On his arrival in September, he 'f'nnd that De Chatte was dead, and his commission as Lieu- tenant-General of Canada given to the Sicur De Mouts. This noblegian engaged him as his pilot in another voya.ge to the New World. - ^. * 8. Champlain sailed on his second voyage March ith, 1604, and arrived at L'Acadie May 6th. After being employed 20» 406 THE Firra reaokb. PI' £<1 : about a month in the long boat, visiting the coast, in order to find a proper situation for a settlement, he pitched upon a small island about twenty leagues to the westward of St. John's river, and about half a league in circumference. To this island De Monts, after his arrival at the place, gave the name of St. Croix. It lies in the river of the same name, which divides the United States from the province of New Brunswick. During the wmter, Champlain was occupied in exploring the country, and he went as far as Cape Cod, where he gave the name of Malebarre to a point of land, on account of the imminent danger he ran of running aground near it with his bark. Next year he pursued his discoveries, though he did not pass more than ten or twelve leagues beyond Malebarre. 4. In 160t he was sent out on another voyage to Tadoossac, accompanied by Pontgrave. In July, 16C8, he laid the fouib> dation of Quebec. He was a man who did not embarrasa himself with commerce, and who felt no interest in traffic with the Indians, which proved so profitable to many engaged in it. Being intrusted with the charge of establishing a permpnent colony, he examined the most eligible pla^ for settlement, and selected a spot upon the St. Lawrence, at the confluence of that river with the small River St. Charles, about 410 miles from the sea. The river in this place was very much contracted, and it was on *^''"f account that the natives called it Qtiebec (although variou mises are advanced by historiani and others as to the origin of this name). Here he arrived on the 3d of July. He erected barracks, cleared the ground, sowed wheat ancl rye, and laid the foundation of the " Gib- raltar of America.'' 5. In the summer of the year 1609, when the Hurons, Algon- quins, and others, were about to mjkrch against theur conunon enemy, the Iroquois, Champlaiu very readily joined them, having a keen taste for adventures ; and he hoped, by a con- quest, to impress all the Indian tribes with strong ideas of the pcwer of the French, and to secure an alliance with them. He embarked on the River Sorel, which was then called the Iroquois, because those savages usually descended by that gtream into Canada. At the Falls of Chambly he was stoppud, OHAXPLAIN. 467 umI was obliged to send back his boat. Only two Freiehmea remained with him. He ascended with his allies in the Indian canoes to the lake, to which he ga?e hia own name, which it retains to the present day. The savages whom he accofn* panied hoped to surprise the Iroquois in the villages, but they met them miexpectedly upon the lake. After gaining the land, it was agreed to defer the battle till the next day, as the night was now approaching. On the morning of the 30th July, Champlain placed » party, with his two Frenchmen, in a neighboring wood, so as to come upon the enemy in flank. The Iroquois, who were about 200 in number, seeing but a handful of men, were sure of victory. But as soon as the battle began, Champlain killed two of their chiefs, who were conspicuous by their plumes, by the first discharge of his fire- lock, loaded with four balls. The report and the execution of the fire-arms filled the Iroquois with inexpressible consterna- tion. They were quickly put to flight, and the victoriooB allies returned to Quebec with fifty scalps. 6. In September, 1609, Champlain embarked with Pontgrav6 for France, leaving the colony under the care of a brave man, Pie^e Chanvin. But he was soon sent out again to the New World. He sailed from Honfleur April 8th, 1610, and ar- rived at TadoQssac on the 26th. He encouraged the Mon- tagnais Indians, who lived at that place, to engage in a second expedition against the Iroquois. Accordingly, soon after his arrival at Quebec, they sent him about sixty warriors. At the head of these and others he proceeded up the River Sorel. The enemy were soon met, and after a severe engagement, in which Champlain was wounded by an arrow, were entirely de- feated. He arrived at Quebec, from Montreal, June 19th, and landed at Rochelle August 11th. After the death of llcnry IV., the interest of De Monts, in whose service Cbamp" lain had been engaged, was entirely ruined, and the latter wof: obliged to go again to France in 1611. Charles de Bourbon, being commissioned by the Queen Regent as Vice-Roi of New France, appointed Champlain his lieutenant, with very exti>n- sive powers. He returned to Canada in 1613, and made new diacoTeiies. His voyages across the Athtntic were frequent ;■■ 40S THE nrru reader y^ i lie was continned licatcnant-goTcmor ander that diitingnuhcd nobleman the PriDC6 of Conde and Montmorency. In 1615, bis zeal for the spiritual interests cf the Indians induced liim to bring with him a number of Recollets Fathers. He pene- trated to Lake Ontario, and being wounded while assisting the Hurons against their enemies, was obliged to pass a whole winter among them. When he retamed to Quebec in July, 1616, he was received as one risen from the dead. In Jnly, 1629, owing to the sparseness of his forces, and the exhausted state of his men through famine, he was obliged to capitulate to an English armament under Sir David Kertk. He was carried to France in an English ship, and there he found the public sentiment much divided with regard to Canada ; some thinking it was not worth regaining, as it had cost the govern* ment vast sums without bringing any returns ; others deeming the fishmg and fur trade great national objects, especially as a nursery for seamen. Champlain exerted himself to effect the re* covery of the country, and Canada was restored by the treaty of St. Qermains in 1632, with PAcadie and Cape Breton. 7. In 1633 the company of New France resumed all their rights and appointed Champlain the governor. In a short time he was at the head of a new armament, furnished with a fresh reinforcement of Jesuit missionaries and settlers, as well as all kinds of necessaries for the welfare of the re> vived colony. Mis attention was now engrossed by the spirit- ual interests of the savages, whom it was his principal object to bring to the knowledge of the Christian religion. The number of ecclesiastical missionaries, exclusive of lay brothers, was now fifteen, the chief of whom were Le Jeune, De None, Masse, and Brebeuf. A mission was established among the Hurons ; the colony was gaining an accession of numbers and strength, and an attempt was just commencing to establish a college in Quebec, when the governor died, and was succeeded the following year by De Montmagny. o. Champlain merited the title of the father of New France. He possessed an uncommon share of penetration and energy. His views were upright ; and in circumstances.of difficulty no man could make a better choice of measures. He wosecutcd ,T-^t JACQUES CABTIfiB AT SfADACONA. 469 his etitcrpriscA with constancy, and no danj^crs could shake his firmness. His zeal for the interests of his country was ardent and disinterested ; his heart was tender and compassionate to- wards the unhappy, and he was more attentive to the concema of his friends than to his own. He was a faithful historian, a Toyager who observed every thing with attention, skilful ia geometry, and an experienced seaman. 9. It may not be easy to justify Champlain in taking an active part in the war against the Iroquois. It is even supposed by some that his love of adventure led him to aronse the spnt of the Hurons, and excite them to war. His zeal for the propagation of religion among the savages was so great, that he used to say that the salvcdion of one soul was of more value than the conquest of an empire ; and that kings ought not to think of extending their authority over idolatrous nor tions, except for the purpose of suiyjecting them to Jesui Christ, V •. 179. Jacques Cartier at Stadaoona. OABNBAU. , : 1. According to the custom of that age, the Malo-in navi* gator, before putting to sea with his companions, would im- plore the protection of Him who commands the winds and the waves, and who was pleased then to extend from day to day the limits of the known world, hy prodigies which more and more astonished men. He repaired with his crew, in a body, to the cathedral of St. Malo ; and there, after having assist ed at a solemn mass and conmiunicated devoutly, the adven turous mariners received from the bishop, clothed in his pon tifical rol)es and surrounded by his clergy, the pastoral ben cdiction. 2. The squadron, carrying 110 men and provisions for a long voyage, set. sail with a fair wind in the month of May, 1535. Cartier had hoisted his flag, as Captain-General, on the Grande-Hermine, a vessel of 100 or 120 tons burden ; Um i70 THE nrrn eeader. [If I"'t if' ';( t i ^ two other vessels, much smaller, were commanded bj Captoini Guillaume le Breton and Marc Jalobert. Several gentlemen, snch as Claude de Pont, Briand and Charles de la PomnMv raye, served on board as volunteers. During the voyage, which was very long, many storms were encountered, which widely dispersed the three vessels. 8. It was only in the month of July that Cartier himseli reached the Bay of Chateaux, situated in an island between Newfoundland and Labrador, and whirh he had appointed as a rendezvous for his little fleet ; the two other vessels did not arrive there till several days later. After giving these last some time to rest, Cartier set out and steered at first in different directions. He saw a multitude of islands ; and, after being obliged, by contrary winds, to seek a refuge in a harbor which he named St. Thomas, he set sail and entered, on St. Law- rence's day, a bay which was, perhaps, the mouth of the river St. John, to which he gave the name of the saint whose festi- val was that day celebrated — a rume which he subsequently extended to the great river itself, and the gulf by which it discharges itself into the sea. Guided by the two savages he had brought with him, he at length entered that river, and ascended more than 200 leagues from the ocean. He stopped at the foot of an island agreeably situated, since named the Island of Orleans. i. According to the report of his guides, the country was then divided into three sections. Saguenay extended from the island of Anticosti to the isle aux Coiidres; Canada, of which the principal village was Stadacona, now Quebec, com- mencing at the latter island, and extending up the river to- wards Hochelaga, this last the richest and most populous part of the country. 6. The name of " Canada," here given by the natives to a part of the country, leaves no doubt as to the origin of the word, which signifies, in their language, groups, of cabins, villages. - ..» 6. Cartier put these two savages ashore to talk with tha natives, who at first took flight, but soon after returned and Borroonded the vessel in their little bark canoes. They offer< JACQUES CABTIEB AT STADACONA. 471 id the French fish, maize, and fruits. Cartier received them politely, and had presents distributed among them. Next day the Agonbanna, that is to say, the chief of Stadacona, canio to Tisit him, followed by twelve canoes full of natives. The interview was most amicable, and the French and the Indiana separated well pleased with each other. Before leaving, the chief of Stadacona must needs kiss the arms of the French captain, which was one of the greatest marks of respect in use amongst those people. 7. As the season was advanced, Cartier took the bold reso- lution of passing the winter in the country. He got his ships into the river St. Charles, named by him Saint-Croix (Holy Cross), to put them in winter quarters under the village of Stadacona, which stood on a height towards the south. This part of the St. Lawrence, by the distribution of mountains, hills, and valleys, around the harbor of Quebec, is one of the grandest scenes in America. ' . , 8. Upwards from the gulf, the river long preserves an im- posing, but wild and savage aspect. Its immense width, full ninety miles at its mouth, its numerous shoals, its fogs, its gusts of wind at certain seasons of the year, have made ft a formidable place for navigators. The steep sides which bound it for more than a hundred leagues ; the dark mountains north and south of the valley in which it flows, almost the entire breadth of which it occupies in some places ; the islands, which become more numerous the fr' ther one ascends ; finally, all the scattered remains of the o<: .tacles which the great tributary of the ocean shattered and overturned in clearing for itself a passage to the sea, seize the imagmation of the traveller who passes that way for the first time. But at Que- bec the scene changes. Nature, so vast and so solemn, on the river below, becomes here smiling and diversified, though still maintaining its character of grandeur, especially since it has been embellished by the hand of man. 9. If it were given Jacques Cartier to come forth from the tomb to contemplate the vast country which he gave, with its primeval forests and barbarous hordes, to European civiliza- tion, what more noble spectacle could excite in his heart thf ,> i1% THB FIFTH RKADER. pride of a founder of empire, the sublime pride of those privi Icged men whose name grows daily with the consequenccfl of their immortal actious ? Cartier would see in Quebec one of the first cities of America, and in Canada one of the coontrica for which a high destiny is reserved. >• Ifi k ? 180. Jacx^uks Oabtieb at Hoohelaoa. ABB& rBBLAND. 1. Thb following morning, Cartier, having left his barks %i the foot of St. Mary's Convent, set out, accompanied by some gentlemen and twenty sailors, to go visit the town of Hochelaga and the mountain at whose foot it was situated. After journeying about a league and a half, they were stopped by one of the chief men of the country, who made a long dis- course, complimentary, no doubt, to the strangers ; half a league further on, they found cultivated lands, and fields cov- ered with cornstalks. In the midst of these fine fields was situate the town of Hochelaga, carefully fortified after the manner of the great Huron and Iroquois villages. 2. A circular palisade, twenty feet in height, and formed by a triple row of stakes, surrounded Hochelaga and served for its defence. The stakes of the middle row were planted straight ; those of the two other rows crossed each other at top, and the whole was strongly bound together with branch- es. A single gate gave ingress to the town. Within the iu- closure was a sort of gallery, furnished with stones ready to be hurled against the enemy who might attempt to climb the palisade. The town contained about fifty cabms, each of which was some fifty paces in length by twelve or fifteen in breadth. These habitations, constructed of bark sewed to- gether, contained several chambers, each of which was occu- pied by a family. In the middle of the cabin there was re- served a common hall, where the fires were placed ; shelves put tt|) under the roof, served as lofts to store away the pro ?inoa of maiise. V ^ .: . ^N-' £>\ JACQUES CARTIKK AT nOCHELAOA. 478 8. Maiie waa the food of all seaHOna ; they ate it in cakcl baked between stones heated for the purpoHe ; they boiled it oyer the fire ; and they also prepared from it a pottage, by adding to it peas, beans, large cucumberfl, and fruits. The cultivation of the land, and fishing, furnished the inhabitants of Ilochelaga with resources sufficient for all the wants ot life. They busied themselves very little about the chase, being averse to leaving their village, and having no taste for the nomadic life, so dear to the tribes of Canada and Sngue^ nay. 4. These people doubtless regarded the French as beings of a superior nature, for they brought to Cartier cripples and infirm persons as though begging of him to restore them to health. The Agonbanna, or king, would himself have recourse to the miraculous power of the French captain. Paralyzed in all his limbs, he was carried on a deer-skin by nine or ten men, who laid him on mats in the midst of the assembly. The sovereign's apparel was not more splendid than that of his subjects, half covered with wretched skins of wild beasts, only he wore around his head, as a mark of distinction, a red band embroidered with porcupines' quills. Seeing the confi- dence of these good people, and being himself full of faith, Cartier read over them the beginning of the gospel of St. John and the Passion of our Lord ; he prayed God, at the same time, to make himself known to that poor people plunged in the darkness of idolatry. He afterwards distributed pres* ents among them, and left them well satisfied with his visit. 5. Several of them accompanied him to the mountain, about a qaartei' of a league distant from the town of Hochelago. There he was so enchanted by the magnificent prospect which spread before him, that he gave to that place the name of Mont Royal, since changed into Montreal. To the north and 'Bouth ran chains of mountains, between which, far as the eye could reach, extended a vast and fertile plain ; in the midst of these profound solitudes, and through thick forests already clothed in the brilliant tints of autumn, reposed in all its beauty the great river which he had ascended, as he saw it itretchuig away westward to regions yet unknown. , ^ 'f^:^ m TBK nVTH READER. i 6. By means of sig^ti tie Rarages made him underataiid thai beyond three TuHh, or rapUlH, like that before him, they could soil on the river for more than three moons ; then turning to* wards the north, they pointed out to him another great river descending also from the west, and flowing at the foqt of the mountains. One of them .seized a silver dagger, with its sheath of polished brass, and a chain from which hung the captain's whistle, and made signs that such metals as those were found far up the rirer. Cartier's imagination then open- ed before him the gates of the unknown west, hiding in its bosom rich treasures, and leading to golden regions like those of India and Cathay ; by advancing towards the sources of the river, he should find a passage shorter and more ad- vantageous than that which Magellan bad discovered for Spain. ^ 7. Revelling in these bright dreams, with what pity must the Breton mariner have cast his eyes on the humble village of Hochelaga, with its bark huts, its wretched palisades, its narrow strips of maize, and its population sunk in barbarism. Nigh three centuries and a half have passed away since the day when Cartier, from the summit of Mont Royal, examined the neighborhood of Hochelaga. Were it given him to be- hold those scenes to-day, with what surprise would he con- template the great and beautiful city which has replaced the Indian village. It would astonish the old navigator by its nu- merous and splendid monuments, by its harbor crowded with ships and bordered by a long line of quays, by its tubular bridge connecting the two banks of the river, by its numer- ous population stirred by the impulse of commerce and indus- try ; and how amazed he would be, following with his eyes the steamers launched amid those "three falls of water'' which interested him so much, or ascending the rapid current Bt. Mary, without the aid of wind or sail. How he woula admire the valley of the great river, no longer cqvered with forests, but spreading before him to the verge of the horizon^ covered with fields, towns, and villages, traversed by rail- roads, along which glide, swift as the biris, ^ong trains of car riages, guided by a pillar of smoke. TBI cmr cr movtekal. 475 9. Th« depths of the west have been sonndeil, the Ttii coantries they cuntain arc long siuco opciii'tl tu civilization ; tht) mysterious sea announced to Cartii. t has been found afur off; the [lafMagc by which rissels were to reach it existed only in the tales of the sava^en. But, thanks to the indus* try and iHifseverance of man, a way of another kind will fujon be marked out that will bring together the two oceans, and transport the riches of the eaiit to the countries of old Europe. 181. The Gitt of Montreal. OIIAUYBAU. non. PiKiuu J. 0. CiiAUTKAtJ, LL. D., chief SupeTi'itendont of Eda- Mtion for Lower Cunadu, late Solitiitor-frenonil, ftnd laie Provincial 8eore« ury. Mr. Chauveau Ih the nnthor of '' ChurleA Ou^riii,*' a Canadian novel, and of many other worlco, both in French and EngliHli. The ex- tract liere given \* from hia book on the Visit of the Prince of Walea to America. 1. Though Montreal is not so old as Quebec, its early history is as interesting, and still more stirring. The found- ing of this city, on the very confines of the country of the Mohawks, whose murderous inroads were the terror of the continent, was an act of great boldness, if not absolute temerity. 2. On the 17th May, 1642, M. de Maisonneuve, the agent of a company formed in France, under rather surprising cir- cumstances, for the purpose of founding a city in the conn- try of the Iroquois, caused a small chapel, the first erected on the Island, to be consecrated by Pfere Vimont, the superior of the Jesuits then in the colony. The Island itself was, on the 15th August following, — the festival of the Assump- tion, — dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Hence the name of Ville-Marie, by which the town was long designated, and which is even now occasionally met with in ecclesiastical docameuts. 476 THB niTH READER. m ik U 8. In 1663, the Snlpicians of Paris became possessed of this fine domain, and soon established a house, far wealthiei now than the one from which it springs, and almost as old. During a long period the small settlement possessed for ils? protection against the hostile tribes nothing but a feeble pali- sade and the indomitable courage of its inhabitants. Sixty years later the town was surrounded by a wall, which was not removed until 1808, when it was found to be an impedi- ment to the growth of the city, and quite inadequate to its purpose in a strategical point of view. 4. The line of these fortifications, as laid down on an old plan made in 1758, extends towards the west to the space now occupied by McGill-street; following thence, in a north- *erly direction, nearly the line of Craig street, it terminates in the east, — a little below the citadel, which occupied part of the ground noMv taken up by Dalhousie Square, and extending to St. Denis-street. 6. The population of Montreal in 1720, was 3,000 souls, and of Uie whole of Canada not more than 10,000.' 6. In the year 1765 a conflagration destroyed almost the whole town, involving 215 families in a general ruin, and causing a loss of about $400,000. Public generosity was ap- pealed to both in England and in Canada, and considerable sums were raised by subscription for the relief of the suflFer- ers. That part which the fire had destroyed was rebuilt, and much improved, — a circumstance by no means unusual in such cases, — and Montreal soon rose from her ashes with renewed vigor and prosperity. 7. In 1775, Montgomery, with some troops of the Revolu- tion, occupied it for a few months, and then abandoned it. It was much exposed in 1812; nay, had De Salaberry been un- successful at Chateauguay, it would in all probability have again fallen into the hands of the enemy. 8. Montreal was the great mart of the fur trade with the Indians under the French and the English. Here the re- nowned bourgeois of the Northwest lived in princely style; * MotUrial et seaprintipaux Monumentt. — Published by E. Sendcal, 1860 THE Cmr OF MONTREAL. 477 \^ i almost the while their hardy voyageurs carried the trade into the most distant regions of the continent. The town is not now de- pendent on this trade, which indeed has taken another direo Hon, but by the vigorous energy and activity of its merchant.^ has become the great entr^dt of the trade between England and Upper Canada, and even of that between the former coun- try and some of the States of the American Union. 9. The obstructions in Lake St. Peter, which prevented vessels of great draught reaching the port, were remo.'cd by dredging; canals were made, and extensive wharves and bac'ins were built to accommodate the shipping; railways were cou- Btructed, — one to Portland, securing a direct communication with the seaboard at all seasons, and this prosperous and en- terprising city, stimulated by the healthy development of the country, acquired a commercial importance which has increased ever since. At present it is connected by rail with River du Loup, Quebec, Portland, Sherbrooke, New York, Toronto, Sar- nia, Detroit, and Ottawa. In 1859, the value of its exports was $3,044,000, and its imports amounted to $15,553,000. ' 1 0. The population is generally estimated at 92,000, and 101,000 with the banlieu ; about one-half is of French ori- gin, and upwards of two thirds belong to the Roman Catholic faith. The wards St. Lawrence, St. Lewis, St. Mary, and St. Antoine, are in a great measure peopled by Franco-Canadians. St. Ann's ward, comprising Griffintown, is principally inhabit- ed by the Irish population, which is also distributed in the St. Lawrence ward, and the St. Mary's — often called the Que- bec suburbs. The English, Scotch, and Americans, dwell in the West, St. Antoine, and Centre wards. There are also French, Italians, Belgians, Swiss, and many Germans, of whom about one-half are Roman Catholics; of the other half some are of Jewish faith and the remainder are Protestants. 11. The city, with its villas, gardens, and orchards, covers about 2,000 acres. Rows of trees line Beaver Hall, Craig, Sherbrooke, and St. Denis streets, their cool and refreshing Bhade adding comfort to the dwellings, which in appearance are oft6u very elegant. In the windows of the shops of Notre* Dame and St. James streets, may be seen all that the seduc- 178 THK TIFTE READER. tive arts of Inxury and elegance can display McGill and 8t Paul streets, and the cross streets leading to Notre-Dame, are occopied by the higher branches of trade, to accomroodate which splendid, buildings have been erected. 12. Montreal has undergone so great a change dnring the last twenty years, that a citizen retarning after an absence extending over such a lapse of time, woald hardly know it again. Alany of the streets are wider; its wooden hoases, destroyed by the great conflagration of 1852, have been re- placed by baildin-^s of brick; very handsome edifices meet the eye on all sides; and whole districts have risen, as if by en- chantment, where fields and orchards stood before. The or- chards producing the fameuse and calville apples, which have earned for Montreal deserved celebrity, are, we fear, greatly reduced in extent ; and horticulturists would do well to look to it in time, else this important article of commerce, upon which the town has always prided itself, will cease to be a source of profit. It is certainly impossible to witness the im- provements taking place every day without feeling great sati» faction ; yet one cannot see the relics of a former age, such as the Seminary of St. Sulpice and the Hotel-Dieu, disappear, without a feeling of regret. 13. The great church of Notre-Dame rises majestically over all the surrounding buildings, and from every point where a view of the city can be had it is still a conspicuous object. The old church, that stood upon the same site, was erected in the year 1672. On the 3d September, 1824, the corner stone of the present structure was laid, and it was opened for pub- lic worship on the 18th July, 1829. The style is plain Goth- ic ; its high and not inelegant proportions always impress a stranger favorably. Its dimensions are : length, 255 feet ; front, 134 feet ; elevation of side walls, 61 feet. It has two square towers, rising to a height of 220 feet, which face the Place d'Armes or French Square. The eastern towei con- tains a chime of eight bells, the western supports the Oros- bourdon, an enonnous bell weighing 29,400 pounds. The in- terior of this church wears, from its bareness, a cold and cheerless aspect, which can only be removed by the temporar} THE C'lTV OF IfOHTREAL. 479 li. 265 feet ;niiimenta osed on certain occasions, and the presence of its rx)ngregation, — a throng of 10 or 12,000 human beings, who press through its long aisles and galleries. The works of the great composers are performed by choirs regularly trained for the purpose ; and a fine organ, which when finished will be one of the most powerful in America, sends its harmoniou peals thrilling through the vast hall. 14. The building next in size is the Bonsecours Markets Its cost is put down in Mr. Lovell's Directory at $287,000. The Court House, built in the Ionic order, is a still more cost- ly structure. The Theological College (Priest's Farm), the Banks, the Jesuits' College (on De Bleury-street), and the new Hotel-Dieu, are all buildings of great dimensions. Christ- church Cathedral is a fine structure ; and among the other churches of the city, St. Patrick's, St. Andrew's, St. Peter's, St. James', the Wesleyan Methodist, and the Unitarian, de- serve special notice. 15. With one exception, all these edifices are built of a gray stone, found in inexhaustible quarries near the town. The stone employed in the construction of Christ-church Cathe- dral is of a much darker color ; the corners and other salient points, relieved by white Caen stone dressings, form a striking contrast. The roof is of slate, inclining in color to deep vio- let, and is surmounted by a light traceried ornament running along the apex. The style is a highly ornamented Norman Gothic ; nothing is wanted to render the building complete. The spire springs from the intersection of the transepts with the nave, the glittering cross by which it is capped standing 224 feet from the ground. The length of this building is 187 feet, anS its breadth 70 feet. St. Peter's Church (Peres Ob- lats) ia built of finely dressed stone, and is supported by flying buttresses. The ulterior, containing pretty chapels stuccoed in imitation of marble, is richly ornamented, and its arrange- ments seem perfect. Fine paintings representing the Pas.siow, by Mr. Plamondon, a Canadian artist, form the principnl or naments of the interior of St. Patrick's Church. The archi- tecture of the Unitarian Church is Byzantine. 16. There are six nunneries in the city, some maiolaining #80 TUE riPTB 1UUX>£B. MTerul e8tabli.Mhinent8. The Hotel-Diea, establiahed in 1644, by Mme. de Bullion, and MUe. Manse, is ths most ancient. The Canadian order of nuns known as the Congregation d$ Notre-Dame was founded, in 1653, by Marguerite Bourgeois. Ill 1747, Madame Youvillc, who at that time was at the head of the Sceurn Orises, undertook the management of the hos pital established under the name of VHdpital-OSnSral, by M. Charron, in 1692. The other convents have been but recent* ly established. 17. Montreal possesses a great number of uistitutions of learning, inclading excellent public schools, and many other establishments supported by private enterprise. The total number of children attending in 1859, was 14,364 ; of these 3002 frequented the schools of the Christian Brothers, whose principal edifice is among the finest of the kind in the city. The nuns of the Congregation also teach 3,187 pupils. 1 8. The McGill University, founded by the liberality of the wealthy citizen whose name it bears, and who by will left the greater portion of his fortune for this object, has lately re- ceived great extensions. In addition to the two fine buildings situated at the foot of the mountain and close to the reservoir of the aqueduct, it holds in the immediate vicinity of Beaver Hall, an edifice devoted to its preparatory or high school. Besides the Faculties of Law and Medicine of this University, there are also in operation a school of Medicine and a school of Law. The classical colleges of Montreal and St. Mary's are two of the most important institutions of the country ; and to the select Ladies' Boarding-Schools of Yilla-Maria and Mont St. Joseph may be added those of the nuns of Jesus and Mary, at Longueuil, and of the Ladies of the Sacred Ueart, situated at Sault-aux-R^ollets,— the lost is decidedly Ihe handsomest building of the sort in Canada. \ lished in 1644, moat andeiit. mgrigation d4 ite Boargeois. as at the head it of the bos 7inSral, bj M, sen bat recent* institntioDS of d many other e. The total )64 ; of these fathers, whose ad in the citj. pupils. >eralit7 of the y will left the has lately re- fine buildings the reservoit ity of Beaver high school, is University, and a school id St. Mary's the country ; ilia-Maria and uns of Jesus f the Sacred t is decidedly ji' * ■4.''*' -*;^- \