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 1 
 
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 6 
 
MofUd m akn RqMi of the Cattudic Members of the Oom- 
 miiteet for uaeinthe Cathdic Schoola if the Dominion, 
 
 THB 
 
 METEOPOLITAN 
 
 FOURTH READER: 
 
 w ttwv g uimgtpi In ]pnft Mnir 
 FOR THE USE OF Si 
 
 Bt a Mevbui or nts Obdve. or fBi Hoj 
 
 NMW AND BftrraMP BPtTIOX 
 
 MONTREAL: 
 JAMES A. SADLIER, CATHOLIC PUBLISHER, 
 
 375 NOTRE DAME STREET. 
 1881. 
 
 v\3 
 
 n^ 
 
f 
 
 •" ' ^ 
 
 ^.-:^ 
 
 \ 
 
 ttaooMHid dfM 
 
 If Aetflf 
 
 JpMdtanMntof 
 fhfM, by X 
 
 In fhe 7fl«r on* 
 A. fUmiiMB, in tti* 
 
 w 
 
 ■^is 
 
 FS^r***?" 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 r[E F0T7BTH REA'DETl has been oarefoHy 
 roTided, and, where it was possible to do so, 
 shorter and more simple words haye been snbstitated 
 for larger and more difficult ones. 
 
 Having had some experience in the education of 
 youth, and haying examined most of the Headers 
 published, we noticed that, with the smgle exception 
 of the Ghristian Brothers' series, all the others are 
 better adapted for pagan than Christian schools. 
 Thej are made expressly for mixed schools, where 
 Protestant and Oatholic, Jew and pagan, may read 
 out of the same book, without discoYering that there 
 is such a thii^ as religion in the world. 
 
 Pr. Brownson, in his Beview for July, has so well 
 described what Readers should and should not be, 
 that we will be pardoned for quoting him, as he ex- 
 presses far more clearly than we can what we would 
 wish to say : 
 
 ** Instructions in natural history or natural science, 
 as chemistry, mineralogy, geology, quadrupeds, birds, 
 fishes, or bugs, may be very interesting, but they torn 
 
PBIFAOI. 
 
 ; ■ •■ 
 
 no part of education, and tend fur more to materialize 
 the mind than to elevate it to God, and to store it 
 with moral and religions principles, which mav one 
 day fructify, and form a character of moral and true 
 religious worth. A book may contain much useful 
 instruction on nouns, adjeotiyes, verbs, adverbs, par- 
 ticiples, and other parts of speech, very proper in a 
 grammar-book, but quite out of place in a readiugR- 
 book ; but all these lessons belong to the department 
 of special instruction, and either have no bearing on 
 education proper, or tend to give to education a dry, 
 utilitarian, and materialistic character. . . . The 
 aim of the reading-book is not instruction, save in the 
 single art of reading, bnfi education, the development 
 or cultivation in the mind and in the heart of those 
 great principles which are l;he basis of all religion.** 
 
 We have endeavored to make these Beaders as 
 attractive in every way- as any series published; 
 while from a Catholic point of view, we can con- 
 scientiously chfcim for them some degree of merit. 
 
 The style in which the publishers have got up the 
 other books of this series is very creditable to them ; 
 but in this fourth book they have surpassed them- 
 selves. ' It is embsllished with numerous engravings, 
 many of them very fine, and far superior to what is 
 generally seen in sdiool-books. 
 
 The (kaanmL 
 
 gpBtasr»*^"«^'^r^- 
 
 w*ria*(i«eqpi^J«p«™ 
 
J . .. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PABT I. 
 
 MM 
 
 bnnoonon OK m Faiaoiiui or BiAsno U 
 
 1. Uftiamt 16 
 
 2. The Smile of Innooenoe. r 18 
 
 8. iJKindWordi 19 
 
 4. Hie Brothen. .jt r. 20 
 
 6. Beware of Impatience 21 
 
 6. TheTwoWaya 28 
 
 7. Opnnael to the Toung. «^ 2( 
 
 8. Oq a Picture of a Oirl leading her Blind Mother through the 
 
 Woods. ,^.. : IPiOii. 26 
 
 9. The Honeit Shepherd Boy ..^... 28 
 
 10. TheWondenofaSaltMine.. Twth't 0. Mv'mne. 82 
 
 11. The Starry Heavens.. V............ 88 
 
 12. Ca^eleamew . . . : 86 
 
 18. Gongr^;ation of the Propagation of the Faith. .^ 89 
 
 14. live for Something... 42 
 
 16. Predominant Fsasions 48 
 
 16. •* " (OmiUmMd) 47 
 
 17. My B(7 Absalom..^. MP. WiOt. 62 
 
 18. Hie Scholar's Yision^ , 64 
 
 19. :^th of our Saviour^. IMyqfa CMstian. 68 
 
 20. A J^fMUdiah Anecdote 61 
 
 21. Anecdotes of Dogs. rr-. ,... Katurd BUory. 62 
 
 22. Burial of Sir John Moore Wo^t. 66 
 
 28. ITrytobeCkKxl....^ 68 
 
 24. Hie Green Mossy Bank. 70 
 
 26. On the Baptismal Vows. «^ Dutjf <fa Chri$iim. 71 
 
 26. The Litany ..TT , 78 
 
 27. 13i« Sign of the Cross . r. 74 
 
 28. The Three Friends .w. 77 
 
 ^29. SongoftheBaikoad 0,W.Botmt$. 78 
 
 80. Ylotoilnus.. 
 
OOVfBVTB. 
 
 81. OoudkHi iiBtab .rv 82 
 
 83. TiMBaMimeikmoftlMBody.rr AN* AfWy. 84 
 
 88. ASIoiyofftMonk 87 
 
 84. Hie DUa«ot7 Soholtf 88 
 
 86. %»iiiili Erenliig HTim ,,..« 80 
 
 86. OhrtotttUUngthaltepeat 81 
 
 87. HoUdiijChlUi«B..L« 90 
 
 PART II, 
 
 1. 
 
 2. 
 
 8. 
 
 4. 
 
 6. 
 
 6. 
 
 7. 
 
 8. 
 
 9. 
 10. 
 11. 
 12. 
 18. 
 U. 
 16. 
 16. 
 17. 
 18. 
 19. 
 20. 
 21. 
 
 22. 
 28. 
 24. 
 26. 
 
 87. 
 
 Hie Dreem <^ the Ornaeder 
 
 " •• " •• {OtmHimi) 
 
 The Lord's Prayer . . Trf. SibU Storim. 
 
 Legend of the Infitnt Jesos . .t 
 
 The Do-Nothlngi 
 
 Heeling the Dav^ter of Jdrai..M. WWk. 
 
 8t Philip Keri end the Youth Bjfrm^ 
 
 Oonflmation. ^r\ «••• • ■.*• 
 
 IMrdein Sommer 
 
 The Ohildien and the Infiuit Jeene . #t 
 
 The Orare of Father Harquette Juigt Kemteif, 
 
 Alnahamandbaao.rr. BOtUBdor^. 
 
 Hohenllnden O a mg l M . 
 
 Language of Flowen. .^. €lilfkfm fkMto. 
 
 Homeward Bound WiBiM. 
 
 Lucj'a Death... .^ CUfflimTram. 
 
 Autobiogiaph7ofaBoie...<rr XJr.OirfJMi. 
 
 " «• (Cbnfimietf) " . 
 
 Winter... <n 
 
 The Snow. . ^ 
 
 Umb of Water . ^^ 
 
 Dying Christian to his Soid Pap: 
 
 FUght faito I^iypt. .T^ BOiUaUin^. 
 
 The Freed Krd Mr$. fbmtma. 
 
 Beheading of St. John BiUe SUtrim. 
 
 Saturday Afternoon . ..«. FiUi. 
 
 Learning and AooompUshments not inoonsistMki with Good 
 
 Housekeeping 
 
 Laamhig and Aooomj^ldunents (ObnttntMcQ 
 
 •6 
 
 87 
 99 
 
 101 
 102 
 106 
 108 
 109 
 110 
 112 
 117 
 120 
 128 
 124 
 127 
 128 
 182 
 186 
 188 
 141 
 148 
 146 
 146 
 148 
 160 
 168 
 
 164 
 
 168 
 
P^fWltf§. 
 
 • • • • o/ 
 
 • • • • 9v 
 .... 90 
 .... 91 
 
 • • • • 1^* 
 
 ... 97 
 m. 99 
 .. Ml 
 .. 1<» 
 Ut. 106 
 M. 108 
 .. 109 
 .. 110 
 . . 112 
 ^. 117 
 y. ISO 
 «. 138 
 *$. 194 
 <^ 127 
 *. 128 
 i$. 182 
 ,186 
 . . 188 
 .. 141 
 .. 148 
 «. 146 
 H. 146 
 *. 148 
 «. 160 
 «. 163 
 d 
 
 . 164 
 . IM 
 
 
 ^H 80. 
 
 ., 
 
 H 
 
 
 ^H 
 
 
 ^H 88. 
 
 
 ^H 
 
 
 ^H 86. 
 
 
 ^H jB6. 
 
 
 ^m 
 
 
 ■ 88. 
 
 
 ^H 
 
 
 ^H 40. 
 
 • 
 
 '^m 
 
 
 ^m 42. 
 
 't 
 
 ^H 48. 
 
 U 
 
 ^M 
 
 
 H 
 
 
 ^H 
 
 
 ^H 
 
 
 H 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 ^^B 60. 
 
 
 ^^^H 
 
 
 \^m ^^' 
 
 
 .'^M 68. 
 
 
 ^^H 64. 
 
 
 ^m ^' 
 
 
 f|H 66. 
 
 
 ^m 
 
 
 ^B 68. 
 
 
 B 
 
 
 ■ 60. 
 
 
 <^B 
 
 
 V 62. 
 
 
 ■ 68. 
 
 
 ■ 64. 
 
 
 fl 65. 
 
 
 B 66. 
 
 
 9 67. 
 
 
 1 68. 
 
 
 1 ^' 
 
 
 8 7a 
 
 SB. ABMlfl«il«rtlMT1rr..^ mwrfH ilP f 169 
 
 29. 'OMWaaaMa ..irr .«... 188 
 
 BoMdlol Arnold 184 
 
 Bath and No«Bl..T> MbUSMm. 168 
 
 Flowm...^ .J 189 
 
 11i6BohokroftlMBoiHr7...T 170 
 
 M •« «• •' (OMfJntMd) .'. 172 
 
 Olie Month of May. .T: 176 
 
 The Month of Mazy, rr O. Foutt'* JKymfM. 177 
 
 Th« Indian... *r. , 178 
 
 Charity. ..«» Cbayfa^ 180 
 
 The EverlaatiDg Chvrch .r. MaemiU^. 181 
 
 Welcome to the Rhine , B m a i u . 188 
 
 llie Bee-Hive ..T 186 
 
 The Child's Wish in June. .,^ 187 
 
 TheMartyr'aBoy...^. Omti$ial Wimmt. 188 
 
 " " " iOmtinuei) ., " " 198 
 
 Anna's OfTering of Samuel.... BOikSMm. 196 
 
 TheBoyandtheOhUdJemw..r»..,..» E$itr. 199 
 
 The Holy Euchariat...'r.,...p, ..fiOfo AprJ*. 201 
 
 ThaHouieofLoratto.^ f.,..S. M. GnlhHa. 204 
 
 Bztrame Unction. . .•««-. A^y <f» CknMm. 2m 
 
 "What is that, Mother f".**- Ifm^- 209 
 
 Charity ..•*.„^, ,,,,,,....,.... Origmal. 2J0 
 
 AneodolMcMrHonei... •>.,., AH^edol$i^Jhiimtii. 211 
 
 The Battle of Bleoheini Sovih^. 216 
 
 Th«Ann«ino|ation..rr. mbkStorim. 217 
 
 StFeUoitaaaodberSona.^^ Mr$. O^f. 220 
 
 Iiniiiortal}ty..r«> , .0. 4» Brmmttm. 224 
 
 lfceWidowofJWn.su •• '»^- 226 
 
 Monmnent to a Mother's Orave /-B- ChmSi^' 227 
 
 Adoration of the Shepherd*. «^..t.^ ,....BibUS(oHm. 280 
 
 The Angelua Bell... <r> Qmpion. 282 
 
 The Adoration of the Magi. .«.» Bible l^orim. 284 
 
 lona 287 
 
 St. Columba blessing the Ides Maekay. 289 
 
 The Ohserving Judge 241 
 
 M «» " (CbfrfwiMrf).... 242 
 
 " . " •• (Orndtuki) ..244 
 
 Henry the Hermit ^. AnfAiy. 246 
 
 Ckid is Every vh«K»..«*i... « 249 
 
 Anecdote of Frederick Oie Great. .<> 260 
 
 A SmaU Catechism... «^ McOm. 261 
 
10 
 
 OOVTIVTB. 
 
 71. llM Pradlgia 8oD . .«. ANiAorto. 
 
 72. BUnohcofOMtUe 266 
 
 78. HidlVli«lnofyifgiiir..w LymOMcUet. 266 
 
 71. LagMid of Danlal the Anchoret. «^ Mn. Jmmn. 269 
 
 76. M •• {OmHmud).... " 261 
 
 76. Ohildbood'i Tem KirhWMk 262 
 
 77. BnikkflMt-TRble Science..^ 266 
 
 7a •* . «• {amtitnui) 268 
 
 79. *• «• (OMMfiMU) 272 
 
 80. Tired of Fky WiOk. 278 
 
 81. Melroee Abbqr Or^imL 279 
 
 82. Curing the BUnd Lift i^ Ckritt for Tculh. 281 
 
 88. Conntrj Fellows and the Am .« JB^ron. 288 
 
 84. The First OruMde Xekand. 286 
 
 86. TbeBfttUeofAntloch 288 
 
 86. yilli«e Schoolmaster...-; (ToMimM 291 
 
 87. The Rector of Oolgnen Biihop Ba^Uy. 292 
 
 88. The Three Homes 294 
 
 89. 81 Peter deUvered ovt of Prison.^. . . . Toulh't 0. Mi^mim. 296 
 
 90. The Hermit....*. GMmUh. 298 
 
 91. Pope Leo the Great and Attlla .Ti . .JSn^w't Jfodim J9iiifory. 299 
 
 92. Childhood of Jesus I^ft (^ Okritifor roMllk. 801 
 
 98. The Butterfly's Ball, ete RoteM. 802 
 
 94. TheAsoeii8lon...'T.v.... JStbIs /SCorin. 804 
 
 96. TheTVaTeller..>».. * QddmnHk. 806 
 
 96. The Ifboffkh Wan in Spain 807 
 
 97. The Monks ofOld Q. P. R. Jtmu. 809 
 
 96. The8acradPictilreB...Tr -...mbUStorin, 811 
 
 99. Truth in Parentheses Bood, 812 
 
 100. Japanese Martyrs :. Oeumm. 818 
 
 101. Pain in a Pleasure-Boat Bood. 817 
 
 101 Flowen for the Altar Cliflm Dradt. ^3fi 
 
 I hare given the names of some authors ; but in arranging this Header, 
 my object was to seoore pieoes snitaUe for cldldren #ho were conimeBCing 
 to read rather fluently. Many of them are fugitlTe. I sought rather te 
 make it pleasant and iostmotiTe, than to oull flrom particular authors. 
 
THE FOURTH R 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 HSIBUCnONB ON THE PBINCIPLES OF READIKO. 
 
 All that artkmlate langoage can effect to inflaence othen^ 
 b dependent upon the Toice addreased to the ear. A skil- 
 ftd management of it ii, oonaeqnentljr, of the highest import" 
 
 * Distinct artionlation forms the foundation of good reading. 
 To acquire this, the voice should be frequently exercised upon 
 the elementary sounds of the language, both dmple and com* 
 bined, and dasna of words containing sounds liable to be 
 perverted or suppressed in utterance, should be forcibly and 
 accurately jNTonoiuiced. 
 
 Elekentabt 
 
 YoOAii SOUNML 
 
 
 VowU Scmdt. 
 
 
 a as in ape. 
 
 
 
 as in old. 
 
 a " arm. 
 
 
 
 " do. 
 
 a " ball 
 
 
 
 " ox. 
 
 a " mat 
 
 
 
 n " use. 
 
 e " eve. 
 
 
 
 n " tub. 
 
 6 " end. 
 
 
 
 n " ftdL 
 
 i " ice. 
 
 
 
 oi " voice. 
 
 1 «• it 
 
 
 
 on " sound. 
 
12 
 
 THE VOUI^ BEADKB. 
 ObRMMMNf Somdi. 
 
 
 b* as in bag. 
 
 d 
 
 g 
 
 J 
 1 
 
 m 
 
 n 
 
 « 
 
 don. 
 
 gate. 
 
 jam. 
 
 loye. 
 
 " moment. 
 
 not 
 
 i< 
 
 i< 
 
 « 
 
 II 
 
 r as is rain. 
 ▼ " vane. 
 
 y 
 
 ng 
 th "' 
 
 war. 
 
 yes. 
 
 EeaL 
 
 song. 
 
 there. 
 
 Aspirate Sounds. 
 
 The aspirate consonuit is distingnished from the vocal in 
 its enondation : the former is pronounced with a foil emission 
 of breath ; the lattw, by a mnrmnring soond of the voice. 
 
 Exerciaea in (he Aspirate OoMonanta. 
 
 f as in fbte. h as in hate. k as in key. 
 
 p " pin. s " sign. t <* tdL 
 
 oh " charm. sh " shade. th " thanki. 
 
 Avdd the sniq>res8ion of a qrlUble ; as, 
 
 caVn for cabin. deslate for desolate, 
 
 particlar " particular. mem'ry " msmorj. 
 
 Avoid the omission of any sonnd properly belonging to 
 word; as, 
 
 seem' 
 
 i< 
 
 wa^er " warmer, 
 government" government. 
 
 swif ly for swiftly, 
 'appy " happy. 
 Visness " boisnesa 
 
 Avoid the snbstitntion of one soond for another ; as, 
 
 wil-ler forwil4ow. ' fem-peMt for temrper^te. ' 
 win-der " window. com-prom-mise " com-pro^mse. 
 
 separate " sep-a-rate. hoMer " hoUow. 
 
 * The oommon defect in the articulation of A is a want of fofoe in . 
 oompwing and opening the mouth. 
 
 .9rwiW«»»«w 
 
OH TBB ISDlGEnJBS OF BIADINO. 
 
 18 
 
 EKFHABIB and ACX3ENT. 
 
 Emphasis and Accent both hidicate some special stress of 
 the voice. Emphaas is that stress of the voice by which one 
 or more words of a sentence are distingnished above the rest. 
 Jt is used to designate the important words of a sentence^ 
 Irithont any dixect reference to other words. — ^Example : 
 
 Be women, 
 And snffer soch dishonor ? Men, and wash not 
 The stain away in Uood / 
 
 Emphasis is also used in contrasting one word or danse 
 with another; as, 
 
 JBdigion raises men above themselves. Irrdtgion sinks 
 them 6enea<A bmtes. 
 
 To determine the emphatic wordA of a sentence, the reader 
 most be governed wholly by the SenHment to be expressed. 
 The idea is sometimes entertained, that emphasis is expressed 
 by loudness of tone. But it shodd be borne in mind that the 
 most intense emphasis may often be effectively expressed even 
 by a ifbisper, 
 
 AOOSMT. 
 
 Accent is that stress of voice by which one sizable of a 
 word is made more prominent than the others. 
 
 The accented qrllable is s(«ietimes designated thus (') ; as^ 
 in'terdict. Wwds of more than two syllables generally have 
 two or more of them accented. The more forcible stress is 
 called the primary accent, and the less forcible the secondary 
 accent ; as, mnl'ti pli ca^'tion, com'pre hend". 
 
 Noie. — The change of accent on the same word oStea 
 changes its meaning ; as 
 
 ob'ject^ nltimate purpose, 
 con'dact, behavior. 
 
 object', to oppose, 
 con duct', to leadL 
 
14 
 
 THE FOUBTH READER. 
 
 iNTLEOnONS OB MODUIATIONS 
 
 are those variations of the voice heard in speaking or reading, 
 which are prompted by the feelings and emotions that the subr 
 ject inspires. A correct modulation of the voice is one of the 
 most important things to be taught to children. Without it 
 they cannot become good readers. If the voice is kept for 
 any length of time in one continuous key or pitch, the reader 
 and the hearers equally become weary. Whenever a habit of 
 reading or speaking in a nasal, ahriU, harsh, or rough tone 
 of voice is contracted by the pupil, no pains should be spared 
 in eradicating it, and in securing a clear, full, round, and flex- 
 ible tone. Three degrees of variations are usually recognized 
 in reading — ^the high, middle, and low. 
 
 The low is that which falls below the usual speaking key, 
 and is employed in expressmg emotions of atMimity, awe, and 
 reverend. 
 
 The middle pitcK is what is usually employed in common 
 conversation, and in eiiqpressing unimpa^mmed thought, and 
 moderate emotion. 
 
 The high pitch is that which rises above the qsnal speaking 
 key, and is used in expressing joj/ou^ and denoted fedinga. 
 
 The great object of every reader should be, first, to read so 
 as to be fully and easily understood by all who hear him ; and 
 next, to read with grace and force, so as to please and move 
 bis hearers. 
 
bafhsm. 
 
 W 
 
 1. Baptism. 
 
 O-rig'i-nal, first, primitive. 
 Mar'tyr-dom, death in testi- 
 mony of the trae faith. 
 
 Sup-Pi'ci-ENT, enough. 
 Va-lid'i-ty, legal force. 
 Reg'is-ter-ed, recorded. 
 
 Onr Saviour baptind by Bt Jobn. 
 
 THE first of the Sacraments which we receive is baptism. 
 It was instituted by our Lord to free ns from ori^nnl sin, 
 and also from actual sm committed before we receive it. Bap' 
 tism makes as children of God and of his holy Church ; and 
 
16 
 
 THS VOUBTH iwat>»i^^ 
 
 it is the most necessary of all the Sacraments, because, unlesi 
 ire receive it, we cannot enter the kingdom of heaven. 
 
 2. There are commonly Reckoned three kinds of baptism : 
 first, by water ; second, that of the spirit ; and third, of blood. 
 The first only is properly a sacrament, and it is conferred 
 by poniing water (m the head of the person to be baptized, 
 repeating at the same time these words : "I baptize tiiee in 
 the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy 
 Ghost." 
 
 3. The baptism of the epitit takes place when a person has 
 a tme sorrow for his sins, and an ardent d^e to receive bap- 
 tism, but is placed m such a position taftf it isjimpoodble for 
 him to receive tiie sacrament./^ By this desire original and 
 actual sin is forgiven. ( The baptism of blood is that which 
 takes place when a person suffers n^yrdom for the foith, 
 Hence the Hdy Innocents, put to death by the order of 
 Herod, when tiliat wicked king sought td Idll our Lord, are 
 esteemed as martyrs, and as being baptized ih their blood. 
 
 4. At whM portioalfur time during tiie life of our divine 
 Lord biqytism was instituted is not ezaetiy known. Some 
 holy Fatiiers think it was instituted when Ohrist mtf baptized 
 by St John ; otl^rs, when He said, unless a iqimi 1^ bona of 
 water and tiie Holy Ghost, he cannot witer the kingd<wi of 
 heaven. It is certain, however, that the obUgation b^g^ 
 with the beginnmg of Christianity. ^ 
 
 5VBaptism is conferred hi tluree ways. First, l^ immer- 
 CDon, that is, by plunging the person under the water./ Sec- 
 ondly, by inftision, or pouring ^e water on the person to be 
 baptized ; and thbrdly, by aspwrion or sprinkling. The prac- 
 tice now is, to pour tiie water three times on the person i»)ont 
 to be bf4>tized, using the words, "I baptize thee, Ac./* which 
 we mentioned before. The pouring ai the water onck is suffi- 
 cient, as to making the lacram^Qt valid ; and it is not actually 
 necessary to make the idgn of the cross while pouring the 
 water, though it is UBuaSy done. 
 
 6. The ceremonies made as$ tif in eoikfeiring the sa^fa* 
 ment of baptism are hnpresiite and instmctive. The priest 
 breathes vpoa the iilfiint or Other person to be baptized, to 
 
BAPTTSIL 
 
 17 
 
 Bignify spiritual liff). It is used also to drive away the devil, 
 by the Holy O^host, who is called the Spirit of God. The 
 person is signed with the sign of the cross, to signify that he 
 is made a soldier of Christ. Salt is put into his month, which 
 is an emblem of prudence, and signifies that grace is given to 
 preserve the soul inoormpt. 
 
 1 The priest applies spittle to the person's ears and nostrils, 
 in imitation of Christ, who used that ceremony in ciuing the 
 deaf and dumb. The anointing the head denotes the dignity 
 of Christianity ; the anointing the shoulders, that he may be 
 strengthened to carry his cross ; the breast, that his heart 
 may concur wUUngly in all the duties of a Christian; the 
 white garment in which the person is clothed signifies inno- 
 cence ; and the %hted candle the light of futh with which he 
 is endowed. 
 
 8. When children are baptissed, tiiey have also a godfather 
 and godmother, whose duty it is to instruct the child in the 
 duties of its reUgion, in ease of the death or neglect of 
 parents to do it. The office of godfather or godmother is an 
 important (me, and slionld not be undertaken without due con- 
 sideration of its duties. ' 
 
 9. At baptism, the devil and all his works are solemnly re- 
 bounced ; a promise is recorded on the altar to bear the white 
 robe of innocence without stun of sm before the timme of 
 Ood. Children, have you kept this promise f 
 
 X 
 
/ 
 
 18 
 
 THE FOUBTH ItEADEB. 
 
 2. The Smile of Innooenoe. 
 
 Tran'sient, paanng, fleeting. 
 Ma'ni-ac, a madman. 
 Pen'sive, thoughtful. 
 Plao'id, quiet. 
 !Bn-rol', to register. 
 
 Me rE-OB, a luminous, tran< 
 sient body, floating in the 
 atmosphere. 
 
 In'no-gbnce, freedom from 
 guilt. 
 
 rzL 
 
 1. rpHERE is f^ sndle of Mtt«r scorn, 
 
 -L Which curls the Up, which lights the eye ; 
 There is a smile in beanty^s mom 
 Just rising o^er the midnight sky. 
 
 2. lliere is a smile of yoathfol joy. 
 
 When hope's bright star's the transient guest ; 
 There is a smile of placid age, 
 lake Rmset on the billow's bfeast. 
 
 8. There is a smile, the maniac's smile. 
 
 Which lights the void that reason leaves, 
 And, like the sunshine through a cloud, 
 Throws shadows o'er the song she weares. 
 
freedom from 
 
 KIND WOBDB. 
 
 4. There is a smile of love, of hope, 
 
 Which shines a meteor through life's gloom ; 
 And there's a smile, Religion's smile, 
 Which lights the weary to the tombi. 
 
 5. It is the smile of innocence. 
 
 Of sleeping infancy's light dream ; - 
 Like lightning on a summer's eve, 
 It sheds a soft, a pensive gleam. 
 
 6. It dances ronnd the dimpled cheek, 
 
 And tells of happiness within ; 
 
 It smiles what it can never speak— 
 
 A human heart devoid of sin. 
 
 10 
 
 ♦ ^ ^^ 
 
 3. Kind Wosds. 
 
 Mental, relating to the mind. I Wbath^ful, fhrions, raging. 
 Mo-bosk', sour of temper. . i Un->pleas'ant, offensive. 
 
 Do not say mtnt'l for mtntal; 'eom]^iak or veeomplUik for aeorf>fluk 
 ruMolve foot retolve ; ferduce for produce. 
 
 rpHBY never blister the tongue or lipsi And we have never 
 ■*■ heard of one mental tronble arisiqg from this quarter. 
 IThongh they do not cost much, yet they accomplish m^ch. 
 
M 
 
 THE VOUBTH BBADBB. 
 
 w 
 
 They help one's own good-natnre and good-will. Soft worda 
 BOilen our own sools. Angry words are fiiel to the flame of 
 wrath, and make the blaze more fierce. 
 
 2. Kind words make other people good4iatared. Gold 
 words freeze people, and hot words make them hot, and bitter 
 words make them bitter, and wrathfbl words make them 
 wrathfiil. There is such a rash of all otitar kinds of words ui 
 onr days, that it seems unpleasant to give Idbd words a cliance 
 among them. 
 
 8. There are Tain words, and idle words, and hasty words, 
 spiteful words, aioid empty words, and profone words, and war- 
 like words. Kind words also produce their own image in 
 man's souL And a beautifiil image it iiu 
 
 4. They soothe, and quiet, and comfort the hearer. They 
 shame him out €i his sour, morose, unkind feelings. If we 
 have not yet begun to use kind wttrds in abundance as they 
 ought to be used, we should resolve to do so inuuediately. 
 
 4 The 3bothebs. 
 
 Sa'crbd, holy. 
 
 Vv'nviovB'LKD, not troubled. 
 
 Sound < comctly. Do not say aaemd Amt mored; wmt for 
 Aroid a dnging Ume in reading poetry. 
 
 1. Tfl^ ABx BOT TWO — ^the others sleep 
 * * Through death's untroubled night : 
 We are but two-^oh, let us keep 
 The link that binds us br^ht 
 
 2. Heart leaps to heart — ^the sacred flood 
 
 7 
 
 That Warms us is the same ; 
 That good old man — ^his honest blood 
 Alike w« fondly claim. 
 
/ Softwordf 
 the flame of 
 
 BBWASK or iMPATnaros. 
 
 We in one mother'B arroi were lock'd- 
 
 Long be her love repaid ; 
 In the same cradle we were rock'd, 
 
 BoQiid the ^ame hearth we played. 
 
 ai 
 
 4. Onr boyish sports were all the same^ 
 Each little joy and woe : 
 Let manhood keep alive the flame, 
 Lit np so long ago. 
 
 6. Wk ark but two — ^be that the band 
 To hold ns tin we die ; 
 Shoulder to shoulder let ns stand, 
 Till side by side we lie. 
 
 5. Bewabe of Impatience. 
 
 DE-iyoious, excellent to the 
 
 taste. 
 Mis'e-bt, wretdiedness ; woe. 
 Anx'ious, with trouble of 
 
 mind. 
 Im-pobt'ancb, consequence. 
 
 Ad-vised V to have given ad> 
 
 vice. 
 Plunged, thrust in. 
 Be-wark', to take care. 
 Poi'soN, what is noxious to life 
 
 or health. 
 
I? 
 
 TBI fOORTn RKAD^B. 
 
 THERE'S many a pleuure in life which we night ponesi, 
 were it not for our impatience. Toung people, especially, 
 miss a great deal of happiness, b^canse they cannot wait tUl 
 the proper time. 
 
 2. A man once gave a fine pear to his little boy, saying to 
 him, "The pear is green now, my boy, but lay it by for a week, 
 and it will then be ripe, and very delicious.'^ 
 
 " But," said the child, "I want to eat it now, father." 
 
 " I tell you it is not ripe yet,'' said the father. " It will 
 not taste good ; and, besides, it will make yon sick.'' 
 
 8. " No, it won't, father ; I know it won't,. it looks so good. 
 Do let me eat it I" 
 
 After a little more teashig, the father consented, and the 
 child ate the pear. The consequence was, that the next day 
 he was taken sick, and came very near dying. Now, all this 
 happened because the child was impatient. — I— 
 
 4. He could not wait, and sa, you see, the pear, that might 
 have been very pleasant and harmless, was the occasion of 
 severe illness. Thus it is that impatience, in a thousand inr 
 stances, leads children, and pretty old ones too, to convert 
 sources of hi^piness into actual mischief and misery. 
 
 5. There if ere some boys once, who lived near a pond ; and 
 when winter came, they were very anxious to ha^ it freeze 
 over, so that they could slide and skate upon the ice. At 
 last, there came a very cold night, and in the mommg the 
 
m TWO WAIB. 9^ 
 
 boji went to the pond to see if the ice would betr them. 
 Their father came by at that moment, and leeing that it was 
 hardly thick enough, told the boys that it was not safe yet, 
 and advised them to wait another day before they ventored 
 upon it 
 
 6 Bat the boys were hi a great harry to ei\)oy the pleasure 
 of sliding and skating. Bo they walked oat upon the ice ; bat 
 pretty soon it went craek — crack — cMck I and do#n they 
 were all plnng^ into the water I It was not very deep, so 
 tiiey got ont, though they were very wet, and came near 
 drowning ; and all because th^ could not wait 
 
 7. Now these things, though they may seem to be triflei^ 
 are full of instruction. They teach us to beware of impatience, 
 to wait till the fruit is ripe; they teach us that the cup of 
 pleasure, seised before the proper time, is turned into poison. 
 They show us the importance of paiienoe. 
 
 6. The Two Watb. 
 
 Rhini, the prindpal river hi 
 Germany. 
 
 Con'sciencb, internal or self- 
 knowledge. 
 
 Cami'nbss, quietness. 
 
 Mourned, sorrowed. 
 
 Ravbk, a spedes d Uadi 
 
 bird. 
 Rust'uno, slight noise. 
 Mis'ff-BY, wretchedness. 
 Pab'a-blb, a fable; a simiU* 
 
 tude. 
 
 IN a village on the Rhine, a schoolmaster was one day 
 teaching in his school, and the sons and daughters of the 
 villagers sat around listening with pleasure, for his teaclung 
 was full of interest He was speaking of the good and bad 
 conscience, and of the still voice of the heart 
 
 2. After he had finished- speaking, he asked his ptq^ils: 
 "Who among you is able to tell me. a parable on this sub- 
 ject ?** One of the boys stood forth and said, "I thmk I can 
 tell a par&ble, but I do not know whether it, be right" 
 
 "Speak hi yoor own woMs,^ answtted the masCtir. And 
 the boy began: "I compare the calnmass of a good eon* 
 
M 
 
 iBB lOUBTH RIAOIII. 
 
 idenoe and the onhai^iDefls of an e?il one, to two ways oo 
 which I walked once. 
 
 8. "When the enemy passed through oar TilL.^e, the soldiers 
 carried off by force my dear father auu our horse. When my 
 &ther did not come back, my luothdr and all of as wept and 
 mourned bitterly, and she seat me to the town to inquire for 
 my father. I went ; bat late at night I came back sorrow, 
 ftilly, for I had not found my father. It was a dark night in 
 autumn. 
 
 4. "The wind roared and howled in the oakVirnd fif^sj^nd 
 betweo) the rocks ; the night-ravens and oivli v » * -ieki^ 
 and hoot!^ ; and I thought in my soul h > v we had lost my 
 father, and of the misery of my mother ^hen ^'\e should see 
 me return alone. A strange treiibliivr > ^ized me in the drei&i^ 
 night, and each rustling leaf tcrriiieu uw. Then I thought to 
 myself, — such must be the fuulings of a man's heart who has 
 a bad conscience.'' -»<- 
 
 6. " My children,'' said the master, "would you like to walk 
 in the darkness of night, seeking in vaia for your dear father, 
 and hearing naught but the roar of the storm, and the screams 
 of the beasts of prey ?" 
 
 6. "Oh I no," exclaimed all the children, shuddering. 
 
 Then the boy resumed hip tale and said, " Another time I 
 went the same way with my sister; we had been fetching 
 many nice things from town for a feast, which our father was 
 secretly preparing for our mother, to surprise her the next 
 day. 
 
 1. "It was late when we retomed; but it was in spring; 
 the sky was bright and clear, and all was so calm, that we 
 could hear the gentle murmur of the rivulet by the way, and 
 on all sides the nightingales were singing. I was walkii^ 
 hand in hand with lo/ mter ; but we were so 'delighted thut 
 wo hardly Kked to •ux'a'v ; fh'n our ^^ -^a father caniB to meet 
 us. Now I thongs j^v^in uy myself, — such must be the state 
 of the man who has done much good." 
 
 8. When the boy had finished his tale, the master tonldl 
 kindly at the children, and they all said together, "Yea, wi 
 will become good men I" 
 
OOVmiL TO TBB TOUMO. 
 
 f COUNSKL TO TBI TOUNO. 
 
 vVbb, net'wofk, 
 Tbou'bf.e, care. 
 Cheer' FUL, pleasant. 
 Hab'ty, impetuor ; with ea- 
 gerness. 
 Mourn, to grieve. 
 
 Bvn'-'T.B, a small bladder of 
 
 water. 
 Tri'flk a matter of no im-. 
 
 portaiii 0. 
 Re-vbnqb', returning evil for 
 
 evU. 
 
 NETER be cast down by trifies. If a spider breaks hs 
 web twenty times, twenty times will he mend it. ^ake 
 np your minds to do a thing, and yon will do it. Fear not if 
 trouble comes upon you; keep up your spirits, though the 
 day may be a diurk one- 
 Troubles do not last forever, 
 The darkest day will pass away. 
 
 2. If the sun is going down, look up to the stars ; if the 
 earth is dark, keep your eyes on heaven. With Qod's prech 
 ence and God's promise, a man or child may be cheerful. 
 
 Never despair when fog's in the air, 
 A sunshiny morning will oome without warning. 
 
 3 
 
26 
 
 THE FOUBTB BEAOBR. 
 
 3. Mind what yon mn after 1 Never be content with a 
 bubble that will burst ; or a fire that will enu in smoke and 
 darkness : but that which you can keep, and which is worth 
 keeping. 
 
 Something sterling that will stay, 
 When gold and silver fly away. 
 
 - 4. Fight hard against a hasty temper. Anger will come^' 
 but resist it strongly. A spark may set a house on fire. A 
 fit of passion may give you cause to mourn all the days of 
 your life. Never revenge an injury. 
 
 He that revenges knows no rest ; 
 The meek possess a peaodol toeast. 
 
 5. If yon have an enemy, act khidly to him, and make him 
 your friend. Ton may not win turn over at once, bat try 
 again. Let one kindness be followed by another till yon have 
 compassed your end. By littlo and little great things ar» 
 completed. 
 
 Water lUling , day hy day, 
 Weairs the baidept rock away. 
 
 And 80 repeated kin^ess will 8dlte& a heart of stone. 
 
 8. On a Fiotube of a Girl L&u)iNa heb Bund 
 Mother thbouqh the Wood. 
 
 1. rpHE green leaves as we pass 
 
 -1- Lay their light fingers on thee nnaw^re^ 
 And by thy side the bazels cluster fair, 
 
 And the low forestgrass 
 Grows green and silken where the wood-paths wind-^ 
 Alas 1 for thee, sweet mother I thou art blmd I 
 
 2. And nature is all bright ; 
 
 And the faint gray and crimson of the dfl.wn. 
 Like folded curtains firom the day aro dra¥m | 
 And evening's purple light 
 
aiBL LEADING HEB BLIirD HOTHEB. 
 
 Quivers in tremalonfl softness on the sky — 
 Alas ! sweet mother I for thy cloadcd eye. 
 
 n 
 
 8. The moon's new silver shell 
 
 Trembles above thee, and the stars float up, 
 In the blue air, and the rich tulip's cup 
 
 Is penciPd passing well. 
 And the swift birds, on glorious pinions flee — 
 Alas ! sweet mother 1 that thou canst not see I 
 
 4. And the kind looks of Mends 
 Peruse the sad expression in thy face, 
 And the child s^ons amid his bounding race, 
 And the tall stripling bends 
 
2a 
 
 THE rOUBTH READBB. 
 
 Lotr to thine ear with daty unfoigot-^ 
 
 Alas 1 sweet mother I that thou seest them not t 
 
 5. Bat thou canst hear! and love 
 May richly on a human tone be ponr'd, 
 And the least cadence of a whisper'd word 
 
 A daughter's love may prove — 
 And while I speak thou knowest if I smile, 
 Albeit thou canst not see my face the while ! 
 
 6. Yes, thou canst hear t and He 
 
 Who on thy sightless eye its darkness hung, 
 To the attentive ear, like harps, hath strung 
 
 Heaven and earth and sea I 
 And 'tis a lesstm in our hearts to know-— 
 W^ bfut one sense the «oul may overflow. 
 
 9. Tbe Honest Shephebd Bot. 
 
 Shep'herd, one who has the 
 
 care of sheep. 
 Fru'oal, saving of expenses. 
 Crook, bend, a shepherd's staff. 
 Gatt, manner of walkmg. 
 
 Jourpxkt's end, place to be 
 reached. 
 
 De-pict'ed, portrayed. 
 
 Ca-pac'i-ty, the power of re- 
 ceiving Mid containing. 
 
 I AM going to tell you something which happened in Eng« 
 land. It is about a shepherd bby, natned John Borrow. 
 It was a cold, wintry morning when John left his home, as 
 usual, to tend the sheep of farmer Jones. In one hand John 
 carried his frugal meal, and in the other he held a shepherd's 
 crook. He walked briskly along, whistling as he went — ^now 
 tossing with his feet the still untrodden snow, and, once in a 
 while, rumimg back to slide where his own feet had made a 
 way. Had you looked into the bright, sunny face of John 
 Borrow, you would not have been surprised at his cheerfiil 
 
THE HONEST BBEPHEBD BOT. 
 
 gait. His conntenance bore the impress of a happy disposi- 
 tion, and a warm, confiding heart. 
 
 2. John had been carefully brought up by his only surviv- 
 ing parent — a poor mother ; he was her only son, and though 
 she had many little daughters to share her maternal care, still 
 she seemed to think that her first-bom, the one who was to 
 be the stay and support of the family, needed the most of her 
 watchful love. 
 
 3. Hitherto John had not disappohited her — ^he was beloved 
 by all for his open, frank manners, and his generous, honest 
 heart; and he promised fair to become all that his mother 
 had so earnestly prayed he m^ht be. ' 
 
 
 4 
 
 4. But while I have been telling you a little about our young 
 friend, he, in spite of his playing a little by the way, has 
 reached his journey's end. He first deposits his dinner in the 
 trunk of an old oak, which always serves hun for a closet ; 
 and then he begins to feed the poor sheep, who do not seem to 
 enjoy the cold weather so much as himself. 
 
 5. John manages to spend a very happy day alone in the 
 meadows with his sheep and his dog. Sometimes he tries how 
 Pepper likes snow-balling ; sometimes he runs up to the wind- 
 mill, not far off, to see if he can get any other little boys to 
 come and play with him. This morning, however, he had a 
 little more business to do than usual ; he had to take the sheep 
 to another fold, where they would be more sheltered from the 
 
80 
 
 TQjB fOVWni BEADEB. 
 
 wiad. Aud just «^ be is in tlie act of driying them through 
 the large field-gate, he sees farmer Jones coming towards him. 
 
 6. "John," exclaimed the farmer, as he came up to the 
 other side of the gat<e, "have, yon seen my pocket-book about 
 anywhere ? I was rouu^ here about half an hour ago, aud 
 must have dropped it." 
 
 "No, sir; I have not seen any thing of it, but I'll look 
 about, if you like." 
 
 T. " That's a man, John. Be quick, for it's got mouey in 
 it, and I don't at all wish to lose it. Wo will hunt together.'' 
 
 Whereupon they parted company, one going one way, and 
 the other another, with their eyes on the ground, searching for 
 the missing trefisure. 
 
 Presently John heard Mr. Jones calling him in a loud voice 
 fk-om the other side of the field. 
 '^ 8. John, thinking the book was found, came running with 
 great eagerness ; but, as he drew near the old oak where farmer 
 Jones stood, he was taken somewhat aback to see the look of 
 anger depicted on bis master's face; and still more was he 
 surprised when he saw the missing book lying open by the 
 side of Mb own dmner, and Mr. Jones pointing to it. 
 
 "Well, sir, what does this mean?" exckumed the indignant 
 farmer. " I thought you told me yon did not know where it 
 was?" 
 
 9. John, whose amazement at the strange cu'cnmstance was 
 very great, and whose sense of honor was no less so, felt the 
 color mount to his cheeks, as he replied : 
 
 " Tes, sir, and I spoke the truth." 
 
 " Then, how do you account for my finding it open in the 
 trunk of an oak, close to your dinner?" 
 
 " That I cannot say ; this, only, I know : that I did not put 
 it there." 
 
 10. But Mr. Jones would not be convinced — ^the fact seemed 
 to him 80 clear and so self-evident ; for Juhn acknowledged he 
 had not seen any one else about there that morning ; so, after 
 scolding the poor boy very severely, he dismissed him on the 
 spot from his employment. 
 
 11. It is easier to imagine than describe the feelings of poof 
 
THB HOMEST BOEPBESD BOT. 
 
 John, as he slowly fonnd his way home that evening. To be 
 deprived of the means of asristing his dear mother was bad 
 enough ; but to be suspected of lying and stealing, was, to 
 simple, honest John, almost too hard to bear. He consoled 
 himself, however, with the thought — "Mothsb will believe 
 me." 
 
 12. Yes, and his mothier did believe him, and told him not 
 to feel angry with farmer Jones, for appearances were certainly 
 against him, and he did not know him as well as she did. 
 "Besides," she added, "truth must come out some tune or 
 other." 
 
 And so it did, though it was months afterwards ; and I will 
 tell you how. 
 
 13. John had long been seeking another situation, but no 
 one would take him, on account of the apparent blot on his 
 character. This cost John many a tear and many a sigh, but 
 he trusted that God would right him, and he was not discour- 
 aged. 
 
 14. One day he went to see a gentleman who had inqnhred 
 for a lad to work in his garden. As usual, John told his story 
 just as it was, and his face brightened as the gentleman said, 
 " Then that must have been your dog I saw with a book in 
 his mouth. I was riding through the field you mention, one 
 day, some months since, and I saw a dog with a book in his 
 mouth, run and put his head in the trunk of an old oak." 
 
 15. John clapped his hands for joy, exclaiming: "I knew 
 the truth would come out. Then Pepper— poor Pepper I it 
 was his kindness to me that caused all the trouble ; he thought 
 it was mine, and he took it to where I always keep my dinner, 
 and then, I suppose, in dropping it into the hole, it came 
 open." 
 
 16. John lost no time in acquainting farmer Jones with 
 what he had heard. He was very sorry for his suspicions, and 
 wanted to take him back ; but John, who saw some chance of 
 promotion in the gentleman's garden, declined the favor. 
 
 IT. John remained some time with his new master as gar* 
 den-boy, but he became so great a favorite, both among the 
 family and servants, that he was afterwards taken into tiie 
 
\ 
 
 THE POUKTH EEADBB- 
 L. whe« be «».i^ " ratrte^v;-:tS:^^ 
 
 bee, mj^ w , j^g G^od. 
 
 together for good to those WBU 
 
 10. The Woin)EB8 oir a Salt Mine. 
 
 MiNB, a pit from wWch min- 
 
 erals are dug. 
 Ca'blk, a large, strong rope. 
 Mi'NEB, one whoVorks m a 
 
 nune. , 
 
 Cav'ebn, an opening under 
 
 ground. 
 
 Vault, a continued arch, a 
 
 cellar. - 
 
 I'cMLES, a hanging mass of 
 
 iNrAB'TT-ANT, a persou who 
 
 resides in a place. 
 Com'posed, formed. 
 
 ^^^ iin^ Poland there is the largest 
 
 ™ acountry of Europe called Po^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^ ,,^ 
 
 i salt mine in t^\7°"^*- "^ ^ the fields, and two in a 
 which there are eight opemn^. ^ m ^^^^^ ^^ the 
 
 town called Cracow, ^«*' ^^?^ *\^^ ^heel with a cable, by 
 
 top of each of these openmg^ ^ ^ X«^«« "" "^""^ "" ^""^ 
 Xh persons axe let downed s^me^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^^ ^ 
 
 arsons descend together They ^^^ ^ ^^ ^ 
 
 ^ow, dark weU t^^^^f ^,1, he steps ftom the rope, 
 the first person touches the gro 
 
 and the rest do the s^^^ ^ ^^'.^ ^f dark, but the miners 
 mense depth. ^^ ^gitors enter a small, 
 
WBE 8TABBY BEATEN8. 
 
 83 
 
 body of the mine, where there bursts upon his sight a view, 
 the brightness and beauty of which is scarcely to be imagined. 
 
 4. It is a spacious plain, containing a little world under- 
 ground, with horses, carriages, and roads, displaying all the 
 bustle of business, Thi9 town is wholly cut out of one vast 
 bed of salt, and the space is filled with lofty arched vaults, 
 supported by pillars of salt, so that the biiilding seems com* 
 posed of the purest crystals. 
 
 5. Lights are constantly burning, and the blaze of them 
 reflecting from 6very part of the mine, gives a more splendid 
 sight than any human works above ground could exhibit. The 
 salt iM, in some places, tinged with all the colors of precious 
 stones, blue, yellow, purple, red, and green ; and there are et^ 
 tire columns wholly composed of brilliant masses of such colors. 
 
 6. Froui the roofs of the arches, in many parts, the salt 
 hangs in the form of icicles, presenting all the colors of the, 
 rainbow. ^ 
 
 In various parts of this spacious plain stand the huts of the 
 miners and their families, some - single, and others in clusters 
 like villages. The inhabitants have very little intercourse with 
 the world above ground, and many hundreds are bom and end 
 their lives there. 
 
 7. A stream, of fresh water runs through the mine, so that 
 the inhabitants have no occasion for a supply from above : and 
 above all, the 'Almighty Creator of all these wof'ders is not 
 forgotten ; they have hollowed out a beautiful chapel, in which 
 the Adorable Sacrifice is offered ; the altar, crqpifix, ornaments 
 of the chapel, with statues of our Blessed Lady and several 
 lamts, are all of the same beautiful material. 
 
 11. The Stabry Heavens. 
 
 Pib'ma-ment, the heavens. 
 Pro-claim', announce. 
 Plan'et, a celestial body re- 
 volving about the sun. 
 Ra'di-ant, bright. 
 
 Ter-res'tri-al, relating to the 
 earth. 
 
 Rea'son, the faculty of judg- 
 ing. 
 
 Glo'ri-ous, illustrious. 
 
h/ 
 
 fi 
 
 84 
 
 THE FOURTH READER. 
 
 . .r^'S.^^^^ 
 
 1. rpHE spacious firmament on high, 
 -L With all the blue, ethereal sky, 
 And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
 Their great Original proclaim. 
 
 S. Th' unwearied sun, from day to day, 
 Does his Creator's power display, 
 And publishes to every land, 
 The work of an Almighty hand. 
 
 8. Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
 The moon takes up the wondrous tak^ 
 
0ABELES8NE88. 
 
 And nightly to the listening earth 
 Repeats the story of ' •* birth ; 
 
 4. While all the stars that round her bom, 
 And all the planets in their torn, 
 Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
 
 And spread the truth from pole to pole. 
 
 5. What though m solemn silence all 
 Move round this dark, terrestrial ball,— 
 What though no real voice nor sound 
 Amid then: radiant orbs be found ? 
 
 6. In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
 And utter forth a glorious voice, 
 Forever singing as they shine, 
 
 " The hand that made us is divine.'' 
 
 85 
 
 12. Oabelessness. 
 
 Qual'i-ty, an attribute. 
 Sloven'li-ness, . untidiness ; 
 
 carelessness. 
 Yield'ing, giving up. 
 
 FRAo'MENTy a small portion. 
 A-void'ed, shunned. 
 Sur-prisb', wonder suddenly 
 excited. 
 
 MARY BELL was a little girl who, though she had many 
 good qualities, was also, like most persons, possessed of 
 some very bad ones. One of her worst faults was her negli- 
 gence and carelessness, which showed itself in many matters, 
 nnd especially in her dress. 
 
 2. She was affectionate, kind-hearted, and good-natured ; 
 always ready to assist others, even when by so doing she 
 stood in the way of her own pleasure. But, alas I her sloven* 
 liness, 
 
 " like a cloud before the skies, 
 Hid iOl her bettor qualitieg." 
 
86 
 
 THE FOUBTH BEADEIU 
 
 8. This trait in Mary's character gave her mother a great 
 deal of trouble. She did not want her little girl to be vain 
 of dress, which is very foolish as well as wicked, but bhe 
 wished to see her neat and careful. Mary sometimes suffered 
 much inconvenience from her carelessness. She would often, 
 when preparing for a walk or ride, waste half an hour in look- 
 ing for a missing glove or stocking, and when found, the article 
 was generally so much out of repair, as hardly to be worn with 
 decency. 
 
 4. But she had got the habit of throwing her things about, 
 and letting them go unmended, and it seemed impossible to 
 break her of it. So true it is that children should be very 
 careful how they form habits that may cling to them through 
 life, and, if bad, cause them much trouble. 
 
 5. About half a mile from Mrs. Bell's there lived a very 
 nic^ old woman, who had fcrmerly been a housekeeper in the 
 family, and who was very fond indeed of little Mary. Mary, 
 in return, loved Mrs. Brown, as the old woman was called, 
 and was always delighted to be the bearer of the little delica- 
 cies which her mother often sent to her. 
 
 6. One Saturday morning Mrs. Bell called Mary to her, 
 and told hCi.* tha: as she had been a good girl, and learned all 
 her tasks that week very well, she might go over and spend 
 the day with Mrs. Brown, adding, that when she was dressed, 
 she would find a pitcher of broth on the dining-table, which 
 she wished her to take with her. Mary was delighted with 
 the permission, and ran up-stairs as fast as possible to get 
 ready. ^ 
 
 t. As usual, half the articles she wanted to wear were miss- 
 ing, and no two in the same place, so that a long time was 
 consumed in looking for them. One of her shoes was in her 
 bedroom, but where the other had gone was a mystery which 
 no one in the house could solve. The servants were called 
 from their work to know if they had seen it, but none of them 
 knew any thing about it. 
 
 8. After wasting a long time in this way, Mary happened 
 to recollect that the night before she had pulled it off, on ao- 
 coont of its hurting her, and thrown it under the parlor lounge, 
 
 Y 
 
 ^M 
 
 a 
 
 ^t 
 
 a 
 
 ^1 
 
 a 
 
 |H 
 
 a 
 
 '^1 
 
 a 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
87 
 
 where it was fonnd. The string was oat ; bnt beiu v thlM 
 time in a great hurry, Mary concluded it would sta\ a with- 
 out one, and put it on as it was. In changing hei she 
 noticed a small rent in the skirt, which her mother huu luld 
 her of some days before, but which she had forgotten to mend. 
 
 9. " Never mind," thought she, " it will not be noticed, and 
 I can sew it up when I come home." One glove tras in her 
 pocket, and the other, after some search, she found in her ret- 
 icule. These requu'ed mending also, but were thrust on with- 
 out it. The string of her bonnet was ripped off, and being in 
 too much .haste to fasten it properly, she merely stuck a pin 
 in it, hoping that this would answer the purpose. Being at 
 last ready, Mary took the pitcher, which was a very handsome 
 one, and started on her journey. 
 
 10. It was a lovely day, and she went on for some distance 
 in the greatest glee, although her shoe kept slipping up and 
 down in a most troublesome manner. She was thinking how 
 much pleased Mrs. Brown would be to see her, and get the 
 nice broth, when, in crossing a stile, the comer of one of the 
 steps caught in the rent in her dress, and tore a hole in the 
 thin lawn nearly a quarter of a yard wide. 
 
 «Y' II. Poor Mary could have cried heartily at seeing her 
 pretty frock spoiled, but remembering that crying would not 
 repair the injury, she forced back her tears, and pinned it up 
 as well as she could. After having done this, she took up her 
 pitcher and went on, though not quite so gayly as before, for 
 she was afraid of receiving a scolding from her mother ; and 
 she felt that she deserved one for not having mended her dress, 
 as she was told to do. 
 
 12. Her troubles had hardly begun ; for she had not gone 
 much further when the pin came out of her bonnet-string, and 
 a gust of wind carried away her bonnet, and sent it flying 
 across the field. Mary set down her pitcher and ran after it 
 as fast as she could ; but every time she got near to it, 
 another puff of wind would take it far out of her reach, until 
 at kst it was blown into a sort of marshy place at the bottom 
 of the field. 
 
 18. In her efforts to regain it, her foot sank deep into the 
 
TBB FOURTH BEADKIU 
 
 I 
 
 f 
 
 ! ' 
 
 < 
 
 soft, yielding earth, and when she got it ont, the shoe which 
 had no string to Iceep it on was left behind. Poor Mary was 
 almost heart-broken at the loss of her shoe ; and her bonnet — 
 which was floating in a mad-puddle — was a mere mass of wet 
 ribbons and dirty straw. She stood cryhig for some time, 
 when happening to remember the pitcher which she had left at 
 the end of the field, she started to look for it. 
 
 14. The stones and sticks were so painful to her bare little 
 foot, that she was almost lame before she reached the spot. 
 Here, alas ! another misfortune awaited her. A dog happen- 
 ing to come along during her absence had smelled the soup, 
 and tried hard to get it. In so doing he had knocked the 
 pitcher over against a stone, and there it lay, broken in a 
 dozen pieces. This was too much for Mary. 
 
 15. She sat down on the ground by the fragments, and 
 cried as though her little heart would break. Poor child 1 
 she was in a sad dilemma indeed. She could not go to Mrs. 
 Brown's in this plight — without her bonnet, with but one 
 shoe, her haur tangled and matted, and her frock soiled and 
 torn ; and she was afraid, if she went home, her mother would 
 be offended at the results of her carelessness. She thought 
 how easily all this conld have been avoided by a little care 
 and a few stitches. 
 
 16. She was still dtting sobbing, when she heard a voice 
 behind her exclaim in a tone of surprise, " Mary, is it possi- 
 ble! Why, what can you be doing here?" Mary turned, 
 and saw through her tears her father's face looking kindly 
 but in surprise upon her. As well as her sobs would permit, 
 she told him the events of the morning exactly as they had 
 occurred. 
 
 1*1. "Well, Mary," said her father, when she had finished, 
 " I am sorry to see you in so much trouble ; but your mother 
 has often warned yon of the effects which must result from 
 your extreme carelessness ; but dry your eyes now, and come 
 home with me ; this is no place for you." "Oh I papa, how 
 can I ? Ma will be so angry with me for losing my bonnet 
 and shoe, and breaking her pitcher." 
 
 18. "Never mind, my poor child; come with me, and I do 
 
FROFAOATIOli 07 TMB fAIHL W 
 
 Dot think yonr mother wHl panish yon, ff ihe smi bow mny 
 
 f ou ar« ft/f your carelesfmess ; come 1 " 
 
 Mfh. Bell WM fiiirprised at Mary's appearance ; bat when* 
 she heard her story, and saw how distressed she really was, 
 Nhe did not scold her, bat merely told her she hoped her morn- 
 ing's adventures would teach her to be more careful in fature. 
 
 19. I am happy to be able to tell my little readers, that 
 Mary has learned wisdom by experience, and is now all that 
 her parents can desire. 
 
 13. OONOBEQATION Oi* THE PbOPAOATION OF THB FaTTH. 
 
 V 
 
 Su-PRRM e', highest and greatest. 
 
 Pa'oan, a heathen, an idola- 
 ter. 
 
 In-3ti-i<u'tion, system estab- 
 lished. 
 
 Doo-u'mentb, important pa- 
 pers. 
 
 Db-pabt'ment, division for the 
 performance of certain do* 
 tiesL 
 
 THE object of this Oongregation is to spread the Christian 
 Religion over the whole world. Before oar Lord Jesos 
 Christ ascended into Heaven, He said to St. Peter and the 
 other Apostles, ** Go teach all nations.'^ The Pope, who is 
 the successor of St. Peter, is the Supreme Pontiff, or Chief 
 Bishop of the Catholic world. He is the one from whom the 
 missionary receives his conmussion to preach the gospel to 
 pagan nations. 
 
 2. One of the chief objects of the Pope is to send mis- 
 sionary priests to the farthest parts of the earth, and to direct, 
 assist, and support them while they labor for the salvation of 
 souls — for the Pope is the head pastor or shepherd over the 
 flock of Christ, and his heart yearns to bring the poor pi^ans 
 into the one fold. In this holy work, he is assisted by the 
 Sacred College of Cardmals, a portion of which form what is 
 called the Sacred Congregation de Pn^iaganda, which meuis 
 the Sacred Congregation for the flpreading <^ the Faith. To 
 
^ 
 
 9BS VOXJWm niRkTiw^ , 
 
 
 •i 
 
 this Congregation is committed the management of the Catbi 
 
 olic missions. 
 
 • 3. This society was first commenced by Pope Gregory the 
 
 Fifteenth, in 1622. He formed it, and supplied it with fands 
 
 for its sapporib His successor, Urban the Eighth, favored 
 
 the Congregation, and set apart large sums of money for its 
 
 success. 
 
 4. So much good lias been done by the Propaganda that 
 many pious lay persons have given large donations to help the 
 good missionaries, for they wished to have a share in the merits 
 of those who, forsaking their homes, peril their lives to preach 
 the gospel of Christ to the poor heathen nations. 
 
 5. The managers of the Sacred Congregation of the Propa- 
 ganda receive letters irom the missionaries all over the world. 
 Those Jetters are very interestmg, and edifying. They contain 
 accounts of the zeal and sufferings, and very often the martyr- 
 dom, both of the missionaries and converts in pagan countries. 
 Perhaps yon have read the account of the martyrdom of the 
 good, religious, and many others, who were killed m China in 
 1870 by then" pagan persecutors. • 
 
 The Holy Father has all the letters and other important 
 documents that relate to the Propaganda carefully preserved. 
 
 6. There is a printing establishment connected with the in- 
 stitution, which is considered the most valuable in the world. 
 It is furnished with types or characters of forty-eight different 
 languages, by means of which the Holy Scriptures, works of 
 instruction, and other books, may be printed in that number of 
 languages. This is a great help in the labor of spreading the 
 gospel among foreign nations. 
 
 7. But the most important department of this Congregation 
 is the College of the Propaganda, as it is usually called. This 
 famous school was founded by Pope Urban the Eighth, in 
 182t, and may be justly considered as the seminary of the 
 universal Church. The design of this school is to educate, fc^ 
 the priesthood, young men from all the nations of the earth. 
 
 8. Here may be found Chinese, Greeks, Arabians, Ethio- 
 pians, Syrians, Bulgarians, Turks, Italians, French, Belgians, 
 English, Irish, Scotch, AmerioauB, Dutch, German^, Spaniardi^ 
 
PBOPAaATION OF THE FAITH. 
 
 # 
 
 Portngaese, Poles, Bassians, with the inhabitants of yarious 
 other portions of the globe — ^representing, in all, between forty 
 and fifty tribes and nations of the earth. 
 
 9. These are taught free of charge, all the branches of 
 sacred and profane learning, and thus prepared, when raised 
 to the holy order of priesthood, to enter upon the duties of 
 the mission in their native countries, or bear the light of 
 Christ's gospel to pagan nations. 
 
 10. Every year within the octave of the Epiphany, it is 
 usual for the students of this College to celebrate the festival 
 by a solemn academical exhibition. A Latin prose composi- 
 tion is first read, followed by poetry written in the various 
 languages. In 1841 the compositions and speeches read on 
 the occasion, were in forty-four different languages. 
 
 11. In this great variety of languages, we may see that the 
 Catholic Church is universal, that is, spread over all nations ; 
 and in this gathering of the youth of all nations and languages 
 into one school for the purpose of learning one Faith, under 
 the one chief Pastor, we see the unity of the Catholic Church, 
 that Church which our Lord founded for the purpose of teach- 
 ing all nations. 
 
 12. The priests of the Catholic Church are never afraid to 
 brave all the dangers and privations they must suffer when 
 living among savages and barbarians, and they willingly leave 
 all the enjoyments of civilized life to labor for the salvation of 
 riouls. 
 
 13. Those trained in the College of the Propaganda are 
 well prepared to perform this charitable work ; no difference in 
 language or custom can hinder them from being understood by 
 those among whom they labor, for they are enabled to speak 
 to the various tribes of the earth in their native tongue, and in 
 this manner they can easily teach them the diviae truths of the 
 Gospel. 
 
42 
 
 THE FOUBTH BEADEB. 
 
 14. Live fob SoaiETHiNa. 
 
 ^m-ploy'ment, occupation. 
 Self'ish, regarding one's own 
 
 interest solely. 
 Op-pbessbd', burdened. 
 
 t 
 
 Sym'pa-thy, compassion, fet 
 
 low-feeling. 
 Wea'ry, fatigued. 
 Foun'tain, a jet of water 
 
 > 
 
 'M(mj»^ 
 
 1. T IVE for something ; be not idle— • 
 J-^ Look about thee for employ ; 
 Sit not down to useless dreaming--. 
 
 Labor is the sweetest joy. 
 Folded hands are ever weary. 
 
 Selfiii^ hearts are never gay, 
 Life for thee hath many duties — 
 
 Active be, then, while you may. 
 
 Scatter blessings in thy pathway t 
 
 Gentle words and cheering smiles 
 Better are than gold and silver. 
 
 With their grief-dispelling wiles. 
 As tlie pleasant sunshine &U^ 
 
 Ever on the grateM eaxik. 
 So let sympathy and kindness 
 
 Gladden well the darkened hearth. 
 
PBEDOMINAIIT PASSIONS. 
 
 H 
 
 3. Hearts there are oppress'd and weary ; 
 
 Drop the tear of sympathy, 
 Whisper words of hope and comfort, 
 
 Give and thy reward shall be — 
 Joy unto thy soul returning 
 
 From this perfect fountain-head ; . 
 Freely, as thou freely givest, 
 
 Shall the grateM light be shed. 
 
 15. Predominant Passions. 
 
 Mas'ter-y, control, superior 
 influence. 
 
 Un-REA ' SON - A - BLE, withOUt 
 
 reason. 
 Re-com-mend'ed, advised. 
 
 Hauoh'ti-ness, an oyerbear- 
 
 ing manner. 
 Dis-oust'ing, exciting dislike, 
 
 odious, hateful. 
 Gon'temft, act of despising. 
 
 IT is not usual, that in young persons, whose characters have 
 not taken any settled form, any vice should have gamed so 
 decided an ascendency, as to enable themselves or others to 
 discern clearly the nature of then* prevailing passion. Gen- 
 erally speaking, they should be more anxious to correct all 
 their faults, than to find out the chief among them ; as that 
 is not easily seen until they are placed amid the busy scenes of 
 the world. 
 
 2. Still, as they cannot be made acquainted too early with 
 the wretched effects of vice, it would be advisable for them to 
 examine their consciences now and then lest any evil propen- 
 sity may take root m their hearts, thereby become the princi- 
 ple of their actions, and frustrate the ends proposed in Chris- 
 tian education. 
 
 3. This prevailing passion of most persons is Pride, which 
 never fails to produce not only thoughts of pride and vanity, 
 but also such haughtiness of manner and self-importance, as to 
 render them really disgusting and ridiculous. 
 
 4. Constantly endeavoring to attract attention, and b«com« 
 
u 
 
 THB FOURTH TtWATU ffR. 
 
 the sole object of attention, they spare no pains to ontdo 
 others, to set themselves off, and by their conceited airs, their 
 forwardness, their confidence in their own opinion, and neglect 
 or contempt of that timid, gentle, retiring manner, so amiable 
 and so attractive, especially in youth, they defeat their own 
 purpose, and become as contemptible as they aim at being the 
 contrary. 
 
 5. Many are so little sensible of the awful duties imposed 
 ■by Christian charity, as to be ever ready to blame, criticise, 
 and condemn all who come under their notice, and this is one 
 of the most dangerous propensities, as the occasions for mani- 
 festmg it occur very often, and frequently lead to mortal sin. 
 Persons who are thus badly disposed, talk continually of the 
 faults of others, which they are always inclined to exagger- 
 ate, though often those defects exist only m the detractor's 
 embittered imagination, which represents others in so unfavor- 
 able a point of view, as to subject their actions to the most 
 unkind censure. 
 
 6. To this may be added a fondness for sarcasm, which crit- 
 icises and turns every thing and every person into ridicule, 
 sparing neither superiors. Mends, enemies, nor even the most 
 sacred characters, such as clergymen. This disposition never 
 fails to make numerous enemies ; and, though sometimes en- 
 couraged by laughter and smiles of approval, yet it neverthe- 
 less is generally as hated as it is hateful. 
 
 7. Those whose temper is violent and unrestrained, cannot 
 be ignorant that anger is their prevailing passion — their fre- 
 quent, unreasonable, and impetuous sallies of anger, on the 
 slightest occasions, render intercourse with them as unsafe qs 
 it would be with a maniac. Such dreadful and mournful con- 
 sequences have followed from even one fit of passion, as to 
 render any family truly unhappy, who may possess a member 
 with a violent temper. 
 
 8. Those who feel incUned to this passion, should, while 
 young, use all their efforts to overcome so dangerous a dis- 
 position. Reason, affection for their family, proper regard' for 
 all those with whom they may be connected, and, above all, 
 reli^oQ, fiomish powerfid motives and means for reducing any 
 
PBEDOmNANT PASSIONS. 
 
 45 
 
 temper, however violent, to the standard of Christian meek- 
 ness. The chief among those means is prayer, and the next, 
 perhaps the most effectual, is complete silence under all emo- 
 tions of anger. 
 
 9. There are many other persons who, though they do not 
 rank among the passionate, are nevertheless the pests of 
 society, — ^particularly of domestic society. Their prevailing 
 passion is a certain ill-humor^ fretfulness, peevishness, and 
 discontent, which pervades their words, manners, and even 
 looks; and it is usually brought into action by such mere 
 trifles, as leave no chance of peace to those who live in the 
 /house with them. 
 ^If^lO. Children and servants are not the only butts of their 
 spleen ; but even their best friends, their superiors themselves, 
 are not always secure from cheir ill-tempered sallies and their 
 incessant complaints. In a word, their sourness, their dissat* 
 isfied, discontented manner, effectually embitters every society, 
 and throws a gloom over the most innocent amusements. 'As 
 this luckless disposition is peculiarly that of women, young 
 persons cannot be too earnestly recommended to combat in 
 youth any tendency thereto, lest they become, when older, the 
 greatest torment of that society they are certainly intended 
 to bless and adern. 
 
 11. Sloth, which is the prevailing passion of many persons, 
 is also One of those vices most difficult to correct. It shows 
 itself by habitual indolence, and such n^ligence and apathy, 
 that no duty, however serious, can rouse a person of this 
 character to exertion. Days, weeks, aoA even years, . pass 
 over without any account of how they have passed; for 
 though the indolent form many projects of amendment, yet 
 those projects are never executed, because their postponement 
 is the effect of sloth. 
 
 12. Any time but the present appears calculated for the 
 discharge of duty, precisely because the most heroic efforts in 
 prospect cost less than a single actual exertion. Thence it 
 follows, that spiritual duties are so long neglected and de- 
 ferred, that the torpor, which in youth could easily have been 
 broken off, gains sudi a mastery that it becomes ahrost an* 
 

 
 I 
 
 
 li 
 
 l! 
 
 46 ^B FOUBTH READER. 
 
 conquerable, and at length reduces the soul to that dreadftd 
 state commonly called tepidity, which is only another word for 
 sloth in spiritual matters. 
 
 13. Then it is that every social and personal duty is aban- 
 doned ; children, servants, affairs, spiritual and temporal, order, 
 cleanliness, every thing is neglected, and permitted to run into 
 puch disorder and confusion, as to render the persons degraded 
 Jby this vice, no less a disgrace to themselves than to their 
 ifriends and to society. In a word, there is no passion which 
 leads more certainly to misery hereafter ; for, after all, the in- 
 animate victim of sloth, who has lived without energy, without 
 sentiment, almost without a soul, will at last be thoroughly 
 roused by death, v. hose approach is terrible indeed to those 
 who lead a useless, inactive, idle, and, therefore, a most sinful 
 life. 
 
 14. Those whose prevailing passion is deceit, are fVequently 
 not considered dangerous characters, until they have given 
 many persons caase to repent having had any intercourse 
 with them. Their manners are generally as seductive as their 
 motives are base and interested. They are usually distinguish- 
 ed by a total disregard for truth ; u base system of appearing 
 to coincide with every one, the better to gain that confidence 
 which they only intend to abuse ; deceptive expressions — con- 
 tinual cunning and deceit — ^with so great an opposition to 
 candor and plain -dealing, as to adc^t a thousand underhand 
 means for carrying on theii most simple and ordinary transac- 
 tions, thereby enga^g_ themselves and others in a labyrinth 
 of difficulties, and spending their whole lives in trouble, in 
 dissimulation, and deceit. 
 
 15. Even apart from religion, the natural desire we all have 
 for happiness and security, should be motives enough for using 
 efforts to counteract every tendency to this meian vice. It 
 proves in general, sooner or later, its own punishment ; for, 
 notwithstanding the deep-laid schemes, the cunning and arti- 
 fices of those who seem to live for the purpose of deceiving 
 their fellow-creatures, yet the depravity and meanness of their 
 motives in all theu' actions, are seen through much clearer and 
 more frequently than they are aware. Besides, one lie or trick 
 
FBEDOMIKAirr PASSIONS. 
 
 47 
 
 often requires many more to give it a show of truth, and to 
 invent thes'^ their mind must be constantly on the rack ; bnt 
 as their craft is generally discovered, they are exposed to such 
 contempt and distrust as to deprive them of all credit. 
 
 16. Even when by chance they intend to deal fairly and 
 openly, they are carefully shunned, because a long habit of 
 deceiving has so indelibly stamped their character with the 
 stigma of insincerity and knavery, as to render truth and false- 
 hood equally disbelieved from their lips. In a word, they are 
 sure to be, in the close of life, so hated, despised, and dis- 
 trusted, as to become outcasts in society, a burden to them- 
 selves, and almost as degraded ajid unhappy, even in this life, 
 as they deserve to be. 
 
 i 
 
 16. Pbedominant Passions — cmfinved, 
 
 Re-pug'nance, feeling of dislike. 
 Ob'sta-cle, that which hinders. 
 
 THE capital fault of some persons is excessive, nngoveraable 
 curwsily, a vice which is a certain road to many sins, 
 especially in youth. It should, however, be observed, that 
 there are two kinds of curiosity, one allowable, and even com- 
 mendable, the other dangerous and sinfnL They may be em\j 
 
48 
 
 THE FOUBTH HEADER. 
 
 distingaished, one from the other, by their diifer«iiv effecto 
 That species of curiosity which is mnocent and desirable 
 especially in young persons, consists m a laudable desire oi 
 useful information ; this thirst after knowledge, when well reg> 
 ulated, produces emulation, application to study, patience and 
 perseverance in difficulties, good employment of time, and a 
 love for the society and conversation of the learned. . 
 t 2. The vice of curiosity, on the contrary, is the bane of 
 useful acquirement, because it consists chiefly in an eager 
 desire to hear and see every trifling event that takes place, 
 and gives persons so much to do with the concerns of others, as 
 to leave them no time to attend to their own. Curious persors 
 are always on the look-out for what is termed news ; and as 
 that levity and shallowness of mind which produces misguided 
 curiosity, creates also a taste for unnecessary talk, they are 
 never so well satisfied as when they have discovered a nmnber 
 of incidents to circulate among their friends and acquaintance. 
 
 3. Their inquisitive air, — their prying and intrusive man< 
 ners, — then* incessant questions, — their eager impatience to be 
 informed of every mcident that takes place, and minute inqmries 
 into the affairs of others, would lead to the idea that they 
 were commissioned to investigate the origin, ancestors, names, 
 tempers, fortunes, and faults of every person that comes in 
 their way. Even the secrets of families, which curiosity itself 
 should respect, are by no means sacred to the inquisitive, nor 
 are even the most trivial domestic occurrences below their 
 notice. 
 
 4. On the contrary, to gain such information, they do not 
 hesitate descending so low as to qne^on children and serv- 
 ants; thereby giving occasion to numberless crimes against 
 charity, often against truth. Another propenmty of curious 
 persons is a desire to hear and see precisely those things which 
 they have been told were dangerous, and to read every species 
 of publication which they have ever been told to avoid, or know 
 to be at all unsafe. This contemptible disposition can only be 
 rectified by many years' strict attention to the short rule of 
 never interfering in what does not concern ns, except whes 
 Clarity or duty dictates the contrary. 
 
5CU 
 
 ible 
 3 ot 
 reg. 
 I aud 
 nd a 
 
 le of 
 eager 
 place, 
 ers, as 
 ersoEfl 
 md as 
 guided 
 ity are 
 Munber 
 jitance. \ 
 re man* 
 ;e tobe 
 nquiries 
 lat they 
 , names, 
 ;omes in 
 ty itself 
 tive, nor 
 ow their 
 
 y do not 
 md serv- 
 agauist 
 f curious 
 igs which 
 ry species 
 ^ or know 
 ji only he 
 t rule of 
 _.ept when 
 
 \ 
 
 PBEDOMINAKT PA88IONB. 
 
 5. There are few persons, even among the best Christians, 
 who have not had, sometimes, to regret offending with the 
 tongue; but the faults committed and mischiefs occasioned 
 by tY 'e whose unbridled passion for tcUk is their predomi- 
 nant failing, can scarcely be estimated. This bad habit is 
 chiefly observed in persons of weak heads, vacant minds, and 
 shallow understandings, who appear wholly incapable of one 
 instant's serious reflection, and know not what it is to think 
 two minutes, even before they undertake to decide upon Imr 
 portant matters. Those who talk always, cannot hope always 
 to talk sense, and hence their least material faults are absurd, 
 random opinions, giddy, inconsistent expressions, and frequent 
 faults against politeness and good-breeding ; for we sec that 
 your great talkers never allow others to deliver an opinion, or 
 finish any sentence without helping them out. 
 
 6. Their laughable and disgusting egotism, perpetual rela- 
 tions of their own worthless adventures, ideas, or opinions, 
 which they are too frivolous to perceive are interesting only 
 in their own eyes ; their system of laughing, whispering, and 
 ridiculing, generally mark out great talkers as persons of little 
 or no intellect, though they often do not want sense, if they 
 could but prevail on themselves to be silent, and reflect ever 
 so little on the necessity of making use of that gift. 
 
 *l. But those, however, are the least serious faults produced 
 by excessive lave of tdk. Sins against charity, breaches of 
 confidence, discovery of the secrets of others, indiscreet- com- 
 munication of their own affairs and those of their families to 
 acquaintances, strangers, even to servants; remarks on the 
 defects of others, breaches of truth, habitual exaggeration, 
 loss of time, dissipation and levity, are all the infallible con- 
 sequences of a passion for talking ; besides the dreadful evils 
 which unguarded repetition of stories has been known to pro- 
 duce in society, by disuniting the members of families, irrita- 
 ting and disgusting friends, breeding disturbances, &c. : evils 
 which are much easier occasioned than removed. 
 
 8. Gould those useless beings, whose occupation is talk, 
 foresee the mischief they may occasipn, even by one word, 
 which often escapes their tongue and memo^ at the 
 
60 
 
 THE FOUBTB BEADEB. 
 
 j ' time, how bitterly they would regret the dearly-bought plea» 
 
 [j • ore of talking I how carefully would they Btudy the vii'tue of 
 
 silence and prudent restraint I and thus spare theinsolves the 
 regret of having unfeelingly published faults too true to be 
 contradicted, and stories too mischievous in their effects to be 
 easily remedied ; thus mflicting wounds they cannot afterwards 
 heal. 
 
 9. There are some persons who possess many amiable quali- 
 ties, yet destroy the effect of them all by one predominant 
 failing, a fund of caprice and inconstancy. Those persons 
 rarely succeed in gaining one sincere friend ; on the contrary, 
 they seldom fail to disgust those whom tl^ey had at first 
 attracted, because they frequently receive with marked reserve 
 one day, those whom they treated with kindness the day before. 
 On one occasion these changeable beings will scarce allow 
 others to join m a conversation — the next, they will not by a 
 smgle word manifest a desire to please. 
 ^ 10. Then: projects or undertakings are as variable as their 
 ' ideas, and are never pursued with such steadiness as would 
 encourage any rational persons to join in them ; nor can it eve: 
 be conjectured, from the projects of one day or hour, what 
 those of the next may be. They eagerly seek one moment aftei 
 those objects which the next they despise ; and are one day 
 dissolved u;i vnm joy, another oppressed with melancholy. But 
 what is infinitely worse than all is, that this irrational capri- 
 ciousness, besides rendering them the jest of others, and a biHV 
 den to themselves, materially endangers their eternal salvation. 
 
 11. Their ideas and feelings on spiritual matters are just as 
 variable as on all other occasions ; their plans of amendment 
 and regularity, though frequently entered on with ardor, are 
 as frequently abandoned ; consequently there can be no per- 
 sons so little likely to gain a crown, which is promised only to 
 perseverance. 
 
 12. Selfishness is a conmion failing, and a peculiarly un- 
 amiable one, when it predominates in a character. Those 
 persons who make self their idol, are from morning till night 
 occupied m providiag for their own peculiar gratification and 
 l^eamre, and in taking measures for warding off from them< 
 
FKIDOMINAKT PAMKOHB. 
 
 n 
 
 \, plea» 
 rtue of 
 ves the 
 ) to be 
 ts to be 
 erwtvrds 
 
 lie quali- 
 iominant 
 
 persons 
 contrary, 
 
 at first 
 i reserve 
 ay before, 
 rce allow 
 
 not by a , 
 
 le as their 
 I as would 
 can it eve; 
 lOur, what 
 iment aftel 
 e one day 
 loly. But 
 [onal capri- 
 and a bitf^ 
 [l salvation, 
 are just as 
 jamendment 
 ardor, are 
 be no per- 
 used only to 
 
 Belves every thing in the shape of tronble, inconyenience, proT* 
 ocation, &c. ; thus they become almost the sole objects of 
 their own thoughts, solicitudes, and exertions. 
 
 13. They generally manifest their predominant failing to 
 the least attentive observer, by an habitual inattention or 
 indifference when the gratification of others is in question, by 
 an unfeeling indifference to the misfortunes of their fellow 
 creatures, and by being the last to make an exertion for their 
 relief. They seem almost incapable of takmg part in the pains 
 or pleasures of others ; every species of misfortune or gratifi- 
 cation pleases or grieves them, precisely only in as much as 
 they perceive i^is likely to affect them personally. 
 "^ 14. A propersity to excessive attachments is a fault which 
 too frequently prevails in some warm, impetuous characters. 
 Those persons are distmguished by a rash, hasty selection of 
 favorites in every society ; by an overflow of marked atten^ 
 tions to the objects of their predilection, whose interests they 
 espouse, whose very faults they attempt to justify, whose 
 opinions they support whether right or wrong, and whose 
 cause they defend often at the expense of good sense, charity, 
 moderation, and even conmion justice. 
 
 15. Woe to the person, whether superior or inferior, who 
 ventures to dissent fi'om them in opinion concermng the objects 
 of their admiration ; that alone exposes them to averdon and 
 censure. The Mendship or affection of such characters does 
 not deserve to be valued, for it results not firom discernment 
 of merit, but blind prejudice ; besides, they are remarkable for 
 annoymg those whom they think proper to rank among theur 
 favorites, both by expectmg to engross theur whole attention 
 or confidence, and resenting every mark of kindness they may 
 think proper to show to others. However, as their affections 
 are in general as short-lived as they are ardent, no one person 
 is likely to be tormented long with the title of their friend. 
 
 16. The foregoing are the chief among those passions to 
 which the majority of mankind are subject. There are also 
 a variety of other shapes, in which the capital sins generally 
 prevful in the different characters. It wmild not be easy to 
 mention them all, bat you will not find it difficult, uded by tiis 
 

 92 
 
 TBI fOURTH BIADEB. 
 
 grace of Ood, to discover yoar cftpital enemy, prorided yoa 
 ardently beg that grace and light, and are sincerely desirous 
 to overcorao it to the utmost of your power. 
 
 n. The following marks by which you may discern your 
 ruling passion, are pointed out by St. Chrysostora, and may 
 assist your examination on this imix)rtant point: 1st. Your 
 prevailing passion is that prqx;nsity, disposition, or failing, 
 which is the ordinary cause of your faults and sins. 2d. It is 
 that which chiefly disturbs the peace of your soul, and occa- 
 sions you most remorse and uneasy reflections. 3d. That of 
 which you are obliged to accuse yourself most frequentlv in 
 confession. 
 
 18. 4th. That which gives occasion to the greatest conflicts 
 in your soul, and which yoa feel most repugnance to overcome. 
 5th. That which usually inflaences all your thoughts, inten- 
 tions, (N* projects, and which is the chief motive of all your 
 actions ; that, m a word, which is most untractable and deeply 
 rooted in your heart ; for if, when wounded on that point, you 
 feel sensibly hurt, it is an evident m^rk that there is your 
 prevailing passion, your capital enemy, the greatest obstacle 
 to God's grace, and to your eternal salvation. 
 
 X 
 
 ■: 
 
 17. Mt Boy Absalom. 
 
 Pulse, the motion of the 
 
 blood. 
 Tress'es, knots or curls of 
 
 hair. 
 
 Reed, a hollow, knotted stalk, 
 
 a pipe. 
 Pall, a covering thrown ovm 
 
 the dead. 
 
 1. A LAS I my noble boy I that thou shouldst die t 
 -^ Thou, who wert made so beautifully faur 1 
 That death should settle in thy glorious eye, 
 
 And leave his stillness in this clustermg hair 1 
 How could he mark thee for the silent tciDb I 
 
 My proud boy, Absalom 1 
 
MT BOY ABBALOM. 
 
 id yoo 
 
 esiroufl 
 
 n yonr 
 id may 
 . Your 
 failing, 
 d. It is 
 id occar 
 That of 
 lentl^ io 
 
 confiicta 
 vercome. 
 s, inten- 
 all your 
 d deeply 
 oint, yott 
 J is your 
 obstacle 
 
 X 
 
 ;ted stalk, 
 rown ovM 
 
 diet 
 
 I 
 
 Ir! 
 
 " Gold is thy brow, my son I and I am chill, 
 As to my bosom I hare tried to press thee 1 
 
 How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, 
 Lii(0 a rich harp^triug, yeanuug to caress theo. 
 
 And hear thy sweet ' my father / ^ from these dumb 
 And cold lips, Absalom ! 
 
 8. "But death is on thee. I shall hear the gosh 
 Of music, and the voices of the young ; 
 And life will pass me in the mantling blush. 
 
 And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ;— 
 But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shall come 
 To meet me, Absalom 1 
 
 4. "And oil I when I am stricken, and my heart, 
 Like a bruised reed is waiting to be broken. 
 

 64 THB FOUBTH BEADEB. 
 
 How will its love for thee, as I depart, 
 Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token t 
 
 It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, 
 To see thee, Absalom I 
 
 5. "And now, farewell 1 'Tis hard to give thee up. 
 
 With death so like a gentle slumber on thee ; — 
 And thy dark sin 1 — Oh I I could drink the cup, 
 
 If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. 
 May God have calPd thee, like a wanderer, home, 
 
 My lost boy, Absalom 1" 
 
 6. He cover* d up his face, and bow'd hunself 
 A moment on his child ; then, giving hun 
 A look of melting tenderness, he clasp'd 
 His hands convulsively as if in prayer ; 
 And, as if sjtrength were given hun of God, 
 He rose np calmly, and composed the paU 
 Firmly and decently — and left him there— > 
 As if his rest had been a breathmg sleep. 
 
 X 
 
 18. The Soholab's Vision. 
 
 Yis'ioN, supernatural appear- 
 
 ance. 
 Cen'tu-rt, a hundred years. 
 Stu-pio'i-ty, extreme dulness. 
 
 Tdr'bu-lent, ttimnltnons, dis* 
 
 orderly. 
 Sup-port'ed, aided, assisted. 
 Con-ceal'ino, hiding. 
 
 AMONG the students of the University of Padua during 
 the early part of the thirteenth century, there was a 
 scholar by the name of Albert de Groot, a native of Lawin- 
 gen, a town of Swabia, now fallen into decay. Albert was 
 remarkable for his stupidity and the dulness of his intellect, 
 and was at once the object of ridicule to his companions, and 
 the victim of his teachers. 
 
 2. In addition to his mental defects, he was tunid and shy, 
 and without any powers of speech to defend hunself against 
 
THE SOHOLAB'S YIBION. 
 
 jB^ 
 
 
 X 
 
 as, dis* 
 isted. 
 
 dnring 
 was a 
 Lawin- 
 ert was 
 itellect^ 
 tns, and 
 
 nd shy, 
 against 
 
 the tacints and jeers of his schoolmates. Even his diminutive 
 dze for one of his age, being then fifteen years old, did not 
 escape the keenness of their satire. 
 
 3. Albert was not insensible to their raillery, and more than 
 once would have listened to the temptation of despau*, had it 
 not been for the care of his virtuous mother, the ardent piety 
 with which she had inspired his youthful mind, an^ his tender 
 and lively devotion to the Blessed Virgin. 
 
 4. If he felt it hard to endure the jeers and ridicule of hh 
 companions, yet, when he considered that he had neither read- 
 iness, memory, nor intelligence, he thought within himself that 
 probably he deserved aU their reproaches ; and that the career 
 of science, which he so ardently desired, was not his vocation. 
 
 5. Deeply influenced by this conviction, at the age of six- 
 teen, he applied for admission into the Dominican Order, think- 
 ing that if he did not shine among the brilliant men who were 
 its glory, yet at least he might the better save his soul. The 
 General of the Order, who was of his own country, gave him 
 a kind welcome, and received him into the convent to complete 
 his studies. 
 
 6. But, alas I he found in the cloister the same sorrows he 
 had sought to avoid. His slow- wit and dull intellect could 
 take in nothing, or expiress nothing; and though he found 
 more charity among the novices than among the turbulent 
 students of the university, yet he saw clearly that he was 
 looked upon as the lowest in the house. 
 
 7. His piety and humility for a long time supported him ;< 
 his courage did not fail ; he looked forward with hope to the 
 day when his perseverance should surmount all obstacles and 
 break the bonds which held him captive^ He took the habit, 
 and became a monk ; but still his backwardness as a scholar 
 continued. fe./^ 
 
 8. After two years of patience, he began to be thoroiighly' 
 discouraged; he thought he had been mistaken ; that perhaps 
 he had yielded to an impulse of pride in entering an order 
 whose mission it was to preach to the people, and to proclaim 
 to the world the faith of Christ ; and which, consequently, 
 ought to be distinguished for science as well (ts for virtae; 
 
M 
 
 THE VOUBnCR BEADBB. 
 
 1 h 
 
 4. 
 
 and considering that he shoald never be able to master eithet 
 logic or eloqnence, he resolved to fly firom the convent. 
 
 9. Concealing the matter from every human being, he con- 
 fided the subject of his departure to the Blessed Virgin, his 
 comforter in all his trials. On the night fixed for iua de- 
 parture he prayed longer than usual, then, after waitmg till all 
 the convent was asleep, he went from his cell, gained without 
 noise the walls of the garden, and fixed a ladder against them. 
 &ut before he ascended, he knelt again and prayed to God not 
 to condemn the step he was taking, for that liem^lEfii^ess ne 
 would serve him, and belong to hkn, and to him alone." 
 
 10. As he was about to rise, he beheld four majestic ladies 
 advancing towards him. They were surrounded by a heavenly 
 radiance, while their dignity, tempered with sweetness and se- 
 renity, inspired him with confidence and respect. Two of them 
 placed themselves before the ladder, as if to prevent him from 
 ascending. 
 
 11. The third drawing near, asked him kindly why he thub 
 departed, and how he could desert his convent and throw L'r 
 self without a guide into the dangers of a wicked world, a I 
 bert, without rising from the ground, pleaded as an excuse his 
 obstinate stupidity, which resisted all the efforts of his per- 
 severance. 
 
 12. "It is," said the lady, "because yon seek In the mere 
 human strength of your own intellect, the light which comes 
 only firom God. Behold your Mother," pointing to the fourth 
 lady, " your amiable protectress, who loves you tMiderly ; ask 
 her for the gift of knowledge ; implore her with confidence ; 
 our intercession shall second yon." 
 
 13. The scholar recognized in the foiirth lady the Immacn-, 
 late Queen of Heaven, and bending his face to the ground, he 
 asked her in all the fervor of his heart for the light of science, 
 as heretofore he had only prayed for the graces which tended 
 to salvation. 
 
 14. "Science, my son," answered the amiable Vir^n, "is 
 fbll of dangers ; but your prayer shall not be rejected. In 
 philosophy, which you so much desire, beware of pride ; let 
 not your heart be puffed up. Long shall yon possess the gift 
 
^n bohoulb's yxsion. 
 
 m 
 
 r eithef 
 
 he con- 
 'gin, his 
 lu3 de- 
 ^ till all 
 without 
 it them. 
 [}odnot 
 eless ne 
 
 c ladies 
 ieavenly 
 I and se- 
 of them 
 dm from 
 
 he thdii 
 row L:" 
 Id. ^ 
 Lcuse his 
 his per- 
 
 le mere 
 ih comes 
 te fourth 
 rly ; ask 
 ifidence ; 
 
 [mmacn-, 
 ound, he 
 science, 
 i tended 
 
 r^n, "is 
 ted. In 
 ride; let 
 the gift 
 
 1 
 
 of sdenoe ; and I promise you, as a reward of yonr piety, that 
 its light diall be withdrawn from you the moment it becomes 
 ugerous to you." 
 
 15. The Tision disappeared, but Albert remained for an 
 hour on his knees thanking God, and pouring forth the most 
 fervent devotions to the Queen of Angels, who had so kindly 
 interposed in his behalf. He then removed the ladder and 
 retured to his cell 
 
 16. The next morning the whole convent was amazed at 
 the astonishing change that had come over Albert; in his 
 classes he surprised both the teachers and scholars. His 
 former heaviness had given way to the liveliest and most sub- 
 tle mtelligence ; he understood every thing ; the most difi&cult 
 problems were solved with a clearness that astonished all. 
 
 17. No one, however, was aware of the vision, for the 
 humble scholar kept it a secret. So rapidly did he advance 
 in his studies, especially in philosophy, that in one year he 
 passed all his companions, and even eclipsed his teachers. 
 His piety and humility increased with his learning, and he ever 
 remained inaccessible to the seductions of the world and vain 
 •glory. 
 
 18. The scholar, who obtained this so wonderful gift of 
 knowledge, as the reward of his tender devotion to the Blessed 
 Yirgin, was the celebrated Albertus Magnus, who was so dis- 
 tinguished during the thirteenth century. For fifty years he 
 astonished all Europe by the vastness of his learning and the 
 profoundness of his teaching. 
 
 19. Whenever he spoke, crowds gathered to hear him ; and 
 his discourse always produced the most salutary results : yet 
 up to the age of seventy-five, he had never experienced the 
 slightest movement of vanity. 
 
 20. It happened, however, on a certain occasion as he was 
 preaching at Cologne, and seeing the imifiense audience eleo- 
 trified at his discourse, he lifted his head with an air of dignity, 
 and was about tc indulge in a thought of self-admiration, when 
 he stopped suddenly in the middle of a learned sentence, and 
 descended from the pulpit without being able to finish it. He 
 had lost his memory 
 
68 
 
 THE FOUBTH BEADEK. 
 
 I 
 
 ¥ 
 
 i i: 
 
 !i 
 
 21. The Holy Yir^ through whose intercession he had 
 obtained the gift of knowledge, appeared to him and deprived 
 him of i\ at the moment when it was about to become danger- 
 ous to him. He fell back into the state of dullness which he 
 had deplored at Padua. He understood the warning, and 
 devoted all his thoughts to prepare himself for a holy death, 
 which took place two years after, on the 15th of November, 
 1282. 
 
 22. Let childi-en learn from this example, to place their 
 studies under the patronage of tb^^ Queen of Heaven, and 
 receive with the gift of knowledge, those virtues which will 
 render them ornaments of society, and worthy cardidates for 
 heaven. . 
 
 ^— y 
 
 19. Birth of oue Savioxjb. 
 
 Cen'sus, numl>3ring. 
 Naz'a-reth, the village in 
 
 which our Saviour lived. 
 Beth'le-hem, the village in 
 
 which our Saviour was bom. 
 
 Ma'gi, wise men of the East 
 Ad-mis'sion, admittance. 
 Pub'chased, bought. 
 Mes-si'ah, name given to onn 
 Saviour 
 
 Bead deliberately, aad pause to take breath and compress your lips. 
 Give i its proper sound. Do not say putchui for purchate; Mettiar for 
 Mesnah. 
 
 AUGUSTUS GiBSAB having commanded a censns to be 
 taken of all the population of the empure, Joseph and 
 Mary went from Nazareth to Bethlehem, whence their family 
 had its origin. There it was that, in the year of the world 
 4004, the Son of God came into the world, at the dead hour 
 of night and in a poor stable, the poverty of Joseph bemg too 
 great to pay for admission to an inn. - • 
 
 2. His birth was speedily announced by the angels to some 
 shepherds who were watching their flocks by night. . " Olory 
 to Ood" sang the heavenly messengers, making known tho 
 joyful tidings, " Olory to Ood in the highest and on earth 
 peace to men of good will I" 
 
 3. Eight days after his birth he was circmncised, and on 
 
 tv 
 
BIBTH OF 0X7B BAYIOUB. 
 
 that same day the Blessed Virgin and St. Joseph, confonua* 
 bly to the command which they had received from God by an 
 angel, gave him the name of Jcavs, which signifies Sayioor, 
 because he came to save all men, and to deliver them from sin 
 and hell. 
 
 4. Tc the name of Jesus has been added that of Christy 
 which means sacred or anointed^ not that he wa<3 visibly con- 
 secrated by hands, but by reason of his hypostatical union 
 with the Father. 
 
 We also call Jesus Christ Our Lord, because he has a par- 
 ticular claim on all Christians, whom he has redeemed and 
 purchased at the price of his blood. 
 
 5. A few days after Jesus was circumcised, he was recog- 
 nized as God and as king by three Magi, who, guided by a 
 star, came from the East to adore hun. Havmg reached 
 Jerusalem, they lost sight of the star, and went about inquir-^ 
 ing for the new-bom king of the Jews. 
 
 6. The doctors of the law, bemg questioned by Herod, 
 king of Galilee, made answer that the Messiah was to be bom 
 in Bethlehem. Herod, being alarmed by this announcement, 
 and already meditating the death of the divine infant, engaged 
 the Ma^ to retum and acquaint him with the place where the 
 child was to be found, falsely saying that he, too, would wish 
 to adore him. 
 
 . t. The Ma£i, resuming their journey, found the child, to 
 whom they presented gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh ; 
 but being wamed by an angel that Herod only sought to kill 
 the infant, they retumed by another way to then- own country. 
 
 8. Forty days after the bu>th of Jesus, the Blessed Virgin 
 and St. Joseph took him to the temple, to present him to God, 
 according to the custom of the Jews, he being the first-bora. 
 The Blessed Virgin at the same time fiilfilled the law of puri- 
 fication, and o£fered what the law ordained, that is to say, a 
 lamb for her son, and for herself, a pair of doves, being the 
 gifts usually made by the poor — ^what examples of humility, 
 and of obedience to the law t 
 
 9. Herod, seemg that the Magi retumed no more, conceived 
 the de^gn of putting to death all children under two years 
 
m I 
 
 eo 
 
 THE VOUBTH READBB. 
 
 of age, whom he conld find hi Bethlehem or its yidnity, hop- 
 ing thus to make sore of destroying the Saviour. But St. 
 Joseph, apprised of this design by an angel, fled into Egypt 
 with Jesus and Mary, where he remained till after the death 
 of that barbarous prince. >' 
 
 10. He then returned to Juaea, and again took np his' 
 abode in Nazareth of Galilee ; hence Jesus was called, through 
 contempt, the Nazarene. 
 
 The gospel tells us that at the age of twelve years Jesus 
 was taken to Jerusalem to celebrate the festival of the Pasch, 
 according to the custom of the Jews, when he remained be- 
 hind in the temple unperceived by his parents. 
 
 11. When they found that he was not with them, they sought 
 him in vain for a whole day, whereupon they returned to Je- 
 rusalem, where they found hun in the temple, seated amid the 
 doctors, listening to them and proposing to them questions in 
 a manner so astonishing that all who heard him were surprised 
 by his wisdom and his answers. 
 
 12. At the age of thirty years, Jesus Christ was baptized 
 by St. John the Baptist in the river Jordan ; at which time 
 the Holy Ghost descended upon him in th« "brm of a dove, 
 and the eternal Father declared from the highest heavens that 
 Jesus Christ was indeed his beloved Son. 
 
 13. Soon after this, Jesus Christ was conducted by the 
 Holy Ghost into the desert, where he fasted forty days. It 
 is in honor and in remembrance of this fiast of Jesus Christ 
 that the Church has instituted the fast of Leut. 
 
 Our Lord at that time permitted himself to be tempted by 
 the devil, in order to teach us not to fear temptation, and also 
 the manner in which we must resist it, so as to render it even 
 profitable to om* souls. 
 
 14. Example. A certain mother whose piety was as great 
 as her faith was enlightened, recommended to her children lo 
 pass no day without asking the chUd Jesus for hie blessing, 
 "When," said she, "you are at your morning and evening 
 prayers, picture to yourself the Blessed Virgin, carrying in 
 her arms the infant Jesus. 
 
 15. " Bow dewn respectfully before her, and say with all 
 
 n 
 
 . 
 
■PlllIBH AMBODOnL 
 
 ei 
 
 poadble ferror ; '0 Mary ! deign to extend over me the hand 
 of thy divme Son, so that being blessed by him, I may avoid 
 the evU wliich is displeasing to him, and practise the good 
 which is agreeable to him ; that I may imitate him in his 
 obedience and in all his other virtues, so that I may become 
 worthy of yossessing him with thee in heaven I"' 
 
 \ 
 
 20. A Spanish Aheodctb. 
 
 great 
 en lo 
 issmg, 
 ening 
 ug in 
 
 i 
 
 Bef'bc^o-rt, a dining-room in 
 
 convents and monasteries. 
 GE-BDN'o-MirE, a monk. 
 Disoernbd', descried, seen. 
 
 Fa-mil'ias, intunate, well 
 
 known. 
 Bc'sTA-sY, raptore, trance. 
 Va'cant, empty. 
 
 1. TT was a holy usage to record 
 
 ■*■ Upon each refectory's side or end 
 The last mysterious supper of our Liord, 
 That meanest appetites might upward tend. 
 
 2. Within a convent-fwlace of old Spain, — 
 
 * Bich with the ^fks and monuments of kings,— 
 Hung such a picture, said by some to reign 
 liie sovereign glory of those wondrous thmgs. 
 
 8. A pamter of far fame, hi deep delight^ 
 
 Dwelt on each beauty he so well discerned ; 
 While, in low tones, a gray Geronomite 
 ' This answer to his ecstasy returned : 
 
 4. " Stranger ! I have received my daily meal 
 In this good company now threescore years ; 
 And thou, whoe'er thou art, canst hardly feel 
 How time these lifeless images endears. 
 
 6. "Idfoless I ah, no, while in my heart are stored 
 Bad memories of my brethren dead and gone, 
 
THE FOURTH BEADEB. 
 
 Familiar places vacant round oar board, 
 And still that silent sapper lasting on ! 
 
 • 
 
 6. " While I review my youth, — ^what I was then,- 
 What I am now, and ye, beloved ones all, — 
 It seems as if these were the living men. 
 And we the color'd shadows on the wall'' 
 
 21. Aneodotes of Dogs. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Eeen'xess, sharpness. 
 Lit'er-a-ture, leamiQg, ao- 
 
 quaintiiiiee with books. 
 Sa-oao'i-tt, quick discernment 
 
 in animals. ' 
 
 Giv'iL-izED, reclaimed ttom 
 
 barbarism. 
 Do-mes^-oa'tion, the act of 
 
 making tame. 
 Em-phat'ig, forcible. 
 
 I 
 
 THE dog stands to man in the relation both of a valuable 
 servant and an engaging companion. In many employ- 
 ments, especially those of shepherds and herdsmen, he performs 
 services of ^eat importance, such as could not be supplied 
 without him. In those sports of the field, such as hunting and 
 
ANIODOnfl OF DOCKS. 
 
 ihooling, which many persons porsne with such eagerness, the 
 assistance of the dog is essential to success. 
 
 3. By the keenness of scent he discovers the game, and by 
 his swiftness of foot he rons it down. There is no period of 
 time recorded by history in which we do not find the dog the 
 friend and the servant of man ; nor is there any literature 
 which does not contain some tribute to his faithfuhiess and 
 sagacity. 
 
 8. The savage, roaming over the pathless wilderness, and 
 dependent upon the animals in the forest and the fish in the 
 streams for his daily food ; and the civilized man, dwelling in 
 a comfortable house in a town or village, agree in the attach- 
 ment they feel for their four-footed Mends. Many men of 
 great eminence in literature and science have been remarkable 
 for their fondness for dogs ; and more than one poet has sung 
 the praises of particular specuneus of the race. 
 
 4. Sir Walter Scott was strongly attached to them, ana 
 had one or more of them about him at all times during his 
 life. In one of his works he thus speaks of them: "The 
 Almighty, who gave the dog to be the companion of our 
 pleasures and our toils, has invested him with a nature noble 
 and incapable of deceit. He forgets neither Mend nor foe ; 
 remembers, and with accuracy, both benefit and injury. 
 
 ^ 5. "JSe has a share of man's intelligence, but no share of 
 man's falsehood. Ton may bribe a soldier to slisiy a man with 
 his sword, or a witness to take life by false accusation, but 
 you cannot make a dog tear his benefactor. He is the Mend 
 of man, save when man justly incurs his enmity." 
 
 6. A long course of domestication, and peculiar modes of 
 training and rearing, have divided the canine race into nearly 
 a hundred varieties ; many of which show marked diiGTerence in 
 size and appearance. The savage bulldog seems hardly to 
 belong to the same race as the delicate lapdog, that sleeps on 
 the rug, and is washed and combed by its feir mistress almost 
 as carefully as an infant. 
 
 i. The swtft and slim greyhound looks very little like the 
 sturdy and square-built mastiJET. But there are certain traits 
 pf character, whi«h, in a greater or less degree, are common 
 
64 
 
 THE FOURTH READER. 
 
 -i: 
 
 to all the kinds. Sagacitj, docility, gratitude, ft ettp§dtf 
 to receive instraction, and attachment to hip^ master's person, 
 are qualities which belong to the whole race/ Many anecdotes 
 are to be fonnd in books which prove tbe^ vh'tues and intelli- 
 
 .\ gonce of the dog, ft'om which we have made a selection for the 
 
 " entertainment of our young readers. 
 
 8. Many instances have been recorded in which persons 
 have been saved from drowning by dogs, especially by those 
 of the Newfoundland breed, which have a natural love of the 
 water. A vessel was once driven on the beach by a storm in 
 the county of Kent, in England. Eight men were calling for 
 help, but not a boat could be got off to their assistance. 
 
 9. At length a gentleman came on the beach accompanied 
 by his Newfoundland dog. He directed the attention of the 
 noble animal to the vessel, and put a short stick into his 
 mouth. The intelligent and courageous dog at once under- 
 stood his meaning, and sprang into the sea, fighting his way 
 through the foaming waves. He could not, however, get 
 close enough to the vessel to deliver that with which he was 
 charged, but the crew joyfully made fast a rope to another 
 piece of wood, and threw it towards him. 
 
 10. The sagacious dog saw the whole businei^ in an instant ; 
 he dropped Ids own piece, and forthwith seized that which 
 had been cast to him ; and then, with a degree of strength 
 and of resolution almost incredible, he dragged it through the 
 surge, and delivered it to his master. By this means a line of 
 conmmnication was formed, and every man on board saved. 
 
 11. A person, while rowing a boat, pushed his Newfound- 
 land dog into the stream. The animal followed the boat for 
 some tune, till probably finding himself fatigued, he endeavored' 
 to get into it by placing his feet on the side. His owner 
 repeatedly pushed the dog away ; and in one of his efforts to 
 do so, he lost his balance and fell into the river, and would 
 probably have been drowned, had not the affectionate and 
 generous animal immediately seized and held him above water 
 till assistance arrived from the shore. 
 
 12. A boatman once plunged into the water to swim with 
 another man for a wager. His Newfoundland dog, mintaking 
 
 y 
 
ANECDOTES OF DOGS. 
 
 65 
 
 -1 
 
 tho purpose and supposing that his master was in danger, 
 plunged after him, and draped him to the shore by his hair, 
 to the great diversion of the spectators. 
 
 13. Nor are the good offices of dogs to man displayed only 
 on the water. A young man in the north of England, while 
 he was tending his father's sheep, had the Liisfortune to 
 fall and break his leg. He was three miles fh)m home, in' 
 an unfrequented spot, where no one was likely to approach ; 
 eyening was fast approaching, and he was in great pain firom 
 the fracture. In this dreadful condition, he folded one of his 
 gloves in a pocket handkerchief, fastened it around the dog's 
 neck, and then ordered him home in an emphatic tone of voice. 
 
 14. The dog, convinced that something was wrong, ran 
 home with the utmost speed, and scratched with great violence 
 at the door of the house for admittance. The parents of the 
 young man were greatly alarmed at his appearance, especially 
 when they had examined the handkerchief and its contents. 
 Instantly concluding that some accident had befallen their son, 
 they did not delay a moment to go in search of him. The 
 dog anxiously led the way, and conducted the agitated parents 
 to the spot, where their suffering son was lying. Happily, he 
 was removed just at the close of day, and the necessary assist- 
 ance being procured, he soon recovered. 
 
 15. On one of the roads leading firom Switzerland to Italy, 
 called the Pixsn of St. Bernard, is a convent situated at more 
 than eight thousand feet above the level of the sea. In the 
 winter time, when the cold is intense and the snows are deep, 
 travellers are exposed to great danger ; and the inmates of the 
 convent, when storms are raging, are in the habit of going 
 abroad to assist such wayfarers as may need their services. 
 
 16. They are accompanied by their dogs, a noble breed of 
 animals, who are called by the name of the convent where-they 
 are kept. They carry food and cordials fastened at their necks, 
 and are able to pass over snow-wreaths too light to bear the 
 weight of a man. They are aided by the acuteness of theur 
 scent in finding the unfortunate persons who have been buried 
 in the snow, and many men have owed theur lives to the timely 
 succor afforded by these four-footed M<^nds of men. 
 
THE FOUBTH BEADEB. 
 
 11. One of them, which serred the conrent for twelve yean, 
 is said to have been instromental in saving th« lives of forty 
 individuals. He once found a little boy, who had become be- 
 numbed by the cold, and fallen down upon a wreath of snow. 
 By licking his hands and face, and by his caresses^ he induced 
 the little fellow to get npon his back, and cling with his arms 
 •roand his neck ; and in this way he brought him in triumph 
 to the convent. 
 
 18. This mcident forms the subject of a well-known picture. 
 When this dog died, his skin was stuffed and deposited in the 
 museum at Berne ; and the little vial in which he carried a 
 cordial draught for the exhausted traveller still hangs about 
 his neck. How many men have there been, endowed with 
 reason and speech, whose lives were less nsefiu than that of 
 this noble dog ! 
 
 
 -4 
 
 22. The Bubial of Sib John Moobb. 
 
 Ram'part, the wall of a fort- 
 ress. 
 Marshal, military. 
 
 Ran'dom, done without aim, 
 
 left to chance. 
 Reck, care, mind. 
 
 Do not say tMntid for upbraid. 
 
 1. IVfOT a drum was beard, not a funeral note, 
 -1-^ As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 
 Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
 O'er the grave where our hero was buried. 
 
 8. We buried him darkly at dead of night. 
 The sods with our bayonets turning ; 
 By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
 And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 8. No useless coflfin inclosed his breast, 
 
 Nor In sheet nor in shroud we wound him. 
 
THE BUBIAL OF BIB JOHN MOOBI. 
 
 But he laj like a warrior taking his rest, 
 With his martial cloak aroand him. 
 
 e? 
 
 ». Few and short were the prayers we said, 
 And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
 Bat we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,- 
 And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 
 
 6. We thought as we hoUow'd his narrow bed, 
 And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, 
 That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 
 
 And we fa; -»■ y on the billow. 
 
 6. Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
 And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 
 But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
 In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 
 
 *l. But half of our heavy task was done 
 
 When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring ; 
 
THE FOURTH READER. 
 
 And we heard the distant and random gnu 
 That the foe was sullenly firing. 
 
 8. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 
 We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, 
 But we left him alone in his glory. 
 
 23. I TRY TO BE Good. 
 
 Vex-a'tion, caose of trouble. 
 DiF'Fi-GuirTiEs, obstacles in 
 one's way. 
 
 Warn'ino, previous notice, a 
 
 caution. 
 Ob'sti-na-cy, perverseness. 
 
 I TRY to be good," said Emily, "but I have so many vex«r 
 tions, that I find it difficult to do as I wish ; for whenever 
 I feel pleased and happy, something will happen to give me a 
 heavy heart." " But, child," said her mother, "you should rise 
 above these little trifles ; a sincerely virtuous endeavor, pro- 
 ceeding from right principles, enables one to overcome Uttle 
 difficulties. It was but last evening I was reading a story on 
 this very subject. 
 
 2. " It was the confession of a man who had severe struggles 
 with a bad temper. He said that when he was a little child 
 
I TBY TO BE GOOD. 
 
 69 
 
 Qtice, a 
 less. 
 
 ny vex«r 
 whenever 
 ive me a 
 ould rise 
 vor, pro- 
 me little 
 story on 
 
 straggles 
 ttle child 
 
 
 he was noted for pbstinacy, one of the worst faults of man or 
 child. He had an indulgent mother, who kindly softened his 
 unhappy hours by devising various ways for his amusement : 
 ' But,' said he, ' if she did not succeed in the plan, I was sure 
 to wear a sullen face.' 
 
 3. " But, to teach him how unjust and insensible he was to 
 that kindness, his mother Was taken ill, and died. - It was 
 then he felt how much he owed to her ; and bitter was his 
 grief that he could not, by Mure acts of love, repair the un- 
 happiness he had caused her. But now that her warning 
 voice could not reach him, he was left to go on more unre- 
 strained: 'And,' said he, 'until I began to see this trait of 
 obstinacy displayed in my own children, I never began in 
 earnest to correct it m myself.' %/ 
 
 4. "Let this, Emily, be your warning," said her devoted 
 mother. " The little trials of life were designed to answer the 
 same pnrpose in children, that heavier trials are to older 
 people ; and just in proportion as we bear them now, shall 
 we be fitted to endure life's future discipline. It is not a small 
 matter, if an evil temper is '^rmitted to be indulged under 
 every disappointment. 
 
 5. ■' Do you remember, Emily, that ngly-shaped tree, that 
 you desired the gardener to remove the other day, because it 
 grew so very crooked ; and you remember that he told you 
 the reason of its being so ill-shaped, was because it was not 
 pruned as it grew up." 
 
 6. " Yes, mother," said the smiling gbl ; " and just so it 
 will be with me : if I d(\ not watch over my evil temper now, 
 — I suppose you mean to say, — that like that tree, I shall be 
 deformed in mind, which you always told me was a much 
 greater blemish than a deformed body. I will endeavor to< 
 morrow to be cheerful all day," "And if you desire to be 
 good," added her mother "the virtuous attempt will be attend* 
 ed with success." 
 
TO 
 
 • THE FOURTH RBADEB. 
 
 24. The Gbeen Mosst !Bai7K. 
 
 In'fan-cy, the first period of 
 
 life. 
 Wan 'deb, to rove, to ramble. 
 Stream, running water. 
 
 Spray, water driven by the 
 
 wind. 
 Bdt'ter-cup, a small yellow 
 
 flower. 
 
 1. 
 
 OH, my thoughts are away where my infancy flew, 
 Near the green mossy banks where the buttercups grew, 
 Where the bright silver fountain eternally play'd, 
 Fuvt laughing in sunshine, then sighing in shade. 
 There in my childhood, I've wander'd in play, , 
 
 Flinging up the. cool drops in a shower of spray, 
 Till my small naked feet were aU bathed in bright dew, 
 As I play'd on the bank where the buttercups grew. 
 
 2. How softly that gre«n bank sloped down from the hill. 
 To the spot where the fountain grew suddenly still 1 
 How cool was the shadow the long branches gave, 
 As they hung from tlie willow and dipp'd in the wave ! 
 
OH THB BAFnEUAL Y0W8. 
 
 n 
 
 
 n 
 
 l!i 
 
 And tlnn each pale lOj that slept on the stream, 
 Rose and fell with the ware as if stirr'd by a dream. 
 While my home 'mid the yine-Ieaves rose soft on my view, ^ 
 As I play'd on the bank where the buttercups grew. 
 
 8. The beautiful things I how I watchM th^n unfold. 
 Till they lifted their delicate vases of gold. 
 Oh 1 never a spot since those days have I seen. 
 With leaves of such freshness and flowers of such dieen; 
 How glad was my spirit, for then there was nought; 
 To burden its wing, save some beantifiil thought, 
 Breakmg up from its depths ?rlth eadi wild wind that blew 
 O'er the green mossy bank where the buttercups grew 
 
 The paths I have trod, I would quickly retrace. 
 
 Could I win back the gladness that look'd fi'om my taee. 
 
 As I cool'd my warm lip in that fountain of love^ 
 
 With a spirit as gentle as that of a dove. 
 
 Could I wander again where my forehead was Btan'd, 
 
 With the beauty that dwelt in my bosom unmarr'd; 
 
 And calm as a child, in the stari%ht and dew. 
 
 Fall asleep on the bank where the buttercups grew. 
 
 
 25. On the Bapiisual Yowl 
 
 Re-noumced', rejected. 
 Af-fibm'a-tive, ratifying. 
 Rat'i-fi-ed, confirmed. 
 Fi-del'i-ty, faithfulness. 
 Con'stant-ly, without ceasing. 
 Pro-fes'sion, avowal 
 
 A-pos'ta-st, renoundng one^ 
 faith or solenm promises. 
 
 Pbe'cefts, commandments. 
 
 Thral'doh, bondage. 
 
 Yi'o-LATE, to transgress, to 
 break. 
 
 Qive each vowel its sound. Do not say 'potlasjf for dpoata^; fad' 
 Mily foe fidelity; meemintljf for itteeaianUif. 
 
 WHEN presented to the Church to receive holy baptism, 
 we were asked if we believed in God, if we would live 
 accordmg to the precepts of the go^l, and if we renounced 
 
72 
 
 THE FOURTH READER. 
 
 -V 
 
 with all onr heart the devil and his pomps, the world and its 
 maxims ; and it was only when a formal and affirmatiye answer 
 hud been returned, that we were admitted among the children 
 of God. 
 
 2. It was, therefore, in the face of heaven and earth, in the 
 presence of God and his holy angels, that we promised to obey 
 ihe law of Christ, and to practise it in its fullest extent. 
 
 3. It is true we had not the use of reason at the time of 
 c or baptism ; but it was for us and in our name that these 
 promises were made ; we have since ratified them as often as 
 we made a public profession of Christianity ; we also confirmed 
 them every day by making on ourselves the sign of the cross, 
 by reciting the Lord's prayer, assisting at the holy sacrifice of 
 the mass, d,nd by receiving the sacraments. 
 
 4. We are not, therefore, our own property, but belong to 
 God, — our soul, our body, and all are his. To follow the 
 maxims of the world, to seek after its vanities, to love the 
 pomps of the devil, to be ashamed of the gospel, would be to 
 renounce the character, of a Christian, violate our engagements, 
 trample on the blood of Jesus Christ, outrage the Holy Ghost, 
 and shamefully expel him from our hearts. 
 
 6. Let us, then, never forget that these vows are written in 
 the book of life, that God has account of them in heaven, 
 and that we shall be judged by them at the hour of death. 
 On our fidelity in fulfilling them depends our salvation and our 
 eternal destmy. 
 
 6. In order to keep them in our minds we ought often to 
 renew them, and constantly to thank the Lord for having 
 snatched us firom the thraldom of the Evil One, and called us 
 to the kingdom of his Son. 
 
 7. We read in the history of the Church that a holy dea- 
 con, named Murrita, having answered at the sacred font for 
 a young man named Elpiphodorus, had the misfortune to aee 
 him become an apostate and a persecutor of the Christians. 
 
 8. One day, when he was piiblicly tormenting some Chris- 
 tians in the midst of an immense crowd, the holy deacon sud- 
 denly appeared ; he had preserved the white robe wherewith 
 Elpiphodorus had been covered at his baptism, and presenting 
 
 \ 
 
 tj 
 
nd itg 
 mswer 
 lildren 
 
 1 
 
 THE LITANY. 
 
 73 
 
 it to him, he cried in a load voice : " Behold the witness of 
 thine apostasy ; this will bear testimony against thee at the 
 judgment-seat of God. 
 
 9. "Look upon this white garment wherewith I clothed 
 thee at the sacred font ; it will call for vengeance upon thee, 
 and it shall be changed into a robe of fire to burn thee for all 
 eternity." The spectators were moved to tears by this ad- 
 dress, and Elpiphodorus withdrew, covered with confusion. 
 
 26. The Litany. 
 
 Sub'tle, cunning. 
 Se-pul'chral, relating to the 
 tomb. 
 
 To Lurk, to lie in wait. 
 Lit'a-ny, a solemn form of 
 prayer. 
 
 Read this lesson slowly and pronounce the consonants distinctly. 
 
 1. "D Y thy birth and early years ; 
 ■L^ By thy human griefs and fears ; 
 By thy fasting and distress. 
 In the lonely wilderness ; 
 By thy victory, in the hour 
 Of the subtle tempter's power — 
 Jesus 1 look with pitying eye, 
 Hear our solemn litany 
 4 
 
T4 
 
 THE SOUBTtt RXADEB. 
 
 i^i 
 
 I 
 
 2. By the sympathy that wept 
 
 O'er the gpnve where Lazams slept ; 
 By thy bitter tears that flowed 
 Over Salem's lost abode ; 
 By the troubled sigli tiiat to!d 
 • Treason lurk'd witLi^i thy foM— 
 Jesos 1 look with pityiog ej e, 
 Henr our solemn litaiiy , 
 
 8. By thine hour of iula despair ; 
 By tbine agony of prayer ; 
 By the purple robe of scorn ; 
 By thy woonds, thy crown of thorn. 
 Cross and paiMcn, pimgs d crii^is; 
 By thy perfect, sacrifice — 
 Jesos I look with pitying eye, 
 Hear our solemn litany. 
 
 4 By thy d$ep expuring groan ; 
 By the seaPd gepolchral stone ; 
 By thy triumph o^er the grave ; 
 By thy power from death to save— 
 Wghty God ! ascended Lord I 
 To thy throne in heaven restored ; • 
 Prince and Saviour ! hear tlit C(j 
 Of our solemn litany. 
 
 27. The Sign of the Cboss. 
 
 -X 
 
 Dis-ci'PLE, a follower, a leam- 
 I er 
 
 Mys'te-ry, something unex- 
 plamed. 
 
 Cow'abd-icb, habitual timid 
 
 ity. 
 Chest, the breast. 
 Ih-fort'anT) momentous. 
 
 Do not say petfeuion tm frpfenion ; htn or htan tot bttn (bin) ; ttof 
 faith for their faUh; an uecompUth finr and aeeompiUhi with the rirfwicf ^ 
 the moi toty for vfUh the auiitanee <f the Mod Boly. 
 
8iaN OF THE 0B088. 
 
 76 
 
 TO make profesEdon of onr Mth is one of onr most essential 
 duties, for Jesus Christ will not recc^nize as his disciples 
 those who have been ashamed of belon^ng to him, and shrank 
 from declaring their faith openly. 
 
 2. One of the best means of showing that we are Christians, 
 glorying in that title, is to makereligionsly upon onrseWes the 
 august si^ of the cross. , 
 
 3. There are two ways of making the sign of the cross : 
 the first is by making a cross yf'ith the thumb on the forehead, 
 month, and bosom ; it is thus that the priest makes it during 
 the mass, when he begins to read the gospels, and all the 
 faithful should do the same. 
 
 4. We make the sign of the cross on the forehead, to show 
 that we are Christians, and not ashamed to act as such ; on 
 the mouth, to testify that we are ever ready to make proJGes- 
 sion of believing in God and in Jesus Cluist; and on the 
 breast, to show that we lore the cross of Christ, and heartily 
 beliere what we profess. 
 
76 
 
 THB FOURTH READER. 
 
 6. The second method of making the sign of the cross is by 
 placing the right hand on the forehead, then on the chest, 
 then on the left shoulder, and afterwards on the right, saying, 
 " In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy 
 Ghost." 
 
 6. When making the sign of the cross we profess the nnity 
 of God by saying these words In the name, in the singx^ 
 number ; the Trinity of persons, by naming each in turn ; the 
 mystery of the Incarnation and tiiat of the Redemption by 
 making the form of the cross on which the Son of ^7od made 
 man died for us ; and the mystery of grace, by carrying the 
 hand from the left side, which is the figure of sin, to the right, 
 which repre^ts the grace merited for us by Christ. 
 
 I. The words "In the name of the Father," signify again : 
 " I am going to perform this action by order of the Most 
 Holy Trmity ; I will obey it feithfully, and accomplish its 
 will ; I do this in honor of the Blessed Trinity, desiring to 
 render it all the homage of which I am capable. 
 
 ^^ 8. " I am about to perform this action with the assistance of 
 the Most Holy Trinity ; acknowledging that I can do nothing 
 without the strength which comes from the Father, the grace 
 which the Son has merited for me, and the light which pro- 
 ceeds from the Holy Ghost." 
 
 9. We should not fujl to make the sign of the cross at least 
 morning and evening, before and after meals, at the beginning 
 and end of our prayers, and when setting about any important 
 action ; it is a great means of drawh^g down upon ourselves 
 and our undertakings the blessing of God. . 
 
 10. We should also make it, at least in oor hearts, when we 
 find ourselves ex posed to danger or temptation, to the end 
 that we may be delivered therefrom, and preserved from 
 offending God. 
 
 II. A young girl blushed while making the sign of the cross 
 on an occasion when it was usual to make it, and that because 
 a strang_er was present. This was noticed by a certain pious 
 person, who soon made her ashamed of her cowardice, and 
 want of love for Jesus Christ. 
 
 12. "What!" said he, "Jesus was not ashamed to die on 
 
 
 i i 
 
THE THBEE IRIENDB. 
 
 n 
 
 the cross to redeem yon, yet yon blush to form on yonrself the 
 augnst sign of your redemption I '' He added, " I hope that 
 in future you will glory in belonging to your adorable Master. 
 May the Father, Son, and Holy Ohost bless you, through the 
 passion and death of Our Lord Jesus Christ !" 
 
 ■f 
 
 28. The Thbze Friends. 
 
 Trust, confidence, reliance. I Wor'thy, deserving. 
 Pris'on, a jail. I Heed, care, attention. 
 
 TRUST no friend whom you have not tried. There are 
 more of them at the festive board than at the prison door. 
 
 2. A man had three Mends ; two of them he loved much, 
 but for the third he cared little, though he was well worthy 
 of his affection. This man was once summoned before the 
 judge and strongly accused of a crime of which he was really 
 innocent. "Who among you," said he, "will go with me, 
 and give evidence in my behalf? For I have been accused 
 without cause, and the king is angry." 
 
 3. The first of his Mends excused himself immediately ; say- 
 ing that he could not go with him on account of other busi- 
 ness. The second accompanied him to the door of the hall 
 of justice; there he turned round and went back, through 
 fear of the angry judge. The third, on whom he had least 
 depended, went in, spoke for him, and testified so fully to his 
 innocence, that the judge dismissed him unharmed. 
 
 4. Man has three Mends in this world. How do they bfi; 
 have in the hour of death, when God calls him to ju dgme nt ? 
 
 5. The gold, the friend he loves best, leaves him first, and 
 does not go with him. His re lation s and Mends attend him 
 to the gate of the grave, and return to their homes. The 
 third, of whom in life he. took least heed, is represented by his 
 good works. They attend him to the throne of the Judge ; 
 they go before him, plead for him, and find mercy and grace 
 for hhn. ' 
 
 -r 
 
i i 
 
 78 
 
 THE FOUBTH ll£AD£Il. 
 
 29. SONO OF THE BaILBOAI). 
 
 B»AUE, a place overgrown 
 with fern, a thicket. 
 
 Aq'ue-duct, r, channel for car- 
 rying water, iciupported by 
 some structure. 
 
 Mar'gin, the water's edge, the 
 shore. 
 
 MoiTLD, fine, 8oft earth. 
 QoAi., the point set to arrive 
 
 at, the end of the joume> . 
 Ex-pan'sion, the state of being 
 
 expanded or stretched out. 
 Cease'less, without a »*op ol 
 
 pause. 
 
 1. mHROUGH the mould and through the clay^ 
 J- Through the com and through the hay, 
 By the mar^ of the lake, 
 
 O'er the river, through the brake, 
 O'er the bleak and dreary moor, 
 On we hie with screech and roar I 
 
 Splashing! flashing I 
 
 Crashing t dashing I 
 
 2. Over ridges, 
 Gullies, bridges ! 
 By the bubbling rill, 
 
 And mill- 
 Highways, byways, 
 Hollow hai— 
 
BONO or TBB BiOLBOAD. 
 
 Jamping — ^bnmping-— 
 Booking — ^roaring 
 
 Like forty thonsand gi&nti scoring t 
 By the lonely hut and mansion, 
 By the ocean's wide expansion — 
 Where the factory chimneys smoke, 
 Where the foundry bellows croak — 
 Dash along I 
 Slash along 1 
 Crash along t 
 Flash along I 
 On ! on I with a jump, 
 And a bump, 
 And a roll ! 
 Hies the fire-fiend to its destined goal I 
 
 S. Over moor and over bog. 
 On we fly with ceaseless jog } 
 Every instant something new, 
 No sooner seen than lost to view ; 
 Now a tarem — ^now a steeple — 
 Now a crowd of gaping people— 
 Now a hollow — ^now a ridge — 
 Now a crossway — now a bridge- 
 Grumble, stumble, 
 Bumble, tumble — 
 Church and steeple, 
 GafHug people — 
 Quick as thought are lost to view 1 
 Every thing that eye can survey, 
 Turns hurly-burly, topsy-turvy ! 
 Each passenger h thiimp'd and shaken, 
 As physic is whea to be taken. 
 
 4. By the foundry, past the forge. 
 
 Through the plain, and mountain gorge. 
 Where cathedral rears its head, 
 Where repO80 the sUent dead 1 
 
80 
 
 TBI rOUIUIT Il!SADEB. 
 
 Monuments amid t: /^ gitws 
 
 Flit lilce Hpectres as you pu^s I 
 
 If to hail a friend inclined — 
 
 Whisk I whirr! kar-swash! — he's left behind I 
 
 Rumble, tumble, all the day, 
 
 Thus we pass the hours away. 
 
 30. ViCTORINUS. 
 
 PRO-Fi'oiEN-cy, advancement, 
 improvement gained. 
 
 Bhet'o-ric, the science of ora- 
 tory. 
 
 Ex-As'pER-ATE, to vex, to pro» 
 
 voke. 
 Ad-min ' is-TER - ED, managed, 
 
 supplied. 
 
 Do not say pemouneed for pronounced; perfemon for profeukn ; reipee 
 for the sandy qf the place, for respect for the aandUy qf theplAtce. 
 
 VICTORINUS, a celebrated orator, had been professor of 
 rhetoric at Rome ; he had passed his life in the study of 
 the liberal sciences, and had attained a great proficiency in 
 all of them. He had read, examined, and explained almost 
 all the writings of the ancient philosophers, and had had the 
 honor of instructing all the most distinguished of the Roman 
 senators. 
 
 2. He had, in fine, followed his profession so successfully, 
 that a statue had been erected to his honor in a public square 
 of Rome, a distinction then considered the highest that man 
 could attain. Yet he was still a pagan, an adorer of idols ; 
 and not only that,, but he employed all his eloquence in per* 
 suading others to adore them as he did. 
 
 3. What extraordinary grace did it require to touch and 
 convert such a heart 1 Behold the means which God employed 
 in doing so. Victorinus began to read the Holy Scriptures, 
 and having for some time applied himself to that study, to- 
 gether with other books that explained the Christian religion, 
 he said one day to St. Simplician : " I have something to tell 
 yon which will interest you very much : I am a Christian" — 
 
flOIOBDIUI. 
 
 81 
 
 1 
 
 '^ I do not believe a word of it,'' replied the Saint, "nor Blian 
 I believe you, until I see yon in the church where the faithAil 
 aro wont to assemble." 
 
 4. " What then," exclaimed Victorinns, " is it only within 
 the inclosure of four walls that one is a Christian?" So it 
 went on for some time, as often as Victorinus protested that 
 he was a Christian, Simplician made hun the same reply, and 
 the other always put it off with a laugh and a Jest. 
 
 5. The truth was, that he feared to exasperate his pagan 
 friends, as their anger and opposition would be sure to crush 
 him, if once called forth, and this risk he could not bring hhn- 
 self to incur. 
 
 6. But after a time courage and generosity were given him 
 from above because of his close application to the study of 
 religion, and the docility with which he opened his heart to its 
 truths, and he became convinced that it would be an enormous 
 crime to blush for believing the mysteries of Jesus Christ, 
 while appearing to glory in the sacrilegious superstitions of 
 paganism. 
 
 7. No sooner did he obtain this conviction than he hastened 
 to tell St. Simplician, at a time, too, when that holy man was 
 least expecting him : "Let us go to the church," said he, " I 
 am resolved to sJum myself a Christian, nor content myself 
 longer with being one in heart." Sunplician, transported with 
 joy, immediately took him to the church, and had his name 
 entered on the list of those who demanded baptism. 
 
 8. All the city of Rome was struck with admiration and 
 astonishment ; and the hearts of the faithM were filled with 
 joy, because of the celebrity and high reputation of that great 
 man. At length the happy day arrived when he was to make 
 his profession of faith, in order to be baptized. 
 
 9. It was then the custom in the Roman church to inak^ 
 this profession in a regular formula of words vfhich the cate; 
 chumen learned by heart, and pronounced aloud before all th^ 
 people. The priests, through respect, would have waived tbia 
 custom, and permitted Victorinus to make his professimi in 
 private, a privilege which was sometimes granted to tiniid per*^ 
 sons ; but Victorinus declined, declaring that he would pro* 
 

 i hi 
 
 82 
 
 THE FOURTH BEADEB. 
 
 claim aloud, in presence of the whole assembly, his belief in 
 those doctrines which were to gnide him to endless happiness. 
 
 10. No sooner had he appeared in the tribnne than a sadden 
 transport of joy seized all hearts, and his name was echoed 
 aloud from mouth to mouth, and although each one restrained 
 his joyful emotion through respect for the sanctity of the place 
 and the sacrament about to be administered, yet all around 
 was heard the murmured exclamation : It is Victoriniis ! It 
 is Victorinus ! 
 
 11. But every sound was speedily hushed, in order to per- 
 mit him to speak ; whereupon, he with holy fervor, repeated 
 in a clear, distinct voice, his belief in the truths which form 
 the basis of our faith. WilUngly would the people have taken 
 him and carried him around in triumph, for every heart over- 
 flowed with the joy of beholding him a Christian. 
 
 12. This splendid conversion had great consequences, and 
 when St. Augustine was informed of it by St. Simplician, he 
 acknowledged that he felt strongly moved to follow the exam- 
 ple of Victorinus ; this intention he soon after carried into 
 execution under the ministry of St. Ambrose, to whom St. 
 Simplician had been a father from his baptism. 
 
 31. GuABDiAN Angels. 
 
 Sub-ser'vi-ent, serviceable. j Em'a-nat-ino, issuing, or flow 
 Way'ward, unruly, perverse. | ing from. 
 Do not say moUa for moulds. 
 
 1. 
 
 s. 
 
 OH 1 he may brave life's dangers, 
 In hope and not in dread, 
 Whose mother's prayers are lighting 
 
 A halo round his head. 
 For wheresoe'er he wander, 
 
 Through this cold world and dark, 
 'There wbite-wing'jd angels follow, 
 
 To guard life's wayward bark. 
 Go, let the scoffer call it 
 
 A shadow and a dream, 
 
OUABDIAN ANGELS. 
 
 88 
 
 Those meek, subservient spirits, 
 Are nearer than we deem. 
 
 Think not they visit only 
 The bright, enraptured eye, 
 
 Of some pure sainted martyr. 
 Prepared and glad to die ; 
 
 
 i;^ 
 
 ^- 
 
 I 
 
 Or that the poet's fancy. 
 Or the painter's magic skill, 
 
 Creates a dream of beauty. 
 And moulds a work at will. 
 

 . 
 
 ''I 
 
 ! 
 il 
 
 
 ! 
 
 
 
 
 
 , 
 
 V 
 
 84 
 
 THE FOURTH BEAD^B. 
 
 8. They live, they wander round ni^ 
 
 Soft resting on the cloud, 
 Although to human vision, 
 
 The sight be disallow'd. 
 They are to the Almighty 
 
 What rays are to the sun, 
 An emanating essence, 
 
 From the great supernal One. 
 4. They bend for prayers to listen, 
 
 They weep to witness crimes, 
 They watch for holy moments. 
 
 Good thoughts, repentant tunes ; 
 They cheer the meek and humble^ 
 
 They heal the broken heart, 
 They teach the wavering spirit 
 
 From earthly ties to part. 
 6. Unseen they dwell among us, 
 
 As when they watch below. 
 In spiritual anguish. 
 
 The sepulchre of woe. 
 And when we pray, though feeble 
 
 Our orisons may be, 
 They then are our companions, 
 
 Who pray eternally. 
 
 -V 
 
 
 32. The Resubbection op the ; ody. 
 
 Moul'der, to rot. 
 Es-tab'lish-ed, fixed. 
 Re-sus'ci-tate, to bring to life. 
 Om-nip'o^ence, unlimited pow- 
 er. 
 
 Im-pas'si-ble. not subject to 
 
 suffering. 
 In-con-ceiv'a-ble, not to be 
 
 conceived. 
 Cor-rup'tion, decay. 
 
 Give its proper sound. Do not say cotua^lation for comotdion; 
 t'ffetkar for together ; t' create for to areate. 
 
 IT is an article of faith that our body shall one day rise again. 
 All men shall die, and they shall rise again with the same 
 bodies they had in this life. The body, laid in the earth, shall 
 
TBE BESUBBEOnON OF THE BODY. 
 
 85 
 
 go through the process of cormption, and moulder into dnst ; 
 but what changes soever it may have undergone, its ashes shall 
 one day be gathered together and reanimated by the breath 
 of God. Life is but a dream, and death a sleep ; but the 
 resurrection will be the beginning of a life which shall never 
 end. 
 
 2. "The day will come," said Jesus Christ, "when all who 
 are in the grave shall hear the voice of the Son of God, and 
 they who have done good works, shall rise and live forever ; 
 but they who have done evil shall rise to be condemned." 
 "In a moment," says St. Paul, "in the twinklmg of an eye, at 
 the sound of the last trumpet, the dead shaU arise to die no 
 more." 
 
 3. That resurrection shall be general ; all shall arise, the 
 great and the small, the just and the wicked, they who have 
 Uved before us from the beginning of the world, they who aro 
 now on the earth, they who shall come after us, all shall die, 
 and rise again at the last day with the same bodies tbey had 
 in this life. 
 
 4. It is God who will work this prodigy by his Omnipotence. 
 As he has drawn all things from nothing by his will alone, 
 so shall he with as much ease, gather together our scattered 
 members, and reunite them with our souls. It is not more 
 difficult for the Almighty to reanimate our bodies than it was 
 for him to create them. Nay, we have under our eyes, every 
 year, a figure of this r -rTection. 
 
 6. Are not ihe trees, as it were, dead during thie winter, 
 and do they not appear to resuscitate in the spring ? The 
 grain and other seed which is cast into the earth, decays there- 
 in, only to come ^^ rfch again fairer than at first : it is the same 
 with our body ; which, like a seed, is laid in the earth for a 
 season, to come forth again full of lifo. 
 
 6. The bodies of the just shall not then be solid, heavy, and 
 corruptible, as they now are ; but they shall shine like the sun, 
 and shall be free from all sorts of pain and inconvenience, full 
 of strength and agility, such as was the body of our Lord 
 «ifter his resurrection. 
 
 t. The just, who are his children, siwctified by his grace, 
 
 
THB VOUBTH BEADEB. 
 
 united and made one with him by &itb, shall also rise like 
 unto himself ; Jesus Christ shall transform their mean and 
 abject bodies, and render them like unto his own — ^glorious 
 and impassible. 
 
 8. The body, which has had its share in the good done by 
 the soul while they were joined together, shall be a sharer also 
 in its happiness. The wicked shall, indeed, rise again, but 
 their bodies shall have none of these glorious qualities ; they 
 shall arise, but only to be given up to torments endless in their 
 duration, and inconceivable in their greatness. 
 
 9. "All the multitudt of those who sleep in the dust of the 
 earth," says one of the prophets, "shall awake, some for life 
 eternal, and others for endless ignominy and disgrace." 
 
 What a spectacle shall then meet our eyes I what sentiments 
 will arise in our hearts, when we hear the sound of the trum- 
 pet, and when that dreadful voice shall echo over the earth, 
 "Arise, ye dead 1 and come to judgment I" — when we shall 
 see all manjiind assemble, without any other distinction than 
 that made by their own works 1 
 
 10. In the reign of Aitiocli o, the seven young Machabees 
 and their mother generously sufiFered the most cruel torments 
 rather than violate the law of God, because they hoped in 
 the resurrection. The first had his tongue cut out and the 
 skin torn off his head, and he being still alive he was cast into 
 a caldron over a huge fire. The second, when expu"ing, said 
 to the king : "You now put us to death ; but the Ruler of 
 the world shall one day raise us up to life everlasting." 
 
 11. The third said with confidence : "I have received these 
 memberi from Heaven, but I now hold them as nothing in 
 defence of the laws of God, because I hope that they shall 
 be one day restored to me." The fourth spoke in these terms : 
 " It is better for us to be slain for obeymg God, than to pre- 
 serve our lives by disobejring him ; we hope that in the resur- 
 rection, God will render glorious these bodies which we re- 
 ceived from him." 
 
 12. The others manifested similar courage and fortitude. 
 Nevertheless, the youngest still remained ; and Antiochus tried 
 to shake his purpos« by caresses and the hope of reward ; he 
 
A 8T0BT OT A MONK. 
 
 m 
 
 also sent him to his mother, hopiug tiiat she would peraaadj 
 him to sacrifice to the idols 
 
 13. But that geuerous mother said to her son : " Look up 
 to heaven I raise thine eyes to God, who hath created all 
 things, and thou shalt not fear these torments, but will follow 
 thy brethren to death 1 " Antiochus, more than ever enraged, 
 poi'.red out all his wrath on tbd boy, and caused the mother 
 to undergo the same torments as her sons. ' . 
 
 33. A Stobt of a Monk. 
 
 Monk, a member of a religious 
 
 • community of men. 
 
 Clois'ter, a convent or mon- 
 astery inhabited by nuns or 
 monks. 
 
 Ab'bot, the head of a commu- 
 nity of monks. 
 
 Stu'di-ous, given to books or 
 
 learning. 
 Chron'i-cle, to record, to 
 
 write down. 
 Oru'ci-fix, an image of our 
 
 Saviour's body fastened to 
 
 a cross. 
 
 i a 
 
 1 
 
 MANY years ago, there dwelt in a cloister a monk 
 named Urban, who was remarkable for an earnest and 
 devout frame of mind beyond his fellows, and was therefore 
 Intrusted «nth the key of the convent library. He was a 
 
M 
 
 I 
 
 TBB VOTTBTH HTB^n »B. 
 
 carefhl gnardian of its contents, and, besides, a studious reader 
 of its learned and sacred volomes. One day he read in the 
 Epistles of St. Peter the words, "One day is with the Lord 
 as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day ;" and 
 this saying seemed impossible in his eyes, so that he i^nt 
 many an honr in musing OTcr it. 
 
 2. Then one morning it happened that the monk descended 
 ftom the library into the cloister garden, and there he saw a 
 little bird perched On the bongh of a tree, singing sweetly, like 
 a nightmgule. The bird did not move as the monk approached 
 her, till he came quite close, and then she flew to another bough, 
 and again another, as the monk pursued her. Still singing the 
 same sweet song, the nightingale flew on ; and the monk, en- 
 tranced by the sound, followed her out of the garden into the 
 wide world. 
 
 3. At last he stopped, and turned back to the cloister ; but 
 every thing seemed changed to hun. Every thing had become 
 larger, more beautiful, and older, — the buildings, the garden ;. 
 and in the place of the low,' humble cloister church, a lofty 
 siioster with three towers reared its head to the sky. This 
 seemed very strange to the monk, indeed marvellous ; but he 
 walked on to the cloister gate and timidly rang the bell. A 
 porter entirely unknown to him answered his summons, and 
 drew back in amazement when he saw the monk. 
 
 4. The latter went^ in, and wandered through the church, 
 gazing with astonishment on memorial stones which he never 
 remembered to have seen before. Presently the brethren of 
 the cloister entered the church ; bat all retreated when they 
 saw the strange figure of the monk. The abbot only (but not 
 his abbot) stopped, and stretching a crucifix before him, ex- 
 claimed, " In the name of Christ, who -art thou, spirit or mor- 
 tal ? Awi what dost thou seek here, coming from the dead 
 among us, the living ? " 
 
 5. The monk, trembling and tottering like an old man, cast 
 his eyes to the ground, and for the first time became aware 
 that a long silvery beard descended from his chin over his 
 girdle, to which was still suspended the key of the library. 
 To the monks around the stranger seemed some marvellous 
 
 iSi. 
 
TBI SIUTOBT SOHOLAB* M 
 
 appeurance ; and, with a mixtnre of awe and admiration, they 
 leid him to the chair of the abbot. There he gave to a young 
 monk the key of the library, who opened it, and broaght out a 
 chronicle wherein it was written, that three hundred years ago 
 the monk Urban had disappeared, and no one knew whither 
 he had gone. 
 
 6. "Ah, bird of the forest, was it then thy song?^' said the 
 monk Urban, with a sigh, "t followed thee for scarce three 
 minutes, listening to thy notes, and yet three hundred years 
 have passed away I Thou hast sung to me the song of eter- 
 nity which I could never before learn. Now I know it ; and, 
 dust myself, I pray to God kneeling in the dust." With these 
 words he sank to the ground, and his spirit ascended to heaven. 
 
 but 
 
 34. The Diiatoby Scholab. 
 
 and 
 
 To Lm'oER, to delay, to be dil- 
 atory. 
 To Pro^test', to declare. 
 
 Satch'el. % little bag used by 
 
 schoolboys. 
 At'las, a book of maps. 
 
 Pronounce distinctly. Do not say breakin for breaking ; nothin for 
 nothing ; playm for playing. 
 
 1. AH ! where is my hat? it is taken away, 
 v/ And my shoestrings are all in a knot 1 
 
 I cau o LM a thing where it should be to4ay. 
 Though I've hunted in every spot. 
 
 2. My slate and my pencil nowhere can be found, 
 
 Though I placed them as safe as could be ; 
 While my books and my maps are all scattered around, 
 And hop about just like a flea. 
 
 !'l 
 
 3. Do, Rachel, just look for my atlas up^jtairs ; 
 My Yirgil is somewhere there, too j 
 Ajid, sisi;er, brush down these troublesome hairs,-— 
 And, brother, just fasten my shoe. 
 
90 
 
 THE FOURTH BBAOEB. 
 
 And, mother, beg father to write an excuse ; 
 
 But stop — he will only say "No," 
 And go on with a smile and keep reading the newi^ 
 
 While every thing bothers me so. 
 
 5. My satchel is heavy and ready to fall ; 
 
 This old pop-gun is breaking my map ; 
 I'll have nothing to do with the pop-gun or ball,- 
 There's no playing for such a poor chap I 
 
 6. The town-clock will strike in a minute, I fear ; 
 
 Then away to the foot I must sink : — 
 There, look at my history, tumbled down here ! 
 And mj algebra cover'd with ink 1 
 
 35. Spanish EvENiNa Htmn. 
 Wea'ry, tired, fatigued. Watch-fire, a fire used as a signal 
 
 Sound the aspirated h. Do not say sailor zim for scalor^a hymn ; from 
 in tor from his; founiun sealing for fount unseaUng, 
 
 1. Tl/TOTHBR I now let prayer and music, 
 •i-'J- Meet in love on earth and sea I 
 Now, sweet mother ! may the weary, 
 Turn from this cold world to the« 1 
 
OBBIffr BTXLLINO Tllf TBUTPBifrT. 
 
 3. From tLe wide and restless watera, 
 Hear the sailar'a hymn arise ; 
 From big watch-fire 'mid the momitaioi^ 
 Lo I to thee the shepherd cries 1 
 
 3. Yet, ^hm thus fall hearts find voice^ 
 
 If o'erburden'd souls there be, 
 Dark and silent in their anguish, 
 Aid those captives, set them free t 
 
 4. Touch them, every fount unsealing, 
 
 Where the frozen tears lie deep ; 
 Thou, the mother of ail sorrows. 
 Aid, oh I aid to pray and weep 1 
 
 U 
 
 ignaL 
 ifrom 
 
 86. Christ Sttluno the Tempest. 
 
 "But the ehip was now in the midst of the sea, tossed with 
 waves ; for the wind was contrary." — MaUhew xiv, 24. 
 
 BiL-'Lows, waves. { Right'b-ous, just, upright. 
 
 Breath'less, out of breath. I Man'dates, commands. 
 
 Q Pronounce each wwd distinctly. Dv. not say roUm 'igh m' dark for 
 
 rcUmg high and dark. 
 
 1. Tj^BAR was within the tossing bark, 
 -*- When stormy winds grew loud ; 
 And waves came rolling high and dark, 
 
 And the tall mast was bow'd. 
 
 2. And men stood breathless in their dread, 
 And baffled in their skill — 
 
 But One was there, who rose and said 
 Tothe wUdsea, "Be still!" 
 
 3. And the wind ceased — ^it ceased ! — ^that word 
 Pass'd through the gloomy sky ; 
 
 The troubled billows knew their Lord, 
 And sank beneath his eye. 
 
9d 
 
 THE FOURTH BEADEB. 
 
 i 
 
 iSi . 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 i 
 
 SI In 
 
 •3 
 
 4. Aod sinmber settled on the deep, 
 And silence on the blast, 
 As when the righteous fall a.sleep, 
 When deatlr.i lierce throes are p&st. 
 
 6. Thon that didst rule the angry horn*, 
 And tame the tempest's mood — 
 Oh ! send thy sjiirit forth in power, 
 O'er our dark soul brood 1 
 
 6. Thou that didst bow .ue billow's pride I 
 Thy mandates to fulfil — 
 Speak, speak, to passion's raging tide, 
 Speak and say — " Peace, be still !" 
 
 87. Holiday Ohildren. 
 
 Christ'mas, the day our Sa- 
 viour was born. 
 
 Mu-se'um, a collection of cu- 
 riosities. 
 
 CoAx'iNG-LY, flatteringly. 
 Scutch'eon, the ground on 
 •^ which a coat of arms is 
 painted. 
 
 ONE of the most pleasing sights at this festive season, is the 
 group of boys and girls returned from school. Go where 
 you will, a cluster of their joyous, chubby laces presents them- 
 selves to our notice. In the streets, or elsewhere, our elbows 
 are constantly assailed by some eager urchin whose eyes just 
 peep beneath to get a nearer view. 
 
 i>. I am more delighted in watching the vivacious workings 
 of their ingenuous countenances at these Christmas shows, 
 than at the sights themselves. 
 
 3. From the first joyous huzzas, and loud-blown horns which 
 announce their arrival, to the faint attempts at similar mirth 
 on their return, I am interested in these youngsters. 
 
 4. Observe the Ime of chaises with their swarm-like loads 
 horrymg t« tender and exulting parents, the sickly to be cher' 
 
 
HOLIDAT CHILDREN. 
 
 98 
 
 ished, the strong to be amused ; in a few mornings you shall 
 see them, new clothes, warm gloves, gathering around their 
 mother at every toy-shop, claiming the promised bat, hoop, 
 top, or marbles /^mark her kind smile at their ecstasies ; her 
 prudent shako of the head at their numerous demands ; her 
 gradual yielding as they coaxingly drag her in ; her paticnccu 
 with their whims and clamor while they turn and toss over 
 the playthings, as now a sword, and now a hoop is their 
 choice, and, liV heir elders, the possession of one bauble d.'e«! 
 but make t' '» f« r another. 
 
 6. Viev ler, his pet little girl by the haUv), hL* 
 
 boys walkiu; . whom his proud eye rests, while am- 
 
 bitious views >ui u iT his mmd for them, and make him but 
 half attentive to their repeated inquiries ; while at the museum 
 or the picture-gallery, his explanations are interrupted by the 
 rapture of discovering that his children are already well ao- 
 quamted with the different subjects exhibited. 
 
 6. At no season of the year are their holidays so replete 
 With pleasures ; the expected Christmas-box from grand-papa 
 and grand-mamma ; plum-puddiug and snap-dragon, with 
 biindman's buff and forfeits ; perhaps to witness a juvenile 
 play rehearsed and ranted; galantee-show and drawing for 
 twelfth-cake \ besides Christmas gambols in abundance, new 
 and old. 
 
 t. Even the poor charity-boy at this season feels a transient 
 glow of cheerfulness, as with pale blue face, frost-nipped hands, 
 and thin, scant clothes, from door to door he tunidly displays 
 the nnblotted scutcheon of his graphic talents, and feels that 
 the pence bestowed are his oton, and that for once in his life 
 be may taste the often-desu-ed tart, or spm a top which no one 
 can snatch from him in capricious tyranny. 
 

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 (716)172-4303 
 
 
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PART SECOND 
 
 A WOED TO TEACHEBS. 
 
 Wb have deemed it best to discontinue the spelling and 
 defining lessons at the commencement of the articles, but we 
 cannot too strongly recommend all teachers to devote a por- 
 tion of every day to the orthography and definition of a 
 certain number of words contained in the reading lesson, 
 
 Let the pnpils spell and explain the words at the head of 
 each lesson before commencmg to read. After the lesson is 
 over, let the teacher direct them to close their books, and 
 spell and define every word he may select. It may, then, be 
 asked : how are children to learn the meaning of the words ? 
 We answer, by being accustomed to give in their ovm lan- 
 guage, their ovm ideas of every unusual or impohant word 
 which occurs in their reading lesson ; the teacher of course 
 correcting them when wrong, and explaining, when necessary, 
 the proper meaning of the term in question ; or referring them 
 for this informatuHi to their dictionaries, which should always 
 be at hand for this their le^timate use.* 
 
 Questions on the subject of the lesson should also be care* 
 fully continued. 
 
THB DRBAM OF THE OBUSADEB. 
 
 96 
 
 1. The Dbeam of the Cbt7sadeb. 
 
 >,.■ 
 
96 IBB FOURTH READBR. 
 
 8. That cry went forth throngh Europe's realmi^ 
 From one end to the other ; 
 The call was like the thunder's voice^ 
 That nought on earth can smother. 
 
 4. And France's fairest chiyalrj 
 Did mount at that loud call ; 
 From Normandy unto Provence, 
 None tarried in his hall. 
 
 5. Some came from the fast-flowing Loire 
 
 And others from the Rhone, 
 And some whose castles were upon 
 The banks of the Garonne. 
 
 6. One common badge they all do wear, 
 
 A proud and holy crest, 
 A blood-red cross, emblazon'd bright 
 On each left arm and breast. 
 
 t. Then: banner is that blood-red cross^ 
 Upraised as for a sign, 
 And animating aU the host 
 With thoughts of Palestine. 
 
 8. And day by day they fought their w«^ 
 
 Still onwards from the sea, 
 And charged upon the Infidel 
 With dauntless constancy. 
 
 9. And 'mid that host of noble knights 
 
 Who from their homes had gone. 
 There was not one more worthy than 
 Anselm of BlbeauponL 
 
TBI DMBiX OF TBI OKinADIB. 
 
 fl 
 
 2. The Dbeam or the Obxtbadebt— oon^tnuedL 
 
 1. One early morn, the san as yet 
 Was scarcely in the sky, 
 He begg'd the priest to shrive him then, 
 And make him fit to die. 
 
 9. He wish'd to take the sacrament 
 As soon as he was shriven, 
 That he might dare to meet his Qod 
 With hopes to be foigiven. 
 
 8. Now all did marvel at his words, 
 For he was fresh and well ; 
 And why he de^n'd that he shonltl dh^ 
 No mprtal man could telL 
 
 4. Bnt good Sir Anselm with grave miLn 
 Thus spake—" My race is ran 1 
 Ere yonder sun shall set again, 
 life's journey will be done. 
 
 6. My friend, Ingolram of St. Pol, 
 Who fell at Ma'ra's fight» 
 And whom we all lamented so^ 
 Fve seen in the past night. 
 
 6. This ver}' night he camo to me, 
 And stood beside my bed ; 
 Twas not a dream — I was awake. 
 And heard each word he said. 
 
 t. I asked him, ' Whither comest thoi^ 
 And why so bright and fair t 
 For thou wert kill'd at Maara^ 
 And we interred thee thert/ 
 
 8. He was 80 bright and beantifid, 
 And mild each placid featirt ; 
 
THE FOUBIH BEADEIU 
 
 He wai not like a mortal maa, 
 Sfat some ai^lic creature. 
 
 9. He answer'd me, 'I am so fiiur, 
 And beantlfal and bright, 
 Because my dwellii^ shineth so 
 With allHPMplendent light 
 
 10. And this to me my God hath girea^ 
 
 Because I served him well ; 
 For layii^ down my life for him 
 Agidnst the InfidcL 
 
 11. And it hath been revealed to me^ 
 
 Th^t m^ a dwellm^^lace, 
 Bnt brighter eitill, awaiteth thee, 
 Through Qod's great soTereign grace. 
 
 ii. And I am come to bring to thee 
 9heee tidings glad and sweet ; 
 Thy dwelling it is wondrous fair— 
 To morrow there we meet I ' " 
 
 18. Again Ihey went to fight their waj 
 Still onwards from the sea ; 
 They diarged upon the Infidel 
 With wonted constant^. 
 
 14. The PaynuB men adTance agaii^ 
 To drive them to the sea, 
 Bnt on them rushed the rednsross men 
 With all their chivalry. 
 
 16. And when the day^ hard strife was o'la; 
 The sun went down apace. 
 The good ^ Ansehn he was missed . 
 At his aecustomM place. . 
 
 16; They soi^ht him oa the battte>field^ 
 lliey found him Imidst the dead : 
 V Bt<me, by some huge ei^e hurPc^ 
 Bad struck him on the head. 
 
 eve 
 sen 
 fori 
 
 « 
 
 adv 
 
 ord 
 
 pra; 
 
 the 
 
 Son 
 
 2 
 
 our 
 
 plea 
 
 thro 
 
 praj 
 
 9. 
 
Tn LCHED'S SBilBi 
 
 m 
 
 i! 
 
 \ 
 
 B, The Lobd's Pbateb. 
 
 OuH Lord has himself taught us what we are to b^ of 
 God, and the order in which it is to be asked. He has 
 even vouchsafed to draw up the petition which we are to pre- 
 sent to the Father in his name, and to leave ns an excellent 
 form of prayer, which is thence called I%e Lord'i Prayer. 
 "JesQS Christ,'^ says St. Cyprian, "among other salutary 
 advices and precepts which he hath ^ven to his people in 
 order to guide them to salvation, has prescribed a formula of 
 prayer, to the end that we may be the more readily heard by 
 the Father, by addressing him in the very words which his 
 Son hath taught us. 
 
 2. " Let us, therefore, pray,'' adds this holy doctor, " as 
 our master and our Qod hath directed us ; that prayer must be 
 pleating to Qod which comes from himself, and strikes his ear 
 tiirough the words of Christ ; let the Father reoogniase in our 
 prayer the words of his divine Son. 
 
 |. " Since Jesus Christ is our Advocate with bis Father, let 
 
100 
 
 IBM FOUBTH BBADEB; 
 
 118 make tue of the Tory words of oor Mediator; he assures 
 us that the Father will grant whatever is asked in his name ; 
 how mach more willingly if asked, not only in his name, but 
 in his own very words l'^ The Ghurch, accordingly, makes 
 continual use of that divine prayer ; by it she begins and ends 
 all her offices ; she introduces it solenmly in the holy sacri- 
 fice of the mass. The fidthfol should recite it daily, morning 
 and evening, and recall it often to their minds through the 
 course of the day. y^ 
 
 4. The Lord's Prayer is composed of a short preface, aod 
 seven petitions or requests, of which the three first relate to 
 God, and the other four concern ourselves ; it contains all 
 that we can desire and ask of God ; it is the rule by which 
 we are to form our sentiments and our desires. We may, 
 indeed, make use of other words in our prayers, but we are 
 to ask nothing of God save what is contained in this model ; 
 any request that is not cbnostent with it would be unworthy 
 a Christian, and could not be agreeable to God. 
 
 5. The prefoce consists of these words : " Our Father, who 
 art in heaven; " Jesus Christ has thrown into these few words 
 all that is most capable of engaging God to hear us, and of 
 inspiring within ourselves sentiments of respect, confidence, 
 and love. \> 
 
 6. We call God our Father, for so ha? Christ instructed 
 us to do. God is indeed our father by creation, nnce he has 
 given us life, and formed us to his own inuige ; he is still more 
 our father by the grace of our baptism, seeing that in Bap- 
 tism he adopted us as his children in Christ Jesus. " Con- 
 eider," says the Apostle St. John, "what love the Father has 
 had for us. Knee he would have us called his children, and ' 
 really be so!" "Because ye are children," adds St. Paul, 
 "God has sent into your hearts the spirit of his Son, cry- 
 ing 'ifyfb<^ My Father!*" Oh, name full of sweet- 
 ness and delight 1 What love, what gratitude, and what cot^ 
 fidence should it excite in your heart I 
 
 1. If it be true that God is your Father, can you fear that ' 
 your prayer will be rejected when yon remind him of a name 
 by which he takes pleasure in hearing us address hhn ? What 
 
LIOEND Of TBI ISVAMT J18U8. 
 
 m 
 
 does he not grant to a child who prays to him, after he has 
 recei?ed him into the number of his dUldren by a grace which 
 preceded his prayers and desires. /-' 
 
 8. Fear only that by your disobedience yon may render 
 yourself nnworthy to be cdled the child of God ; that alone 
 can obstruct the flow of his grace and the effect of your 
 prayers. Each of us says, when addressing God: "Our 
 Father *' and not My Father, because having all the same 
 Father, and expectmg firom him the same inheritance, we 
 are not only to pray for ourselves, but for all the faithful, 
 who are our brethren. By that we understand that it is not 
 in our own name we pray, but in that of Jesus Christ, and in 
 union with the whole body of his Ohurch, whose members we 
 are. 
 
 9. We add : " Who art in heaven,^ for although God is 
 everywhere in his immendty, we nevertheless consider heaven 
 as the throne of his glory ; it is m heaven that he puts forth 
 all his magnificence, and reveals himself fully to his elect 
 without the shadow of a cloud to obscure his brightness. 
 It is to heaven that we ourselves are called ; heaven is our 
 country, and the inheritance destined for us by our Father. 
 When we kneel, then, in prayer, let us raise our thoughts and 
 our desires to heaven ; let us unite with the sodety of blessed 
 spirits, and excite in our hearts the hope and the desire of 
 possessing God. 
 
 4. Legend of the Infaiit Jesus. 
 
 1. pOME, children, all whose joy it. is 
 v-^ To serve at holy mass. 
 And hear what once, in days of faith, 
 In England came to pass 1 
 
 9. It chAuced a priest was journeying 
 Through dark and gloomy wood, 
 And there, where few came passing by, 
 A lonely chapel stood. 
 
in 
 
 Tfem Kowifi nAon. 
 
 8. He itay'd hli ftet, thtt pOgrim prieHy 
 HiB morning man to mj, 
 And pat the sacred Testmente on. 
 Wbidi near the altar lay. 
 
 4. Bnt who shall serve the holy maai 
 For all is silent here ? 
 He kneels, and there in patience waiti 
 The peasant's hoar of prayer. ^ 
 
 6. When lo ! a child of wondroos grace, 
 Before the altar stealvy 
 And down beside thelbwlQr^prieet, 
 The infant beaaty kneels. 
 
 n 
 
 He serres the mass ; his Toice is sweety 
 like #stant moac low^^ ;^:'u 
 
 With AgwdlA, eye and ready hand, 
 And footfall hgsh'd, and slow^^^^ 
 
 t 
 
 t. " Et Terbom caro factum est.'' 
 He^l^ till he hears, I 
 
 d 
 
 'a. 
 
 Then taming he to Mary's shrine^ elu^^'^ 
 In i^oEy disappears. 
 
 So roond the altar, children dear, 
 
 Press gladly in Qod's name, 
 Fot once to serve at holy mass^ 
 
 The In&nt Jesos came. 
 
 5. The DoNoTHmoft 
 
 THB I)(k»Nothings are a very nameroas family : s(»ne mem^ ^ 
 bers of it ate foond in all parts of the conntry ; and there 
 are vary few schools in which some of them ure mi in atS^d^ p j 
 ance as pnpOL. They are known by their ^if and listleesft^n^no/UA*'' 
 vteps, tiidrllSml^ appearance, and tiie want ol ammation and 
 
m 
 
 f.rf ^. 
 
 ittii i^iioratiRMi 
 
 interest b their flusei. Tbej do not do taj thin 
 work or pUy, with a hearty good-will. 
 
 a. Their hair isAt^^ be in disorder ; their hands and fhces 
 are not always clean ; their clothes look as if they had been 
 halTjpat on. They are always in a hnrry, and yet always 
 Mhurahaqd. They are sometimes absent from school, and 
 often, iar^ ; bnt for every neglect of dnty they always hare 
 some sort fA an excuse. 
 
 8. A g^l of this family gets np hi the momfaig late, dresses 
 herself in a hnrry, and comes down^tahrs a little ont ^ hnmw 
 from the feeling that she has begnn the day i^ng. The 
 family breal(fast is over, and she is obliged to take hers alone ; 
 which does not i&pt^a^e her 1^^^ She knows that she has 
 a French lesson to learn before school ; bnt she Is attracted «Mi,:^ 
 by a new pictnr»book which had been brooght home the dwr^r— 
 before for one of her little brothers^ and she takes it np, mS^^^ 
 ing only to look oyer the {Stores. Bnt she becomes interest- 
 ed in the storMnrns over one leaf after another, and at hut 
 nine o'clock sufl^estiefore she is aware of it 
 
 4. She hnddles on her shawl and bonnet, and hastens to 
 school as fast as possible ; bnt she is late in spite of her hnrry, 
 and is marked for tardkess. It takes h« some tune to get 
 seated at her desk, and to recover from the heat and florry of 
 coming to school so fkst She at first proposes to learn the 
 French lesson, which she onght to have done at home ; bnt 
 aft«r studying a few moments, she finds some leaves misrii^ 
 from her dictionary. She tries to borrow one firom a neigln 
 bor, bnt in vain ; so she becomes discouraged, and tiiinks dio 
 will do a few sums in arithmetic. /. . 
 
 5. So she takes ont her slate, and beg^ to wadi it ; i|)end* 
 ing much more time m this jft^^t^lss than Is necessary. She 
 tries a sum and cannot do it, and thinks it the fault (tf the 
 pencil So she proceeds to sharpen that with great delibera- 
 tion, makingeverybody around her imeasy with the disagree- 
 able, ^ra^ sound. When this operation is over, she looks 
 at the clodc, and sees that it will soon be time to recite in 
 geography, of whk^ she has not learned any thing. 
 
 6. She puts up her slate, pencil, and arithmetic, and takes 
 
104 
 
 oat iMUMgnphy and Attta. B7 the time theee are opened 
 and ij^la before her, she hean a band of mgiio Jn the 
 atreet. Her seat ia near the window, and she wanes tome 
 preciooa minntea in looking at the soldiers as they pass by. 
 8he has hardly made any progress in her study of geography 
 when she is called np to recite. She knows very little of her 
 lesson, gives wrong answers to the qnestions pat to her, and 
 gets a bad mark. 
 
 t. Soon after this, the class in French to which she belongs 
 goes np to recite. This lesson she has only half learned, and 
 she blunders sadly when called apon to answer. She goes back 
 to her desk in an anbappy state of inind, and takes up her 
 arithmetic once more. But she feels dissatisfied with herself, 
 and cannot fix her attention upon her task. She comes to the 
 conclusion that she haa got a headache, which is a very com- 
 mon excuse with her, and that she cannot study. So she puts 
 a cover upon one of her books, and wiites a note to one of her 
 young friends about gohig to a concert ; and when this is over 
 the bell for dismissal rings. 
 
 8. And this half day may be taken as a fair sample of the 
 whole school-life of Miss Do-Nothmg. It is a long succession 
 of lessons half leained, of sums half done, of blotted copy- 
 books, of absences and tardinesses, of wasted hours and neg- 
 lected opportnnities. Most of the annoyance which teachers 
 suffer in the discharge of their duties, comes from boys and 
 l^ls of this family. They have two seemingly opponte traits : 
 UtiBf are always idle and yet always restless. They move 
 about on their seats, and lean npon their desks b a great 
 Variety of postores. They talk with their fingers ; and keep 
 up a constant whispering and buzzing with their lips, which 
 disturbs scholars and teachers alike. 
 
 9. The boys are very expert in catching flies, and moulding 
 pieces of paper into the shape of boats or cocked hats. They 
 draw figures upon their slates, and scribble upon the fly-leaves ^ 
 of their books. In sunmier they are aflBicted with a constant 
 thirst, and in winter their feet and hands are always cold. 
 Both boys and girls are apt to be troubled with drowdness hi 
 the daytime ; and yet they are very reluctant to go to bed 
 
 S 
 
 t] 
 1 
 tl 
 ii 
 
 a 
 a 
 
 U 
 
 tl 
 a 
 1 
 U 
 
 Vr 
 
BIAUMI THE nkVOEnOL OW JAIBUI. 
 
 101 
 
 
 wbeo fhe proper boor comei. Thej w fbnd of Uying the 
 firalt of their own indolence upon the weather ; they would 
 haye learned their leeeon if it had not been so hot, bo K>ld, or 
 10 rainy. 
 
 10. There is one remarkable pecniiarity about this family : 
 erery boy and girl that chooses can leave it, and join the Do* 
 Somethings ; the members of which are always glad to wel- 
 come deserters from the Do-Nethings. The boys and girls of 
 the Do-Something family are always busy, always cheerftil; 
 working heartily when tiiey work, and [daying heartily when 
 they play. They are neat in their appearance, and punctual 
 in attendance upon school ; erery thing is done in proper order, 
 and yet nothing is harried } they are the Joy of their parents, 
 and the delight of their teachers. 
 
 11. My young friends into whose hands tUs iMok may fall, 
 to which of these two ftuniliee do you belong ? Remember 
 that the useiUness and happiness of your whole Uves depends 
 vpoa the answer to this question. No one can be truly happy 
 who is not useftil ; and no one can be usefhl who is idle^ care* 
 less^ and negligent. 
 
 6., Hhaukg thb DinamvB of Jaibitb. 
 
 1. "^^sS^uSf^^jej^ the coming eye 
 
 i: Stole dmSl^ihettteoe^ and the dying girl 
 Felt it npon her forehead, ^e Jiad lain'^^**^**' 
 Siooe the hot noontide in a ol^Ei^ii trance — ^o^ 
 Her thin, palejbgers clasped wi!fiin the hand 
 Of the £^fi-h£o£en Buler, and her breast/^**^*^-"^ 
 Like^edead in^|JU|9i white and motionless. "* 
 
 S. The sSfSowofafl^lay onhei 
 
 And,^as it stSn^^Vith the ™,k'niMr wuid, 
 
 The oark lias lifted from her langmd eyes, . 
 
 And herlsf^Eirfingers moved, and heavily L^i*^*^**^ 
 
 She tpm'd upon her P^^^^w^^Hewas there-^ 
 The same loved tireless l^l!{$^, and she look'd 
 Into his face until her aght grew dim < 
 
 e^ft^AAHfi/K- 
 
■ 1 
 
 1 
 
 106 
 
 THE F0X7BTB HffiAPEB. tf h 
 
 ■u. 
 
 \L^ 
 
 Witluthe fas^fidUngtears ; and, with a sigh^^^ 
 
 Of trmmon^ wea^n^ murmuring his name, 
 
 She' gently /H'^whis hand upon her lips, J-^-*^ 
 
 And kiss'd it as she wept. The old man sunk -^/'■^ 
 
 Upon his knees, and in the draperyt.^^?<^'»-^-<- ' 
 
 Of the rich curtains buried up his face ; 
 
 And when the twilight fell, the sflken folds/ 
 
 ^ 
 
 .^<-«-» 
 
 u*^^H^,: ~ Stirr'd with his prayer, but the ^ght hand he held 
 
 Had ceased its pressure — and he could not hear, 
 
 In the dead, utter silence, that a breaxli 
 
 Came through her nostrils— and her temples gave 
 
 To his nice touch no pi^e— and, at her mouth, 
 
 He held the lightest c^tnat on her^ieck 
 
 Lay with a mockinjrbeauty, and his gaze c/^^CU^ »~^^ 
 
 Ached with its dealoQr stillness. tid/i^ , 
 
BEALma THE DAUQBIEB OF JAIBUS. 
 
 10? 
 
 * » * * * « 
 
 8. All was stQl. 
 
 The echoing vestibiile gave back the slide /*«— 
 Of their loose sandals, and the arrowy beam 
 Of moonlight, slanting to the marble floor, 
 Lay like a spell of silence in the rooms, 
 As Jaims led them on. With hushing steps 
 He trod the winding stair ; bat e'er he toach'd 
 The lachet, from within a whisper came, 
 " Trouble the Master not— /or she is dead /" 
 And his faint hand fell nerreless at his side, 
 And his steps folter'd, and his broken voice 
 Choked in its utterance ; — ^bnt a gentle hand 
 Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear 
 ^ilie Savionr's voice sank thrillingly and low* 
 *' i8%e 18 not dead—biU de^h." 
 
 4 Like a form 
 
 Of matchlets seolptiire in her deep she lay—- 
 The linen vesture folded on her breast, 
 And over it her white transparent handa^ 
 The blood still rosy in their taperfi^ nallai 
 A line of pearl ran through her parted lips^ 
 And in her nostriki sphitually thin, 
 The breathing carve was moi^^gly like fife; 
 And round beneath the faintly-tinted skin 
 Ran the light branches of the azure veins ; 
 And on her cheek the jet lash overlay, 
 Matching the arches penciFd on her broW. 
 
 6. Her hair had been unbound, and foiling loose 
 Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears 
 In curls of glossy blackness, and about 
 Her polish'd neck, scarce touching it, they hong 
 Like airy shadows floating as they slept. 
 TVas heavenly beautifiil. The Saviour raised 
 Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out 
 The snowy fingers in his palm, and said, 
 "Maiden/ Ariae I"-— ^Oid suddenly a flueb 
 
108 
 
 THB fOUBTH mBAPTCB. 
 
 Shot o'er her forehead, and along her lips 
 And through her cheek the rallied color ran; 
 And the still ontline of her graceful form 
 Stih^d in the linen vesture ; and she clasp'd 
 The Saviour's hand, and fixing her dark eyes 
 Full on his beaming countenance — ^abosi 1 
 
 7. St. Philip Nem and the Youth. 
 
 S 
 
 T. Philip Neri, 
 Met 
 
 readings 
 r in Rome' 
 
 say, 
 
 streets one day : 
 
 young^ 
 And being ever 
 
 To give jovmgfo(^ a iSlSer ISSm^ mind/^<^-*^-t 
 He fell into dmc^Sra? with him ; and thusAA^vm^ 
 The dialogue they held comes down to us. 
 
 St. Tell me what brings yon, gentle youth, to Bomef 
 
 Y. To make myself a scholar, sir, I come. 
 
 St. And, when you are one, what do you mtend?^(.v<r^ 
 
 F. To be a pri^, I hope, sir, in the end. ' / 
 
 St. Suppose it is so — ^what have yon next in view ?<^««^.<^ 
 
 Y. ThatImaygettobe/e£n)^L*!oo. 
 
 St. Well ; and how then ^^^^4^*^*^ gJL^ Ji>*^ 
 
 Y. Why, t^oS^or^ngbt I know, 
 
 I may be made a bishop. 
 
 St. Be it so — 
 
 What then? 
 
 Y. Why, cardmaPs a high degree— 
 
 And yet my lot it possibly may be. 
 
 iSS(. Suppose it was, what then ? 
 
 Y. Why, who can say 
 
 Bnt I've a chance of being pope one day ? 
 
 St. Well, having worn the mitre and red hat, 
 And ^^e crown, what follows after that ? 
 
 Y. ssay, there is nothing further, to be sure 
 Upon this earth that wishing can procure ; 
 When Fve enjoy'd a dignity so high, 
 As long as Qod shall please, then, I most dit. 
 
 \ 
 
CXXNEEBMAXIOll. 
 
 109 
 
 Bt. Whf>' muat yon die, fond youth 7 and at the best 
 Bat wiflh, I hope, and may he all the rest 1 
 Take my aa?lee— whatever may betide, ^j^'ii-^-^**— i— 
 For that which most be, first of all provide y^<.'^^<-^-'-r 
 Then think of that which may be, and indeed. 
 When well prepared, who knows what may succeed 7 
 But you may be, as you are pleased to hope, 
 Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope. 
 
 ^' 
 
 8. GONFIBMATION. 
 
 OUR young readers have learned from theur little catechism, 
 that confirmation is the sacrament by which they are ele- 
 vated to the dignity of soldiers of Jesus Christ ; that, as by 
 baptism they were made children of God, so by confirmation 
 their names are inscribed in the army of the faithful followers 
 of our divine Lord, and they receive strength to battle against 
 sin, the world, and the devil, which they had so solemnly re- 
 nounced at the baptismal font. 
 
 2. Confirmation is conferred by a bishop, who first imposes 
 his hands on those to be confirmed, invoking upon them the 
 Holy Ghost, with his sevenfold gifts ; he then signs the fore- 
 head of each with chrism in the form of the cross, saying at 
 the same time : " I sign thee with the sign of the cross ; I 
 confirm thee with the chrism of salvation, in the name of the 
 Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." 
 
 3. The bishop concludes the ceremony by giving the person 
 confirmed a slight blow on the cheek, to signify that as fol- 
 lowers of Jesus Christ, we must bear trials and persecutions 
 for his sake. 
 
 4. The chrism used in confirmation, is an ointment made of 
 the oil of cloves and balm. The oil signifies the effect of this 
 holy sacrament, namely, spiritual strength and purity of hearty 
 and preservation from the rust of sin ; and the sweetness of 
 balm, the odor of a good and virtuous life. 
 
 6. Confirmation can only be received once, hence it is a 
 
iS^ 
 
 no 
 
 THE lOUBTH BIABEKt 
 
 great misfortmie not to Feceiye it with the proper cUsporitiona 
 Formerly it was the cnstom to confirm children immediately 
 after baptism, but now it is generally delayed nntil after they 
 have made their first commonion. It is not a sacrament abso- 
 lutely necessary for salvation, but it would be a grieyous sin to 
 omit receiving it through contempt or neglect. 
 
 6. Children ought to look forward with a lon^ng desire to 
 ffae moment when they shall have the happiness to receive this 
 holy sacrament, and daily ask of Almighty God the grace to 
 receive it worthily, and as often resolve to live up to the obli- 
 gations it imposes, when they shall have received it. 
 
 9. ButDS IN SUMMEB. 
 
 How pleasfint the life of a bird must be^ 
 F]jitti|;)g^ about in,eaph leafy tree ; 
 In theaea 
 
 <HM. 
 
 1. 
 
 rees so Bfoaa and tall, 
 Like a green and beautifiil palace haEI^ 
 With its airy chambers, light and boon,* 
 That open to sun, and stars, and moon ; 
 lliat open unto the bright blue sky. ^ 
 And the firolicsome winds as they mSaSSSst by t 
 
 S. They have left their nests on the forest bou^i; 
 Those homes of delight they need not now ; 
 And the young and the old they wander out, 
 And travpse their green world round about ; 
 And fiark^I at the top of this leafy hall. 
 How one to the other in love they call t 
 " Come up 1 come.up I" they seem to say, 
 " Where the tOpmOOT twigs in the breezes sway. 
 
 8. " Come up, come up 1 for the world is fair 
 
 Where the merry leaves dance in the summer wrP 
 
 *Moon, pleasant. 
 
BKBDS IN BUMMEB. 
 
 m 
 
 »ly 
 ley 
 
 )80- 
 
 to 
 
 ) to 
 
 ;his 
 
 to 
 
 •bU- 
 
 AbA the birds below give back the cry, 
 "We come, we come to the branches high." 
 How pleasant the lives of the birds must be, 
 Living in love in a leafy tree I 
 And away through the air what joy to go. 
 And to look on the green, bright earth below ! 
 
 4. How pleasant the life of a bird most be, 
 Skimming abont on the breezy sea ; 
 Crestmg the billows like sUvery foam, 
 Then wheeling away to its cliff-built home I 
 What joy it must be to sail, upborne 
 By a strong, free wing, through the rosy mom 1 
 To meet the young sun face to face. 
 And pierce like a shaft the boundless space ;— 
 
 6. To pass through the bowers of the silver cloud ; 
 To slug in the thunder halls aloud ;, 
 
112 THB VOUBIH BEADSB. 
 
 To spread oat the wings for a wQd, free flight 
 With the appeivclond winds, — Oh, what delight t 
 Oh, what would I give, like a bird, to go 
 Bight on through the arch of the son-lit bow, 
 And see how the water-drops- are kiss'd 
 Into green, and yellow, and amethyst 1 
 
 6. How pleasant the life of a bird most be, 
 Wherever it listeth there to flee ; 
 
 To go when a joyful fancy calls. 
 Dashing adown 'mong the waterfalls ; 
 Then to wheel about with their mates at play, 
 Above, and below, and among the spray, 
 Hither and thither, with screams as wild 
 As the laughing mirth of a rosy child 1 
 
 7. What joy it must be, like a living breese, 
 To flatter about 'mid the flowermg trees ; 
 Lightly to soar, and to see beneath 
 
 The wastes of the blossoming purple heath, 
 And the yellow furze, like fields of gold, 
 That gladden'd some fairy region old ! 
 On mountain tops, on the billowy sea, 
 On the leafy stems of the forest tree, 
 How pleasant the life of a bird must be 1 
 
 10. The Ohudben and the Infant Jesus. 
 
 AT the time that the celebrated Egidius was provmcial of 
 Spain, he gave the habit of the order to a young Gascon 
 named Bernard, who was received into the convent of Santa- 
 rem, and became distinguished among that saintly community 
 for the holy simplicity of his^fe/ ^• 
 
 2. The circumstances at^wng his death, attested by al- / 
 most all the writers on the history of the order, are of pecalia^^^'i^!^^- 
 Bernard filled the office of sacristan in the conTent 
 
THE GHILDBBR AND THE JSTJO^ JESUB. 
 
 118 
 
 lof 
 icon 
 
 mity 
 
 iliMp 
 irent 
 
 of Santarem ; an oflBce^ the jxerdse of which was pecnliarly 
 deli^fiil to him, /from fhe'nuuiy opportamties it gave him of 
 indniypg his devotion. unseen by any one%ut ms Lord, whom 
 he loved to honor by a reverent care of the altar and every 
 thing belonging to the Divine mysteries. Besides this employ- 
 mept, his spare time was occupied in the education of two 
 children, the sons of a neighboring gentleman, who sent them 
 every day to the convent, where they remained until evening, 
 only sleeping at their father's house. ^-. 
 
 3. These two boys were permitted to wear the novices' 
 habit of, the Friars-Preachirs, being probably destined for the 
 order, mSi^^ not as yet received into the conunnnity ; and 
 theur innocence and goodness of heart had rendered them pe- 
 culiarly dear to Blessed Bernard. ' It was his custom, when 
 hxusy in the sacristy, to allow them to I'emain in a chapel, then 
 dedicated to the Holy Kings, on the right of the high altar/ 
 where they used to sit on the altar-steps, reading or writing 
 their exercises ; spending their time happily untirthe^ master's 
 return. Here also they were accustomed to ^pifSiuout the 
 dinners which they brought with them from home, which they 
 took to^thgr in the same place, as soon as they had finished 
 their muy lessons. ^.^^.^t^^^" 
 
 4. On the altar of this chapel, which was s^^i^ansed for 
 the purpose of saying mass, there was an image of the Blessed 
 Tirgin, holding her Divine* Son in her arms; and the two 
 children came to look on the Holy Infant almost as a jom- 
 panion, and were wont to talk to him, as he seemed to look 
 down on them firom his mother's arms, with the simple fa- 
 nuliarity of their age. One day, as they thus sat on the altar^ 
 steps, one of them raised his eyes to the image of the little 
 Jesus that was just above him, and said, " BeantiM child, 
 how is it you never take &ny dinner as we do, but always re- 
 main without moving all day long ? Gome down and eat soine 
 dinner with us, — we will give it to you with all our hearts." 
 
 6. And it pleased God to jpewft^d ^he innocence and ^M^ 
 faith of the children by a ^"^^i^uf niiracle ; for the Sx^i 
 PsoA of the holy child became radiant with life, and coming 
 down from his holy mother's arms, he sat with them on the 
 
lU 
 
 THE FOUBTH BEAOEB. 
 
 irroand before the altar,, and took some of their dinner with 
 them. Nor need we wonder at so great a condescension, re- 
 membering how he came uninvited to be a gucslwith Zaccheus 
 who was a sinner, and that the two wliom hh now consented 
 to treat as his hosts, were clothed in that pure robe of bap* 
 tismal innocence which malces us worthy to receive him under 
 our roof. ^J^T^ 
 
 6. Now this happened more than once, so that the neglected 
 chapel became to these two children full of the joy of heaven ; 
 and by daily converse with their Divine Lord they grew in such 
 fervent love toward him, that tliey wearied for .the hour 
 when then might have hun with thepi^' caring for nothing else 
 than this sweet and familiar inro^ourse with the Lord of 
 heaven. And their parents perceived 'a change in them, and 
 how theur only pleasure was in hastening to the convent, as if 
 it contained a secret source of happiness which had not been 
 revealed before. They therefore questioned them closely ; and 
 the children told them every thing without reserve. 
 
 7. But the tale seemed to those who listened, nothing but 
 an idle invention, or nerhaps an artifice in. order to ^tajn a 
 larger quantity of f^M; and they tjroSfei'OTe'took no n^l^of 
 what they saionbeyond reproving them for their folly. 
 
 But when they repeated the ^^aine. story to Bernard, he 
 listened with very different feeliinpj^for he knew, the holy 
 hearts of his two little disciples ; and be felt, wit€^v^, that 
 there was nothing unwo^y of belief in the fact that he who, 
 bemg God, became a little child, should condescend to give a 
 mark of favor to those of whom he himself has said, that 
 "of such is the. kingdom of heaven." When, therefore, after 
 many ifii|um^fBe had satisfied himself of the truth of the tale, 
 he bade them give glory to God for his goodness ; and then 
 considered whether there was no way in which these circum- 
 stances might be made to serve yet further to the happmess 
 and spiritual advancement of his pupUs^^ a£ 
 
 8. And hearing how they in their cmldish way expressed a 
 ^(^(StOT that, after they had so often invited the child to eat 
 some of their dinner, he had never brought any food with him 
 to shar^ with them, he bade them, the next time he came, ask 
 
 . 
 
 ^ 
 
THE OHILDBlEll AKD TBE IM7ANT JE8UB. 
 
 116 
 
 .. 
 
 him how this was, and whether he would not ask them some 
 day to dine with him in his Father's house. The boys were 
 deI(j^tvCed with thi^ idea; and they failed not to do as they 
 were directed the next time that they were alone in the chapel. 
 Then the child smiled on them graciously, and said, ** What 
 you say is very just ; withm three days I invite you to a ban- 
 quet in my Father's house:" and with this answer they re* 
 turned full of joy to then* master. 
 
 9. He well knew the meaning of this invitation ; the change 
 that had gradually appeared in his two beloved disciples had 
 not been unmarked by him : he had seen them, as it were 
 before their time, growing 'I^ for heaven ; and he understood 
 that it was the Divine pleasure, after thus training them for 
 heaven in a marvellous way, that they should be transplanted to 
 the angelic company, before their hearts h^ once been touched 
 by the IM^Tof sin or the con&MiM^of the world. 
 
 10. Yet he sighed to think that thej should .thus be granted 
 to pass to Christ in their happy infancy, while he. Who had 
 grown old iu the spiritual wanare, was to be left behind.; and 
 resolving to miBike one mpre.trial of the condencension which 
 had been so xramlM^ously'tavme^ on his pupils, he bade them 
 go back to the chapel, and tell the Divine child that since they 
 •wore the habit of the order, it was necessary for them to ob- 
 serve the rules ; and that it was never permitted for novices to 
 accept of any invitation, or to go to the house of any person, 
 except in their master's company. "Return, then, to your 
 master," said the Holy Child, "and bid him be of the com- 
 pany ; and on Thursday morning I will receive you ali three 
 together in my Father's house." 
 
 11. Bernard's heart bounded with emotion when he heard 
 these words'. It was then the first of th6 Rogation days, and 
 the day which had been appointed was therefore Ascension 
 day. He made every arrangement as for his approaching 
 death, and obtained leave on that day to say his last mass, — 
 his two disciples serving during the celebration, and receiving 
 communion fi'om his hands. Doubtless it would be hard for 
 us to realize his feelings of devout and joyful expectation 
 daring those moments. 
 
U6 
 
 THE FOURTH READER. 
 
 12. And when mass was ended, he knelt before the same 
 altar with the children, one on either side, and all three com- 
 mended their souls to Qt)d, as though they knew their last 
 honr was come, and the altar«teps were to be their deathbed. 
 And it was even so. An hour after, some of the brethren 
 found them still kneeling thus before the altar, Bernard vested 
 |eu9 for mass, and the two boys in their serving-robes. 
 
 13. But they were quite dead : their eyes were closed, and 
 their faces wore a smile of most sweet tranquillity ; and it was 
 evident that there had been no death-struggle, but that their 
 souls had passed to the presence of God while in the very act 
 of prayer. The were buried in the chapel of the Holy Kings, 
 which had been the scene of so many of our Lord's visits to 
 the two children ; and a picture was hung over the spot, rep- 
 resenting them seated on the altar-step, with the Divine child 
 between them. 
 
 14. This was the only monument to mark the place of their 
 burial ; and in the course of years the memory of it was lost, 
 and the chapel became disused and n^lected as before. One 
 of the succeeding priors of the convent, wishing to find some 
 ftirther record of the ancient tradition, dug down beneath the 
 spot indicated by the picture ; taking care to have two apos- 
 tolic notaries and the vicar-general of the diocese present, to- 
 gether with other authorities of distinction and credit. 
 
 15. At a little distance beneath the surface a carved stone 
 8&rcophagus was found, which being opened, the church was 
 immediately filled with an odor of surpassing sweetness ; and 
 on removing the clothes that lay on the top, the remains of 
 three bodies were discovered, which they conld not doubt were 
 those of Blessed Bernard and his novices ; for the bones of 
 
 . the middle skeleton were the size of a grown man, while those 
 on either side were small and delicate. 
 
 16. From the great number of years that had passed, mosj; 
 of them were reduced to mere dust ; but .some portions of 
 white cloth showed that they had been buried in the habit of 
 the order. The memory of this hiBtory has been preserved 
 even up to our own times ; for from the time of this solemn 
 translation of their bodies, a mass of the ascension was cele- 
 
THX 0B4m Of f ATBBB MABQUKTII. 
 
 U7 
 
 bnted ererj Thareday, in thankflgiyiiig for the graces granted 
 to them, and a confiratemity of the Infant JesuB eetabliahod, 
 to whom the custody of the ancient image was intrusted 
 Their death is supposed by Sosa to have taken place about 
 the year 1277. 
 
 11. The Gbaye of Fatheb MABQUEm. 
 
 1. mHERE is a wnd and lonely dell 
 
 -*■ Far in the wooded West 
 
 Where nerer summer's l^'nBSSBf Yell 
 To break its long, lone rest. 
 
 Where never blast of winter swept, 
 To'ruSfe or to chill, n-^"'* 
 
 The calm, pelhicia lake that slept, 
 O'erhn^g with rock and h9L 
 
 A irobdlaiid scene by hiUs inclosed^ 
 
 By rockv barriers cwth'A^y -^uind^^ ■ 
 Where IHa^and silence have r^xKcd, 
 
 For ages ondisturb'd. 
 Unless when some dark Indian maid. 
 
 Or prophet old and gray, 
 Have hied them to the solemn shade, 
 
 To weep aione or pray. 
 
 One mom, the boatman's bugle note 
 
 Was heard within the dell. 
 And o'er the blue waves seem'd to float, 
 
 Like some unearthly swell. 
 A skiff appears, by rowers stout 
 
 Urged swiftly o'er the ti«te. 
 An aged man sat wrai^'d in thought^ 
 
 Who seem'd tbe. helm to guide. 
 
 He was a boly Capuchin,. 
 Thin locks were oa hia broi^; 
 
IIP THS FOURTH BKAOBB. 
 
 His eye, that bright axid bold had beeiv 
 With age was darkened uow. 
 
 From distant lands, beyond the sea, 
 The aged pilgrim came, 
 
 To combat base idolatry, 
 And spread the holy name. 
 
 6. From tribe to tribe the good man went^ 
 
 The sacred cross he bore, 
 And savage men on slaughters bent. 
 
 Would listen and adore. 
 But worn with age, his mission done, 
 
 Earth had for him no tie, 
 He had no further wish, save one,-r~ 
 
 To hie him home and die. 
 
 6. The oarsman spoke, " Let's not delay, 
 
 Qood father, in this del! ; 
 rris here that savage legends say, 
 
 Tlieir sinless spirits dwell. 
 The hallow'd foot of prophet sere. 
 
 Or pore and ypotless maid, 
 May only dni(^ to venture here, 
 
 When night has spread her shade." 
 
 ^. " Dispe), my son, thy groundless fear. 
 
 And let thy heart be bold, 
 For see, upon my breast I bear. 
 
 The consecrated gold. 
 The blessed cross that long hath been 
 
 Companion of my path, 
 Preserved me i^i the tempest's din, 
 
 Or stayed the heathen's wrath, 
 
 8. "Shall guard ue from the threatened harm, 
 What form soe'er it .take. 
 The horricane, or savage arm. 
 Or f.pirit of the lake." 
 
Tn 0R4TI or f ATinn lUBQUsm. 
 
 ** Bat father, shall we nerer ceaae, 
 Through bava^ wilds to coam ? 
 
 My heart Ih vparuiug; for the peace. 
 That smilet!) 0*^ or at hoir '. • 
 
 9. "We've traced the river of the West, 
 From Rea to fountaiD-hcad, 
 And sail'd o'er broad Superior's breast^ 
 c- By wild adventure led. 
 
 We've slept beneath the cypress shade, 
 
 Where noisojne reptile lay, 
 We've chased the panther to his bed, 
 •And heard the grim wolf bay. 
 
 10. "And now for sunny France we sigh, 
 
 For quiet and for home ; 
 Then bid us pass the valley by, 
 
 Where only spirits roam." 
 " B«pine not, son I old age is slow, 
 
 And feeble feet are mine ; 
 This moment to my home I go, 
 
 And thou shalt go to thine. . 
 
 11. " But ere I quit this vale of death. 
 
 For realms more bright and fair, 
 On jon green shore my feeble breath, 
 
 Would rise to Heaven in prayer. 
 Then high on yonder headland's brow, 
 
 The holy altar raise ; 
 Uproar the cross, and let us bow 
 
 With humble hearts in praise." 
 
 12. Thus said, the cross was soon nprear'd, 
 
 On that lone, heathen shore. 
 Where never Christian voice was heard 
 
 In prayer to God before. 
 The old man knelt, his head was bare, 
 
 His arms cross'd on his breast; 
 
 lie 
 
120 THE FOURTH READEB. 
 
 He pray'd, but none could hear the prayer 
 His wither'd lips expressed. 
 
 13. He ceased, they raised the holy man, 
 
 Then gazed in silent dread, 
 Chill through each vein the life-blood ran,—- 
 
 The pilgrim's soul had fled. 
 In silence pray'd each voyager, 
 
 Their beads they counted o'er, 
 Then made a hasty sepulchre, 
 
 On that lone ravine's shore. 
 
 14. Beside the altar where he knelt, 
 
 And where the Lord released 
 His spirit from its pilgrimage. 
 
 They laid the holy priest. 
 In fear and haste, a brief adieu 
 
 The wondering boatmen take. 
 Then rapidly their course pursue 
 
 Across the lonely lake. 
 
 |6. In after years, when bolder men 
 
 The vale of spirits sought. 
 O'er many a wild and wooded glen 
 
 They roam'd, but found it not. 
 We only know that such a priest 
 
 There was, and thus he fell, 
 But where his saintly relics rest, 
 
 No living man can tell. 
 
 12. Abiuham. 
 
 ISMAEL'S banishment restored, pgace tOf^braham's family, 
 and left Isaac the one and *(iole%eir ot his fath,er'8 fortune. 
 Isaac was growing up in the full promise of early j^uffi, when 
 God was pleased to make trial of Abraham's faith, in a point 
 
 ■/ 
 
 .it 
 
.ABRAHAM. 
 
 121 
 
 the most decisiTe ; he ordered him to take that very Isaac, his 
 beloved son, and to offer him in sacrifice upon the mountain he 
 would Bhow him. 
 
 2. Abraham had alwavs looked upon his son as a special 
 gift from God, and, therefore, did not hesitate a single moment 
 to give him back iu the manner that God required. He had 
 been assured that his posterity should one day become as nu- 
 merous as the sands upon the shore, or as the starn In heaven., 
 
 i 1 
 
It 
 
 
 THE FOURTH READER. ' * * 
 
 Steadfast, thj^refQre, in that beli^f^ aiulnnshaken in his hope, 
 Abraham^P^'^fliVery doubt ne ihigfiveMeMfe'eMve formed 
 of the'rl^emg^'proinises God had made him ; he rose early in 
 the morning, and Iceeping his secret to himself, went silently 
 out with Isaac and two servants. 
 
 3. He carried with him the wood necessary to consume the 
 holocaust, and directed his way towards the mountain. Fixed 
 in his resolijtion, he went on for two days, and on the third 
 came in^'sigmTof the destin«i plac6 of sacrific^_^ He told his 
 servants to remain at the bmtom of the hill, wmtene with his 
 son should go up to adore their God. Inflexible to the sug- 
 gestions ^of flesh and blood, he took in his 
 At ' 
 
 the ^^OT^and gave 
 for the sacred fire. 
 
 to his son the wood that 
 
 ■>.« t» 
 
 hand the fire ai^ 
 ^hat was mteiided ' 
 
 ?9 
 
 nt 
 
 <■:;• 
 
 tylively figure of.nmi yno w&rMierwara^ ,m a^em the 
 mount of Calvary T^SieS with a cross, on vl^Sn^^as to 
 consummate the great work of our redemption. As they were 
 going on, Isaac asked his father where tjje^yjctim was? The 
 question was too interesting not to awJEi^en all the tenderness 
 of a father's loye hi soph circumstances : Abraham dissembled: 
 the secret reehngs of his heart, and with a manly firmness an- 
 swered, that God would ^ovide the victim. **fri^^*"'-iiHM-AA.u4^ 
 
 5. Being come to the appointed spot, he erecte^ an, altar, 
 and laid the wood in order upon it ; then having umhd and 
 sed his son Isaac thereon,^ he took up the 'sword, and 
 fccKed out his hand tojstfS^*' iTie firm obedionce of the 
 father, and the humble submission of the son, were all that 
 God required of them. An angel at that moment was dis-'^^'^^^'^ 
 patched to stop the father's arm. and to assure him that God 
 was satisfied with the reaamess of his obedience. The angel 
 called aloud on Abraham ; Abraham answered the voice, and 
 saw a ram with hisTiorns entangled amid 
 
 looking round saw a rain* with his'Tibrnseritangle'd amid the 
 Drambles, which he took and ofiered as a holocaust for his son. 
 6. This history, which is so mysterious, and in almost every 
 circumstance so resembling the stations of our Saviour's pas- 
 sion, is, according to the holy fathers, an instruction for all 
 parents to consult the will and implore the aid of God, before 
 
HOHENUNDEN. 
 
 123 
 
 liope, 
 rmed 
 rly in 
 ently 
 
 e the 
 ?ixed 
 third 
 d his 
 bh his 
 
 JSUg- 
 
 e and 
 
 tiilLa 
 
 rfc ^ 
 
 as to 
 ' were 
 The 
 erness ? ' 
 mbled:^' "^ 
 !8S au- 
 
 altar, 
 id and 
 I, and 
 of the 
 1 that 
 IS dis-y- 
 ,t God 
 augcl 
 e, and 
 id the 
 lis son. 
 ; every 
 's pas- 
 for all 
 before 
 
 
 they presume to ^^pose of their children. Noth^ig less than 
 the eternal wSlMe of their souls, and the service of Almighty 
 God, ought to guide thehr attention, and regulate their con- 
 duct in this respect. ..;^..y^/.^^,u^ ^v^j^ 
 
 7. Saint Chrysostom illore at large deplores the misfortune 
 of those parents who, notwithstanding their Christian profes- 
 sion, sacrifice then* ^^^^f^^^- ^ ^•'^ ^ Abraham did, but 
 to Satan, either Jby engaging them in the pursuits of a vain 
 world, or by Ifrawtnguiem from the practice of a virtuous 
 life. " Abraham is the only one," says he, " who consecrates his 
 son to God, while thousands of others turn theu* children over 
 to the devil ; and- the joys we feel in seemg some few; take a 
 Christian care of their little ones, is presently sii^fessedwith 
 grf« at the sight. of those greater numbers, who totally 
 neglect that duty, and by the example they give, deserve to 
 . be considered rather as parricides, than the parents of their 
 children.^ 
 
 
 ti*^ 
 
 13. HOBEKLINDEN. 
 
 1. /^N Linden, when the sun was low, 
 V/ AH bloodless lay the untrodden snow j 
 And dark as winter was the flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 S. But Linden saw another sight. 
 
 When the drum beat at dead of night 
 Commanding fires of death to light 
 The darkness of her scenery. 
 
 S. By torch and trumpet fast array'd. 
 Each horseman drew his battle-blade ; 
 And furious every charger neigh'd 
 To join the dreadful revelry. 
 
 4. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
 Then rosh'd the steed to battle driven, 
 
iU 
 
 THE FOURTH llEADEB. 
 
 And louder than the bolts of heaven 
 Far flash'd the red artillery. 
 
 5. But redder yet that light shall glow 
 On Linden's hills of stain'd snow, 
 And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
 
 . Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 6. "lis morn ; but scarce yon level sun 
 Can pierce the war-clouds, roUmg don, 
 Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
 
 Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 
 
 t. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
 Who rush to glory or the grave I 
 Wave, Munich 1 all thy banners wave. 
 And charge with all thy chivahry t 
 
 8. Few, few shall part where many meet I 
 The snow shall be their winding sheet ; 
 And every turf beneath their feet 
 Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 
 
 14 Language of Elowebs. 
 
 GOOD news ! joyful news 1" cried the happy voice of AHce 
 Telford, running in with a huge bunch of roses in her 
 hand. "Come, Cattie 1 come, Honor ! we are to go to help 
 Sister Theresa in the sacristy, — oh, I do so love that I The 
 great candlesticks are out, and the new branches, and such a 
 lovely veil for the tabernacle I I was peeping in with one 
 eye, after I had helped to clean the chapel, and Father Ash- 
 urst said 'Come here with me; I see what you want;' aod 
 he went into the nuns' sacristy, and told Sister Theresa there 
 was a poor beggar outside who wanted to speak to her ; and 
 when she came out, he did so laugh 1 and then Sister Theresa 
 told me to fetch all the girls to help to dress the sanctuary." 
 
LANOUAOE 07 FLOWEBS. 
 
 126 
 
 2. She vas still speaking, wlien all the children began to 
 run here and there, to gather up theu* flowers, yases, aud 
 strings ; but the lay sister, who was dammg stockings at the 
 table, quietly collected her work into her basket, and with a 
 few calm and controlling words stilled the excitement, and 
 soon reducing the scattered elements mto order, a quiet pro- 
 gressive movement was effected towards the convent. 
 t 8. They foimd Lucy Ward and Magdalen in the nuns' sao< 
 risty. The former was silently arranging a large basket of 
 exquisite hot-house flowers in tall fauy-like white vases ; and 
 as the sacristan glanced at those which were finished, she 
 could not but marvel at the faultless taste which guided the 
 labor, and breathe a fervent prayer for the soul that seemed 
 marked out by God for some special grace. 
 
 4. "You love flowers, Lucy?" 
 
 "Do I not love them, sister ?" replied Lucy ; "I dream of 
 them at night, — I should like to die looking at them." 
 
 " Which do you love best ?" 
 
 " I never could quite tell. They speak such different words ; 
 but all that they say makes music." 
 
 "True. Is that why you love them t!!?y 
 
 5. " Yes, sister ; I get very tired of hearing people talk, 
 b:at I am never tired of the silent words of my dear flowers. 
 They say so much." 
 
 " What do they seem to say to you this evening ? " 
 "They all seem to whisper something new," replied Lucy, 
 
 thoughtfully, and as if to herself. "Look at these white 
 
 camellias, and side by side with them these blood-red ones. 
 
 They seem to me to mean so much, but I cannot read it. 
 
 Canyon, sister?" 
 
 6. "Yes," replied the nun, gently. "The sight of that 
 pure white and blood-red reminds us always of the Sacred 
 Heart of Jesus that was pierced for us. Look, here are the 
 blood and water that flowed out for us. They speak the 
 sweetest music to our hearts." 
 
 t. "That is beautiftil 1" said Lucy, hanging on the Words ; 
 " and you understand the flowers too. Everybody has always 
 laughed at me if I spoke about it, except Matthew.: Dear 
 
/ 
 
 126 
 
 THE rOURT? HEADEB. 
 
 fli 
 
 Matthew — he never laughs at me bnt he shakes his hea<l^ 
 and says I have wild tallc, and he can't malce it out." 
 "You love Matthew?" '^ 
 
 8. " Oh, I love him in my deep heart 1 " said Lucy, her 
 wax-like cheek and brow flushing with a thrill of feeling. 
 
 " You have, then, two hearts ; and you love sometimes 
 with one and sometimes with the other?" 
 
 " Yes, sister, I have an outer heart for everybody ; but no 
 one is in ray inside heart but Matthew and — ^" she stopped 
 chort. , 
 
 9. " And our Lord, now — Lucv ?" , , / <;u ' 
 
 "I can't tell," replied Lucy, returning to her old reserve. 
 *' Xo, I think ray inside heart is very empty. Let us talk about 
 the flowers again. Look at these roses, sister ; their heads 
 are quite bowed down with their weight ; they cannot keep 
 in their sweet smell ; it seems as if it burst out from their great 
 cups. That says something beautiful, but I don't know what." 
 
 10. "I think it does," replied the nun: "it says that they 
 are a faint poor type of that great One who said, 'I am the 
 Rose of Sharon;' and whose thorn-crowned head was so 
 bowed down with his weight of love on the cross,, ^hat the 
 overflowing scent of it converted first the poor 'ihi^li^'and 
 afterwards thousands of miserable sinners. Let it draw you,t 
 ray child, till you run after those most precious odors, and 
 make them yours forever." 
 
 11. Lucy was qu^e silent for a few minutes, and then draw- 
 ing out a richVDltSror of geraniums, she turned her larg3 eyes 
 full on the nun and said, "These I love best of all, but I 
 •never could make out what they said. They all seem to sing 
 together a very rich song that goes through my heart, like a 
 hymn I heard the Spanish sailors sing down on the Parade 
 last summer at night. Can you read these ?" 
 
 12. "Perhaps not in a way that you can understand. 
 These may represent the royal and special gifts which God 
 bestows , on the friends he has chosen, to himself. They are 
 set apart and separated from other gifts. They are only to 
 be bought at a great price, iKS^they are often of priceless 
 ralne. They cost labor, and pains, and watching ; but when 
 
 tT-\rv 
 
HOMEWABD BOUND. 
 
 127 
 
 the work is done, where can we find its like ? Those who pos- 
 sess them will be the brightest jewels in hiS crown at the last 
 
 13. "And who can^nnthese gifts?" said Lucy, breath-* 
 lessly awaiting the answer. 
 
 " Those who love," replied the nun, and her words seemed 
 to Lucy the solemn voice of God. 
 
 The tears rushed to her eyes, and she murmured to herself, 
 "When shall I know him? When will ho Jill my inner 
 heart?" 
 
 .('■> 
 
 1. 
 
 15. Homeward Bound. 
 
 OH I when the hour to meet again 
 Creeps on — and, speeding o'er the sea, 
 My heart takes up its lengthen'd chain, 
 
 And, link by link, draws nearer thee — 
 When land is hail'd, and from the shore, 
 Comes off the blessed breath of home, 
 With fragrance from my mother's door, 
 Of flowers forgotten when I com©— , 
 
138 
 
 THB FOUBTH READER. 
 
 When port is gain'd, and, slowly n«w. 
 The old familiar paths are pass'd. 
 
 And, entering — ^unconscious how — 
 I gaze upon thy face at last, 
 
 And run to thee, all faint and weak, 
 
 And feel thy tears upon my cheek. 
 %, Oh I if my heart break not with joy, 
 
 The light of heaven will fairer seem ; . 
 And I shall grow ouce more a boy : 
 
 And, mother I — ^'twill be like a dream, 
 That we were parted thus for years — 
 And once that we have dried our tears, 
 How will the days seem long and bright— 
 
 To meet thee always with the mom. 
 And hear thy blessing every night — 
 
 Thy "dearest," thy "first-born 1" 
 And be no more, as now, in a strange land forlorn f 
 
 16. Lucys Death. 
 
 y 
 
 HOW is Lucy?" asked Mildred of Cattie, as she loftly 
 entered the children's class-room on the morning of the 
 eve of the Octave of the Assumption ; " have yon bum h 
 Cattie?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, I have been with Magdalen to talk Ui her, and 
 to say our office," replied Cattie ; " Magdalen thinks she will 
 die very soon, but I cannot believe it. Oh, she does look so 
 bright and beautiful — -just like an angel I " 
 
 2. "That's why I think she's going to die,'' replied Mag. 
 dalen, who now followed Cattie into the room with her office* 
 book in her hand. " Lucy looks much too 'beautiful to live ; 
 I mean not commonly beautiful, but she has such a vxmderful 
 look. Her eyes seem as if they had seen our Blessed Lady 
 already ; and she smiles every now and then to herself, as if 
 the angels were talking to her." 
 
 8. "So they do, and our Lord, too I am snre," added 
 
 I 
 
XUOX 8 DKA.TH. 
 
 1S9 
 
 Cattle ; "for she said when nobody was speaking, 'Yes, that 
 is ipiite trae— yes, dear Lord ; ' jost as if our Lord were sitting 
 by the coach. Oh, I hope we may go again soon fX see 
 hcrl" 
 
 4. " Sister Xavier said we might sit up part of to-night," 
 replied Magdalen ; " we four are to take it in turns, and I am 
 so glad we may. But now we must go into school, for the 
 bell is just going to ring." 
 
 5. The said bell accordingly did ring before Gattie had 
 finished washing her hands ; and the half-sad, half-rejoicing 
 group iu the class-room was dispersed by its well-known sound. 
 
 Wc shall vake the opportunity of walking up to the convent, 
 and into the cool infirmary dormitory, where Lucy lay upon a 
 large couch, with dear Sister Xavier by her side. 
 
 6. The doimtory was long and high, and refreshingly 
 shaded by outside awnings from the scorching sun, so that the 
 breeze? blew in cool and fragrant over the garden and from 
 the sea jeyond. The turfy downs outside the walls looked 
 now green and bright, and now shadowy, as the clouds flew 
 over them ; and beyond, the castle-crowned hill, and distant, 
 picturesque old town, the chalk cliffs washed by the waves, the 
 far-off fleet of fishing-boats, and the wild everlasting sea, — 
 could all be seen by Lucy, as in some lovely Italian landscape, 
 exquisitely painted. 
 
 i. But though at times her eyes were fixed upon the blue 
 sky ot bluer sea, her thoughts were not of them. Beantiful 
 as was the world without, — ^the ^^'Orious "earth-rind" of the 
 external works of God,— -there were far lovelier visions floating 
 before the eyes of the pure and loving soul that was bidding 
 earthly beauty farewell for her eternal home. 
 
 8. For now, mdeed, Lucy was dying. The longing desire 
 of heaven, and the face of her Incarnate God, had so fretted 
 the frail body, which already inherited the most rapid form of 
 decline, that thread after thread of the delicate frame had 
 snapped, or, as it were, been consumed by the ardent fire within. 
 
 9. A careless observer might have been even now deceived ; 
 but to a practised eye, the alabaster temples, the starting 
 azure vems. the bright cheek and lip6,/and the deep, glitteiing 
 
 «• ! 
 
.miO 
 
 <t 
 
 <^- 
 
 TBI romrm reader. 
 
 brightness of the eye, told that in a few hoars the thirsting 
 soul would be at rest. 
 
 10. "Sister," whispered Lacy, "will Father Asharst come 
 soon?" « 
 
 " Very soon, dear child ; it is not three o'clock yet. Do 
 yon feel worse ?" 
 
 "I feel well," replied Lucy, speaking with difficulty, "quite 
 well ; but oh, I see such lovely things, and I want to get there 
 Tery much." r- 
 
 IL The sister listened with breathless attention, while Lucy, 
 as if firom a heavy dream or half ecstasy, in broken sentences 
 continued — 
 
 "No words can tell what they are like .... white shapes, 
 all snow-white, with golden dew-drops on their wings /. . . and 
 they bow down softly all together, like white lilies when the 
 v>ind blows over them. They are going up and up, ^ach a 
 g'orions place .... and they take me with them .... but 
 
 where I cannot see There is one there who sits like a 
 
 king, but I cannot see his face ; he says it is not time."/:'. . . 
 
 12. Two sisters at the moment came softly into the dormi> 
 to'^, one of whom whispered something to Sister Xavier ; the 
 other was Mother Regis, the novice-mistress, whom Lucy had 
 always greatly loved, y But now she did uM. perceive her ; and 
 as they quietly sat down behind the couch, she again spoke : 
 
 18. " And now, I think, it would be time, if Father Ashursl 
 were to come and bring me my last food. V I think if he were 
 here, I could beg him so much that he could not leave me be- 
 hind. Dear Sister Xavier, will you ask Father Asharst to 
 come now?" ^ 
 
 14. "He is coming, my child,*' repHed the sister, softly 
 rising and bending over her ; " but, Lucy, you promised to 
 be very good and patient." >- 
 
 "Yes, sister, I was wrocg. Indeed I will be good. I will 
 wait ; but every moment seems a year. I cannot think how 
 you can be always so patient When you see those shapes)^ and 
 see his face so often, and hear his voice. Now I see tiiem 
 going up again. 
 
 15. " Oh, how many, many thousands, with their hands to* 
 
LUOY*B DEATH. 
 
 181 
 
 gether, and their long, long wingi, and their snow-white robes I 
 Aud there are more, more, with bare heads, and crimson crosses 
 on tlieir breasts, and bright armor, and cloalcs all washed in 
 the blood of One. Oh, let me go with them I Show me thy 
 face, and let me live I " 
 
 16. Sister Xavior rose and glided away; bat she soon re- 
 turned with a religious, at the sight of whom the sisters rose, 
 and removed further from Lucy's couch. It was the Mother 
 Superior, who quietly took her place beside Lucy's pillow, and 
 wiped the death-drops that now stood thickly on her trans- 
 parent brow. 
 
 "Reverend mother,'^ said the child, catching hold of her 
 hand, and kissing it with joyftil respect, " where am I ? " Then 
 immediately she relapsed into her former dreamy state. 
 
 17. "There is one sittingjiw his side. She is coming soon 
 for me, for her hands are spread out towards me. Mary I 
 
 Mother I Mary, lead me to Jesus I . . . . Gome quickly, dear 
 Jesus ; I am very tured of waiting. Oh, l^t me,, see thee I 
 Thou art sweeter than honey and the n6neycomJi>.'^ Thou art 
 calling me to be crowned on the mountains. How ^oggJ^J^^. 
 
 1 cried to thee to coqie. !...." Lucy sank back,'^^i£^pngOBF * 
 the pillow ; her oreaEIT coming thick and thicker from her 
 laboring breast, while the '^ops ftoqd pn her forehead like 
 rain. Her eyes opened, and their/^^Chs seemed deeper than 
 ever. " Food I food I" she g9^P^4i "the end is coming." 
 
 18. At that moment the ^mr^ sound of aws^m^W was 
 heard commg along the corridors. It was borne so faintly at 
 first, that the sisters did not observe it ; but the first sound 
 was enough for the ear of the listener. To ^ler it was the 
 "cry of the voice'' of the Beloved. She Jprang up from the 
 pillows, clasped her hands together, and pa^ at the door of 
 the dormitory with her whole soul in her eyes. 
 
 19. Sister Xavier immediately percpiving that the blessed 
 sacrament was approaching, went out with Mother Regis to 
 meet it. The little altar had been freshly prepared by the 
 infirmarian with large bouquets of flowers, and was now lifted 
 by the other sister to the foot of Lucy's conch, at a little dis- 
 tance from it. Nearer and nearer came the bell The acdytee 
 
182 
 
 THB FOXntTR BEADEB. 
 
 entered, two and two, with lighted candles ; then all the liii- 
 ten ; and laitly came Father Ashont, in snrplice, veil, and 
 stole, bearing the blessed sacrament in the ciborium, from the 
 chapel. The "children of Mary'' i^ole in behind. 
 
 20. Lucy's glorious eyes were u^aJHed to the Sacred Host, 
 andjixe^ with such adoring love as Oiled the witnesses with 
 an awnii joy. " Jesus," she said, and the clear tones of her 
 young Toice sounded through the breathless stillness like the 
 Toice of an angel. — "Jesus, my food, my strength, my life, 
 come to my tmretiy soul. Now I see thy face. It is enough ; 
 I come into thy precious, precious wounds VJ^ijjAuM4. 
 
 21. She received the bread of life, the strength and help for 
 her last journey, and immediately sank back on .the pj'^^''-; 
 Her hands were clasped ; her deep eyes fixed : a origi^t, h*e^v-^ 
 enly smile flitted across her face. "Jesus, O Jesus 1 now I 
 see thee I Jesus, Mary, come 1" . ,',„„yJkJ' 
 
 22. The long, level rays of the evening ran jtre^^^ednpon 
 the couch, ^^^^J^^j^'^^^''^ face^an^ Pfn^^fk^s of hair, 
 the smile yet m^ingTihe lips yetilpral^the hands still gently 
 clasped upon the breast. 
 
 Tlie pilg^m was gone on her way refreshed ; the wanderer 
 was at home. 
 
 17. AUTOBIOORAPHY OF A BoSK. 
 
 ON a fine morning in June, I opened my eyes for the first 
 tune on as lovely a scene as could be imagined. I was 
 in the heart of a most beautiful garden filled with flowers. 
 Fuchsias, geraniums, jasmines, tulips, and lilies were my com- 
 panions. I saw them all wide awake, and smiling through the 
 dew upon their bright lids in joyous greeting to the morning 
 sun. A gentle breeze would sometimes wander by, ^od then 
 the tears of rejoicing would fall upon the delicate buules of 
 grass at our feet. 
 
 2. The dew mode the robes of my neighbors as bright as if 
 covered with diamonds, so that I cast a look upon my own 
 pink vesture, to see if I were likewise adorned with the same 
 
 I 
 
▲UTOBiooairaY or a 
 
 188 
 
 ^. 
 
 glory. Ah I ))oiPid mj bead to iMpect flifaelf, a few drops 
 of the ciyBtal wat«ir, roudenadd at ntghUkll, fell upon tlio gratn 
 at my feet, uud frum this 1 kjarned that I wu8 indeed giftt<(J 
 with as beautiful gems as were those around mo. 
 
 8. Lot me describe to you one of the little community of 
 which I was a meml)er — a sister rooe-bud growing at my side. 
 It is true that she had not opened her glowing heart to the 
 Aresh breezes and to the sunshine, as I had done, but the 
 beauty and firagrance thus concealed were so sweetly promised, 
 that I am fiora nothing could be more lovely. ' ^^^ ,<, -. 
 
 4. §preamng tenderly, her calyx held her heart Dursting 
 with the wealthy of its owQ beauty, le^t the i^ooing 'winds 
 should call^ortn^her fragrance ^rematurelTy ; and two eister 
 baby roeg-buds rested their little heads ahnost upon her cheeky 
 Pretty iwmvthese baby rose-buds ! The tell-tale zephyr told 
 me that they would be as beautiful as the one I am now do* 
 scribing, when she, poor thing, had faded away. 
 
 6,. Now, you SCO, my hear^J^t toHted fiorrow ; for here* 
 
 'io^ I had not heard of oecay or death ; and the emotion 
 arbu»B^ by this thought agitated me so ^io|^j7*|jM^ ^7 ^^^' 
 diamonds were almost a\l/^a^, like worthier buCoIra, to the 
 ground. This joy, this sunshine, this fragrance, this beauty, 
 was bom to fade— or rather we flowers, who Iofo all these, 
 and treasure them in our hearts, we must fade, and so the joy, 
 and fragrance, and beauty must die. But my beantifiil sister 
 was lovely enough to be immortal — and I shut my heart 
 against the story of the ze^y^ determined not to believe in 
 clouds till clouds should ov^nSlow me. /a/oM^ 
 
 6. The bright green leaves spread their glittering palms to 
 c^^ the sunshine tor the fair creature t]^y were so proud 
 "Encircle, d,nd every motion of thejp^^gt^fiTOin brought a fl< 
 of smiles to the face of my p^'l^ess sister. ^ 
 
 JI. ^A beautiful creature, endowed with wings, and with a 
 ^rOat colored like the rainbow, only with nu^ more soft, 
 played about her like an embodied breeze ; now a^rSHlg^ with 
 a motion that made it invisiblp, up into the aur, and in a mo. 
 ment mymg, with a musical^^^wings, around my rose- 
 jiigbbor, and making her sonny vestnre tremble with tha 
 
 /-tW'i 
 
 / 
 
 •C 
 
iv ; 
 
 134 
 
 happy 
 
 THE FOURTH BEADBB. 
 
 emotions of hdr heart ; then, with^kisses and caressefl 
 on my sister's stamle^ brow, the wonSenunpreature was lost 
 iu the air above me, and I think that the hummiuglBirdmust . 
 have gone to a place where there is no death. I think it is 
 with the breath of these beautiful beings that the rainbow is 
 colored, and with their brightness that the stars are lighted. 
 
 8. I saw strange, large beings, with power in every motion, 
 bending over us, and afterwards learned that they were called 
 men. They held dominion oyer us, and though some scorned 
 our gentle natures, they who were pure and good among them 
 were very tender to us, and could not bear to see us wounded. 
 
 9. At noon of my first day, wh'en the shadow of the moun- 
 tain-ash waving over onr heads completely hid me from the 
 sun, for which kindness I was deeply grateful, as the rays, so 
 cheering in the morning, were almost scorching now, one of 
 the daughters of men, robed in white, came and kneeled beside 
 me, and laid her pure cheek close to mine, and then with her 
 eyes she talked to me. 
 
 10. "Rose," said she, "beautiful rose, thou art an emblem 
 of my blessed mother," and here a dew more pure and sweet 
 than the drops I had sacrificed in the morning at the thought 
 of death and decay, floated along the dark fringes of her lids, 
 and I could not hear the voice from her eyes until those peer- 
 less gems had fallen upon my bosouL Then it seemed to me 
 that I could hear and see things more wonderful than were 
 ever given to rose before to hear and see. 
 
 11. "Beautiful rose! "she continued, "lift thy royal head, 
 and look eastward; thou beholdest there a building most 
 sacred to our hearts, for it contains the King of Heaven — the 
 Creator of the world — ^the Author of my being and of thine. 
 Lovely flower, ages andag^s ago, longer ago than thou or I 
 can think to measure, in the glorious country beyond the stars 
 —in heaven — where stands the eternal throne of our King, a 
 beautiful angel, a being of power and light, rebelled against \ 
 his God, and was cast out of his holy home forever. Then 
 the world was created. 
 
 12. " It was made as perfect and delightful as our Heavenly 
 Father could frame it, and there was neither sin, nor tears, 
 
AUTOBIOaSlAFHT OF A BOSS. 
 
 135 
 
 nor death, nor sorrow there. In this garden of Qod was man 
 first created. He was formed holy, sinless, and pure, but free 
 as was the bright angel who, with his brethren, chose to ques- 
 tion the power of the Omnipotent. The name of this angel 
 was Lucifer, and his dominion was established in ouicr dark- 
 ness, far away from the eternal fountain of all light. 
 
 13. "Beautiful rose," said the maiden, "thou who art nur- 
 tured by, and wouldst die but for the light, thou canst not 
 conceive of this outer darkness — but it exists, and the fallen 
 angels seek to blacken the universe with its gloom. The first 
 of mankind, who were to enjoy eternal light so long as they 
 were obedient to God, were discovered by the prince of dark- 
 ness, and he took the form of a reptile, and tempted them to 
 doubt the truth of the Almighty Father. They believed his 
 subtle words and fell, and were banished firom the garden 88 
 Lucifer had been banished from heaven." 
 
 a 
 
 18. Autobiography of a Kobe — continued. 
 
 SWEET rose, I dare not tell thee the wretchedness this 
 disobedience brought upon man. There came sickness, 
 and sorrow, and sighing— there came hatred, crime, and death. 
 Our Heavenly Father saw this wretchedness ; saw the triumph 
 of Lucifer and his rebel army, and he so loved the world that 
 he sent his only begotten Son upon earth to be a man — ^to 
 suffer poverty, to suffer temptation, to suffer ignommy and 
 death — that thus man might be saved from eternal death. 
 
 2. "This God, incarnate in humanity, was bom of a spotless 
 virgin — spotless and perfect as thou art, O Rose, and thus art 
 thou in thy beauty her emblem, just as one little fleeting sun- 
 beam is a type of the innumerable hosts of suns and worlds 
 that revolve in the heavens. 
 
 3. "This God-man, whose name was Jesas, was slain cruelly 
 by those whom he came to save. He died on the cross ; but 
 before he left the world, he gave to man his body and blood, 
 bis divine humanity, as food to nourish his souL By thia 
 
136 
 
 THE FOlteTH' HltHHIB. 
 
 Ill'; 
 
 \.i ■'■' 
 
 means he nnites himself to ns, and we who loTe him delight to 
 offer what is richest and dearest in return for his unbounded 
 love ; for by his death he has snatched us from the power of 
 the prince of darkness, and in exchange has given us a joint 
 inheritance with him La heaven, where there is no death or 
 decay." 
 
 4. The white-robed daughter of men ceafied speaking, or 
 qrather her gentle eyes, that told this all to me, were turned 
 away eastward, to where the dome of the palace, where dwelt 
 the King of kings, gUttered calmly in the sun. 
 
 5. She looked long and lovingly ; and the dew, so priceless 
 and sweet, flowed in two pearly streams down her fair face ; 
 and I came near worshipping her, because so great tenderness 
 seized my heart as thus I gazed upon her. But the speaking 
 eyes turned once more, and said, " What shall tve offer ?" Up 
 from the inmost depths of my heart swelled the fragrant drops 
 that the twilight had stored there. " What shall / offer ? " I 
 repeated ; " I who am so poor in treasure ; I who have nothing 
 but my beauty, my freshness, and my unsullied purity ? 
 
 6. "What can I offer to God for his generous love to thy 
 race, beautiful maiden ? He gave the life of a Man-Ood. Oh, 
 bear me to his presence 1 I can do no more than give mysdf 
 to him ! Take me, then, dear maiden — ^I would lie at his feet. 
 
 . Mayha{]i he may accept the odor of my sacrifice, and bear me 
 in his bosom, where there is no decay or death i Hasten, for 
 his love draws me, and I would tarry here no longer 1" 
 
 T. The young lover of Jesus severed me gently from my 
 companions, and clasping me to her heart, bore me to the feet 
 of her Saviour. As we passed forward to the sanctuary, she 
 made the sign of the cross — ^because Jesus died upon the cross 
 — ^by passing her hand from her forehead to her breast, and then 
 from shoulder to shoulder ; but before she did this, she dipped 
 the tips of her fingers in holy water, and some of it fell upon 
 me, and I experienced sensations I had never before imagined. 
 
 8. As I rested there at the foot of the altar, it seemed to 
 me that more life came to me from those simple drops than 
 had ever been bestowed by the heaviest shower or gentlest 
 ram before. The maiden now bent over me, and her eyes wert 
 
 
AUTOBIC iBAFHI OF A BOSE. 
 
 137 
 
 fixed tenderly upon me, and again her voice whispered to m; 
 spirit: 
 
 9. " O humble, gentle, innocent rose," said she ; " thou who 
 art so soon to pass away, let me learn from thy devotion, and 
 freely give to my God all that he has so freely bestowed upon 
 me; however little, however much, sweet rose, thou hast 
 taught me to offer all as the just due of my Creator I " Then 
 her white hand veiled her eyes, and her bosom heaved, and, in 
 one great tear that fell upon me, I saw her beautiful soul mir- 
 rored. I saw what I had never dreamed of before. 
 
 10. Lucifer, the fallen angel, was striving to lure this noble 
 being to disobedience, that she might be driven from the par- 
 adise of her Bedeemer's love. This was why the tears fell ; 
 this was why her bosom heaved. < Then T saw an angel of 
 light with his powerful wings sweep through the air, and the 
 rays from his glorious brow dazzled the eye of the prince of 
 dajrkness, and he reeled away from the presence of the weeping' 
 daughter of earth. 
 
 11. Oh 1 then what an ocean of sweetness flowed over that 
 tempted soul, and bore her unresisting to the eternal fountain 
 of all sweetness. She pressed her cheek once more to mine in 
 honor of the mother of her Saviour, and music issued from her 
 lips, low and soft as the voice of a night-bu'd. ^ 
 
 12. " Thou gavest thy life to God, dear flower, unquestion- 
 ing. 'Thou hadst no assurance of immortality in return. Ip 
 the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy 
 Ghost, I bless thee, beautiful flower, for I have learned of 
 thee a lesson that, by the grace of God, will earn for me life 
 eternal. Be my witness, humble Bose ! be my witness, angela 
 hovering near me ! I give my life, my love, my being through 
 all timcii to thee, my bleeding, suffering, patient Jesus I Hold 
 me to my pledge, dear Saviour, by the might of thy tenderness, 
 and let me never swerve from the integriiy of my purpose, 
 bound this day unth my heart to thy dear cross!" 
 
 13. Night fell over us both, and I slept with the sweet mur- 
 mur of that voice still vibrating the chambers of my soul 
 'IL'hrough the season of my freshness, I daily caught the incense 
 of this maiden's devotion arising before the altar ; and, by a 
 
ill 
 
 138 
 
 THE FOURTH BEADBB* 
 
 seeming chance, after my leaves had withered and faded, I 
 was concealed from the sight of the sacristan, and even for 
 months lay happily at the feet of the Redeemer of the world. 
 Thus I witnessed the formal consecration of this maiden to the 
 will of her chosen one. 
 
 14. She was arrayed in white, and her brow was crowned 
 with buds f^om the rose-tree that gave me burth. She knew 
 not that I beheld her then, bat I felt that my image had never 
 faded from her heart. The pure folds of her snowy veil fell 
 over her shoulders like the plumage of wings at rest ; and I 
 remembered the angel who had put to flight the prince of dark- 
 ness, and I was sure he was near her ; for her face had become 
 like his,, and I think it was because he was so constantly at 
 her side, and because she loved him so. I think she was the 
 earthly mirror of the heavenly being who protected her from 
 danger, and that her face and bearing reflected his beanty and 
 grace, as the tear-drop that fell upon me from her eyes re- 
 flected her soul at that moment. 
 
 15. I never saw this maiden more ; but I think her angel 
 will lead her to heaven. Yesterday, as I lay here, a little 
 wilted remnant of a rose, the sacristan raised me in her fingers, 
 and supposing me to be a particle of incense that had fallen, 
 she placed me in the censer. Thus, when the benediction of 
 this evening is pronounced, I shall have fulfilled my mission^ 
 and shall ascend upon the gentle clouds that then will 'over- 
 shadow the tabernacle of the Most High. 
 
 19. WiNTEB. 
 
 assnm 
 
 rpHE scenes around us have assumed a new and dhilling ap- 
 
 uAU\ 
 
 dhhlino' 
 
 pearance. The trees are sn"<5rn of their foliage, the hedges 
 are laid bare, the fields and favorite walks have lost their 
 charms, and the garden, now that it yietJJs 
 offers no fruits 
 
 the garden, now that it yields no perfumes and 
 its, is, like a friend in adversity, forsaken. The 
 tuneful tribefj are dumb, the cattle no longer play in the mead- 
 
 "He sendeth abroad his ice-like 
 
 •WB, the north wind blows. 
 
WUiTKB. 
 
 139 
 
 I 
 
 tor 
 Id. 
 
 the 
 
 ^ 
 
 morsels: who can stand before his cold?'' We rush in for 
 shelter. 
 
 2. But winter is not without its uses. It aids the system , 
 of life and vegetation I it kills the %^' of mfection ; it r^tn^ 
 the blood ; it strengthens the nerves ; it braces the whole 
 frame. Snow is a warm covering for the grass ; and, while it 
 defends the tender blaSes from nipping frosts, it also nourishes 
 th^ir growth. When the snow thaw&_it becomes, a genial , 
 TinoS'iture to the soil into which it^mks; and^us the glebef ' * 
 is replenishcd^ith nutriment to produce the ^wm. of spring 
 and the D^un^of autumn. 
 
 3. Winter has also its pleasures. I love to heai the roar- 
 mg of the wind ; I love to see the figures which the frost has 
 painted on the glass ; I love to watch the TC^r^St with his 
 slender legs, standing at the window, and knocking with his 
 wiTto ask for the cMnoi which fall from the table. Is it not 
 pleasant to view a ISnusdape whitened with snow ? To gaze 
 upon the trees and hedges dressed in such Ipar^ling lustre ? 
 To behoIJ the rising sun laboring to pierce the morning fog, 
 and gradually causing objects to emerge from it by little and 
 little, and appear in their own forms ; while the mist rolls up 
 the side of the hill and is seen no more ? 
 
140 
 
 THE FOUBTH. READER. 
 
 4. Winter is a reason in which we bhoald feel gratit^de for 
 our^comforts. How much more temperate is oar climate than 
 that of many other countries I Think of those who live within 
 the polar circle, dispersed, exposed to beasts of prey, their 
 poor huts furnishing only wretched refuge ! They endure 
 months of perpetual night, and by the absence of heat almost 
 absolute barrenness reigns around. But we have houses to 
 shelter us, and clothes to cover us, and fires to warm, us, and 
 beds to comfort ns, and provisions to nourish us. How be- 
 coming, in our circumstances, is gratitude to God 1 ^ 
 
 5. This season calls upon us to exercise benevolence. While 
 we are eiyoying every comfort which the tenderness of ProvL 
 dence can afford, let us think of the indip^nt and the misera- 
 ble. Let us think of those whose poor hovels and shattered 
 panes cannot screen them from the piercing cold. Let us 
 thmk of the old and the infirm, of the sick and the diseased. 
 Oh, let "the blessing of them that are ready to perish come 
 upon us.'' Who would not deny himself superfluities, and 
 something more, that his bounty may visit "the fatherless and 
 the widows in their affliction.'' 
 
 6. This season is instructive as an emblem. Here is the 
 picture of thy life : thy flowery spring, thy summer strength, 
 thy sober autumn, are all hastening into winter. Decay and 
 death will soon, very soon, lay all waste 1 What provision 
 hast thou made for the evil day ? Hast thoa been laying op 
 treasure in heaven ? hast thou been laboring for t,hat wealth 
 which endureth unto everlasting life 1 
 
 7. Soon spring will dawn again upon us with its beauty and 
 its songs. And "we, according to his promise, look for new 
 heavens and a new earth wherein dweUeth righteousness." No 
 winter there ; but we shall flourish in perpetual spring, in end* 
 less youth, in everlasting life I 
 
THE SNOW. 
 
 in 
 
 for 
 
 
 
 20. The Sitow. 
 
 1. npHE snc 7 I the snow I 'tis a pleasant thing 
 J- To watch it falling, faUing 
 Down upon eaiith with noiseless wing 
 
 As at some spirit's calling ; 
 Each flake is a fairy parachute, 
 
 From teeming clouds let down ; 
 And earth is still, and air is mute, 
 
 As frost's enchanted zone. / 
 
 3. The snow I the snow I — ^behold the trees 
 
 Their fingery boughs stretch out, 
 The blossoms of the sky to seize, 
 
 As they duck and dive about ; 
 The bare hills plead for a covering, 
 
 And, ere the gray twilight, 
 Around their shodders broad shall cling 
 
 An arctic cloak of white. 
 
142 THE FOUBTH READER- 
 
 8. The snow 1 the snow 1 — ala^ 1 to in« 
 
 It speaks of far-off days, 
 When a boyish skater, mingling free 
 
 Amid the merry maze ; 
 Methinks I see the broad ice still, 
 
 And my nerves all jangling feel, 
 Blinding with tones of voices shrill 
 
 The ring of the slider's heel. 
 
 4. The snow 1 the snow ! — soon dusky night 
 
 Drew his murky curtains round 
 Low earth, while a star of lustre bright 
 
 Peep'd from the blue profound. 
 Yet what cared we for darkening lea, 
 
 Or warning bell remote ? 
 With shout and cry we scudded by. 
 
 And found the bliss we sought. 
 
 6. The snow I the snow 1 — 'twas ours to W8g% 
 
 How oft, a mimic war, 
 Each white ball tossing in wild rage. 
 
 That left a gorgeous scar ; 
 While doublets dark were powder'd o*er 
 
 Till darkness none could find, 
 And valorous chiefs had wounds before, 
 
 And caitiff chiefe behmd. 
 
 6. The snow I the snow 1 — ^I see him yet, 
 
 That piled-up giant grun, 
 To startle horse and traveller set, 
 
 With Titan girth bf limb. 
 We hoped, oh, ice-ribb'd Winter bright t 
 
 Thy sceptre could have screen'd him : 
 But traitor Thaw stole forth by ni^t. 
 
 And cruelly guillotined him ! , 
 
 T. The snow 1 the snow I — ^Lo ! Eve reveals 
 Her starr'd map to the moon. 
 
USES OF WATER. 
 
 And o'er hnsh'd earth a radiance steak 
 More bland than that of noon ; 
 
 The fur-robed genii of the Pole 
 Dance o'er 'vlt mountains white, 
 
 Chain up the billows as they roll, 
 And peafi the caves with light. 
 
 6. The snow I the snow 1 — It brings to mind 
 
 A thousand happy things ; 
 And but one sad one — ^'tis to find 
 
 Too sure that Time hath wings ! 
 Oh, ever sweet is sight or sound, 
 . That tells of long ago, 
 And I gaze around with thoughts profonsd. 
 
 Upon the falling snow. 
 
 148 
 
 21. Uses op "Water. 
 
 HOW common, and yet how beautiful and how pure, is a 
 drop of water I See it, as it issues from the rock to sup- 
 ply the spring and the stream below. See how its meander- 
 ings through the plains, and its torrente over the clifTs, add 
 to the richness and the beauty of the mhasct^. Look into 
 a factory standing by a waterfall, in which every drop is 
 faithful to perform its part, and hear the groaning and rust> 
 ling of the wheels, the clattering of shuttles, and the buzz of 
 spindles, which, under the direction of their fair attendants, 
 are supplying myriads of fair purchasers with fabrics from the 
 cotton-plant, the sheep, and the silkworm. 
 
 2. Is any one so stupid as not to admire the splendor of 
 the rainbow, or so ignorant as not to know that it is pro- 
 duced by drops of water, as they break away from the clouds 
 which had confined them, and are making a quick visit to our 
 earth to renew its verdure and increase its animation ? How 
 useful is the gentle dew, in its nightly visits, to allay the 
 scorching heat of a summer's sun I 
 
 3. And the aatnmn's firoet, how beautifolly it bedecki tht 
 
14^ 
 
 THB lOCBTH BXADEB. 
 
 ! 
 
 trees, the shimbB, tnd the graes : though it stripe them of their 
 summer's yerdnre, and warns them that they must soon re* 
 ceive the buffeting^ of the winter's tempest 1 This is but 
 water, which has given up its transparency for its beautiful 
 whiteness and its elegant crystals. The snow, too, — what is 
 that but these same pure drops, thrown into crystals by win- 
 ter's icy hand ? and does not the first summer's sun return 
 them to the same limpid drops ? 
 
 4. The majestic river, and the boundless ocean, — what are 
 they 7 Are they not made of drops of water ? How the 
 river steadily pursues its course firom the mountain's top, 
 down the declivity, over the cliff, and through the plain, tak- 
 ing with it every thing in its course 1 How many mighty 
 ships does the ocean float upon its bosom ! How many fishes 
 sport in its waters 1 How does it form a lodging-place for 
 the Amazon, the Mississippi, the Danube, the Rhine, the Gan- 
 ges, the Lena, and the Hoang Ho ! 
 
 5. How piercing are these pure limpid drops 1 How do 
 they find their way mto the depths of the earth, and even the 
 solid rock I How many thousand streams, hidden from our 
 view by mountain masses, are steadily pursuing their courses 
 deef from the surface which forms our standing-place for a 
 few short days I In the air, too, how it difEhses itself I 
 Where can a particle of air be found, which does not contam 
 an atom of water ? 
 
 6. How much would a famishing man give for a few of these 
 pore limpid drops of water 1 And where do we use it in our 
 daily sustenance ? or rather, where do we not use it ? Which 
 portion of the food that we have taken during our lives, did 
 not contain it ? What part of our body, which lunb, which 
 organ, is not moistened with this same faithful servant ? How 
 is our blood, that free liquid, to circulate through our vems 
 without it ? 
 
 7. How gladly does the faithful horse, or the patient ox^ 
 in his toilsome jomney, arrive at the water's brink 1 And 
 ths faithful dog, patiently following his master's track, — how 
 eagerly does he lap the water from the clear fountain he meets 
 in his way I 
 
TBI Dins OBUBnAR TO BIB BOULi 
 
 U5 
 
 / 
 
 8. WhoM heart ought not to oferflow with gratitiide to 
 the abundant Girer of this pnre liquid, which his own hand 
 has deposited in the deep, and difliised through the floating 
 air and the fx>lid earth ? Is it the farmer, whose fields, by 
 the gentle dew and the abundant rain, bring forth fatness ? 
 Is it the mechanic, whose saw, lathe, spindle, and shuttle are 
 moved by this faithful servant ? / 
 
 9. Is it the merchant, on his return fVom the noise and thtf 
 perplexities of business, to the table of his family, richly sup- 
 plied with the varieties and the luxuries of the four quarters 
 of the globe, produced by the abundant rain, and transported 
 across the mighty but yielding ocean? 
 
 10. Is it the physician, on his administering to his patient 
 some gentle beverage, or a more active healer of the disease 
 which threatens ? Is it the priest, whose profession it is to 
 make others feel — and that by feeling himself, that the slight- 
 est favor and the richest blessing are from the same source, 
 and from the same abundant and constant Oiver ? Who, that 
 still has a glass of water and a crumb of breadj is not niif 
 gr.iteM to complafai ? 
 
 The BnNO Ohbistian to ms Soxrib 
 
 t. TTITAL spark of heavenly flame, 
 • Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame I 
 IVemblmg, hoping, lingering, flymg, 
 Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying I 
 Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 
 And let me languish into life. 
 
 Hark! they whisper; angels say, 
 Sister Spirit, come away ; 
 What is this absorbs me quite ? 
 Steals my senses, shuts my sights 
 Drowns my spirits, draws my l»efttb t 
 Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? 
 7 
 
I 
 
 146 TBS FOUBTH BBADKB. 
 
 8. The world recedes ; it disappears t 
 Heaven opens on my eyes I my ears 
 
 With sounds seraphic ring. 
 Lend, lend your wings ; I mount, I fly I 
 O Grave I where is thy victory I 
 
 O Death I where is thy stuig I 
 
 22. Flioht into Eoypt. 
 
 HEROD was impatient for the sages' return from Bethle* 
 hem, till finding they had slighted the charge he gave 
 them, and were gone home another way, he was hurried into 
 a transport of anger, which deluged the country with innocent 
 blood. By an act, the most inhuman that ever was done by 
 the worst of tyrants, he has shown the world what his inten- 
 tion was, when he so carefully questioned the sages, and so 
 strictly ordered them to bring back an account of the child 
 they were in quest of. 
 
 2. But God, who laughs at man's presumptnoqs folly, A- 
 Icntly defer.ted the tyrant's malice, and made his bloody 
 cruelty instrumental to the glory of the innocent. An angel 
 in the night informed Joseph of the murderous design that 
 Herod had upon the child's life, and admonished him to save 
 both him and the mother by a speedy flight into Egypt. 
 Joseph in this instance is a perfect model of that prompt 
 obedience which every Christian owes to the commands of 
 God. He was commanded to rise that moment, to leave his' 
 native country, and fly off with the child and his mother, not 
 towards the a»f^ or to any friendly nation, but into Egypt, 
 amidst the \tkimn pus and natural enemies of the Jewish 
 people. X 
 
 3. The tender a<re of the infant and the fraO delicacy of 
 &e virgin mother. 8e«>med to requure every comfort that his 
 own private dw-^Bfr ce^K have afforded. But that sleader 
 comfort was to ue given up ; it was dark nig^t, and no 
 
ILIOBT ntrO BOTFT. 
 
 U7 
 
 to be lost in making prorision for a long and laborious Journey. , 
 The faithful guardian of the Word Incaniato ro8e upon the 
 flrst notice that was given him, punctually fulfilled every tittle 
 of the order, took the child and his mother, and set off for 
 Egypt, uncertain when, or whether he should ever, return or 
 not. Tlie love he bore to Jesus, the desire he had of serving 
 him to the extent of his power, softened every hardship, and 
 made him forget the labors of an unlooked-for banishment. 
 
 4. The divine Jesus might have rendered himself invisible, 
 or by a visible exertion of his power might have disarmed 
 Herod, as he did Pharaoh in ancient times ; but he choose to 
 fly, for the encouragement of those who were afterwards to 
 suffer banishment for his sake ; by his own example he Would 
 instruct his followers, that in the heat of persecution they 
 may laudably fly to save their lives, in hopes of some future 
 good. 
 
 5. Herod began to rage with all the violence that jealousy, 
 heightened by disappointment, could inspire. With a cruelty 
 that would have shocked the most savage barbarian, he gave 
 orders for every male child that had been born within the two 
 last years, in and about Bethlehem, to be killed. To such 
 barbarous shifts was the ambitious monarch driven by his 
 politics I An innocent babe, he knew not who, made him 
 tremble upon hi«K throne ; he tried his utmost skill to find him 
 out, he drencKed the country with innocent blood to make sure 
 of his def««c%ion, he filled the air w'th the shrieks and lamen- 
 tations ot' disconsolate mothers, that he might draw out the 
 enjoynwat of a crown to a somewhat greater length. 
 
 6. But uo honors purchased by such crimes could give any 
 real enjoyment. His cruelty heaped confusion upon himself, 
 while it opened the gate of happiness to those who felt its 
 stroke : nor could it rage beyond the bounds that God had 
 set it ; amidst the thousands of slaughtered innocents, He 
 ftlone escaped, who alone was aimed at. 
 
 1 No malicious efforts of the wicked can ever frustrate the 
 decrees of God ; their hatred or their love become, as he 
 ideases to direct, the instruments of his holy designs; the 
 titele world, combined with all the powers of darkness, can 
 
148 
 
 THIS 20XTBTB BBASEB* 
 
 . never stop the ezecation of whi^t an omnipotent Providence 
 has once decreed. 
 
 8. If once assnred of the divine will, we hava bat to follow 
 it without fear : if in the station of our daty we have any thing 
 to suffer, we suffer for justice' sake. Herod's cruelty became 
 the glory of the innocents : his sword could hurt their bodies 
 only ; their souls were sanctified by the effusion of their blood ; 
 their memory through every age is celebrated on earth ; they 
 reign eternally with God in heaven. 
 
 23. The Fbeed Bibd. 
 
 I p BTURN, return, my bird I 
 
 -C« I have dress'd thy ci^ with Qowen, 
 Tw lovely as a violet bank ^^ 
 
 In the heart of forest bowers. 
 
 8. "I am free, I am free, — ^I return no more I 
 The weary time of the cage is o'er I 
 Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high. 
 The sky is around me— the blue bright sky I 
 
 8. "The hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear. 
 With their glowing heath-flowers and bounding deeri 
 I see the waves flash on the sunny shore — 
 I am free, I am free, — I return no more I" 
 
TBE FREED BIBD. 
 
 im 
 
 denco 
 
 follow 
 thing 
 scame 
 bodies 
 tlood; 
 1 they 
 
 (OVtf 
 
 4. Alas, alas, my bird I 
 
 Why seek'st thoa to be free 7 
 Wert thou not blest in thy little bower, 
 When thy song breathed nought but gleef 
 
 5. " Did my song of summer breathe nought but glee 7 
 Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee 7 
 Oh I hadst thou known its deep meaning well, - 
 
 It had tiales of a burning heart to telL 
 
 6. From a dream of the forest that music sprang 
 Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang ; 
 And its dying fall, when it soothed thee best^ 
 Sighed for wild flowers and a leafy nest" 
 
 7. Was it with thee thus, my bird? 
 
 Yet tiiine eye flash'd clear and bright? 
 I have seen the glance of the sadden joy 
 In its quick and dewy light. 
 
 8. " It flash'd with the fire of a tameless race, 
 With the soul of the wild wood, my native pl&ee I 
 With the spirit that panted through heaven to 8oap-« 
 Woo me not back — I return no more ! 
 
 9. " My home is high, amidst rocking trees, 
 My kindred things are the star and breeze^ 
 And the fount unchecked in its lonely play, 
 And the odors that wander afar — away I* 
 
 10 Farewell, farewell, thou bird 1 
 I have call'd on spunts gone, 
 And it may be they joy like thee to pait^ 
 Like thee that wert all my own. 
 
 II. " If they were captives, and phied like me^ 
 
 Though love might calm them, they joy^d to be free ; 
 They sprang from the earth with a burst of power, 
 To the strength of their wmgs, to their triumph's boar. 
 
 rt5 
 
150 
 
 THE FOUBTH BBABEB. 
 
 12. "Call them not back when the chain is riTen, 
 When the way of the pinion is all through heaven. 
 Farewell 1 With my song through the clouds I soar, 
 I pierce the blue skies — I am earth's no more I" 
 
 24 Beheading of St. John. 
 
 ALTHOUGH the doctrine of our blessed Saviour was so 
 pure in its principles, so conformable to reason, so con- 
 firmed by mirsu;les, and so pleasing in its promises of eternal 
 ^ibraced it. A general skepticism and hard- 
 ness of heart 'preysSm in the cities of Judea, and in no city 
 more than in that of Nazareth. 
 
 2 It was natural to imagine that the Nazarenes would 
 have thought themselves in some sort honored by the mmeof 
 one who had lived and grown up amongthem, and that they 
 would have cheriphg^ him as^emost^BmaBfe of their citi- 
 zens. Their bSfiavior waSjltowever, the very opposite. They 
 had seen and conversed with him from his youth ; they knew 
 no learning that he had acquired ; in his person they discovered 
 nothing that set him above the common leveff' in his mother 
 and relations they beheld no title that made him superior to 
 the poorer class of the people. 
 
 3. To his doctrine, therefore, they would give no credit, nor 
 would they allow his miracles which they had not seen. The 
 great reputation which Jesus had acquired among others made 
 them jealous, and their jealousy grew into a violent hatred 
 against him. ^^*>^' 
 
 4. They laid hands upon him, and led him to the steefi 
 point of the rock pn wW^ their town was built, with an inten- 
 tion to throw him headlong down. But the hour for Jesus to 
 die ^!0§ 9<^^.£^ come, and no human malice could advance it. , 
 He^'ui^^aout of their hands, and walked away through the 
 midst of them. a ^ lM 
 
 6. This peryerw incri^uUty of the Nazarenes nikdered^ Jesus 
 from working any miracleB among them, excepting thcrcure of 
 
OBOOLMHON OF ST. JOHN. 
 
 151 
 
 lome of their sick, which he did by Imposmg his hands upon 
 them. On his return from Nftzareth, he was informed of John 
 the Baptist's death. ^, 
 
 6. A short tune before this St. John had been mt into 
 prison on account of\the. reprimand he gave to King Herod, 
 for his incestuous conneclion with Herodias, the wife of his 
 brother Philip. Herodias had often solicited the king to have 
 him put. to death, and the king as often refused to' consent, 
 C not -oply from a principle of esteem for the holy man, but like- 
 f"''^ wise^from a fear of th^roople's resentment, for they considered 
 the Baptist as a wmcj^rral^rojihei^ 
 
 Y. But HerodV imprudence bem^ed hun soon after to com- 
 
 itedhkbirthday with great 
 enTOT^oment was prepared, 
 
 mit the bloody aee3'. He celebrai 
 
 pomp and splendor; a grand em 
 
 and the chief men of Galilee were invited to attend ; the 
 
 daughter of Herodias was introduced before the company, and 
 
 desired to dance. , ._ 
 
 f . The manner of her pmormance so pleased the king, that 
 \^A a^liiyjpromised upon c«itff to give whatsoever she should 
 ask, !]^(^h it were half his kingdom. The girl immediately 
 left the toom to consult her mother what she should ask. 
 " Go and ask for the head of John the Baptist,'' replied the 
 adulteress. <x u^^^^ 
 
 9. The girl ran back to Herod, and desired that he would 
 forthwith give hereon a, dish. the head of John the Baptist. 
 Struck at the ^oiararal request, the king was sorry for the 
 rash promise he had made, but, out of respect to the company, 
 resolved tokeep^ ^notto disp^the daughter of^;^,,^ 
 Herodias. He therefore ordered an execunoner to go forth- 
 with to the prison, and cut off the Baptist's head. The head 
 was given in a dish to the girl, and the girl presented it to 
 her mother. 
 
 ^P. Thus was the great precursor of our Lord impiously 
 sl^ in the vigor of life ; thus was John murdered by the 
 sword of Herod, who had always admired and deemed him 
 'for his purity of doctrine and sanctity .of morals. Herod fell 
 not all at once into the enormity of ^utt ; by gi'adual stjips be 
 had advanced towards the depth of crime ; one excee» had 
 
162 
 
 THE WUIXTB RBADEB. 
 
 led him on to another ; InstM passion opened the way to 
 t^cesl, and incest planged him into morder. 
 
 11. Herod was permitted to take away the life of St. John 
 the Baptist, greater than whom no phophet had ever risen 
 among the sous of women. 
 
 12. The life of that holy man was sacrificed to the capricious 
 jteviB! ^ J of a wicked woman ; it was sacrificed for a dance. 
 BDence we see, says St. Gregory, ^what light ^ are to con- 
 sider this mortal life, which is so.l^^ to misfbrtnnes, au'i so 
 constantly mirafised'^by the so^fcfbns, by the hatred, and the 
 sfan^rs of wicked men. 
 
 13. It is to a fhtnre life that we should constantly look np ; 
 a life which neither the tongue of slander, nor the sword of 
 persecution can affect. Tyrants may rage and tl^aten ; pain 
 may crumble these mortal bodies into dust; but a passltig 
 death will open us an entrance int>o tibat heavenly kingdom, 
 where the blessed know no change and fear no decay. 
 
 ■I. 
 
 25. Satubdat Ajtebnoon. 
 
 1. T LOTE to look on a scene like this, 
 •i- Of wild and careless play, 
 
 And persuade myself that I am not old, 
 And my locks are not yet gray ; 
 
 For it stirs the blood in an old man's hearty 
 And makes his pulses fly, 
 
 To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 
 And the light of a pleasant eye. 
 
 2. I have walk'd the world for fourscore years : 
 
 And they say that I am old, 
 That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, 
 
 And my years are well-nigh told. 
 It is very true ; it is very true ; 
 
 I'm old, and "I 'bide my time :" 
 But my heart will leap at a scene like thiS; 
 
 And I half renew my prime. 
 
BATtBDAT AFTERNOON. 
 
 8. Play on, play on ; I am with you there, 
 In the midst of yoftr merry ring ; 
 I can feel the thrill of the daring jump. 
 And the rush of the breathless swing. 
 
 168 
 
 I hide with you in the fragrant hay, 
 And I whoop the smother'd call, 
 
 And my feet slip up on the seedy floor. 
 And I care not for the fall. 
 
 4. I am willing to die when my time shall come, 
 And I shall be glad to go ; 
 
164 
 
 THE FODBTH HEADER. 
 
 For the world at best is a weary place, 
 
 And my pulse is getting low ; 
 Bat the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 
 
 In treading its gloomy way ; 
 And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, 
 
 To see the young so gay. 
 
 1/ V 
 
 26. IiEABNINa Am) AOOOMFLISHMENTS NOT INCONSISTENT 
 
 WITH Good HousEEEEPiNa. 
 
 [JExjflanaiory JVote.— Mr. Benny tells this story; Maroella is Mr. 
 Benny's wife ; Clara is tlieir daughter. Justin and Laura are Mr. 
 and Mrs. Hubert, wlio have just come on a visit to Mr. and Mrs. 
 Benny, and Mary is their daughter. Aunt Bobert is the aunt of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Benny.] 
 
 M 
 
 ART has AceQ^panied her parents ; her first appearance 
 . . gives a jrauiM^ impression. She is small, thin, and very 
 daUow : almost ngly. Laura and Justin presented her to me 
 withouta word, and during the first two days, I took scarcely 
 any not^of her ; but the other morning, I heard her con- 
 y^rsinff.m German with her fotWj^d I know that she is 
 Mqnaml^ with the English and Sj^nm languages. 
 
 2. MarceUa obliged her to seat herself at ^epiano,; and 
 we soon perceived that she has already far out^^ped her 
 mother. She has also learned all that can be taught to one 
 of her age, of geography, ,and natiural and political history. 
 Clara is in a state of bewilderment at such an amount of 
 learning, and I am still more surprised at so much modesty. 
 
 3. The latter, however, does not soften Aunt Robert ; who, 
 when she was informed of the number of Mary's acquirements, 
 only shook her head. Aunt Robert's prejudices, on that 
 point, are not to be (Dvercbme. She is suspicions, i^^ost to 
 hostility, of all those who are, what she styles, learned women. 
 According to her, literary studies are perfectly iucompatiblQ . 
 with household duties. No one can understand orthography 
 
LBABIIQIO AMD AOOOMPLISHMEMTS. 
 
 165 
 
 Hu 
 
 gU/t.'C**'*^ 
 
 and backstitch too, or speak any other, language but our 
 mother tongue, and sapenntend a roast. 
 
 4. " Oh, yes ! I have seen your little prodigies before," she 
 said to Marcella, yesterday, "who talk about revolutions in 
 China with their stockmgs in holes ; who read poetry, and yet 
 • cannot mid^istand the receipt, of a pudding ; who will describe' 
 with accuracy me costume of the African savage, and do not 
 know how to'^m a cap ! do not talk to me of such women, 
 my dear gurl ; the very best they are good for, is to be lodge- 
 keepers to t^e flreuch Academy." 
 
 6. N(^witns^nding these strong prejudices, she treats Mary 
 like everybody else ; that is to say, with her usual rude, fa- 
 miliar kindoiess ; for Aunt Robert compares herself to a thorny 
 gooi^^^^ l^ush : to get at the finiit, people must not mind a 
 few scratches. 
 
 6. For the rest, these peculiarities do not seem to disturb 
 tl^young girl in the least: she laughs at the old lady's 
 w*^is7and is the first to o£fer to carry her bag, or fetch her 
 a footstool. I have reason to believe the good aunt is very 
 fond of her. "After all," she said, the other day, "there 
 really is good in the child, and it is not her fault if she has 
 been taught more grammar than cookery.'fc^<^'*-^'-e- 
 
 7. Consequently, she has been very anxious to make her 
 feel the inconveniences of her education. Yesterday she in- 
 vited us to dine with the Huberts at her house, and beg] 
 Mary to come early and assist her in her preparations. D 
 spite the ironical mamier in which the latter invitation was 
 given, it was accepted. e^^w 
 
 8. Aunt Robert was determined to dfiplay before the eyes 
 of the little blue-stocking all the splendor of her house-keep- 
 ing royalty ; andM^ found her enveloped in a large apron 
 with an ample mbjner sleeves turned up above her elbows, 
 busy making a favorite dish. 
 
 ^9. Now in the opinion of the best judges, this dish was the 
 pwQQ^ of l^ory in Aunt Roberts' cutmary art. 
 
 She bl^oBe^ to Mary to approach, and after explaining 
 to h^JJiie particular merits and difficulties of her dish, pro* 
 ceeded with her cookery. 
 
 
166 
 
 THS VOCBTH RBftDBB. 
 
 10. "Yon see, my AeHx,** miziiig, in her motheify waj, 
 moral precepts and practical explanations, " one of the chief 
 duties of a woman is to make the most of every thing. — 
 (Keep the whites of the eggs for another occasion.) — Life is 
 made for sometliing more than learning to conjugate the rerbs 
 I ujcUk, or I taUs; to assure to those around us health and 
 comfort — (don't put in too much lemon juice); — ^When one 
 makes it a principle to be useful — (the crust is beginning to 
 rise), — it is sufficient to keep peace and a good consciences^ 
 (we^^ the^hole into a moidd), — and we live happily — (in 
 the DntclGroyen).'|^v 
 ^^^^^1. Mary smilingly looked on, not a little bewildered by the 
 00^ mixture of philosophy and cookery ; and this time, alas I 
 the first most certainly injured the second ; for a thing unheard 
 of before, just when Aunt Robert, being of ofMon that it 
 was dcgi& enough, witii serene confidence opened the oven>^' 
 door, inten(3^g to cu^ay before her pupil's eyes her i^itmg 
 pyramid, she found nothing but a crumbled ruin blackened by 
 the fire 1 
 
 12. The disappointment was the greater, because complete- 
 ly unexpected. Besides, dinneMime was drawing near, and 
 the dish would have taken more time to make again than she 
 could spare . 
 
 27. liEABNiNa AND AooomplishMeKts— con^tni<a7. 
 
 AUNT ROBERT had to go out and make several purchases, 
 to look after the servant, a new hand whose experience 
 she more than doubted, in uncovering the drawing-room fiir- 
 nitnre and laying the cloth. 3he was speaking with, resigned 
 repugnance of resortimrto, the oireM extremity of applying to 
 
 the neighboring i^'^y^cook', when Mary quietly proposed to 
 replace the missing di^ witl^nej^her own making. 
 
 2. Aunt Robert actually mi^SMmth surprise. 
 
 "What t my dear child 1 do yOti know what yon are say- 
 ing 7" she asked ; " is it possible that yon can make any thing 
 
XaABNXHa AMD AOOOIIFLIBBMEIITS. 
 
 167 
 
 ^miitaXl jc% who can speak all the languages of the Tower 
 of Babel V* 
 
 " It is a family padding, which always succeeds, and does 
 not take Imig to make," replied the young girl. yi/..^.^^;!:!)^ 
 
 8. " Padding 1" repeated Aunt Robert a^tle edntempt- 
 uously. **:^ I I understand ; it is some foreignT dish, like 
 what they Ittake in England. Yery well, Mina Huburt I let , 
 us see "^^^^1^"^^^^ produce ; the servant shall supply you 
 with any ij^^iente you may r^^fer' .t,,M^iU 
 
 4. But Mary assuredhgr she had all she wanted, and set^ 
 about it without more oMi^ Half an hour after, when Aunt 
 Bobert returned from' making her purchases, she found the 
 pudding ready for the table. ^.^^^ 
 
 6. Its appearance was such astoitrike the eye of a judge. 
 After exi^ning it well, and mhHwg^the odor, she gave a 
 little^c^of satisfaction. "There is nothing to be said against 
 its looks," said she. " I should only like now to see how it 
 tastes ; for you know ' that the proof of the pudding lies in 
 the eating.'.^Spwever, I see, my dear child, you are not 
 without ul^n^ ; now come and help me with the dessert.'' 
 ^ 6. But a fresh trouble arose. The servant had broken one 
 of the china baskets, indispensable to the service ; and there 
 remained only the broken pieces on the sideboard. Aunt 
 Robert, accustomed to the old-fashioned arrangement, could 
 do nothing without her basket; but Mary, who with her 
 mother was obliged to resort to all sorts of expedients in their 
 humble couagvivfaere the richness of taste hid the poverty of . 
 their means, declared she could arrange it all. She ran to the 
 garden, whence she gathered leaves, flowers, and fruits, with . 
 which she dressed the table, and hid the discrepancy occasioned 
 
 by the missing basket. ^ • 
 
 7. The flue damask, Aunt Robert's especial pride, the old- 
 fashioned crystal, the many-colored china, and antique plate, 
 were all most elegantly and tastefully arranged: and then 
 Mary added all the graceful fancies which im^urt somuch to 
 the elegance of a well-arranged table, down from the butter in 
 shells to bouquets of radishes. Aunt Robert was bewildered ; 
 bat she was still more so, when all the dishes, being served at 
 
158 
 
 THE FOUBTH BRADEB. 
 
 onco, covered the table, and, as she said, " transfonned her 
 homely dinner i^^o^ Bclshazzar's feast." ^^/uS,.^,^ 
 
 8. "Ah, yoasiy little puss I" she ei.claimod, as, thwonghlj 
 'c^iqiiored, she warmly embraced hci ; " who would have 
 tlioaji^ht there was all this hidden ui you I " The pudding was 
 ununimonsly pronounced excellent ; and Aunt Robert did not 
 /ail to relate the history of her favorite dish. 
 
 9. From this moment, her opinion of Mary underwent a 
 striking change. She owned to me in a half whisper at 
 dessert, that she had been too severe; and that our fKend 
 had not neglected the "essential" as much as she had at first 
 imagined. Still she was strongly opposed to "the gift of 
 tongues," which she maintamed, could be available only to 
 the Apostles. 
 
 10. At last we rose firom the table, and adjourned to the 
 Kttle sitting-room ; where, while waiting the advent of tea, 
 each lady brought out her sewing or embroidery, and Aunt 
 Bobert sought the mittens she was knitting. Unfortunately, 
 they had not escaped the general disturbance ; a needle had 
 fallen out, which was one of the little domestic miseries onr 
 worthy aunt felt most acutely. She uttered a slight exclama* 
 tion of despair, and went ofif in search of her spectacles ; bat 
 on her return she found her knitting in the hands of Mary. 
 
 11. "Ah 1 you little puss, what are you about there !" she 
 cried in alarm. Mary returned her the mitten with a smile, 
 and, on looking, she found the stitches taken up, and the pat- 
 
 • tern continued. 
 
 She regarded Mary with a stupefied look ; then tnming to 
 me, she exclaimed in a tone of the highest admiration, " She 
 can knit, too I Ah, my Mend, I retract my judgment ; there 
 is nothing wanting ; her education is complete.'' 
 
 \ 
 
AMIODOTES OF THB TIOEB. 
 
 169 
 
 28. Anecdotes op the Tigeb. 
 
 LIKE other voracious beasts, nothing will deter the tiger 
 from attempting to obtain his prey when hungry, however 
 apparent may be the danger he risks. A Scotchman, who 
 was a soldier in India, assured us, that while the army was on 
 its march, in broad day, an enoimously large tiger sprang from 
 a jungle which they were passing, and carried off one of the 
 men in his mouth, with as much ease "as a cat would carry 
 off a mouse," and was out of sight before any effort could be 
 made for the recovery of the poor man, so quick and unex- 
 pected was the whole occurrence. 
 
 2. The postmen of India, who are called dawks, and who 
 travel on foot, are frequently seized by these creatures, as are 
 those who escort them ; nor can any thing be more dangerous 
 than for persons to venture, unless it be in well-armed bodies, 
 within their blood-stained neighborhoods. 
 
 3. In 1819, an official report was presented to the Indian 
 government, in which it was stated that eighty-four persons 
 had been seized and carried off, by tigers, from one district only, 
 in the course of the precedihg year. It may be supposed how 
 much the posseissioQS of the East India Company must har* 
 
160 
 
 TBI rOUBTH BEADBB. 
 
 « ; 
 
 been infested with these depredators, when the amonnt of pr» 
 minnis bestowed on those persons who slew them in the year 
 1808, is stated to have been $15,000. 
 
 4. LUco most other animals, the tigress is attached strongly 
 to her yoong. In the "Oriental Field Sports," Captain Wil* 
 liamson tells ns thai some peasants in India had found four 
 cubs in the absence of their mother, and brought him two, 
 which he placed Ui a stable. After howlhig for several nights, 
 the tigress approached and responded to them ; and it was 
 deemed [Nrudent to let them out, lest their mamma should 
 break in ; the next morning she carried them off. 
 
 6. The tiger, like all anhnals when brought nnder the con- 
 trol of man, will evince Bigns of partiality towards his keeper, 
 or others accustomed to treat him kindly. Still, we think the 
 confidence of keepers is sometimes carried too far, as there 
 are times when the natural instinct of savage brutes will reign 
 paramount, in despite of their training. 
 
 6. The imprudence, however, of strangers attempting to 
 take any freedom with such creatures, cannot be too often nor 
 too deeply impressed upon the minds of our readers — since, 
 firom inattention to it, how many fatal accidents have occurred ! 
 A schoolmaster went to see a menagerie, where, admiring the 
 beauty of the tiger, he offered it an apple. The creature seized 
 his hand, dragging it into the cage; and although, by the 
 efforts of the keepers the brute was compelled to let it go, yet 
 it was so dreadfully lacerated that amputation became neces- 
 sary ; and, in a few days afterwards, the poor man was a corpse. 
 
 7. People in the East are usually fond of witnessmg the 
 combats of wild and savage animals ; and we will now giv6 
 our readers, not only an illustration of their savage tastes, 
 but also the invincible courage of their fellow-beings, who run 
 the risk of a dreadful death to gratify them. The statement 
 from which we are about to quote is narrated by a gentleman 
 who was invited by the rajah of Goorg to become a spectator 
 of his cruel and terrific amusements. Coorg is a fine prov- 
 ince of Hindostan, which our youthful readers will discover 
 upon their maps, situated in the western Ghaut monntams of 
 
 ^JhaX vast region. 
 
ANiODam or tbi tioib. |||^ 
 
 8. The n^ah, with trne AaiAtic Tanity, prided himself npon 
 the number of savage beasta he poMeaied ; having, it wa8 said, 
 many liona and tigers which had been brought to perfect sub- 
 miHsion, besidos others which were kept for combating. 
 
 On the appointed day of the exhibition hi question, the r^jah 
 with his court, and other persons, were Heated in a gallery,, 
 below which was an arena of a hundred yards square, wberd^^ 
 the sports commenced. After some engagements of inferior 
 animals had ended, a man entered the arena almost naked, 
 having on a pair of trowsers only, that just covered his hips, 
 and reached scarcely half way down his thighs. 
 
 9. He was tall, and though slight, yet muscular, strong, 
 and active. His body glistened with the <i;i with which it had 
 been nibbed to add to the pliability of his Ibnbs ; and in his 
 hand he held what is called a Goorg-knife, somewhat ia shape 
 like a ploughnshare, aboat two feet long, thi%e or foor inches' 
 wide, and tapering a little towards the handle : it is henv;^ 
 and first swung round the head by the person who uses it, by 
 which means a blow is inflicted with a force that i i:;.ly won- 
 derful. The Hindoo, who now appeared, ^ad volunteered to 
 fight with a tiger ; and, having brandished his weapon, " the 
 expression of his conntenance," says the writer, "was really 
 sublime when he gave the signal for the anunal to be let loose ; 
 it was the very concentration of moral energy — the index of 
 a single and settled resolution ! " 
 
 10. Men, who were placed above, at his signal raised the 
 bars of a cage from which an immense royal tiger sprang before 
 him with a halfnfitifled growl, and waving its tail, npon which 
 it erected the hair as a cat does when ''He is angry. It looked 
 at its opponent, who met it with Lit r/e, and then at all 
 around ; bat uneasy at its novel situation, it leaped again into 
 its cage, from which the keepers above not being able again 
 to force it, let fall the bars by which it was secured. 
 
 11. Some crackers were tied to the creature's tail, which 
 projected through the bars ; to these the man applied a lighted 
 match that had been handed to him, and the bars were again 
 drawn up. The tiger now bounded out of its den in a state 
 of frantic excitement, nntQ the crackers having exploded, it 
 
162 
 
 TEE FOUBTH BEADEB. 
 
 croQched snarling in a corner; like a cat when she is annoyed-^« 
 the bars of its cage had been let down ; and the brave Hindoo, 
 who had been watching its motions, now slowly and fearlessly 
 advanced towards it. 
 
 12. Thus ronsed, the hairs of its body became erect, and its 
 tail (like the tail of an angry cat) twice its usual size ; yet, as 
 the man slowly advanced, it again retreated, keeping its front 
 towards its brave opponent, who still advanced with the same 
 slow and measured step as before. Suddenly he stopped ; and 
 now paced steadily backwards, his eyes still fixed on his enemy, 
 which, as he thus retreated, raised itself to its extreme height, 
 lashed its tail, and arched its back, in preparation for making 
 a spring. The Hindoo still moved gently backwards, and when 
 the tiger could no longer see the expression of his eye, it 
 bounded towards him with a growl. 
 
 13. With the swiftness of lightning, however, he sprang on 
 one side, whirled his ponderous knife around his head, and 
 when the animaPs feet reached the ground, it felt the full force 
 of the irresistible blow designed for it, just above the point of 
 the hinder leg, the bone of which it completely snapped in two. 
 
 14. The Hindoo retured a few paces, and the wounded beast, 
 disabled from making another spring, roaring with pain, rushed 
 towards him upon its three legs (the other hanging by the skin 
 only) in a state of reckless excitement, while its courageous 
 foe stood calm and determined, awaiting the shock, p(Hsing his 
 trusty weapon above his head, and which, when his opponent 
 had got within his reach, he struck with such force into its 
 skull, as severed it from ear to ear, and the conquered brute 
 fell dead at his feet. He then calmly drew his knife across 
 the tiger's skin to cleanse it of the blood ; made a dignified i 
 
 • "salaam,'' or bow, to the rajah, and, amidst the loud {riandits 
 of the spectators, withdrew. 
 
 \ 
 
 
 1 
 
THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 168 
 
 
 29. The Fountain. 
 
 
 1. TNTO the sunshine 
 1 Full of light, 
 Leaping and flashing, 
 From mom to night ; 
 
 5. Into the moonlight 
 
 Whiter than snow, 
 Waving so flower-like 
 When the winds blow t 
 
 8. Into the starlight, 
 Bushing in spray, 
 Happy at midnight 
 Happy by day ; 
 
 4. Ever in motion 
 
 Blithesome and cheery, 
 Still climbing heavenward^ 
 Never aweary ; 
 
 6. Glad of all weathers 
 
 Still seeming best. 
 
 Upward or downward 
 
 Motion thy rest ; 
 
 6. Full of a natmre 
 
 Nothing can tame. 
 Changed every momeAly 
 Ever the same ; 
 
 *l. Ceaseless aspiring, 
 Ceaseless content. 
 Darkness or sonshiiw 
 Thy element : 
 
164 
 
 THE j^OGBpi BEAiPTIB. 
 
 8. Glorions fonntain I 
 Let my heart be 
 Fresh, changeful, cotnstant, 
 Upward like thee. 
 
 30. Benedict Arnold. 
 
 THERE was a day when Talleyrand arrived in Havre direct 
 from Paris. It was the darkest hour of the French Rev- 
 olution. Pursued by the bloodhounds of the Reign of Terror, 
 stripped of every wreck of property or power, Talleyrand se- 
 cured a passage to America, in a ship about to sail. He was 
 a beggar and a wanderer to a strauge land, to earn his bread 
 by daily labor. 
 
 2. " Is there an American staymg at your house ? " he asked 
 the landlord of the hotel. " I am bound to cross the water, 
 and would like a letter to a person of influence in the New 
 World." 
 
 The landlord hesitated a moment, then replied, " There is 
 a gentleman up-stairs, either from America or Britain, but 
 whether an American or an Englishman, I cannot tell." 
 
 He pointed the way, and Talleyrand, who in his life was 
 bishop, prince, and prime minister, ascended the stainik A 
 miserable suppliant, he stood before the stranger's door, 
 knocked, and entered. 
 
 3. In the far comer of the dimly-lighted room, sat a man 
 of some fifty years ; his arms folded, and his head bowed on 
 his breast. From a window directly opposite, a flood of light 
 poured over his forehead. His eyes looked from beneath the 
 downcast brows, and gazed on Talleyrand's face with a pecu- 
 liar and searching esq^tression. His face was striking in out- 
 line ; the mouth and chin indicative of an iron will. His form, 
 vigorous, even with the snows of fifty, was clad in a dark, but 
 rich and distinguished costume. 
 
 4. Talleyrand advfuiced, stated that be was a fugitive, and, 
 under the impression thi^t the gentleman before him was an 
 American, he solicited his kind uad feeling offices. He poured 
 
 ' 
 
BENEDICT ASSOU)* 
 
 165 
 
 door, 
 
 
 forth his history fn eloquent French and broken English ; " I 
 am a wanderer and an exile. I am forced to fly to the New 
 World, without a friend or a home. You are an American 1 
 Give me, then, I beseech you, a letter of yours, so that I may 
 be able to earn my bread. I am willing to toil in any manner ; 
 the scenes of Paris have seized me with such horror, that a 
 life of labor would be a paradise to a career of luxury in 
 France. You will give me a letter to one of your friends? 
 A gentleman like yourself has doubtless many friends." 
 
 5. The strange gentleman rose. With a look that Talley- 
 rand never forgot, he retreated towards the door of the next 
 chamber; his eyes looking still from beneath his darkened 
 brow. He spoke as he retreated backwards : his voice was 
 full of meaning. " I am the only man bom in the New World 
 who can raise his hand to God and say, I have not a friend, 
 not one, in all America 1" Talleyrand never forgot the over- 
 whelming sadness of the look which accompanied these words. 
 
 6. "Who are you ?" he cried, as the strange man retreated 
 to the next room ; " your name ?" 
 
 " My name," he replied, with a smile that had more mockery 
 than joy in its convidsive expression, — " my name is Benedict 
 Arnold 1" 
 
 He was gone ; Taleyrand sank into his chair, gasping the 
 words, "Arnold, THE TRArroRl" 
 
 7. Thus, you see, he wandered over the earth, giAQother 
 Cain, with the wanderer's mark upon his brow. Even in that 
 secluded^room, m that inn at Havre, his crimes found him out, 
 and forced him to tell his name : that name the synonym of 
 infamy. 
 
 The last twenty years of his life are covered with a cloud, 
 from whose darkness but a few gleams of light hash out upon 
 the page of history. 
 
 8. The manner of his death 4s not exactly known ; but we 
 cannot doubt that he died utterly friendless ; that remorse 
 pursued him to the grave, whispering John Andrd 1 in his ear ; 
 and that the memory of his course of glory gnawed like a 
 canker at his heart, murmuring, forever, "True to your coun- 
 irjf what might you have been, oh I Arnold, the traitor !" 
 
I i 
 
 
 
 ii 
 
 m 
 
 
 w 
 
 166 
 
 THE FOURTH BEADEB. 
 
 81. Ruth and Noemi. 
 
 TAB short, but interesting story of Ruth, happened under 
 the Judges, and makes a book of itself. The sacred 
 writer tells us, that at the time when the land of Israel was 
 sorely vexed by famine, a certain man, by name Elimelech, of 
 the town of Bethlehem, retired with Noemi his wife and two 
 §em ioto the country of the Moabites, not to starve m his own. 
 
 f 
 
BUTE AND NOEML 
 
 167 
 
 \ 
 
 nder 
 cred 
 was 
 I, of 
 two 
 3wn. 
 
 t 
 
 2. After lus death, Nodmi married her two sons to two 
 yoang women of that country, whose names were Arpha and 
 Ruth. They lived ten years together, but no issue came from 
 either of the two marriages ; the two brothers died, and left 
 their disconsolate mother in a childless widowhood. Having 
 no consolation to expect in the land of Moab, Nodmi resolved 
 to return into her own country, where the famine was no 
 longer felt 
 
 3. She made he? purpose known to Arpha and Buth ; they 
 both desired to accompany her to Bethlehem. She begged 
 they would not think of going with a friendless widow, 
 from whom they had neither fortune nor comfort to e!q)ect, 
 but to return to theu- relations, from whom they might meet 
 with both ; she made them understand, that by going with 
 her, they would but throw themselves into fresh miseries; 
 that her present distress was sufScient without any other 
 addition ; that to see them suffer on her account would in> 
 crcEise her pain; and that their sufferings would be more 
 afflicting to her than her own. 
 
 4. Arpha yielded to Nodmi's reasons, tenderly embraced 
 her, and returned to Moab. Buth was too much attached to 
 her mother-in-law to think of leaving her ; with the greatest 
 eagerness she begged that they might be never separated trom 
 each other. " I will accompany you," said she, " wherever you 
 shall go, and with you I will forever dwell ; your pe<^Ie shall 
 be my people, and your God shall be mine ; in the same land 
 with you I will live and die, and nothing but death shall ever 
 part us." 
 
 5. Noemi could not refuse so affectionate and so resolute a 
 request; she consented to Ruth's going with her, and they 
 both came to Bethlehem. It was then harvest tune, and 
 Ruth desired leave of her mother to go into the neighboring 
 fields, where she might glean some relief in their scanty 
 circumstances. Kmd Providence conducted her into a field 
 belonging to Booz, a near relation of Elunelech, Nodmi's for- 
 mer husband. 
 
 6. Her remarkable diligence drew the eyes of the reapers, 
 and Booz, from the favorable account he had received from 
 
A-'-'C •"■ 
 
 168 
 
 TBI FOUBTH BEADEB. 
 
 if 
 
 his orerseer, of Ruth's dntiftil behavior to her mother, axid 
 of hor diligence at work, ordered every kindness and civility to 
 be shown her. He bade- his reapers scatter the com on pur- 
 pose, and leave Ruth a sofBcient quantity to requite her amply 
 for the pains she took ; if she should be willing to reap, he 
 told them not to hiixler her, and insisted upon her orliug and 
 drinking with his servants. 
 
 t. This goodness of Booz to Ruth has been considered by 
 the holy fathers as an emblem of that which Jes\ >- Christ has 
 smce shovm to his Church. Booz did not disdain to take 
 notice of a poor stranger ; neither the present meun:iess of her 
 appearance, nor the past errors of her religious sentimenta 
 excluded her from the acts of his humanity. 
 
 8. Riitb^s steady attachment to Nodiiii is an exampio of 
 that vnshaken fidelity which every Christian owes to Jesus 
 Christ mad hi* Church. He that loves his father, mother, or 
 his kiudrt-i morti than me, says our blessed Saviour, is not 
 worthy of me. Whoever will come after me let him deny 
 himself, take up his cross, and so follow me. 
 
 9. If in following Jesus Christ, worldly advantages must 
 be sometimes given up, and hardships undergone, an upright 
 mind and a peaceful conscience will confer an inward satisfac- 
 tion, which, without virtue, no riches can purchase, and no 
 power bestow. 
 
 10. No§mi's poverty was to Ruth of more advantage than 
 the wealth of Moab ; and they who, by a firm and generous 
 attachment, stand steady to the principles of duty, will also 
 receive then: reward m the end. They may suffer, they may 
 be oppressed for a time ; the hour of their delivery hastens on, 
 an eternity of joys is already prepared to console their pains, 
 and to crown their patience. 
 
ILOWIBS. 
 
 169 
 
 1. 
 
 82. Flowebs. 
 
 OH, they look upward in every place 
 Throngh this beautiful world of ours, 
 And dear as a smile on an old friend's face 
 
 Is the smile of the bright, bnght flowers f 
 They tell us of wanderings by woods and streamg ; 
 
 They tell us of lanes and trees ; 
 But the children of showers and sunny beams 
 Have lovelier tales than these — 
 
 The bright, bright flowers 1 
 
 2. They tell of a season when men were not. 
 When earth was by angels trod. 
 And leaves and flowers in every spot 
 
 Burst forth at the call of God ; 
 When spirits, singing their hymns at even, 
 
 Wander'd by wood and glade ; 
 And the Lord look'd down from the highest hearen 
 . And bless'd what he had made — 
 
 The bright, bright flowen. 
 
 8. That blessing remaineth upon them still. 
 Though often the storm-cloud lowers, 
 And frequent tempests may soil and chill 
 
 The gayest of earth's fair flowers. 
 When Sin and Death, with their sister Grief, 
 
 Made a home in the hearts of men. 
 The blessing of God on each tender leaf 
 Preserved in their beauty, then, — 
 
 The bright, bright flowers. 
 
 4. The lily is lovely as when it slept 
 On the waters of Eden's lake ; 
 The woodbine breathes sweetly as when it crept^ 
 In Eden from brake to brake. 
 
 8 
 
170 THE FOURTH READER. 
 
 Tbej were left as a proof of the loveliness 
 Of Adam and Eve's first home ; 
 
 They are here as a type of the joys that bless 
 The just in the world to come— 
 
 The bright, bright flowers. 
 
 I 
 
 83. The Soholab of the Bosart. 
 
 if a certain district in the south of France, there lived a 
 noble lady, who governed her household and family in all 
 holy discipline, and who was among the first to join the con- 
 fraternity in honor of the mother of God, on its re-establish- 
 ment in that country. 
 
 2. She had an only child, named Bernard ; a boy whose 
 disposition was as noble as his birth, although indeed he was 
 rather remarkable for the angelic innocence of his life than 
 for the endowment of his mind. He was sent by his mother 
 to study at a school in the neighborhood, whence he was 
 wont, to return home every evening, for she could not resolve 
 to trust him away firom her own care while he was still so 
 young. 
 
 3. It does not seem that Bernard was in any way deficient 
 in ability ; and he even made coe iderable progress in some 
 of his studies, especially in grammar ; but he was wanting in 
 quickness and liveliness of imagination ; and the composition 
 of French and Latin verses, which was one of the comnon 
 school-tasks of his class, became a difficulty too great for him. 
 
 4. One evening when he returned home, after a day of un- 
 usual trouble, he sat down in a pensive mood on the steps 
 leading into the garden, and leanmg his head on his hand, he 
 gave himself up to very sorrowful refle* ions. He knew how 
 much his mother wished that he should grow up a learned 
 man, and then he was at the bottom of his class, with the 
 reputation of being the dunce of the school ; and all because 
 he was rmt bom a poet : it was certainly a little hard. 
 
 5. Poets, as all know, are bom, not made ; alid it seemed 
 
THB SOHOLAB OF THB BOSABT. 
 
 171 
 
 an nnreasonablo thing to spend so many a long day in trying 
 to become what nature had not made him. 
 
 "Bernard/' said his mother — and at the sound of that 
 gentle Toiee the poor boy started to his feet — " what is the 
 matter ? Your hair is hanging about your eyes, your cap is 
 Dn the ground, and I see something very lilce tears on those 
 white cheelcs." 
 
 6. Bernard hung his head, but did not say a word. " Do 
 you not spealc, my child?" continued his mother: "you were 
 never wont to hide your sorrows thus ; or is it, indeed, that 
 you have fallen into some grievous fault at school, and fear to 
 declare it to me ? " 
 
 " No, mother," replied Bernard, " they call me dunce, and 
 fool, and they speak truly : but though now I could cry, as 
 though my heart would break, it is for no fault that yon would 
 deem a grievous one ; it is that I am not a poet." And with 
 these words, Bernard hid his face on his mother's knee, and 
 sobbed aloud. 
 
 7. "A poet, child 1" said his mother; "is that your only 
 trouble ? Heard you ever that poets were happier or better 
 than other men, that you should crave a gift that brings little 
 ease, and ofttimes less of grace : covet the better gifts, Bernard, 
 for this is hardly worth your tears ; a holy heart and a spotless 
 faith were fitter things to weep after." 
 
 8. "But, mother," replied Bernard, earnestly, "you know 
 not how the case stands with boys : we have to learn so many 
 things you would marvel to find the use for ; and among them 
 all there is none so strange to fit a meaning to as the making 
 of these verses. 
 
 9. "And yet Master Bx)land says I am a dunce if I do not 
 make them ; and shall abide as I am, the lag-last of the school, 
 till I better know how to scan my lines, and have learnt the 
 difference between a trochee and a spondee : and that," he 
 added, with a heavy sigh, " I shall never learn." 
 
 10. " Bernard," said his mother, " I do not think I can help 
 to mend your verses, but I may chance to be able to mend 
 your courage. It was but the other day that Master Alan 
 told me of a student whoto books were as grievous to him as 
 
172 
 
 TtfB lotnrrb wcadib. 
 
 any Tenies of jonrs can be, and yet he fonnd the way not only 
 to read them, bat to write them too ; and died a great doctor 
 and professor in the university." 
 
 11. "And what was his way V asked Bernard. " Perhaps 
 his books were written in prose ; it might have been different 
 if they had been poetry." 
 
 " His way was a very simple one," replied his mother ; "he 
 asked our dear Lady'd help, and every day said the rosary in 
 her honor. I think there is little to hinder you from doing 
 the same. 
 
 12. " Master -Alan has given you a rosary, though I see not 
 that you often use it ; take it before her altar, ever) morning 
 before you go to school, and say the prayers as he had taught 
 you ; and remember that no one ever prayed to Mary without 
 obtaining relief." 
 
 13. Bernard was not slow in following his mother's counsel ; 
 and not content with saying part of the rosary, he every day 
 recited the entire fifteen mysteries on his knees before the 
 image on our lady's altar. 
 
 14. Nor was it long before a singular change was observed 
 in the" boy ; not only did his former dulness and heaviness of 
 capacity gradually disappear, but a certain depth of feeling and 
 graceftihiess of imagery was displayed in his school-verses, 
 that placed them very far above the ordinary standard of such 
 productions. 
 
 34. The Soholab op the Eosary — continued. 
 
 THE masters marvelled at the change, and said many learned 
 things about the development of the understanding ; the 
 scholars wondered also, and soon came to beseech Bernard to 
 help them in their tasks ; as for the boy hunself, the light in 
 his soul had stolen into it with such a soft and quiet gentle- 
 ness, that he hardly knew the change. 
 
 2. When they praised and questioned him as to whence he 
 drew his thoughts and imagery, he Was wont to answer, with 
 a wondering simplicity, that any one might do tfaie same, tot 
 
THX aOHOLAB Off TBM BOflABT. 
 
 178 
 
 he foand It all in the r ^^ary. This reply, which he constantly 
 gave, soon became talKed about among the rest, and gafaied 
 him the title, among his companions, of the Scholar of the 
 Rosary. 
 
 8. Every one now predicted great things of Bernard ; he 
 was the head of his class and of the school ; the highest 
 awards of learning, he was told, were now within his grasp ; 
 with that delicate and subtle fancy, and that solidity of under- 
 standing, he might aspire to any thing ; the professor's chair 
 or the doctor's cap would never surely be denied him. 
 
 4. But their hopes and expectations were not to be realized ; 
 for the scholar of Mary a higher and very different distinction 
 was in store. One day he came home af usual, and complained 
 of an aching pain in his eycH ; before tbe morning the inflam- 
 mation had increased to such a degree that he could not bear 
 the light, and was obliged to keep his bed in a darkened roon^ 
 where, spite of every care and remedy which his mother's ten- 
 derness could bestow, he suffered the greatest pain. 
 
 5. For two months he lay in this state, while the disease 
 gradually assumed a more dangerous character. The physi- 
 cians desired that every ray of daylight should be excluded 
 from his room, and the utmost care taken to preserve the 
 slightest object from irritating the eye ; an order which was 
 Strictly obeyed. 
 
 6. Nevertheless, in spite of his pain and increasing weakness, 
 nothing prevented Bernard from fulfilling his customary pray- 
 ers. Every day, as usual, he recited the fifteen mysteries of 
 the rosary, and comforted his mother, when she grieved over 
 the blmdness that threatened him, by saying his devotion was 
 one which needed neither book nor daylight to help it, but 
 only the familiar touch of those dear beads that never left his 
 neck. 
 
 t. Alas 1 blindness was before long not. the only evil she had 
 to dread ; it was soon evident that the toalady had reached a 
 fatal form, which no human skill could avail to remedy. Ber- 
 nard was to die ; all the great hopes excited by his newly dis- 
 played talents vanished into thin au* ; and those whose tongues . 
 had been so busy with his wonderful genius were now loud in 
 
174 
 
 TUB rOUBTB BBADIB. 
 
 I-,* 
 
 deploring the loss of one from whom so brilliant a care r ;nig 
 have been expected. 
 
 8. His mother entered the room to prepare him for the 
 coming of the priest ; and as she did so, she desired the attend- 
 ant to bring a candle into the still-darkened chamber. 
 
 "What need of a candle?" said the boy ; "tell them thati 
 St is not wanted." 
 
 9. "It is for the priest, my child," she replied. "Yon will 
 try and bear the light for a few minutes ; for the good father 
 has come to hear your confession, and he could not see to 
 enter without a light." 
 
 "But there is light," he replied; "the room is full of it, 
 and has never been dark to me. I wonder that you do not 
 see it." 
 
 10. "What light ?" asked the priest, who was by this time 
 bending over him. " Your mother and I are standing here^ 
 but to our eyes the room is darkened still." 
 
 " It is from our Lady," replied the boy ; " she is here by my 
 bedside, and the rays are shining from her, and make it day. 
 There has never been darkness here since I have been ill." 
 
 11. The priest felt an awe stealing over him, and involun- 
 tarily bowed his head towards the spot indicated by the child. 
 
 "And does that light hurt your eyes?" he asked; "you 
 could not bear the daylight." 
 
 "It is joy," answered Bernard, faintly; "joy and glory: 
 the sorrow is all gone now I" and the priest saw that in his 
 last words he was still thinking of the rosary. And so he 
 died ; and those whom he left needed not the evidence of mir- 
 acles to assure them that the scholar of Mary had been taken 
 to the Ailness of that glory, something of whose radiance had 
 thus rested over his dying bed. 
 
THE MONTH OF MAX, 
 
 175 
 
 y. 
 
 85. The Month of May. 
 
 TTIHIS is the sweet, the balmy month of May 1 — ^the season 
 tJL when nature comes forth in all her gayest attire, robed 
 in violet and green, her brow encurcied with garlands of 
 flowers. To children, it is a season of mirth ; — :to all a time 
 of gladness. 
 
 Daring this month the Church, in a special manner, invites 
 her children to honor and invoke the patronage of the immao- 
 ulate Qaeen of Heaven, in that beautiful devotion of "the 
 Montii of Mary.'' 
 
176 
 
 THE FOUBTH BEADEB. 
 
 2. As this devotion in honor of the holy Yir^n is now so 
 universally practised, we give the following sketch of its origin 
 for the instruction and edification of our young readers : 
 
 3. During the early part of the sixteenth century, Father 
 Lalomia, a professor in one of the Jesuit colleges in Italy, 
 proposed to the pupils of his class, to perform each day during 
 the month of May, some special devotion to the mother of 
 God. The happy suggestion was joyfully seconded by his 
 pupils, and accordingly, a statue of tiiie ilQJessed Virgin was 
 placed upon a table at the end of the class-room. Before this 
 humble altar, which they fervently decorated with flowers, the 
 venerable father and his pupils daily assembled and recited 
 certain prayers in honor of Mary, and made a short meditation 
 on the virtues of her life. 
 
 4. The fathers of the college remarked with i^uch gratificsr 
 tion the fervent piety which, from that period, distinguished 
 the members of Father Laiomia's class — an evidence how 
 pleasing this devotion was to the mother of God. On the re- 
 turning May, the devotion which conunenced in a single class, 
 was extended to the whole college. The effect was most re< 
 markable. 
 
 5. Boys who had been heretofore untractable, now became 
 models of obedience and docility ; those who had been remiss 
 in the practice of their reli^on, now flew to the confessional ; 
 the slothful and indolent became examples in this punctual and 
 faithM discharge of their scholastic duties ; the praises of 
 Mary were heard from every tongue, her statue was daily 
 crowned) and her altar strewed with flowers. 
 
 6. The fathers, seemg the good effects which the devotion 
 of the month of May produced in this single college, immedi- 
 ately introduced it into all their colleges in Italy, and in other 
 countries of Europe ; and as they went forth from these insti- 
 tutions on the mission, they established the devotion among 
 the faithful, and thus it spread from church to church until it 
 has at length become almost universal. 
 
 1. Let our young readers, during this month, join in this 
 beautiful devotion. Let them go forth every morning and 
 Grown the statue of their heavenly Queen, strew her aUar with 
 
THE MONTH OF MABT. 
 
 177 
 
 fresh-gathered flowers, and say to her in all the fervor of their 
 hearts : 
 
 Dearest mother ! on thy altar, 
 
 Lay we down this simple wreath : 
 Guide thy children, as we falter, 
 
 Safely through this vale of death. 
 To thy sacred heart devoted 
 
 Thou on US bestowest peace ; 
 Beconciled to Hearcn we pray thee 
 
 nil this dangerous life shall cease. 
 
 36. The Month of Mabt. 
 
 1. "y OXJNG May comes forth in her flowery dresa, 
 -L The vales rejoice in their loveliness j 
 
 The meek primrose and the lily fair, 
 And Bethlehem's star are smiling there ; 
 Then children of JMary, haste away, 
 Prepare the wreath for her festal day. 
 
 2. With fairest flowers that wreath entjvine, 
 Their graceful forms with care combine, 
 Then let it be near some altar hung, 
 And " Ave Maria" be sweetly sung ; 
 And the holy priest shall lend his aid. 
 To crave a boon from the spotless maid. 
 
 it^it 
 
 8. But the wreath that with Mary bears the palm. 
 Is a glowing heart with passions calm ; 
 Where charity, peace, and meekness dwell, 
 And the virtue pure she loved so well : 
 With these adom'd your chaplet bear, 
 And ever confide in Mary's care. 
 
IT 
 
 178 
 
 THE FCnJBTH BEADEB. 
 
 87. The Indian. 
 
 lyrOT many generations ago, where you now sit, surrounded 
 -L ' by all that exalts and embellishes civilized life, the rank 
 thistle nodded in the wind, and the wild-fox dug his hole un- 
 Bcared. Here lived and loved another race of beings. Beneath 
 the same sun that rolls over your heads, the Indian hunter 
 pursued the panting deer ; gazing on the same moon that 
 smiles for you, the Indian lover wooed his dusky mate. 
 
 2. Here the wigwam blaze beamed on the tender and help- 
 less, the council-fire glared on the wise and daring. Now they 
 dipped their i>«ble limbs in your sedgy lakes, and now they 
 paddled theu* i:ght canoe along your rocky shores. Here they 
 warred ; the echoing whoop, the bloody grapple, the defying 
 death-song, all were here ; and, when the tiger strife was over, 
 here curled the smoke of peace. 
 
 3. Here, too, they worshipped ; and from many a dark 
 bosom went up a pure prayer to the Great Spirit. He had 
 not written his laws for them on tables of stone, but he had 
 traced them on the tables of their hearts. The poor child of 
 nature knew not the God of revelation, but the God of the 
 universe he acknowledged in every thing around. 
 
 4. He beheld him in the star that sunk in beauty behind 
 his lonely dwolling ; in the sacred orb that flamed on him from 
 
THE INDIAN. 
 
 179 
 
 his mid-day throne ; in the flower that snapped in the morning 
 breeze ; in the lofty pine that defied a thousand whirlwinds ; 
 in the timid warbler that never left its native grove ; in the 
 fearless eagle, whose untired pinion was wet in clouds ; in the 
 worm that crawled at his foot; and iu his own matchless 
 form, glowing with a spark of that light, to whose mysterious 
 Source he bent in humble, though blind adoration. 
 
 5. And all this has passed away. Across the ocean came 
 a pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and death. The 
 former were sown for you ; the latter sprang up in the path 
 of the simple native. Two hundred years have changed the 
 character of a great continent, and blotted forever from its 
 face a whole peculiar people. Art has usurped the bowers of 
 nature, and the anointed children of education have been too 
 powerful for the tribes of the ignorant. 
 
 6. Here and there, a stricken few remain ; but how unlike 
 their bold, untamed, nntameable progenitors 1 The Indian, 
 of falcon glance, and lion-bearing, the theme of the touching 
 ballad, the hero of the pathetic tale, is gone ! and his degraded 
 offspring crawl upon the soil where he walked in majesty, to 
 remind us how miserable is man, when tl ^ foot of the con- 
 queror is on his neck. 
 
 t. As a race, they have withered from the land. Their 
 arrows are broken, their springs are dried up, then* cabins are 
 in the dust. Their council-fire has long ^Iv.ce gone out on the 
 shore, and their war-cry is fast dying to ; lie untrodden West. 
 Slowly and sadly they climb the distant mountains, and read 
 their doom in the setting sun. They are shrinking before the 
 mighty tide which is pressing tb-^ -u away ; they must soon 
 hear the roar of the last wave, which will settle over them 
 forever. 
 
 8. Ages hence, the inquisitive white man, as he stands by 
 some growing city, will ponder on the structure of their dis- 
 turbed remains, and wonder to what manner of person they 
 belonged. Tliey will live only in the songs and chronicles 
 of the conquering race. Let these be faithful to their rude 
 virtues as men, and pay due tribute to their unhappy f&te m a 
 people. 
 
180 
 
 THE FOURTII READER. 
 
 i ! 
 
 Il 
 
 38. Chaeitt. 
 
 1. pHARITY was a little child, 
 ^ Bine-eyed, beautiful and nuld. 
 Full of love and full of light, 
 
 As the moon is to the night ; 
 Tiny foot and snowy hand — 
 Little carved ivory wand — 
 Little osier basket white — 
 Little vase of something bright 
 Hid in her dress quite cunningly, 
 Had the sweet child, Charity ! 
 
 2. Where the aged totter'd on, 
 Weak and haggard, cold and wan— 
 Loit'ring in the cheering sun. 
 Shivering in the raylegs moon, 
 Wrinkled o'er by icy time, 
 Moaning for his faded prime, 
 Wrapp'd in rags and wretchedness, 
 Lying down in hopelessness : 
 
 With vase and basket there would be 
 The beautiful child. Charity ! 
 
 3. Where the sick were like to die. 
 Unheeded all by human eye. 
 Parching ^'*th the bleeding mouth, 
 Gating with the burning drought, 
 Sleepless — ^raving — sore oppressed, 
 Staring eye and heajting breast, 
 Deserted, sad, and comfortless, 
 
 In that lone and last distress : 
 With vase and basket there would be 
 The beautiful child. Charity ! 
 
 4. Where the starving peasant cried. 
 Looking at his wasting bride — 
 
THE ETEBLABTINa OHUBGH. 
 
 Looking at his younglings bright 
 Fading away before his sight, 
 Crying, poor man I — ^bitterly, 
 Crying, the helpless sight to see — 
 Then a little voice he'd hear 
 Qo a-si<:iging in his ear : 
 W'.Gb vase and basket there would be 
 Tlie beautiful child, Charity ! 
 
 5. Where the blind man stray'd aside 
 From the roadway high and wide^ 
 And felt for his lost path again 
 'Mid the jeejrs of heartless men. 
 Just as stumbling to his knees, 
 
 A little hand is put in his, — 
 A gentle voice sings up to him, 
 ScoLhes his heart, and nerves his limb,- 
 I Oi ^here with pitying care would be 
 The beautiful child, Charity I 
 
 6. Ah I the sweet child. Charity ! 
 
 It does one's heart a good to see ! 
 In her milk-white simple dress — 
 In her meek, bright, loveliness — 
 With her ever-giving hand — 
 With her peace-enchanting wand— 
 With her osier basket white — 
 With her vase of something bright 
 Hid in her dress quite cunningly : 
 God-loved —puie child — Charity I 
 
 181 
 
 39. The Everlasung Chueo^. 
 
 THERE Is not, and there never was, on this earth, an in* 
 stitation so well deserving of exammation ati the Roman 
 Catholic Church. The history of that Church joins together 
 
h 
 
 1^ 
 
 TBS FOURTH REAPER, 
 
 the two great ages of civilization. No other institation is 
 left standing which carries the mind back to the time when 
 the smoke of sacrifice rose from the Pantheon, and when 
 camelopards and tigers bounded in the Flayian amphi- 
 theatre. 
 
 2. The proudest royal houses are but of yesterday, when 
 compared with the line of the Supreme Pontiff. That line 
 we trace back, in an unbroken series, from the pope who 
 crowned Napoleon in the nineteenth century, to the pope who 
 crowned Pepin in the eighth; and far beyond the time of 
 Pepin does this august dynasty extend. 
 
 3. The republic of Venice came next in antiqmty. But 
 the republic of Venice was modem when compared with the 
 papacy ; and the republic of Venice is gone, and the papacy 
 remains, not m decay, not a mere antique, but fnll of life and 
 youthful vigor. The Catholic Church is still sending to the 
 farthest ends of the world missionaries as zealous as those 
 who landed in Kent with St. Augustin, and still confronting 
 hostile kings with the same spirit with which she confronted 
 Attila. 
 
 4. The number of her children is greater than in any for- 
 mer age. Her acquisitions in the New Wold have more than 
 compensated her for what she has lost in the Old. Her spuitual 
 ascendency extends over the vast countries which lie between 
 the plains of Missouri and Cape Horn; countries which, a 
 century hence, may not improbably contam a population as 
 large as that which now "nhabits Europe. The members of 
 her communion are certainly not fewer than two hundred mil- 
 lions. Nor do we see any sign which indicates that the term 
 of her long dominion is approaching. ' 
 
 5. She s - v7 thf v3ommencement of all the governments and 
 of all the ecclesiastical establishments that now exist in the 
 worl(J, and feels no assurance that she is not destined to see 
 the end of them all. She was respected before the Saxon had 
 set foot in Britain, before the Frank had passed the Rhine, 
 when Grecian eloquence still flourished at Antioch, when idols 
 were still worshipped in the temple of Mecca ; and she may 
 still exist in undiminished vigor, when some traveller from 
 
 1.1 
 
WBLOOME TO THB BHXMB. 
 
 IB» 
 
 New Zealand shall, in the midst of a vast solitade, take hia 
 stand upon a broken arch of London Bridge, to sketch the 
 rums of St Paul's. 
 
 40. Welcome to thb Bhinb. 
 
 The O^rman army of liberaton, on their return from France, are 
 ■aid to have bunt into a national chant of welcome to the Rhine, on 
 coming in sight of that celebrated river. 
 
 The chorus of this nong is well adi^tted for the pnrpoee of gimolta* 
 neous reading in dasa. 
 
 SINGLE VOICB. 
 
 IT ia the Rhine 1 our mountain vineyards laving, 
 T. see the bright flood shine 1 
 • Sing on the march, with every b&r^ner waving — 
 Sing, brothers, 'tis the Rhine I 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 The Rhine I the Rhine I our own imperial nver I 
 
 Be glory on thy track I 
 We left thy shores, to die or to deliver ;— 
 
 We bear thee Freedom back I 
 
 SINGLE VOICE. 
 
 Hail ! hail I my childhood knew thy rush of water. 
 
 Even as my mother's song ; 
 That sound tvent past me on uhe field of slaughter. 
 
 And heart and arm grew strong 1 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Roll proudly on I — brave blood is with thee sweeping, 
 . Pour'd out by sons of thine, 
 Where sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping. 
 Like thee, victorious Rhine 1 
 
 
184 
 
 THE FOUIITH READER. 
 
 i m 
 
 SINGLE VOICE. 
 
 Home I — ^bome ! — thy glad wave hath a tone of greeting, 
 
 Thy path is by my home : 
 Even now my children count the boars till meeting. 
 
 Oh, ransom'd ones, I come I 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Go, tell the seas that chain shall bind thee never, 
 
 Sound on by hearth and shrine I 
 Sing through the hills that thou art free foreveiv— 
 \ Lift up thy voice, Rhine I 
 
TBDB BEB HIVE. 
 
 185 
 
 41. The Bee-hiye. 
 
 / TVI A.TURB affords but few more striking evidgoces of the 
 
 ' -L ' wisdom and the goodness of the Creator; than may be olv 
 
 served in the labors of bees. The observer is at a loss which 
 
 to admire most, the wonderful manner in which these insects 
 
 .are adwted to their circumstances, or the unity, industry. 
 
 loyalty, and sagacity which prevail among them. 
 
 2. When they begin to work in their hives, they divide 
 themselves into four companies ; one of which roves the fieldti 
 in search of materials ; another employs itself in laying out 
 the bottom and partitionin of their cells ; a third is employed 
 in smoothing the walls ; and the foiurth company brings food 
 for the rest, or relieves those who return with their respective 
 burdens. 
 
 3. But they are not kept constantly at one employment ; 
 they often change the tasks assigned them ; those that have 
 been at work, being permitted to go abroad, and those that 
 have been in the fields take their places 
 
 4. They seem even to have signs by which they understand 
 eadh other ; for when any of them wants food, be holds out 
 his trunk towards the bee from which he expects it. The 
 latter, understaading the de^e of his companion, immediately 
 
186 
 
 THE VOUHTH beadeb. 
 
 deposits for his nse a small quantity of honey. Their diligent ' 
 and labor are so great that in a few days they are enabled to 
 make colls ^ fBcicnt for several thousand bees. In the plan 
 and formatiuu of these cells they display a woiidt-r/'ul sagacity, 
 
 6. The danger of being stung by bees, may be in a great 
 measure prevented by remaining quiet. A thousand bees will 
 fly and bjjzz about a pereon without hurting him, if ho stands 
 perfectly still and does not disturb them even if they f'^e near 
 his face. It is said that a person is in perfect safe m the 
 midst of a swarm of bees, if he is careful to shut hi mouth, 
 and breathe gently through his nostrils, -f^ 
 
 6. Many amusing stories are told about the ciTect proved 
 by the sting of bees. In 1825, a mob attacked the house of 
 a gentleman in Germany. He endeavored in vain to dissqgii^e 
 them from their designs ; at length when every thing else liad 
 failed, he ordered hisliervants to bring a lai'ge bee-hive which 
 he threw into the midst of the enraged multijtiUde. The result 
 answered his expectations. The mob|ifig, stung by the bees, 
 immediately fled in all directions, and thus gave the gentleman 
 time to escape from their fury. 
 
 1. Bcey have one fault common to bad boys, they are in- 
 clined fo f irht among themselves. Quarrels and combats are 
 freq'ati t auvjng them Sometimes it seems that then* contests 
 are cocmieaced in the hive, as the combatants may often be 
 seen coming out in the greatest fury, and joining in the deadly 
 stdfe the moment they reach the door of the hive. In some 
 cases a bee peaceably settled on the outside of the hive is rude- 
 ly jostled by another, and then a fierce struggle is conunenced, 
 each endeavoring to obtain the advantage of the position. 
 
 8. They turn, dance about, throttle each other, and such is 
 their bitter eagerness, tb;?! a person can approach near to them 
 without then: perceiving it. Other tunes, the combat takes 
 place in the hive, and in those cases the contest usually con- 
 tinues until one kills the other ; then the victor takes up the 
 dead body of lus antagonist and carries it outside the hive. 
 
 9. Bees are remarkable for their industry, and those among 
 them that will not, or cannot work, are driven from the hive 
 and not pennitted to return. 
 
THE OBILD'B wish IN JUNE. 
 
 187 
 
 42. The Child's Wish in June. 
 
 1. TliTOTHER, dear mother, the winds are at plig* 
 -WJ- Prithee, let me be idle to-day : 
 
 Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie 
 Languidly, under the bright blue sky. 
 
 2. See, how slowly the p* t slides ; 
 Look, how the vioicv ides ; 
 Even the butterfly rr ose. 
 And scarcely sips the l^ vucis .s he goes. 
 
 8. Poor Tray is asleep in the noojiday sun, 
 And the flies go about him one l)y one ; 
 And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace, 
 Without ever thinking of washing her face. 
 
 4, Tliere flies a bird to a neighboring tree, 
 But very lr.zily flieth he, 
 And he sits and twitters a gentle note, 
 That scarcely ruffles his little throat. 
 
 6. You bid me be busy ; but, mother, hear 
 
 How the humdrum grasshopper soundeth near ; 
 And the soft west wind is so light in its play, 
 It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray. 
 
 6. I wish, oh, I wish I was yonder cloud. 
 That sails about with its misty shroud ; 
 Books and work I no more should see. 
 And I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee. 
 

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THE FOUBTH READBB. 
 
 43. The Mabtyb's Bot. ' 
 
 WE have a tale to tell our yonng readers, of Rome in the 
 early days of the Christian religion. 
 
 In the third centmy after Christ, towards the close of a mild 
 September day, in one* of the most imposing private boildings, 
 dwelt a noble Roman matron. 
 
 At the time that we discover her she is bosily engaged over 
 a piece of work, which evidently has no peroral use. Upon 
 a long rich strip of gold cloth she is embroidering with still 
 richer gold thread ; and occasionally she has recourse to one 
 or another of several elegant cag^ts upon the table, from 
 which she takes out a pearl, or a gem set in gold, and inbro* 
 duces it into the design. It looks as if the precious omsr 
 ments of earlier days were being devoted to some higher 
 purpose. 
 
 2. But as time goes on, some little uneasiness may be ob- 
 served to come over her calm thoughts, hitherto absorbed, to 
 all appearance, in her work. She now occasionally raises her 
 eyes from it towards the entrance ; sometimes she listens for 
 footsteps, and seems disappointed. She looks up towards the 
 sun; then perhaps turns her glance towards a depsydra or 
 water-clock, on a bracket near her ; but just as a feeling of 
 more serious an^ety begins to make an impression on her 
 countenance, a cheerful rap strikes the house-door, and she 
 bendslorward with a radiant look to meet the welcc^me visitor. 
 
 8. It is a youth full of grace, and sprightlmess, and candor^ 
 that comes forward with light and bqg^c^t steps across the 
 %td8m, towards the mner hall ; and we shidl hardly find time 
 to sketch him before he reaches it. He is about fourteen 
 years old, but tall for that age, with elegance of form a^d 
 manliness of bearing. His bare neck and limbs are well devel- 
 oped by healthy exercise ; his features display an open and 
 warm heart ; while his lofty forehead, Kmod which his brown 
 hair naturally curls, beams with a bright intelligence. A bun- 
 dle of papers and vellum rolls fastened toc^ther, and carritd 
 
nm iujgrm% bot. 
 
 160 
 
 by an old serrant beldiid him, shows ns that he is just return* 
 ing home from school *^ 
 
 4. While we have been thus noting him, he has received his 
 mother's emtotce, and has set himself low by her feet. She 
 gazes upon him for some time in silence, as if to discover in 
 his countenance the canse of his nnnsoal delay, for he is an 
 honr late in his return. Bat he meets her glance with so 
 frank a look, and with snch a smUe of innocence, that every 
 dond of donbt is in a moment dis^led, and sEe addresses him 
 as follows: 
 
 6. "What has defined yon to-day, my dearest boy? No 
 accident, I trust, has happened to yon on the way ?'' 
 
 "Oh, none, I assure yon, sweetest mother ; on the contrary, 
 all has been delightfiil, — so much so, that I can scarcely ven- 
 ture to tell you." 
 
 A look of soft smiling entreaty drew from the open-hearted 
 boy a delicious laugh as he continued : 
 
 6. ""V^ell, I suppose I must. You know I am never happy, 
 and cannot sleep, if I have failed to tell yon all the bad and 
 the good of the day about myself." (The mother smiled again, 
 wondering what tlie bad was.) " I was reading the other day 
 that the Scythians each evening cast into an urn a white or a 
 black stone, according as the day had been happy or unhappy ; 
 If I had to do so, it would sorve to mark, in white or black, 
 the days on which I have, or have not, an opportunity of re> 
 lating to you all that I have done. But to-day, for the first 
 time, I have a donbt, a fear of consdence, whether I ought to 
 tell you alL» 
 
 7. Did the mother's heart flutter more than nsnal, as from 
 a first anxiety, or was there a softer solicitude dimming her 
 eye, that the youth should seize her hand and put it tenderly 
 to his Ups whUe he thus replied ? 
 
 "Fear nothing, mother most beloved, your son haa done 
 nothing that may give you pain. Only say, do you wish to 
 hear aU that has befallen me to-day, or only the cause of my 
 late return home 7" . . 
 
 "Tell me all, dear Paucratins," she answered; "nothii^ 
 that concerns yon can be indifferent to me." 
 
11K) 
 
 THE VCWrK VBtasiBB, 
 
 8. "Well, then,'' he began, " this last day cf my frequent- 
 ing school appears to me to have been shigo^ly blessed, and 
 yet fall of strange occurences. First, I was crowned as the 
 successful co mpetit or in a declamation, which our good mas- 
 ter Cassianus set us for our work during the morning hours ; 
 and this led, as you will hear, to some singular discoveries. 
 'The subject was, 'That the real philosopher should be ever 
 ready to die for truth.' I never heard any thing so cold or 
 insipid (I hope it is not wrong to say so) as the composilions 
 read by my companions. It was not their fault, poor fellows I 
 what truth can they possess, and what jnducemMits can they 
 have, to die for any of then: vain opinions. 
 
 9. " But to a Christian, what charming snggestjons such a 
 theme naturally makes I And so I felt it. My heart gl^ed, 
 and all my thoughts seemed to bum, as I wrote my essay, fhll 
 of the lessons /ou have taught me, and of the domestic examr 
 ples that are before me. The son of a martyr could not feel 
 otherwise. But when my turn came to read my declamation, 
 I found that my feelings had nearly fatally betrayed me. In 
 the warmth of my recitation, the word 'Ohristian' escaped 
 my lips instead of ' philospher,' and ' faith ' instead of ' troth.' 
 At the first mistake, I saw Cassianus start ; at the second, 
 I saw a tear ^ten in his eye, as bending lovmgly towards 
 me, he said, in a whisper, ' Beware, my child ; there are sharp 
 ears listening.'" 
 
 10. "What, then," interropted the mother, "is Cassiaut » 
 Christian ? I chose his school for yon because it was in the 
 highest repute for learning and for morality ; and aow, indeed, 
 I thank God that I did so. But in these days of danger and 
 apprehension we are obliged to live as strangers in our own- 
 land, scarcely knowing the faces of our brethren. Certainly, 
 had Cassianus proclaimed his faith, his school would soon have 
 been deserted. But go on, my dear boy. Were his appre- 
 hensions well grounded?" 
 
 11. "I fear so ; for while the great body of my schoolfel- 
 lows, not noticing these slips, vehemently applauded my hearty 
 declamation, I saw the dark eyes of Corvinus bent scowlingly 
 i^n me, as he Mt his lip in manifest anger." 
 
^Kl lCAaTIB'0 Bor. 
 
 m 
 
 "AM who is he, my child, that was so diapkased, and 
 wherefore?" 
 
 "He is the oldest and strongest, bat, nnfortnnately, the 
 doUest boy in the school Bat this, yon know, is not his 
 faalt. Only, I know not why, he seems ever to hav$ had an 
 ill-will and grudge against me, the cause of which I cannot 
 understand." "^ 
 
 "Did he say aaght to yoa, or do ?" 
 
 12. "Yes, and was the cause of my delay. For when we 
 went forth from school into the field by the river, he addressed 
 me in sultin gly in the presence of our companions, and said, 
 'Gome, Pancratius, this, I understand, is the last tune we 
 meet here (he laid a particular emphasis on the word) ; but I 
 have a long score to demand payment of from you. Yoa have 
 loved to show your superiority in school over me and others 
 older and better than yourself: I saw your supe(fiil^ous looks 
 at me as you spoated your high-flown declamation to-day ; ay, 
 and I caught ex^essions in it which you may live to rue, and 
 that very soon ; for my father, you well know, is Prefect of 
 the city (the mother sightly started) ; and something is pre^ 
 paring which may nearly concern you. Before you leave us 
 I must have my revenge. If yon are worthy of your name, 
 and it be not an empty word,'*' let us fairly contend in more 
 manly s^e than that of the style and tables.f Wrestle with 
 me, or try the cestus X against me. I bum to humble yoa as 
 you deserve before these witnesses of your iuso^nt triumphs.'" 
 
 13. The anxious mother bent eagerly forward as she listened, 
 and scarcely breathed. " And what" she exclaimed. " did you 
 answer, my dear son?" 
 
 "I told him gently that he was quite mistaken ; for never 
 had I consciously done any thing that could give pain to him 
 or any of my schoolfellows ; nor did I ever dream of claiming 
 
 * The paneratium was the exercise which comhined all other penonal 
 contesta ; wrestling, boxing, &c. 
 
 fThe implements of writing in schools, the tablets being coveted 
 with wax, on which the letters were traced by the sharp point, e£EtM!iBd 
 by the flat top, of the style. 
 
 X The hand-babdages worn in pugiUetic combats. 
 
192 
 
 THE FOUftTH REAPER. 
 
 i. I 
 
 BQperiority over them./ 'And as to what yon propose/ I 
 added, 'yon know, Gorvinns, that I have always refused to 
 indulge in personal com^^ats, which, beginning in a cool trial 
 of skill, end in an angry strife, hatrgd, and wish for revenge. 
 
 14. "'How mnch less conld I think of entering on them 
 now, when you avow that yon are anxious to begin them with 
 those evil feelings which are usually their bad end?' Our 
 schoolmates had now formed a curcle round us ; and I clearly 
 saw that they were all against me, for they had hoped to enjoy 
 some of the delights of their cruel games ; I therefore cheer- 
 ftilly added, 'And now, my comrades, good-by, and may all 
 happiness attend yon. I part ^rom yon as I have lived with 
 you, in peace.' 'Not so,' replied Oorvinus, now purple in the 
 §ace with fury ; 'but'" — 
 
 15. The boy's countenance became crimsoned, his voice 
 quivered, his body trembled, and, half ch^ed, he sobbed out, 
 " I coimot go on ; I dare not tell the rest ! " 
 
 "I entreat you, for God's sake, and for the love you bear 
 your Other's memory," said the mother, placing her hand 
 upon her son's head, "conggal nothing from me. I shaU never 
 again have rest if you tell me not alL What fhrther said or 
 did Corvinus?" 
 
 The boy recovered himself by a moment's pause and a silent 
 pray^, and then proceeded : 
 
 16. '"Not so 1 ' exclaimed Corvinus, 'not so do yon depart, 
 cowardly worshipper of an ass'r; head ! Tou have concealed 
 your abode from us, but I will find you out ; tOl then bear 
 this token of my detet^gined purpose to be revenged !' So 
 saying he dealt me a ftirions blow upon the face, which made 
 me reel and stagger, while a shout of savage delight broke 
 forth from the boys around us." 
 
 He burst into tears, which relieved bim, and then went on. 
 
THB MABTTBTs BOT. 
 
 198 
 
 )8e,' I 
 sed to 
 >1 trial 
 ei^. 
 1 them 
 m with 
 > Our 
 deaxly 
 bo enjoy 
 5 cheer- 
 may all 
 red with 
 3 in the 
 
 lis voice 
 ibed oat, 
 
 l^on bear 
 ber hand 
 lall never 
 r said or 
 
 d anient 
 
 m depart, 
 concealed 
 hen bear 
 edl' So 
 lich made 
 ght broke 
 
 went on. 
 
 44. The Mabtsb's BoY—conduded, 
 
 ,-y 
 
 OH, how I felt my blood boil at that moment 1 how my 
 heart seemed barsting within me ; and a voice appeared 
 to whi^r in my ear scornfully the name of 'coward !' It 
 surely was an evil spirit.. I felt that I was strong enough — 
 my rising anger made me so — to seize my unjust assailant by 
 the throat, and cast him ga^ng on the ground. I heard al- 
 ready the shout of applause that would have hailed my victory 
 and turned the tables against him. It was the hardest strug^ 
 gle of my life; never were flesh and blood so strong within 
 me. God 1 may they never be again so tremendously pow- 
 erful!" ^ 
 
 "And wnat did yon do, then, my darling boy?" gasped 
 forth the trembling matron. 
 
 2. He replied, " My good angel coqguered the demon lit my 
 side. I thought of my blessed Lord in the house of Caiphas, 
 surrounded by scoffing enemies, and struck ignomigipasly on 
 the cheek, yet meek and forgiving. Gould I wish to be other^^ 
 wise ? I stretched forth my hand to Gorvinus, and said, ' May 
 God forgivJ9 you, as I freely and fully do ; and may he bless 
 you abu nda ntly.* Gassianus came up at that moment, having 
 seen all from a distance, and the youthful crowd quickly dig 
 persed. I entreated him, by our conmion faith, now acknowl- 
 edged between us, not to pursue Gorvinus for what he had 
 done ; and I obtained his promise. And now, sweet mother," 
 murmured the boy, in soft, gentle accents, into his parent's 
 bosom, " do you not think I may call this a happy day ?" 
 
 3. Silently, and almost unknowingly, he had changed his. 
 position, and was kneeling before her; and well he might; 
 for was she not to him as a guardian spirit, who had shidded ' 
 him ever fbom evil ; or might he not well see in her the living 
 saint whose virtues had been his model from childhood ? Lo- 
 cina broke the silence, in a tone full of grave emoticm. ^ 
 
 4. " The time has at length come my dear child," she said, 
 
 •^W 
 
194 
 
 TBB VOUBTH nwAniiiB. 
 
 *' which has long been the subject of my earnest prayer, which 
 I have yearned fw in the eiaberance of maternal love. Eager- 
 ly have I watched in thee the opening germ of each Christian 
 Tirtue, and thanked Qod as it appeared. I have noted thy 
 docility^ thy gentleness, thy diligence, thy piety, and thy love 
 of God and man. I have seen with joy thy lively faith, and 
 Ihy indifference to wildly things, and thy tenderness to the 
 Ipoor. Bat I have been waiting with anxiety for the hour 
 which should decisiTely show me, whether thou wouldst be 
 content with the poor legacy of thy mother^s weakly virtue, 
 or art the true inheritor of thy martyred father's nobler gifts. 
 That hour, thank ^od, has come to-day I*^ 
 
 5. "What have I done, then, that should thus have changed 
 or nused thy opinion of me ?'' asked Pancratins. 
 
 *' Listen to me, my son. This day, which was to be the last 
 of thy school education, methinks that our merciful Lord h&s 
 been pleased to give thee a lesson worth it all ; and to prove 
 that thou hast put off the things of a child, and must be treated 
 hewyforth as a man : for thou canst think and speak, yea, and 
 act as one." 
 
 ** How dost thoa mean, dear mother ? " 
 
 6. "What thou hast told me of thy declaration this morn- 
 ing," she replied, "proves to me how full thy heart mu^t have 
 been of noble and generous thoughts ; thou art too sinq^ re and 
 honest to have written, and fervently expressed, that it was a 
 glorious duty to die for the faith, if thou hadst not believed 
 it, and felt it." 
 
 "And truly I do believe and feel it," int^nipted the boy. 
 "What greater hi^piness can a Christian desire on earth?" v^ 
 
 1. "Yes, my child, thou sayest most truly," continued Lu« 
 ' cina. " But I should not have been satisfied with words. 
 What followed afterwards has proved to me that thou canst 
 bear in trepi dly and patiently, not merely pain, but what I 
 know it must have been harder for thy young patriciaii blood 
 to stand, the stinging ignominy of a disgraceful blow, and the 
 scornful words and glances of an unpitj^ng multitude. Nay 
 more ; thou hast proved thyself stron^enough to forgive and 
 to pray for thine enemy., This day thou hast trodden the 
 
THB MABTIB'B BOT. 
 
 195 
 
 •, which 
 Eager- 
 Jhristian 
 >ted thy 
 thy low 
 «th, and 
 8 to the 
 the hour 
 )aldst be 
 ,ly virtue, 
 bier gifts. 
 
 e changed 
 
 be the last 
 Lord hab 
 d to prove 
 i be treated 
 ,k, yea, and 
 
 , this mom- 
 murit have 
 gingf re and 
 at it was a 
 lot believed 
 
 jd the boy. 
 
 leartV'Tf^ 
 ntinued Lu« 
 irith words. 
 
 thou canst 
 |bat what I 
 
 iciari Wood 
 low, and the 
 litude. Nay 
 
 for^ve and 
 
 trodden the 
 
 higherpathfl of the mountain, with the croM upon thy shoulders ; 
 one step more, and thou wilt plant it on its sunmiit. Thou 
 hast proved thyself the g enuin e son of the martyr Quintinus. 
 Dost thou wish vo be like fiim?" 
 
 8. " Mother, mother 1 dearest, sweetest mother I'' broke oct 
 the panting youth ; " could I be his genuine son, and not wish 
 to resemble him ? Though I never enjoyed the happiness of 
 knowing him, has not his image been ever before my mind 7 
 Has he not been the very pride of my thoughts ? 
 
 9. " When each year the solemn commemoration has been 
 made of him, as of one of the white-robed army that surrounds 
 the Lamb, in whose blood he washed his garments, how have 
 my heart and my flesh exulted in his glory ; and how have I 
 prayed to him, in the warmth of fili^ piety, that he would ob- 
 tain for me, not fame, not distinction, not wealth, not earthly 
 joy, but what he valued more than all these : nay, that the 
 only thing which he has left on earth may be applied, as I 
 know he now considers it would most usefully and'mbst nobly 
 be." 
 
 "What is that, my son?" 
 
 10. " It is his blood," replied the youth, "which yet remains 
 flowing in my veins, and in these only. I know he must wish 
 that it too, like what he held in his own, may be poured out 
 in love of his Redeemer, and in te stimo ny of his faith." 
 
 " Enough, enough, my child 1 " exclaimed the mother, thrill- 
 ing with a holy emotion ; " take from thy neck the badge dt 
 childhood, I have a better token to give thee." 
 
 He obeyed, and put away the golden bnlig. 
 
 11. "Thou hast inherited from thy father," spoke the 
 mother, with still deeper solenmity of tone, " a noble name, a 
 high station, ample riches, ever}' worldly advw^ge. But 
 there is one treasure which I havo reserved for thee from his 
 inhe ritan ce, till' thou shouldst prove thyi elf worthy of it. I 
 have concealed it from thee till no\y ; though I valued it more 
 than gold and jewels. It is now time that I make it over to 
 thee." "^ 
 
 12. With trembling hands she drew teom her neck the 
 golden chain which hung round it ; and for the first time her 
 
196 
 
 THE FOUnTH nSADER. 
 
 •on saw that it supported a small bag or parse richly em- 
 broidered with pearls. She opened it, and drew from it a 
 sponge, dry indeed, but deeply stained. 
 
 "This, too, is thy father's blood, Pancratios," she said, 
 with faltering voiqe and streaming eyes. " I gathered it my-' 
 self from his death-wound, as, disguised, I stood by his side, 
 and saw him die for Christ." 
 
 She gazed upon it fondly, and kissed it fervently ; and her 
 gushing tears fell on it, and moistened it once more. And 
 thus liquefied again, its color' glowed bright and warm, as if it 
 had only just left the martyr's heart. 
 
 13. The holy matron put it to her son's quivering lips, and 
 they were empurpled with its sanctifying touch. He venerated 
 the sacred relic with the deepest emotions of a Ghristian and 
 a son ; and felt as if his father's spirit had descended into 
 him, and stirred to its depths the full vessel of his heart, that 
 its waters might be ready freely to flow. The whole family 
 thus seemed to him once more united. 
 
 14. Lucina replaced her treasure in its shrine, and hung it 
 round the neck of her son, saying : " When next it is moist- 
 ened, may it be from a nobler stream than that which gushes 
 from a weak woman's eyes ! " But Heaven thought not so ; 
 and the future combatant was anointed, and the future martyr 
 was consecrated, by the blood of his father mingled with his 
 mother's tears. 
 
 45. Anna's OFFEBZNa oi* Samuel. 
 
 SAMUEL, a renowned and holy prophet, was from his in- 
 fancy trained up to virtue. Anna, his mother, had for 
 many years been married to Elcana, without having any chil- 
 dren. Overwhelmed with the excess of sorrdw, she wept and 
 prayed to God for comfort to her afl^ction ; she joined fasting 
 to her prayers, and bound herself by vow, if she should obtain 
 a son, to consecrate him all the days of his life to the divine 
 service. Samuel was the fruit of his mother's piety, and the 
 recompense of her faith. 
 
anna's offebino to bakuel. 
 
 197 
 
 hly em- 
 
 )IU it A 
 
 tie said, 
 i it my-' 
 his side, 
 
 2. In a son like him, says St. Ohrysostom, Anna became 
 more happy than if she had been mother of the greatest prince 
 upon earth. She received him as a present firom the hand of 
 Uod, and in compliance with her vow, hastened to give him 
 baclc by a solemn act of religion. 
 
 and her 
 re. And 
 Q, as if it 
 
 ; lips, and 
 venerated 
 istian and 
 mded into 
 kieart, that 
 iole family 
 
 md hnng it 
 it is moistr 
 ticb gushes 
 gbt not so ; 
 tare martyr 
 ed with bis 
 
 fi-om bis in- 
 ler, bad for 
 ng any cbil- 
 be wept and 
 loined fasting 
 jbould obtain 
 to the divine 
 Lty, and the 
 
 8. As soon as she had weaned him, she carried him to the 
 tabernacle, pnt him into the hands of Heli, the high-priest, 
 and. consecrated him irrevocably, as she had promised, to the 
 service of her Creator. Gratitude and piety alone guided the 
 tender feelings of her love ; she parted with her child at a 
 
196 
 
 TBM FOURTH BBADBB. 
 
 ! 
 
 time when the eharros and rnnileii of innocence made him the 
 more dear. She Icnew what was good for her son. and what 
 woa ac cepta ble to God. 
 
 4. iter sacrifice in some sort seems to resemble that of 
 Abraham. She oflercd to Qod her darling, her only son ; she 
 offered him for life, and stripped herself of all fature claim 
 over him. The mother's piety was repaid by the vhtnes of 
 her son. The little Samuel mi^j||j0red to the Lord under 
 Hell's direction by day, and at night slept within the taber- 
 nacle, near the ark of God, and there it was that God favored 
 him with a special rev elatio n, the preparatory walk of hit 
 Aiture greatness. """^ *"* 
 
 5. Daring the silence of the uight, he heard a voice calling 
 him by his naJbe; unskilled as yet in the language of the 
 liord, the holf youth tConght that it had been Hcli's voice, 
 hastily rose, and asked hun what he wanted. Hell told him 
 he had not called, bade hhn go and compose hhnself to sleep. 
 Samuel had scarce laid himself down, when the same voice 
 called him up again ; he ran to the high-priest, who ordered 
 him to return and sleep. Samuel was called the thhrd time ; 
 he again rose and went to Heli, who perceived that the Lord 
 had called the youth. " Go sleep,'' said he to him ; " and if 
 thou hear the voice again, thou shalt answer, 'Speak, Lord, 
 for thy servant heareth.'" 
 
 6. Samuel rethred to take his rest, and upon hearing himself 
 called by name for the fourth time, answered in the words 
 that Heli had commanded him. The Lord then informed 
 Samuel of the hieavy judgments which were socm to fall upon 
 the higli^riest and his family, in punishment of shis that were 
 too enoQQous to be ex piat ed by the sacrifices they offered. 
 He declared that he could no longer bear the sinftil negligence 
 of a father, who, knowing the disorders, and seemg the pro- 
 fane excesses of his two sons, had contented himself with a 
 gentle rep rima nd, when a just zeal for the honor and sanctity 
 of God's altar required the most exe mpla ry severity. 
 
 7. Heli was very pressing the next morning to know what 
 the Lord had said. Samuel showed a great unwillingness to 
 speak, and nothing but Ueli's imp ortu nity could have prevailed 
 
the 
 irbat 
 
 it of 
 
 ; she 
 
 claim 
 
 lesof 
 
 under 
 
 taber- 
 
 iTored 
 
 of bis 
 
 calling 
 of the 
 
 g voice, \ 
 M him 
 U> sleep, 
 le voice 
 ordered 
 rd time ; 
 he Lord 
 "and if 
 k,Lord, 
 
 gUmeelf 
 
 he words 
 
 informed 
 
 all upon 
 
 that were 
 
 offered, 
 ttcgligence 
 
 the pro- 
 jelf with a 
 id sanctity 
 
 enow what 
 lUngnessto 
 
 e' 
 
 THB BOT AMD TBM CBXU> JI8UB. 
 
 IM 
 
 y 
 
 upon hhn to impart the mel anch oly teeret. Heli hnmbly rob* 
 mitted to the divine decrees, and with the deepest regret fui* 
 his past miHconduct, liecamo sonsilile, tliat to ftilfll the duties 
 of a father, it was not enough to he singly good, that he more- 
 over oaght to have endeavored to instil goodness into his 
 children; he aclcnowledged his n^lect, and resigned hhnself. 
 to the punishmoiit thereof. 
 
 8. Holi, says St. Qregorj, has many fanitators both in th« 
 Church and private families. Pastors silently behold the 
 disorders of their flocks, which they ought to correct; and 
 parents, either fhxn indolenoe or takte fondness, suflEer those 
 passions to grow up in their children, which ought to have 
 been cheeked at their first appearance. Such a neglect tends 
 to the ruin of their souls, and draws down God's displeasure, 
 both upon themselves and their children. 
 
 46. ThB BoT AMD THE ChILD JeBTO. 
 
 1. A MONO green pleasant meadows, 
 .^ All in a grove so mild, 
 
 Was set a marble image 
 Of the Virgin and the Child. 
 
 2. There oft, on summer evedngs^ 
 
 A lovely boy would rove, 
 To play beside the fanage 
 That sanctified the grove. 
 
 8. Oft sat his mother by hhn, 
 •Among the shadows dhn, 
 And told how the Lord Jesui 
 Was once a child like hiuL 
 
 4. "And now fhxn highest heaven 
 He doth look down each day. 
 And sees whate'er thou doest, 
 And hears what thou doet say.* 
 
200 ^^BB VOUBTH n»AT>ii;B. 
 
 5. Thus spake his tender mother ; 
 
 And on an evening bright, 
 When the red ronnd son descended 
 'Mid clouds of crimson light, — 
 
 6. Again the boy was playing ; 
 
 And earnestly said he, 
 "Oh, beautiful Lord Jesns, 
 Come down and play with me. 
 
 1. I will find thee flowers the fairest. 
 And weave for thee a crown ; 
 I will get thee ripe red strawberries 
 If thou wilt but. come down. 
 
 8. 
 
 It 
 
 Oh, holy, holy mother. 
 Put him down from off thy knee ; 
 For in these silent meadows 
 There are none to play with me.** 
 
 9. Thus spake the boy so lovely ; 
 The while his mother heard ; 
 But on his prayer she ponder'd, . 
 And spake to him no word. 
 
 10. That self-same night she dream'd 
 
 A lovely dream of joy ; 
 She'thought she saw young Jesus, 
 There playing with the boy. 
 
 11. "And for the fruits and flowers 
 
 Which thou hast brought to me. 
 Rich blessings shall be given, 
 A thousand-fold to thee. 
 
 12. "For in the fields of heaven 
 
 Tliou sLalt roam with me at wUl, 
 And of bright fruits celestial 
 Shall have, dear child, thy fill." 
 
TBB HOLY XnGHABfflr. 
 
 18. Thus tenderly and kindly 
 
 The fair child Jesns spoke ; 
 And fiill of carefal musings, 
 The anxious mother woke. 
 
 14. And thus it was accomplished : 
 
 In a short month and a day, 
 That lovely boy, so gentle, . 
 • Upon his death-bed lay. 
 
 15. And thus he spoke in dying : 
 
 " O mother dear I I see 
 The beautiful child Jesus 
 A-coming down to me ; — 
 
 16. "And in his hand he beareth 
 
 Bright flowers as white as snow, 
 And red and juicy strawberries ; 
 Dear mother, let me go.'' 
 
 It. He died — ^but that fond mother 
 Her sorrow did restrain ; 
 For she knew he was with Jesus, 
 And she asked him not again. 
 
 201 
 
 47. The Holt Euchaeist. 
 
 ¥E invite the at tenti on of our young readers to the most 
 holy and the most sublime of the sacraments — ^the Holy 
 Eucharist. To die for one's friend, is regarded as the highest 
 act of human virtue ; but our Divine Lord has done more than 
 this. 
 
 2. Not only has he offered his life as a sacrifice, to save us 
 from endless misery, from that just puni^hinent which we have 
 merited by our sins, but with a love more tender than that of 
 a mother, he has left us his own sacred body and blood to be 
 our food and nourishment in our journey through this world. 
 
 9* 
 
202 
 
 THE FOUBTH BEADEB. 
 
 8. The Holy Eucharist is then the sacrament which contains 
 the body and blood of Christ, nnder the form or appearance 
 of bread and wine. The history of this sacred ins titut ion is 
 contained lu a few words. Jesus had promised his disciples 
 that he would give them his body and blood to be their food. 
 
 When he first made this promise, many of his followers would 
 not believe his word, and left him. But his Apostles believed 
 what he told them, though they did not know in what manner 
 he would redeem his promise. 
 
 4. As the time approached when onr blessed Lord was 
 about to leave this world, he assembled together his twelve 
 faithful Apostles, for the purpose of eating with them his last 
 supper. After this supper was over, Jesus taking bread into 
 his sacred hands, blessed it, and inmi^diately it was changed 
 into his own body, which he gave to his Apostles, saying, 
 " This is my body." 
 
 5. He then took the wine which was npon the table, and 
 blessed it, and it was changed into his blood, which htf also 
 
THF HOLT EU0HABI8T. 
 
 203 
 
 iins 
 ,uce 
 nis 
 pies 
 ood. 
 
 would 
 slieved 
 ionner 
 
 be, and 
 IhtfaliO 
 
 gave to his Apostles, k cig, "This is my blood of the New 
 Te stam ent, which shall be shed for many unto the remission 
 of sins." And then added : "Do this for a comm emora tion 
 of me," 
 
 6. Happy moment I when the Apostles received for the first 
 time the body and blood of our Divine Lord. We may well 
 injgjjape the love, the fervor, the awe which filled their hearts 
 at that august moment. With what reverence did St. Peter 
 approach his Lord to receive from his sacred hands the adora- 
 ble elements of his body and blood. What sentiments of 
 tender affection glowed in the bosom of the youthful St. John, 
 as he bent before Jesus, to receive, for the first time, the 
 "Holy Communion." 
 
 t. This holy sacrament is called the Eucharist, which sig- 
 nifies thanksgiving, and is applied to it in rememjffance of 
 the thanksgiving which our Saviour offered at the time of its 
 institution, and to remind us of the grateful thanks we ought 
 to render to our Divine Lord every time we receive it. It is 
 sometimes called the LorcPs Supper, because it was instituted 
 at the last supper which Jesus took with his Apostles. It is 
 most commonly called, at the present time, the Hcly Commu- 
 nion, because by it we are united so intimately with Christ, 
 and forms a bond of union among Cathofics throughout the 
 world. ^-^ 
 
 8. This holy sacrament was prefigured in the old law by 
 Mel chis edec, who offered sacrifice, using bread and wine. But 
 the most express figure was the killing and eating of the Pas- 
 chal Lamb, the blood of which was sprinkled on the doors of 
 those whom the destroying angel was to^'^re. So Christ is 
 called the Lamb of God, and his blood being sprinkled over 
 the earth, has redeemed man from sin. 
 
 9. The matter oFthis sacrament consists of wheat bread, 
 and wine of the grape, which Christ made use of, and without 
 these the con secra tion would not be V9,lid ; a small portion of 
 water is mingled with the wine, in remembrance of the water 
 mingled with blood, which flowed flrom our Divine Saviour's 
 side, when pierced with a lance after he had expured on the 
 cross. In the early ages of the Church, communion was ^ven 
 
'S.^^-V^" 
 
 904 
 
 THB FOUBTH BEADEK 
 
 in both of these consecrated elements ;■ bnt by degrees this 
 cnstom was discontinaed* The rgceptio n nnder both forms 
 was not deemed necessary by our holy mother, the Church, 
 because Christ being wholly present under either form, who- 
 eTer receives under one kind alone, receives the true body and 
 blood of Christ. This was found necessary, also, to confound 
 certain heretics, who maintained that the consecrated bread 
 contained thTbody of Christ without his blood, and to refute 
 others, who held that the reception of both kinds was of divine 
 precept. 
 
 10. The reception of this holy sacrament, especially for the 
 first time, is the most important act of a Christian's life. 
 Children who have not received it, should look forward with 
 a longing desire to that happy period. Every action of their 
 lives, from the dawn of reason to the day of their first com- 
 munion, should be made a preparation for that sacred event. 
 They should never forget the unportant truth, that a bad 
 communion renders them the associates of devils, and marks 
 them as candidates for hell, while a good communion elevates 
 them to the comp anion ship of angels, and seals them as the 
 children of God. 
 
 48. The House of Lobetto. 
 
 THE house of Na z^et h, in which the Blessed Virgin was 
 bom ; in which oixr Divine Lord passed his holy childhood 
 and the years of his manhood until the age of thirty, became, 
 after the death of the Blessed Virgin, an object of peculiar 
 v enerat ion to the early Christians. It was converted into a 
 chapel, where mass was celebrated every day, during the first 
 centuries of the Church. Towards the close of the ninth cen- 
 tury, when Palestine was in the hands of the Ing^lels, this 
 house was by a miracle carried through the au* into Dalmatia. 
 In the same miraculous manner it was finally translated to 
 Loretto, where it now stands under the dome of a splendid 
 cathedral, which has been erected around it. 
 
THE HOUBB Of LOBKHX). 
 
 ao5 
 
 was 
 Ihood 
 came, 
 iculiar 
 nto a 
 
 first 
 h ccn- 
 tbis 
 
 matla. 
 to 
 
 flencUd 
 
 2. Sweetly low the laurels bending, 
 
 Trail their bright leaveu^on the sod, 
 For the angels are doscen<^ng, 
 
 With the'holy house of God. 
 O'er the Adriatic gliding, 
 
 Bathed in light, most heavenly fDJr, 
 Silently the air dividing. 
 
 Angels their blest burden bear ; 
 BlissM dome, most dear and holy. 
 
 Speeding softly o'er the sea, 
 Laurel branches bowing lowly, 
 
 Bid us bend the suppliant Imee. 
 
 8. Weep, Dalmatia, for the treasure 
 
 Borne from off thy sunny shore, . 
 For thy tears in untold measure, 
 
 ShaU be pour'd fore verm ore^ 
 Far from Nazareth imparled. 
 ' Lo ! our mother's home was given, 
 Weep your loss, then, broken-hearted. 
 
 Of this holy gift of heaven ; 
 Blissfril dome most dear and holy, 
 
 Speeding softly o'ef the sea. 
 Laurel branches bowing lowly, 
 
 Bid OS bend the suppliant knee. 
 
 4. Dome whose humble walls enfolded. 
 
 In the land of Galilee, 
 She, the maid whom Heaven had moulded. 
 
 Mother of our God to be ; 
 Dome wherein her infant beauty, 
 
 Infant purity, and truth. 
 Nourished were for mystic duty. 
 
 Waiting her angelic youth,* 
 Welcome, by the angels guided, 
 ' Softly o'er the smnmer sea. 
 Blest the air so late divided 
 
 By the house of Galilee. 
 
1)06 TBB SOUBTB BBADEB. 
 
 5. Blest the gFoand whereon it rested, 
 
 And forever there will bloom, 
 Flowers with light unearthly crested, 
 
 Yerdiirfr midst the desert's gloom ; 
 From {Gese walls the infant maiden. 
 
 Saintly glory ronnd her form, 
 To the Temple, sweetly laden. 
 
 Bore her tribute pore and warm ; 
 l^ot of gold, nor flowers that wither. 
 
 She her votive offering made, 
 But a holier gift bore hither, 
 
 And npon the altar laid. 
 
 6. Twas herself, the " Star of Mommg," 
 
 "LUyof Jadea^fair, 
 Sweetly God's dear shrine adorning. 
 
 Unreserved she oflfer'd there ; 
 Here returning from the Temple, 
 
 With her hdy spouse once more. 
 This sweet flower so pure and simple^ 
 
 Lived the humble life of yore ; 
 Blissful dome most dear and holy, 
 
 Speeding softjy o'er the sea. 
 Laurel branches bowing lowly. 
 
 Bid us bend the suppliant knee. 
 
 *l. Gentlest mother, humbly kneeling. 
 
 Sorrowful within thy walls,* 
 Sound of heavenly pinions stealing. 
 
 Softly, as we listen, falls ; 
 While we see thy beauty holy. 
 
 Beaming with a light divine. 
 And majestic Gabriel slowly 
 
 Enters where thy glories shine ; 
 
 ■ »•. - 
 
 * At St. Mary's Academy, near (^outh Bend, a chapel for the "Chil- 
 dren of Mary" has been erected on the exact model of the house of 
 Loretto, botii externally and internally. The designs brought from 
 Italy have been strictly followed. Our Holy Father, Pius IX., has 
 liberally endowed this chapel in the West with all th« indulgences 
 attadied to th« world-renowned pilgrimage of Lor«tta 
 
XXTBEIQB UNCmON. 
 
 Hear that ydce like pi^|pg waters, 
 Falling sweetly on the ear, 
 
 "Mary, blest of Israel's daughters, 
 God the Lord is with thee here.'' 
 
 S. "Fall of grace" 'tis he who led thee. 
 
 Sinless, pare, his chosen one ! 
 And his power shall overspread thee. 
 
 And his will in thee be done ; 
 From thy tender heart's pure fountain, 
 
 God shall be in caro ate made, 
 And the tide from sin's dark mountain, 
 
 At thy holy feet be stay'd. 
 "Handmaid of the Lord behold me," 
 
 Joyful word falls, on the ear. 
 Sinful earth let light enfold thee, 
 
 Lo ! the Word Incarnate here I 
 
 9. Fairest dome, the angel's treasure. 
 
 Earth can hold no shrine so blest, 
 And our hearts in ontold measure. 
 
 Pour their tribute here to rest ; 
 By our lo? ing Mother guarded. 
 
 Here we hope her aid to gain. 
 And our love at last rewarded. 
 
 Heaven shall echo our refirain ; 
 Blissful dome, most dear and holy, 
 
 Speeding softly o'er the sea. 
 Laurel branches bending lomlj, 
 
 Bid US bend the suppliant knee. 
 
 m 
 
 49. Extreme Unction. 
 
 THE sacrament of Extreme Unction is administered to sick 
 persons when in danger oi death, and on that account it 
 is called Extreme. It is uncertain when this sacrament was 
 
208 
 
 THE VOUBTH RWADBB. 
 
 institated, bat the GoirncQ of Trent has declared that it was 
 instituted like the other sacraments, by onr divine Lord him- 
 self. 
 
 2. That it was recogmssed as a sacrament by the Apostles 
 is evident from the Epjstle of St. James, where he says in the 
 5th chapter of his epistle : " Is any man sick among yon, let 
 him bring in the priests of the Ghnrch, and let them pray over' 
 him, anointing hhn with oil, in the name of the Lord: and 
 the prayer of faith shall save the sick man, and the Lord ohall 
 raise him up ; and if he be in sins, they shall be forgiven him.'' 
 St. Mark also relates that the Apostles anointed with oil many 
 that were sick. 
 
 3. The matter of this sacrament is oil blessed by a bishop. 
 The words used on the occasion of confering the sacrament are 
 the following : 
 
 "By this holy unction, and his own most tender mercy, 
 may the Lord pardon thee whatsoever sins, thou hast com- 
 mitted by the sight, by the hearing," and so of the other 
 senses. 
 
 4. No one, except a bishop or priest, can ad ministe r this 
 sacrament. It may be received several times, but not more 
 than once in the same sickness. Persons ought to prepare 
 for it by a good confession ; and where this is im possibl e, by 
 reason of the loss of speech, by a sincere act of contrition, 
 and detestation of their sins. 
 
 5. The parts generally anointed are the eyes, ears, nose, 
 lips, hands, and feet. The effects of Extreme Unction are, 
 first, to remit all venial sins, and mortal sins forgotten; 
 second, to heal the soul of her infirmity and weakness, and a 
 certain propensity to sin which often remams in the soul after 
 the guilt has been remitted ; third, it gives strength and grace 
 to the soul to bear with patience the pains and infirmities 
 of the body ; and lastly, it sometimes restores the corporal 
 health, as has been attested on many occa^ns. *~~~ . 
 
*<WHAT XS THAT, MOTHEB?" 
 
 ^ 
 
 b was 
 himr 
 
 ostles 
 in the 
 )u, let 
 Y over 
 : and 
 iohaU 
 I him." 
 Lmany 
 
 bishop, 
 ent are 
 
 mercy, 
 Bt com- 
 e other 
 
 60. "What is that, Mother?" 
 
 1. WHAT is that, mother ?» "The lark, my child I 
 
 V V The moon has bnt just look'd out and smiled, 
 When he starts from his hmnble, grassy nest, 
 And is up and away with the dew on his breast. 
 And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere, 
 To warble it oat m his Maker's ear. 
 Ever, my child, be thy mom's first lays 
 Toned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise." 
 
 2. "What is that, mother 1" "The dove, my son ! 
 And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan, 
 Is flowing out from her gentle breast. 
 Constant and pore by that lonely nest. 
 
 As the wave is pour'd from some crystal nm, 
 . For her distant dear one's quick return. 
 Ever, my son, be thou Uke the dove, 
 In friendship as faithful, as constant in love." 
 
 8. " What is that, mother ? " " The eagle, boy I 
 Proadly careering his coarse of joy ; 
 
210 THE FOURTH RBAPIBll. 
 
 Firm, on his own monntain Tiggr relying, 
 Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying. 
 His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun. 
 He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. 
 Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine. 
 Onward and upward, and true to the line.'' 
 
 4, "What is that, mother?" "The swan, my love I 
 He is floating down from his native grove ; 
 No loved one now, no nestling nigh. 
 He is floating down by himself to die ; 
 Death darkens his eye, and nn plum es his wings, 
 Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings. 
 Live so, my love, that when death shall come, 
 Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home." 
 
 
 ^%,. 
 
 
 ■r/VVNNf 
 
 61. Charity. 
 
 TTJBN not away your face from the poor, and harden not 
 your hearts against them." This, my child, is the beau- 
 tiful admonition of the wise man, inspired by God himself. 
 Of all tlie virtues which re%ion commends to the practice of 
 her children, charity is the most pleasing to God, the most 
 
ANECDOTES OV B0B8EB. 
 
 211 
 
 beneficial to our fellow-creatures. When the world is so M 
 of poverty and wretchedness, what wonld become of the poor, 
 if the rich did not gTve them of their abundance, and relieve 
 their wants and sofferings by the exercise of charity. 
 
 '2. Children, especially, onght to pracUse charity as far as 
 their means wUl allow. If that beautifhl vurtne be not culti- 
 vated in early youth, when the mind is fresh and the heart 
 nuspoiled by the world's rough ways, it will never bear fruit 
 in the heart in after life. 
 
 3. When little boys and girls have pocket-money given them, 
 what better can they do with, at least, a por^n of t^ than 
 bestow it on some person who is in need. If part of the 
 money spent in every family among the rich, on cakes and 
 c andi es, were only given each week to some deservmg object, 
 like the decent poor woman in the picture, it would provide 
 herself and her hungry little ones with, at least, some loaves 
 of bread. Let children think of that when they spend their 
 tiny silver pieces on worthless toys and t rashy sugarnsticks 
 that are of no earthly good to them, but are, on the contrary, 
 really inj uriou s to their health. 
 
 4. Would not the blessing which l^t poor woman seems 
 giving so ferveg^y to those good little girls, who have g^ven 
 her child bread, be worth a thousand times more to them, 
 than any thing they could buy for themselves to eat or to 
 play with ? 
 
 52. Aneodotes of Hobses. 
 
 THE method of takmg the wild horse in the forests of 
 South America, by throwing a cord (called a lasso) over 
 him, is effected by men who are mounted on tamed horses, that 
 have been trained to the business. Once made a prisoner, 
 and kept for a couple of days without food or drink, he soon 
 becomes tame and is broken-in ; but if not closely watched, he 
 will escape to hia Mends of the forest, and yet he wilV after- 
 wards allow himself readily to be taken. Several histances 
 have been known of persons who have met with their tamed 
 
TBB fOUBTB llEADElt. 
 
 nmairays In the herd, which after a long absence hare come 
 up to them, again to receive their caresses — and have again 
 become their willing slaves. By some travellers it is asserted, 
 that the wild herds endeavor by stratagem to seduce tame 
 horses to join their com mun ity. 
 
 2. We, some years since, saw the favorite charger of Bona- 
 parte: he was a handsome white barb, scarred with many 
 wounds, which the groom stated him to have received ia 
 various battles ; and he^also said that, since he hod lost his 
 master, he would not allow any stranger to monnt him ; per. 
 mitting only the groom himself the honor of dohig so. He 
 
 always ^' »oke to the ammal in French, and his commands 
 were readily obeyed. 
 
 3. He would bid him to retire, to lie down, to rise, and show 
 bow he fonght in the service of Bonaparte ; and how he sh^ri. J 
 his provisions when they were scarce. After obeymg the nro- 
 vious commands of his groom, he would, in obedience to iIlo 
 last, show hoir he shared his food, by going to a pail of 
 water, in vfhicii there was a cleanly-scraped carrot, and taking 
 the end of it iu bis month, he would bring it to the groom, 
 in whose morOi ne ple:ed the other end, and then bit it in 
 two, eating liis ovr, portion only. 
 
 4. Equine uttaiibiient somc»iine8 exhibits itself m a light 
 
ANKODOnS Of kOllSIS. 
 
 21B 
 
 as ezall^ i and creditable as that of the haman miod. Daring 
 itie Peninsular warTThe trumpeter of u Frwieh cavulrv corps 
 had a fine charger afisignod to him, of whicii .." becarno pa8- 
 Rionatcly fond, and which, by gurktlenuHH of dispositiofi and 
 uniform docility, equally evinced its affection. '^ 
 1S7 The sound of the trumpeter's voice, the 8igh^ of his 
 uniform, or the twang of his trumpet, was snfficient i throw 
 this animal it to a sEate of excitement ; and ho appeared to be 
 please I itnA ! •npy only when under the saddle of his rider. 
 Intl' od ho wat> unruly and useless to everybody else ; for once, 
 on )"}v ■ removed to another part of the forces, and consigned 
 y o a youu>^ officer, he resolutely refUsed to perform his evolu- 
 tions, bolted straight to the trumpeter's station, and there 
 took his stand, jostling alongside his former master. 
 
 6. This animal, on being restored to the trumpeter, carried 
 him, during several of the Peninsular campaigns, through many 
 difficulties' and hair-breadth escapes. At last the corps to 
 which he belonged was worsted, and in the confusion of retreat 
 the trumpeter was mortally wounded. Dropping from his horse, 
 his body was found, many days after the eng^ement, stretched 
 on the sward, with the fiuthful charger standing beside it. 
 
 *l. Daring the long interval, it seems that he had never quit- 
 ted the trumpeter's side. But had stood sentinel over his corgse, 
 scaring away the birds of prey, and remaining totally heedless 
 of his own privations. When foand, he was in a sadly-reduced 
 condition, partly from loss of blood through wounds, but chiefly 
 from want of ibod, of which, in the excess of his grief, he could 
 not 1)e prevailed on to partake. 
 
 8. Though Providence seems to have implanted in the horse 
 K beuovolent disposirrion, with at the sa.^e time a certain awe 
 of the human race, yet there are instances on record of his 
 recollecting i njurie s, and fearfully reven^'ug them. A person 
 near Boston (Mass.), was in the habit, whcu'^ver he wished to 
 catch his horse in the field, of taking a qpantity of corn in a 
 measure, by way of b^. ,, , 
 
 9. On calling to him, the horse would come up and eat the 
 corn, while the bn^ was put over his head. Bat the owner 
 ha?mg deceived the animal soreral tines, by callmg him when 
 
214 
 
 THK iOUBTH BEADEB. 
 
 he had no com in the measure, the horse at length began to 
 suspect the de^n ; and coming up one day as usual, on being 
 called, looked into the measure, and. seeing it empty, turned 
 round, reared on his hind legs, and killed his master on the spot. 
 
 10. The dogility of the horse is one of the most remarkable 
 of his natural gifts. Furnished with acute senses, and excel- 
 lent memory, high intelligence, and gentle disposition, he soon 
 learns to know and obey his master's will, and to perform 
 certain actions with surprising accuracy and precision. The 
 range of his performances, however, is limited by his physical 
 structure : he has not a hand to grasp, a proboscis to lift the 
 minutest object, nor the advantages of a light and agile frame ; 
 if he had, the monkey, the dc^, and the elephant, would in this 
 respect be left &r behind him. 
 
 11. It has been before remarked, that the horse is inferior 
 to none of the brute creation in sagacity and general intelli* 
 gence. In a state of nature, he is cautious and watchful ; and 
 the manner in which the wild herds conduct their marches, 
 station their scouts and leaders, shows how fully they compre- 
 hend the necessity of obedience and order. All their move- 
 ments, indeed, seem to be the result of reason, aided by a 
 power of expressmg their ideas very far superior to that of 
 most other animals. ^ 
 
 12. The neighings by which they express terror, alarm, or 
 recognition, the discovery of water and pasture, &c., are all 
 essentially different, and yet are instantly comprehended by 
 every member of the herd ; nay, the various movements of the 
 body, the pawing of the ground, the motions of the ears, and 
 the expressions of the countenance, seem to be fully understood 
 by each other. 
 
 • 13. In passing swampy ground, they test it with the fore« 
 foot, before trusting t^it the full weight of their bodies ; they 
 will strike asunder the me lon-ca ctus to obtain its succulent 
 juice, with an address perfectly wonderful ; and will scoop out 
 a hollow in the moist sand, in the expectation of its filling 
 with water. All this they do in their wild state ; and domes- 
 tication, it seems, instead of lessening, tends rather to strengthen 
 and develop theu' intelligence. 
 
THE BIlTTLB of BLENHEIM. 
 
 215 
 
 I 
 
 14. The Arabians try the speed of their horses, by banting 
 the ostrich — ^the bird endeavors to reach the mountains, mn- 
 ning along the sands with great ra piditY , assisted in its efforts 
 by flapping its wings. A horse, however, possessing the high- 
 est quality of speed, is enabled to come np with it ; when the 
 poor creature hides its head in a bnsh, or wherever it can, 
 and is quietly taken. By this criterion the hunter rates his 
 horse ; and as the animal evinces his speed and perseverance 
 in the chase, his master estimates his value. The Arabs 
 accustom their horses to fatigue, and give them milk which 
 enables them to bear it. 
 
 53. The Battle of Blenhedl 
 
 1. TT was a summer evening, • 
 
 -1- Old Kasper's work was done : 
 And he before his cottage-door 
 
 Was sitting in the sun. 
 And by him sported on the green 
 His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 
 
 2. She saw her brother Peterkin 
 
 Roll something large and round. 
 Which he beside the rivulet, 
 
 In playing there, had found , 
 He came to ask what he had found, 
 That was so large, and smooth, and round. 
 
 3. Old Kasper took it from the boy, 
 
 Who stood expectant by ; 
 And then the old man shook his head. 
 
 And with a natural sigh, 
 "'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he^ 
 ' "Who fell in the great victory. 
 
 "^ 
 
 4. "I find them in the garden, for 
 
 There's many here about. 
 
Ill 
 
 216 *rBE FOtTBTH BEADEB. 
 
 And often when I go to plough, 
 
 The plonghshare tarns them out ; 
 For many thoosand men/' said he, 
 *' Were slain in the great victory." 
 
 6. "Now tell us what 'twas all abont,* . 
 
 Young Peterkin he cries, 
 And little Wilhelmino looks up 
 
 With wonder-waiting eyes ; 
 " Now tell us all about the war. 
 And what they kill'd each other for." 
 
 6. "It was the English," Rasper cried, 
 "That put the French to rout ; 
 But what they kill'd each other for, 
 
 I could not well make out. 
 But everybody said," quoth he, 
 "That 'twas a famous victory. 
 
 *l. "My father lived at Blenheim then, 
 Yon little stream hard by, 
 They burnt his dwelling to the groand. 
 
 And he was forced to fly ; 
 So with his wife and child he fled. 
 Nor had he where to rest his head. 
 
 8. "With fire and sword the country round 
 
 Was wasted far and wide, 
 And many a childing mother then. 
 
 And new-born infant, died ; — 
 But things like that, you know, must be 
 At every famous victory. 
 
 P. "They say it was a shocking sight. 
 
 After the field was won, 
 For many thousand bodies here 
 
 Lay rotting in the sun ; — 
 But thmgs like that, you know, most be 
 After a famous victory. 
 
. THE AMMUNOIATEON. 
 
 10. " Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' woiii 
 
 And our good Prince Eugene." 
 "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing 1" 
 
 Said little Wilhelmine. 
 "Nay — ^nay — ^my little girl," quoth he, 
 "It was a famous victory. 
 
 11. "And everybody praised the Duke 
 
 Who such a fight did win." 
 "But what good came of it at last 7" 
 
 Quoth little Peterkin. 
 "Why that I cannot tell," said he, 
 "But 'twas a famous victory." 
 
 217 
 
 I 
 
 64. The Annunciation. 
 
 WHEN the pleQiliBde of time was come that God had fixed 
 from etermty to shower down his blessings upon man- 
 kind, by giving them a Redeemer, the angel Gabriel was first 
 deputed to Zachary, a holy priest, whose wife was Elizabeth, 
 one of the daughters of Aaron. The heavenly messenger 
 came to tell him that he should have a son, whose name 
 should be John, and whose birth should be a subject of joy 
 to many in Israel 
 
 2. Six months after. Almighty God deputed the same angel 
 to a virgin whose name was Mary, residing in Nazareth, a 
 city of Galilee. Mary -had been espoused to a holy man 
 called Joseph, a des cen dant of the house of David. The 
 divine Providence had in a special manner presided over 
 those nuptials, which provided the Virgin with a guardian 
 and protector of her purity. For with the same sentiments 
 of virtue, and m the same dispositions of mind, says St. Aus- 
 tin, both Mary and Joseph entered into a mutual engageni^nt 
 of joining the marriage state with a state of virginity, of which 
 the world had not seen an example. 
 
 8. Almighty God honored this alliance with an issue which 
 was to set open the gates of heaven, which for ages had been 
 
 10 
 
218 
 
 THS FOURTH BEADITB. 
 
 shut against us by tho crime of our first parents. Mary was 
 the woman dostiiied by Almighty God to crush the serpent's 
 head, as it is written in the book of Genesis (chap, iii.), and 
 it was to obtain her consent that God then sent his angel to 
 Nazareth. The angel found h'^r alone, as St. Ambrose ob- 
 serves, and respectfully said unto her — " HaU ! full of grac(jt 
 the Lord is with thee ; blessed art thou amoaj women \" 
 
 4. The hmnble virgin was disturbed at the angel's salata> 
 tion, and trembled with fear, lest, as Eve had been deceived 
 by the serpent, she also might be misled by a similar delusion. 
 She considered the sense and import of his words, and thereby 
 gives us an admirable example of discretion, which teaches us 
 not to be too hasty in consenting to a proposal before we 
 understand the nature of its obligation. ) 
 
 5. The angel saw the trouble of her mind, and to appease 
 it, said — "Fear not, Mary; for you have found favor with 
 the Lord." He then opened the subject of his commission, 
 and told her that she should cop^.eive and bring forth a son, 
 and call his name Jesus ; that he should be great, even the 
 Son of tho Most High ; that he should sit upon the throne 
 
 I 
 
THE ANNUNCIATION. 
 
 219 
 
 of David ; that he should reign in the house of Jacob, and 
 that of his kingdom there should be no end. 
 
 6. The Virgin listened to the angel with great attention ; 
 she heard the wonderful things he promised, but desired to 
 know how it could possibly be done, because she was a virgin. 
 It was not an idle curiosity, but a mark of her su bmiss ion to 
 the divine will ; nor was ic a want of faith, but an intimation 
 of the chaste purpose of her mind, which induced her to ask 
 the angel that question. 
 
 t. The angel, in reply, assured her that no concurrence of 
 man was re quis ite for what the sole power of the Most High, 
 with her consent, would operate within her ; that by the in- 
 eflfable virtue of the Holy Ghost she should conceive, bear a 
 son, and still remain a pure virgin. It is what the prophet 
 Isaiah (chap, vii.) had expressly foretold. But to convince 
 the Virgin that nothing was impossible to God, the angel, 
 moreover, told her what had happened to her cousin Eliza- 
 beth . in an advanced ago, who, notwi thsta nding the many 
 years she had been reputed barren, had miraculously con* 
 ceived, and was six months gone with child. 
 
 8. The Virgin having thus received the information she 
 desired, and being told the manner in which the mystery was 
 to be wrought within her, gave her consent. In terms the 
 most humble and submissive, terms that expressed the holy 
 disposition of her heart, she said — " Behold the handmaid- of 
 the Lord : let it be done to me according to thy word." 
 
 9. The angel having thus happily completed his commis- 
 sion returned to heaven, and the wonderful mystery of the 
 Incarnation took place that instant. For Mary had no 
 sooner given her consent, than the Son of God, the second 
 Person of the most adorable Trinity, by an invisible and mys- 
 terious operation of the Holy Ghost, took flesh and became 
 man in her womb, without the least detriment to her virginal 
 integrity. That Avas the happy moment in which the work of 
 man^s redemption was begun ; that was the moment when an 
 incarnate God unlocked the source of those plentiful graces 
 which were to flow for the salvation of mankind, to wash our 
 eools from sin, and to sanctify them for eternal life. 
 
230 
 
 THB FOUBTH BBADBB* 
 
 55. St. Feuoitas and heb Sons. 
 
 THERE lived at Rome, in the reign of Mjxcss A nrelin s, a 
 noble lady called Felicitas. She was a wi^oF, and had 
 seven sons. On her husband's death, she took a vow of chas- 
 tity, and gave herself np to a life of prayer, fasting, and good 
 works. One of her principal occupations was the education 
 of her seven' sons, whom she loved very dearly. Felicitas' 
 love for her sons was not merely such as all women feel for 
 their children. ^. 
 
 2. She rem embe red that they were not her children only, 
 but that they were the children of God, who had lent them to 
 her, and who would one day ask her account of them. She 
 did not wish to see them great in this world, but wished to 
 lay up in store for them the inestimable riches of eternal glory 
 in the next. " 
 
 3. She therefore tr^tmed them from their infancy in all holy 
 and pious practices smted to their age, and she offered them 
 up to Jesus to live and die in his service, in whatever way it 
 might be his will to make use of them. Our Lord accepted 
 the off erin g, and gave her and them the high honor of suffer- 
 ing mar^rdom for his sake. 
 
 4. Felicitas was so good and holy that the women of her 
 own rank thought very highly of whatever she said or did, 
 and many of them who were pagans were convOTted by her 
 example and influence. This diseased the heathen priests, 
 and they comj^ned to the emperor, and persuaded him that 
 the gods were very angry, and would not be pacified till Feli- 
 citas and her children ^ould offer sacrifice to them. 
 
 5. She and her sons were accordingly made prisoners, and 
 taken before Publius, the prefect of the city. Publius was 
 unwilling to use violence with a lady of such high rank and 
 character as Felicitas ; so he first took her aside, and tried 
 gently to persuade her to sacrifice to the gods. But FeUcitas 
 answered — ""Do not hope, O Publius 1 to win me with fair 
 words, or to temfy ine with threats; for I have within me 
 
 will not let me be overcome 
 
 
 s^Mrit of God, 
 
 rercome by 
 
AT. KBLIOITAS AMD WSR SONS. 
 
 221 
 
 and therefore I am snre I shall be too hard for yon, who are 
 the servant of Satan." 
 
 6. Pablios seeing that she had no fear for herself, thought 
 he would move her by speaking to her of her children, and he 
 therefore said to her — "Unhagpy woman 1 is it possible that 
 you are so tired of life that you will not even let your chil- 
 dren live, but will force me to destroy them by bitter and 
 tfruel torments?" 
 
 7. "My children," replied Felicitas, "would die an ever- 
 lastmg death if they were to sacrifice to your gods. But 
 now, since they acknowledge and worship Jesus Christ, they 
 will live with him forever." After making this first attempt, 
 Publius dismissed her^ thinking it would be better to let her 
 consider coolly and quietly what he had said, and what tor- 
 tures she was bringing on herself and her children, hoping that 
 when she did so, she would come to a better mind. 
 
 8. The next day, as he was sitting in the temple of Mars, 
 he sent for Felicitas and her sons. When they came before 
 him, he turned to her, and appealing to her feelings as a 
 mother, he said — "O Felicitas I take pity on yonr children, 
 who are now in the prime of youth, and who are of such noble 
 birth, and are so good and clever that they may look to the 
 highest honors of the state." 
 
 9. But Felicitas answered — "Your jajy is cruel, and your 
 advice is impious and deceitful." Then, turning to her chil- 
 dren, she said — "My sons, look np to heaven, where Christ 
 expects you with all his samts ! Fight magj^Jy for the good 
 of yonr souls, and show yourselves faithful and constant in 
 the love of the true God, Christ Jesus.^'^ These words exas; 
 perated Publius, who looked upon it as an intolerable affi*ont 
 that this woman should degr him to his very face, and so he 
 commanded that she should be cruelly beaten about the face 
 and head. 
 
 10. Then he tumgd to her sons, and beginning with Janua- 
 rius, the eldest, he tried to induce him, by promises and threats, 
 to adOTB the gods. But the boy was not unworthy of his 
 l^axfi and saintly mother, and he answered — "You wish to 
 persuade me to do a foolish thing, contrary to all reason ; but 
 
222 
 
 THE FOURTH BEADEB. 
 
 I trast in my Lord Jesus Christ that he will pr^uerre me from 
 so great an impietj." On hearing these words, Pablius or- 
 dered that he should be stripped and very severely scourged ; 
 after which he was thrown into prison. *"* 
 
 11. All the other brothers were brought up in turn, and 
 every art was used to conquer them, and induce ithem to obey 
 the em^ror. But it was all to no puipo&e ; for they were 
 su pport ed and guided by the Holy Spirit, and they all made 
 Publius the same answer, though m different words, as Jann- 
 arius had done. They were therefore scourged so severely 
 that their whole bodies were a mass of wounds, and in this 
 state they were thrown into prison, till the emperor's further 
 pleasure should be known. 
 
 12. During all the time that her sons were being thus tor- 
 turgj}, Felicitas was forced to stand by and witness theur suf- 
 ferings. This holy mother remained firm and unmoved, while 
 she looked on the torments of her children. She 'Sd not she^ 
 a tear as the noise of the blows resounded in her ears ; she 
 did not shrink at the sight of their streaming bloo?, their 
 quivering flesh, and their involuntary writUngs of agony. 
 
 I3 The only words she spoke were to exhort them to stand 
 ^aOK ftiid to i nflame them with love for Jesus. It seems 
 s trang e how a mother could act inlSis way. It was not be- 
 cause she di 1 not love her chikjjxip, or because she had not 
 the natural feelings of a mother ; for, on^the contrary^ every 
 tQctuie they endured pierced her to her very heart, and gave 
 her even more pain than it did them. But it was because the 
 supernatural character of her love for them gave her strength 
 to conquer the weakness of a mother's natural feelings. 
 
 14. Looking on them with the eyes of faith, she saw in 
 their temporal dea^ only then* gain of etemallife ; in their 
 present wounds, the jewels of their future crovm ; and in the 
 severity of their torments, the greater blessedness prepared 
 for them in ^ry. She would have feared to leave them 
 behind hor on earth, lest any one of them should fall short 
 of heaven, and therefore she rejoiced as much in the death of 
 her sons as other mothers weep when theirs are taken from 
 them. 
 
 
8T. FEUOITAS AND HEB SONS. 
 
 298 
 
 15. Marcns Anreliun was so h arden ed that he conld not 
 feel the least comga^ion for FclicitAS, and he or dered that all 
 her sons should be pat to death in various ways before her 
 eyes. The three eldest un derwe nt a very horrible and liugcr- 
 iug death, being slowly beaten till they expired. Januarius 
 Was first t orn with whips, and then with thick cords, loaded 
 with lead, till he died ; and Felix and Philip were bruised and 
 broken with cudgels till, every bone being fractured, and their 
 bodies being reduced to e, shapeless mass, they at last expired. 
 
 16. A milder fate awaited the others; for Silvanus was 
 thrown from a rgck, while Alexander, Yitalis, and Martialis 
 were beheaded. To have put their heTeaved mother to death 
 would have been a deed of mercy ; but the perse cutor s of the 
 Christians did not know what mercy was. 
 
 17. The emperor 'Igred her to be thrown mto a dark and 
 cold du nge on, where ohe was kept four months, in hopes that 
 her patience being w^-out, ana her spirit broken by her sor^ 
 row, she would at last be wiUigg to do any thing to escape 
 from solitude and tortnre. But there was now less chaioice 
 than ever of St. Felicitas ^ving up her religion, for the loss 
 of her children had only strengthened her to bear whatever 
 might be inflicted on her. 
 
 18. She had now no temptation to save her life by denying 
 Jesus ; for this world was become a blank to her, and nothing 
 in it could give her the least happiness. She would have wept 
 had not her sons died for Christ ; but now that she had as 
 many bright and glorious saints in heaven as she had once 
 had children on earth, her only hope aiid longing was to be 
 with them~ m the presence of Him to whom she had offered 
 them, and for the love of whom they bad laid down their lives. 
 
 19. At last, when it was plam that she would never give 
 her coi^ent to adore the heathen gods, the emperor ordered 
 her to be be heade d. Thus did this blessed saint suffgr eight 
 ma rtrydom s — ^being martyred in each of her children, and 
 ceaskrg to suffer only when she ceased to brea^e. A father 
 of the Church, in speaking of her, says — " She is not a true 
 mother who knows not how to love her children as St. Felid* 
 tas loved hers.'' 
 
2M 
 
 THB fOUBTH BBAOEB. 
 
 1 
 
 66. Immobtalitt. 
 
 I LINGERED several weeks aronnd the grave of my mother, 
 andln the neighborhood where she had lived. It was the 
 place where I had passed my own childhood and youth. It 
 was the scene of those early associations which become the 
 dearer to ns as we leave them the farther behind. I stood 
 where I had sported in the freedom of early childhood ; but I 
 stood alone, for no one was there with whom I could speak of 
 its fi'olics. One feels singularly desolate when he sees only 
 strange faces, and hears only strange voices in what was the 
 home of his early life. 
 
 2. I returned to the v^a^ where I resided when I first 
 introduced myself to my readers. But what was that spot to 
 me now ? Nature had done much for it, but nature herself is 
 very much what we make her. There must be beauty in our 
 souls, or we shall see no loveliness in her face ; and beauty 
 had died out of my soul. She who might have recalled it to 
 life, and thrown its hues over all the world, was — ^but of that 
 I will not speak. 
 
 3. It was now that I really needed the hope of Immortality. 
 The world was to me one vast desert, and life was without 
 end or aim. The hope of immortiHty ! We want it when 
 earth has lost its gloss of novelty; when our hopes have 
 been blastgdr-our affections withered, and the shortoess of life 
 and the vaoitjr of alf^lmman purgmts, have come tome to 
 us, and made us exclaim, "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity :" 
 we want then the hope of immortality to give to life an end, 
 an aim. 
 
 4. We all of us at times feel this want. The infidel feels 
 it in early life. He learns all too soon, what to him Is a 
 withering fact, that man does not complete his destiny on 
 earth. Man never completes any thing here. What then 
 shall he do if there be no hereafter ? With what courage can 
 I betake myself to my task ? I may begin ; but the grave 
 lies between me and the completion. Death will come to in* 
 terrupt my work, and compel me to leave it unfinished. 
 
THB WHX)W or NAXN. 
 
 5. This is more terrible to me than the thonght of ceasing 
 to be. I coald almost (at least I think I conld) consent to 
 be no more, after I had finished my work, achieved my des- 
 tioy ; but to die before my work is completed, while that 
 destiny is but begun, — this is the death which comes to me 
 indeed as a " King of Terrors." 
 
 6. The hope of another life to be the completion of this, 
 steps in to save us from this death, to give us the courage and 
 the hope to begin. The rough sketch shall hereafter become 
 the finished picture ; the artist shall give it the last touch at 
 his easel ; the science we had just begun, shall be completed, 
 and the incipient destiny shall be achieved. Fear not ^en to 
 begin ; thou hast eternity before thee in which to end. 
 
 feels 
 Is a 
 y on 
 then 
 
 57. The Widow of Nain. 
 
 9 rpWAS now high noop. 
 
 J- The doll, low^mnrmnr of a fi^eral 
 Went through the city — ^the sad soimd of feet 
 Unn^'d with voices — and the sentinel "^ 
 Shook off his sinner, and gazed earnestly 
 Up the wide streets along whose paved way 
 The silent thirrag creptNslowly. They came on, 
 Beapng a body heavily on its bier, 
 And by thecrowd that in the bnj^pg sw, 
 Walk'd with forgetful s adneg s, 'twiks of one 
 Mov^'d with uncommon sorrow. The broad gate 
 Swung on its hinges, and the Roman ben£~ 
 His spear-point downwards as the bearers pass'd, 
 Bending beneath their burden. There was one — 
 Only one mourner. Close behind the bier. 
 Crumpling the pall up in her withered hands, 
 FoJJgjv'd an aged woman. Her short steps 
 Faltg[id with weakness, and a broken moan 
 Fell from her lips, thicken'd coovulgiTely, 
 
226 
 
 THE FOUBTH BBADEK. 
 
 ) 
 
 As her heart bled afresh. The pitying crowd 
 Followed apaiit, bat no one spoko to her. 
 She had no kinsmen. Slie had lived alone^ 
 
 fflt I 
 
 A widow with one son. He was her all — 
 The only tig^ she had in the wide world — 
 And he was dead. They could not CQ^pafort'her. 
 * * * ♦ " ♦ 
 
 ?orth from the ci^:^Jte the pitying crowd 
 Followed the stricken moomer. They came near 
 The place of burial, and, with straining handa^ 
 
 .ti.« 
 
^1 
 
 )r. 
 
 )tf 
 
 MOKUICENT TO k MOTHIB'S OBAYE. 
 
 Cloflor npon her brca^ she ciiip^d the pall, 
 Aw[ with a gasgipg sob, quick as u chiid'g, 
 And an inquiring wildness flashing throagh 
 The thin gray lashes of her fevcr'd eyes, 
 She came where Jcsns stood beside tlie way. 
 He loolc'd upon her, and his heart was morcd. 
 " Weep not I " he said ; and as they stay'd the bier. 
 And at his bidding laid it at his feet, 
 He gently drew the pall from out her grasp, 
 And laid it back in silence from the dead. 
 With troubled wonder the mute throng drew near, 
 And gazed on his calm looks. A minute's space 
 He stood and pray'd. Then, taking the cold hand, 
 He said "Arise 1" And instantly the breast 
 Heaved in itscerements, and a sudden flush 
 Ban through the lines of the divided lips. 
 And with a murmur of his mother's name. 
 He trembled and sat upright in his shroud, 
 ind, while the monmer hung upon his neck, 
 Jesus went calmly on his way to Nain. 
 
 827 
 
 68. MONUMTNT TO A MoTHER'S GrATB. 
 
 I FOLLOWED into a bnrying^onnd in the suburbs of 
 Philadelphia, a small train or persons, not more than a 
 dozen, who had come to bury one of their acquaintance. The 
 clergyman in attendance, was leading a little boy by the hand, 
 who seemed to be the only relative of the decea8§d. 
 
 2. I gathered with them arQund the grgye ; and when the 
 plain coffin was lowered down, the child burst forth in uncon- 
 trollable grief. The little boy had no one left to whom he 
 could look for affection, or who could address him in tones of 
 parental kindness ; the last of his kinsfolk was in the grave, 
 and he was alone. 
 
 3. When the clamocans grief of the child had a little sub- 
 sidgd, the clergyman addressed us with the customary exhor- 
 
 M 
 
i '. 
 
 v 
 
 THE F0T7BTH BEADEB. 
 
 tation to accept the waniing and be prepared, and tacoing 
 to the child, he added, " She is not to remain in the grave 
 forever ; as sure as the grass, which is now chilled with the 
 fcost of the season, shall spring to greenness and life in a few 
 months, so true shall your mother rise from that grave to 
 another life : a life of happiness, I hope." 
 
 4. The attendants then shovelled in the earth upon the coifin, 
 and some one took little William, the child, by the hand, and 
 led him forth from the lonely tenement of his mother. 
 
 5. Late in the ens^g spring, I was in the neighborhood of 
 the same burying-ground, and seeing the gate open, I walked 
 among the graves for some time, reading the names of the 
 dead ; when, recoUgfiibing that I was near the grave of the 
 poor widow, buried the previous autumn, I turned to see what 
 had been done to preserve the memory of one so utterly des- 
 titute of earthly friends. ' *" 
 
 6. To my surprise, I found the most desirable of memeptoes 
 for a mother's sepulchre : little William was sitting near the 
 ^ead of the now s unk en grave, looking intently at some green 
 shoots that had come forth with the ^bltjeq^ of spring from 
 the s<^ that had covered his mother's coffin. 
 
 *l. William started at my approach, and would have left 
 the place. It was long before I could induce him to tarry ; 
 and indeed, I could not win his confidence until I told~Eiiii 
 that I was present when they buried his mother, and had 
 marked his tearTat the time. 
 
 8. "Then you heard the priest say my mother would come 
 Out of this grave I" said William. 
 
 "I did." 
 
 " It is true : is it not ?" asl^ he, in a tone of confidence. 
 " I most finnly believe it," said I. 
 
 "Believe itT" said the chUd, "believe it I I thought yon 
 knew it. I know it." 
 
 " How do you know it, my dear ?" 
 
 9. "The priest said, that as true as the grass grew u^ and 
 the flowers bloomed in spring, so true woul3^otTier rise. I 
 came a few days afterward and planted flo wer-se eds on the 
 grave. The grass came green in the burying^oond long ago ; 
 
MONUMENT TO A MOTHEB*S ORAYE. 
 
 22L 
 
 and I watpbed every day for the flowers, and to^ay they came 
 up too. See them breaking through the ground I By-and-by 
 mother will come again." 
 
 10. A smile of exulting hope played upon the features of 
 the boy, and I felt pained at disturbing the faith and confi- 
 dence with which he was aniinated. "But, my Uttle child," 
 said I, "it is not here that your mother will rise." 
 
 "Yes, here," said he with e mphas is ; "here they placed 
 her, and here I have come ever since the first blade of grass 
 was seen this year." 
 
 11. I looked around, and saw the tjoy foot of the child had 
 trod out the he rbag e at the grave-side : so constant had been 
 his atten^nce. What a faithful watch-^keeper I what mother 
 would desire a richer monuiaent than the form of her son 
 beading in teQxful but hoping trust over her grave ? 
 
 12. "But, William," said I, "it is in another world that 
 she will rise ;" and I attenjpted to explain to him the nature 
 of that promise which he had mis^ken. The child was con- 
 fus^, and he appeared neither pleased nor satined. 
 
 " If mother is not coming back to~me, if she is not to come 
 up here, what shall I do ? I cannot stay without her." 
 
 " You shall go to her," said I, adopting the language of 
 the Scripture, " you shall go to her, but she shall not com( 
 again to you." 
 
 13. "Let me go then," said William: !'Iet me go that 1 
 may rise with mother." 
 
 "William," said I, pomting down to the plants just break- 
 ing through the ground, "the seed which was sown there, 
 (Tould not have come up, if it had not been ripe : so you mu* 
 !7ait till your appointed time ; until your end cometh." 
 
 "Thftrtlshallsceherl" 
 
 " I KiftAj hope so." 
 
 "I will wait, then," said the child; "but I thought 
 should see her soon : I thought I should meet her here." 
 
 14. In a month William ceased to wait. He died, an 
 they opened his mother's grave, and placed his little coffin c 
 hers. It was the only wish the child expressed when dyin^ 
 Better teachers than I had instructed him in the way to mec 
 
230 
 
 THE FOURTH BEADEB. 
 
 his mother ; and young as the little safiCerer was, he had learned 
 that all the labors aud hopes of happiness, short of heaven, are 
 profitless and vaio. 
 
 1 
 
 I 
 
 69. Adoration of the Shepherds. 
 
 THERE were in the neighborhood of Bethlehem some 
 shepherds watching their flocks by night. They saw the 
 radiance visible in the heavens ; they heard the angelic voices, 
 and were stmck with awe. Immediately one of the blessed 
 spirits who were singing glory to God and peace to men, 
 detached himself from the heavenly host, and coming to the 
 shepherds, said : "Fear not, for behold I bring you tidings of 
 great joy, that shall be to all the people. This day is horn to 
 you a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord, m the city of David. 
 And this shall be a sign unto you : you shall find the infant 
 wrapped in swaddling clothes, and laid in a manger.'^ Tho 
 angel spoke and then vanished, like a stray beam of light 
 
 2. And the shepherds, stunned and stupefied, said one to 
 another: "Let us go over to Bethlehem ; aud let us see this 
 
ADORATION OF THE SHEPHERDS. 
 
 231 
 
 word that is come to pass, which the Lord hath shown to 
 us." And leaving their flocks they went, and they saw the 
 holy old man St. Joseph, the Virgin Mary, and the infant 
 God, wrapped in swaddling-clothes, and laid in a manger. 
 And they adored him. And they went away joyfully, telling 
 everywhere the wonders they had seen. 
 
 3. Now, children, was not this birth of the Son of God a 
 great miracle ? It seems as thongh the whole earth should 
 have been in motion to receive him : yet he is bom by night 
 in a poor stable 1 — And by what a sign was he recognized-^ 
 "You will find the child wrapped in swaddling-clothes and 
 laid in a manger I ^ What then 1 Gould he not be bom in & 
 palace, amid kingly splendor, he the Creator and Master of 
 all things ? He conld, if such had been his will, bat it was 
 not : that sign would not have marked him out snffidently as 
 our Saviour. 
 
 4. Remember, children, what I have told yon he came to 
 do; he came to instract and save us. To instract us, he 
 had to heal a triple wound in our soul — ^pride, avarice, and 
 love of pleasure : this he did by presenting Imnself to us under 
 thesign of humility, poverty, and suffering. To save us, he 
 had to expiate our faults by his pains ; hence it was that he 
 was born in a stable. In beginning to live, he begins to do 
 two great things, which we shall see him follow up in after 
 years by preaching and sacrifice; from the crib he is our 
 Teacher and our Saviour. Nevertheless, we cannot mistake 
 him in the humbleness of his birth. 
 
 5. That little child who cannot yet speak, is the very Sob 
 of God, his eternal Word. Hear the evangelist St. John : 
 "In the beginning, before all beginnmg, without beginning, 
 was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word 
 was God. All things were made by him, and without him was 
 made nothing that was made. In him was life, and the life was 
 the light of men. That was the trae light which enlighteneth 
 every inan that cometh into this world. And the Word was 
 made flesh, and dwelt among us ; and we saw his glory, the 
 glory as of the only-begotten of the Father, fidl of grace and 
 trath." 
 
232 
 
 \ 
 
 THE 1X)UBTE Mg A n m n, 
 
 6. The prophets sang : " Great is the Lord, and worthy of 
 all praise 1'^ We sing around his manger : Small is the Lord, 
 a little helpless child, and worthy of all love. child, the 
 fairest of all children, where do I behold thee ? what destitu- 
 tion ! what nakedness ! what sufferings ! He is laid on straw ; 
 the night is cold and frosty : thus does love suffer 1 He 
 weeps, he utters plaintive cries : thus does love ^eak 1 Who 
 would not love a God who has so loved us ? 
 
 7. Mary and Joseph were amazed at all these things, and 
 they gathered and treasured them in their hearts. Happy 
 Mary I happy Joseph 1 You it was that first beheld the 
 Saviour of the world 1 It was your hands that received hun 
 as he came firom the maternal womb, wrapped him in swad- 
 dlmg-clothes, and laid hun in the manger. Mary, it was thou 
 that nursed him ! Adore him as thou peiformest that sweet 
 duty, and give admission to the other worshippers sent by the 
 angels; soon there shall be others conducted from the far 
 East by a star, appearing as a prophetic sign in the heavens. 
 
 60. The Angelus Bell. 
 
 1. rpHE large moon of autumn, 
 •L The guardian of night, 
 Had closed her pale lamp 
 
 In the firmament's height ; 
 From the Black Abbey's towers 
 
 The wild doves career'd. 
 As the bright dawn of mom 
 
 Awaking appear'd ; 
 And the old marble city, 
 From campanile gray, 
 IVoclaim'd to the burghers 
 All Noreward — "'twas day ! " 
 Then the long, mellow knell 
 Of the Angelus Bell 
 
THB ANQELUB BELL 
 
 238 
 
 \ 
 
 Seem'd psalming and singing 
 O'er bless'd crypt and cell, 
 Where the Black Monks were wont 
 
 In the old times to dwell. 
 
 41 ■ ♦ * * * 
 
 % Twas noon, at the market-cross. 
 
 In the qoaint town, 
 
 And the burgher so comely, 
 
 The tall peasant brown, 
 
 And the gaunt man-at-arms, 
 
 And mild maiden meek, 
 
 With the peach-blush of beauty 
 
 And peace on her cheek. 
 
 Were crowding together 
 
 In hundreds around, 
 
 While the tall cross stood stately 
 
 'Mid tumult and sound. 
 
 Then the long, mellow kneU 
 
 Of the Angelus Bell 
 
 Upon the dense crowd 
 
 In the market-place fell ; 
 
 And the burgher knelt down, 
 
 And the peasant as well. 
 
 And the gaunt soldier rude, 
 
 At the peal of the bell. 
 
 While the pure maiden voice 
 
 Join'd the long, mellow knelL 
 * « ♦ * ♦ 
 
 2k Twas night o'er the abbey. 
 
 The moon 'rose again 
 O'er grand domes of pleasure 
 
 And the poor haunts of pain ; 
 And the wilti dove was nestled 
 
 Again in the cleft 
 Of the old belfry tower 
 
 That early he left ; 
 And the pale monks were sitting 
 
 Alone and alone. 
 
r 
 
 - ^-*^^'^'9EK,^^.;T'^f^lS?!t™ 
 
 i i' 
 
 ¥ f 
 
 il! 
 
 
 Ii ! 
 
 234 
 
 THE FOURTH BEADEB. 
 
 With lamps still unlighted, 
 And penitent moan ; 
 
 When the Angelus Bell, 
 
 With its long, mellow knell, 
 Broke up their lone reveries 
 
 Like a blest spell ; 
 And down on the cold earth 
 
 The holy men fell, 
 The grand prayer to chant 
 
 And then* long beads to tell ; 
 While sang with its psalm-voice 
 
 The Angelus Bell 
 
 61. The Adoration op the Maqi. 
 
 WHEN the eastern sages beheld this wondrous and long^ 
 expected star, they rejoiced greatly ; and they arosejf'and 
 taking leave of their lands and their vassals, their relations and 
 then* friends, set forth on their long and perilous journey over 
 vast deserts and mountains, and broad rivers, the star going 
 before them, and arrived at length at Jerusalem, with a great 
 and splendid train of attendants. Being come there they asked 
 at once, "Where is he who is born King of the Jews?" 
 
 2. On hearing this question. King Herod was troubled, and 
 all the city with him ; and he inquired of the chief priests 
 where Christ should be bom. And they said to him "In 
 Bethlehem of Juda." Then Herod privately called the wise 
 men, and desired they would go to Bethlehem, and search for 
 the young child (he was careful not to call him King), say- 
 ing, "When ye have found him, bring me word, that I also 
 may come and worship him." 
 
 3. So the Magi departed, and the star which they had seen 
 in the east went before them, until it stood over the place 
 where the young child was — ^he who was born King of kings. 
 They had travelled many a long and weary mile ; " and what 
 had they come to see?" Instead of a sumptuous palace, a 
 
 n 
 
 h 
 
THE ADOBATION 0^ THE MAOI. 
 
 285 
 
 mean and lowly dwelling ; in place of a monarch surrounded 
 by his guards and ministers and all the terrors of nis state, an 
 infant wrapped in swaddling-clothes and laid upon his mother's 
 kee, between the ox and the ass. 
 
 4. They had come, perhaps, from some far-distant savage 
 land, or from some nation calling itself civilized, where inno- 
 cence had never been accounted sacred, where society had as 
 
 In 
 
 '\1 
 
 yet taken no heed of the defenceless woman, no care for the 
 helpless child ; where the one was enslaved, and the other 
 perverted ; and here, under the form of womanhood and 
 childhood, they were called upon to worship the promise of 
 that brighter future, when peace should 'nherit the earth, and 
 righteousness prevail over deceit, and gentleness with wisdom 
 reign for ever and ever I 
 
 5. How. must they have been amazed I hov must tbey havp 
 
w^ 
 
 \\ 
 
 4; 
 
 236 
 
 THB 70UBTH BEADEB. 
 
 wondered in their souls at such a revelation 1 — ^yet such was' 
 the faith of these wise men and excellent kmgs, that they at 
 once prostrated themselves, confessing in the glorious Innocent 
 who smiled upon them from his mother's knee, a greater than 
 themselves — the image of a truer divinity than they had ever 
 yet acknowledged. 
 
 6. And having bowed themselves down — first, as was most 
 ffit, offering themselves, — they made oflFering of their treasure, 
 as it had been written in ancient times, " Tne kings of Tar- 
 shish and the isles shall bring presents, and the kings of Sheba 
 shall offer gifts.'' And what were these gifts? Gold, frank- 
 incense, and myrrh ; by which mystical oblation they professed 
 a threefold faith ; — by gold, that he was king j by incense, that 
 he was God ; by myrrh, that he was man, and doomed to 
 death. 
 
 7. In return for their gifts, the Saviour bestowed upon 
 them others of more matchless price. For their gold he gave 
 them charity and spiritual riches; for their incense, perfect 
 faith ; and for their myrrh, perfect truth and meekness : and 
 the Virgin, his mother, also bestowed on them a precious gift 
 and memorial, namely, one of those linen bands in which she 
 had wrapped the Saviour, for which they thanked her with 
 great humility, and laid it up among their treasures. 
 
 8. When they had performed their devotions and made 
 ' then* offerings, being warned in a dream to avoid Herod, they 
 
 turned back again to their own dominions ; and the star which 
 had formerly guided them to the west, now went before them 
 towards the east, and led them safely home. When they were 
 arrived there, they laid down their earthly state ; and iii em- 
 ulation of the poverty and humility in which they had found 
 the Lord of all power and might, they gave all their goods 
 and possessions to the poor, and went about in mean attire, 
 preaching to their people the new kmg of heaven and earth, 
 the Child-Kino, the Prince of Peace. 
 
 9. We are not told what was the success of their mission ; 
 neither is it anywhere recorded, that from that time forth, 
 every child, as it sat on its mother's knee, was, even for the 
 sake of that Prince of Peace, regarded as spcred — as the heir 
 
lONA. 
 
 237 
 
 ich was 
 they at 
 nnocent 
 ter than 
 lad ever 
 
 as most 
 Teasure, 
 of Tar- 
 )f Sheba 
 i, frank- 
 )rofesscd 
 Qse, that 
 omed to 
 
 ed upon 
 he gave 
 , perfect 
 sss: and 
 ious gift 
 rhieh she 
 tier with 
 
 [id made 
 rod, they 
 ;ar which 
 ore them 
 ;hey were 
 A iii em- 
 xd found 
 sir goodq 
 m attire, 
 id earth, 
 
 mission ; 
 ne forth, 
 I for the 
 I the heir 
 
 of a divine nature — ai one w^ose tiny limbs enfolded a spirit 
 which was to expand into the man, the king, the God. 
 
 10. Such a result was, perhaps, reserved for other times, 
 when the whole mission of that divine ' ' 'Id should be better 
 understood than it was then, or is now. But there is an an- 
 cient tradition, that about forty years later, when St. Thoma^ 
 the Apostle travelled into the indies, he found these wise men 
 ^here, and administered to tncm the rite of baptism ; and 
 that afterwards, in carrying the light of truth into the far 
 East, they fell among barbarous Gentiles, and were put to 
 death ; thus each of them receiving in return for the earthly 
 crowns they had cast at the feet of the Saviour, the heavenly 
 crown of martyrdom and of everlasting; life. 
 
 62. lONA. 
 
 SLOWLY and sadly the company of Draids retured to their 
 homes in f.ho depth of the ancient wood, and not many 
 hours had passed when they quitted lona forever, and with 
 it resigned the religious supremacy of those far Western Isles, 
 where they had for ages ruled almost as gods. 
 
238 
 
 THE FOURTn BEAPER. 
 
 3. After solemnly blessing the little island, St. Golumb* 
 kille proceeded to erect a stately monastery and a spacious 
 chnrch. Some years after, he founded a convent of Augns- 
 tinian nuns, and the lonely isle of lona was soon as famous 
 for Christian piety as it had formerly been for heathen super- 
 stition. It had early been chosen as a burial-place for the 
 princes of the Pictish and Scottish monarchies, on account of 
 its remote and isolated position, and the sacred character it 
 had acquired. These causes continued to influence the neigh- 
 boring soTcreigns, in a still higher degree, after the island had 
 become .a distinguished seat of the Christian religion. 
 
 3. Even now, after the lapse of many centuries since 
 prince, or king, or bishop, was buried in lona, the traveller 
 may still behold the ruined monuments which marked their 
 place of rest. " A little to the north of the cathedral," eays 
 a modern writer, " are the remams of the bishop's house ; and 
 on the south is a chapel dedicated to St. Oran, almost entire, 
 sixty feet long and twenty-two broad, within the walls, but 
 nearly filled up with rubbish and monumental stones. In this 
 are many tombstones of marble, erected over the great lords 
 of the Isles. 
 
 4. " South oi' the chapel is an inclosure called Beilig Onran, 
 the burying-ground of Oran^ containing a great number of 
 tombs, but so overgrown with weeds as to render most of the 
 inscriptions illegible. In this inclosure lie the remains of 
 forty-eight Scottish kings, four kings of Ireland, eight Nor* 
 wegian monarchs, and one king of France, who were desirous 
 of reposing on this consecrated ground, where their ashes 
 should not mix with the dust of the vulgar." 
 
 5. Sic transit gloria mundi, might well be inscribed over 
 the forgotten graves of lona, where so many princes and 
 mighty men have mouldered into dust — where the architec- 
 tural glories of former ages lie around in broken and shape* 
 less masses. 
 
 "The column, with its capital, is level with the dust, 
 And the proud halls of the mighty, and the calm homes of the justi 
 For the proudest works of man, as certainly, but slower, 
 Pass like the grass at the sharp scjrthe of Uie mower ! 
 
Wr. OOLXJMBA BLB88INO THE ISLES. 
 
 239 
 
 Golamb* 
 Bpacious 
 : Augufl- 
 } famous 
 en super- 
 5 for the 
 :count of 
 iracter it 
 he neigh- 
 jland had 
 
 ries since 
 traveller 
 ked their 
 Iral," eays 
 mse; and 
 ost entire, 
 walls, but 
 I. In this 
 reat lords 
 
 lig Onran, 
 lumber of 
 lost of the 
 emains of 
 light No^ 
 re desirous 
 heir ashes 
 
 ribed over 
 rinees and 
 e architec- 
 and shape* 
 
 Boftbejusti 
 it, 
 
 ** Bat the gran grows again when in mi^esiy and mirth, 
 On the wing of the Spring comes the Ooddess of the Earth ; 
 But for man, in tliis world, no spring-tide e'er returns 
 To the iiibors of bis hands or the ashes of his urns." 
 
 63. St. Columba Blessing the Isles. 
 
 1. A ND now the choral voices hush'd, 
 -^ And ceased the organ tone ; 
 As to the altar-steps, high raised, 
 
 Sad, silent, and alone. 
 The traveller pass'd. To him all eyes 
 
 Tam'd reverent as he trod. 
 And whispering voices, each to each, 
 
 Proclaim'd the man of God — 
 Columba, in his ancient place, 
 Radiant with glory and with grt,ce. 
 
 2. Back fell ins cowl — ^his mantle dropped, 
 
 And in a stream of light, 
 A halo round his aged head, 
 
 And robed in dazzling white — 
 The saint with smiles of heavenly love 
 
 Stretched forth his hands to pray. 
 And kings and thanes, and monks and jarla, 
 
 Knelt down in their array, • 
 Silent, with pallid lips compress'd. 
 And hands cross'd humbly on their breast. 
 
 3. He craved a blessing on the Isles, 
 
 And named them, one by one — 
 Fair western isles that love the glow 
 
 Of the departing sun. 
 From Arran looming in the south, 
 
 To northern Orcades, 
 Then to lona back again. 
 
 Through all those perilo!is seas. 
 
I 
 
 I 'ii;: 
 
 240 tsa rouBTH bsadib. 
 
 Three nights and days the saint had sailed, 
 To count the Hebrides. 
 
 4. He loved them for lona's sake, 
 
 The isle of prayer and praise, 
 Where Truth and Knowledge found a homo 
 
 When fall'n on evil days. 
 And now he bless'd them, each and all, 
 
 And pray'd that evermore, 
 Plenty and peace, and Christian love, 
 
 Might smile on every shore, 
 And that their mountain glens might be 
 The abiding-places of the free. 
 
 5. Then, as he ceased, kings, abbots, earls, 
 
 And all the shadowy train. 
 Rose from theur knees, and choral songs 
 
 Re-echoed loud again — 
 And then were hush'd — the lights bum'd din^ 
 
 And ere the dawn of day, 
 The samt and all the ghostly choir 
 * Dissolved in mist away : 
 
 Aerial voices sounding still 
 Sweet harmonies from Duni's hilL 
 
 6. And every year Oolmnba makes, 
 
 While yet the summer smiles, 
 Alone, within his spectral boat. 
 
 The curcuit of the Isles ; — 
 And monks and abbots, thanes and kiDgi^ 
 
 From vault and charnel start, ; 
 
 Disburied, in the rite to bear 
 
 Then* dim, alkvttad part, 
 And crave, upon thf^r bended knees, 
 A blessing on the Hebrideis. . 
 
 s 
 
 t 
 r 
 a 
 
 y 
 
rta OBSERVIMO JT7D0B. 
 
 141 
 
 64 The Odsebtimo Judge. 
 
 le 
 
 dim, 
 
 IX a district of Algeria, distinguished hj a name which, 
 being translated, signifies The Fine Country, there lived, in 
 the year 1850, an Arab chief or sheik, named Bou-Akas, who 
 held despotic sway over twelve tribes. 
 
 2. Having heard that the cadi, or judge, over one of these 
 twelve tribes, administered justice in an admirable manner, 
 and pronounced decisions worthy of King Solomon himself, 
 Bou-Akas determined to judge for himself as to the truth of 
 the report. 
 
 3. Accordingly, dressed like a private individual, without 
 arms or attendants, he set out for the cadi's town, mounted 
 on a docile Arabian steed. He arrived there and was just 
 entering the gate, when a cripple, seizing the border of hia 
 mantle, asked him for alms. 
 
 4. Bou-Akas gave him money, but the cripple still main- 
 tained his hold. "What dost thou want?" asked the sheik ; 
 "I have already given thee alms." " Yes," replied the beg. 
 gar ; " but the law says, not only ' thou shalt give alms to thy 
 brother,' but also, ' thou shalt do for thy brother whatsoeyer 
 thou canst.'" 
 
 5. "Well; and what can I da for thee?" "Thou canst 
 save me — poor, crawling creature that I am 1 — ^from being 
 trodden under the feet of «iwi, horses, mules, and camels, 
 which would certainly hapf<ipn to me in passing through the 
 crowded square, in which a feur is now going on." 
 
 6. "And how can I save thee?" "By lettmg me ride 
 behind you, and putttxig me down safely in the market-place, 
 where I have business." " Be it so," replied the sheik. And, 
 stooping down, be helped the cripple to get up behind him ; 
 which was not accomplished without much difficulty. 
 
 1. The gtrangely-assorted couple attracted many eyes as 
 they passed through the crowded streets ; and at length they 
 reached the market-place. "Is this where you wish to stop ?'' 
 asked Bou-Akas. "Yes." "Then get down." "Get down 
 yourself." " What for ? " "To leave me the horse." 
 
 11 
 
 tt; 
 
THE FOUKTH BEAHEB. 
 
 8. "To leaye you my horse 1 What mean you by that?* 
 "I mean that he belongs to me. Ejiow you not that we are 
 now in the town of the just cadi, and that if we bring the 
 case before him he will certainly decide in my favor ? " " Why 
 should he do so, when the animal belongs to me V 
 
 9. "Do you not think that when he sees us two, — ^you 
 with your strong, straight limbs, so well fitted for walking, 
 and I with my weak legs, and distorted feet, — ^he will decree 
 that the horse shall belong to him who has most need of 
 him?" "Should he do so, he would not be ihejust cadi,'' 
 said Bou-Akas. 
 
 10. "Oh 1 as to that," replied the cripple, laughing, "al- 
 though he is just, he is not infallible." "So !" thought the 
 sheik to himself, " this will be a capital opportunity of judging 
 the judge." Then turning to the cripple, he said aloud, " I 
 am content — ^we will go before the cadL" 
 
 66. The OBSBRViNa Judge — continued. 
 
 ARRIVED at the tribunal, where the judge, according to 
 the Eastern custom, was publicly administering justice, 
 they found that two trials were about to go on, and would, 
 of course, take precedence of theirs. The first was between 
 a taleb, or learned man, and a peasant. 
 
 2. The point in dispute was the taleb's wife, whom the 
 peasant had carried off, and \(lhom he asserted to be his own 
 better half, in the face of the philosopher, who demanded her 
 back again. The woman (strange circumstance I) remained 
 obstinately silent, and would not declare for either ; a feature 
 in the case which rendered its decision extremely difficult. 
 
 3. The cadi heard both sides attentively, reflected for a 
 moment, and then said, "Leave the woman here, and return 
 to-morrow." The learned man and the laborer each bowed 
 and retired, and the next case was called. This was a difier- 
 ence between a butcher and an oil-seller. The latter f^peared 
 
THE OBSEBTINO JUDGE. 
 
 fi43 
 
 ►ythat?* 
 it we are 
 bring the 
 
 » ««why 
 
 two,— you 
 f walking, 
 ffill decree 
 it need of 
 juist cadi," 
 
 Thing, "al- 
 
 iought the 
 
 of judging 
 
 aloud, "I 
 
 ed,. 
 
 ccording to 
 
 ring justice, 
 
 and would, 
 
 ras between 
 
 whom the 
 be his own 
 
 smanded her 
 1) remained 
 
 sr ; a feature 
 
 difficult. 
 
 iected for a 
 , and return 
 each bowed 
 was a differ- 
 
 tter appeared 
 
 eorered with oU, and the former was sprinkled frith blood. 
 The butcher spoke first and said : 
 
 4. "I went to buy some oil from this man, and, in order 
 to pay him for it, I drew a handful of money from my purse. 
 The sight of the money tempted him. He seized me by the 
 wrist. I cried out, but he would not let me go ; and here we 
 are, having come before your worship, I holding my money in 
 my hand, and he still grasping my wrist." 
 
 5. Then spoke the oil-merchant : "This man came to pur- 
 chase oil from me. When his bottle was filled he said, ' Have 
 you change for a piece gold?' I searched my pocket, and 
 drew out my hand full of money, which I laid on a bench in 
 my shop. He seized it, and was walking off with my money 
 and my oil, when I caught him by the wrist, and cried out, 
 'Robber 1' In spite of my cries, however, he would not sur- 
 render the money ; so I brought him here, that your worship 
 might decide the case." 
 
 6. The cadi caused each to repeat his story, but neither 
 varied one Jot from his original statement. He reflectied for 
 a moment, and then said, " Leave the money with me, and 
 return to-morrow." The butcher placed the coins, which he 
 had never let go, on the edge of the cadi's mantle. After 
 which, he and his opponent bowed and departed. 
 
 7. It was* now the turn of Bou-Akas and the cripple. 
 "My lord cadi," said the former, "I came hither from a di^ 
 tant country. At the city gate I met this cripple, who first 
 asked for alms, and then prayed me to allow him to ride be- 
 hind me through the streets, lest he should be trodden down 
 in the crowd. I consented, but when we reached the marke^ 
 place he refused to get down, asserting that my horse belonged 
 to hun, and that your lordship would surely adjudge it to him 
 who wanted it most." 
 
 8. Then spoke the cripple. "My lord," said he, "as I 
 was coming on business to the market, and riding this horse, 
 which belongs to me, I saw this man seated by the roadside, 
 apparently half dead from fatigue. I offered to let him ride 
 with me as far as the market-place, and he eagerly thanked 
 me. But, on our arrival, he refused to get down, and said 
 
f 
 
 244 
 
 IBE FOUBTH READER. 
 
 that the horse was his. I immediately required him to ap 
 pear before your worship, in order that yoa might decide 
 between us." 
 
 9. Having required each to make oath to his statement, 
 and having reflected for a moment, the cadi said, "Leave 
 the horse here, and return to-morrow." It was done, and 
 Bod-Akas and the cripple withdrew in different directions. 
 
 66. The Observing Judge — conduded. 
 
 ON the morrow, a number of persons, besides those imme- 
 diately interested in the trials, assembled to hear the 
 judge's decisions. The taleb, or learned man, and the peasant, 
 were called first. "Take away thy wife," said the cadi to the 
 former, "and keep her, I advise thee, in good order." Then 
 turning towards an officer, he added, pointing to the peasant, 
 " Give this man fifty blows." He was instantly obeyed, and 
 the taleb carried off his wife. 
 
 2. Then came forward the oil-merchant and the butcher. 
 "Here/' said the cadi to the butcher, "is thy money; it is 
 truly thine, and not his." Then pointing to the oil-merchant, 
 he said to his officer, " Give this man fifty blows." It was 
 done, and the butcher went away 11 triumph with his money. 
 
 3. The third cause was called, and Bou-Akas and the crip* 
 pie came forward. " Wouldst thou recognize thy horse among 
 twenty others?" said the judge to Bou-Akas. "Yes, my 
 lord." " And thou ? " " Certainly, my lord," replied the crip- 
 ple. " Follow me," said the cadi to Bou-Akas. They entered 
 a large stable, and Bou-Akas pointed out his horse among the 
 twenty which were standing side by side. 
 
 4. "'TIS well," said the judge. "Return now to the tribu- 
 nal, and send me thine adversary hither." The disguised 
 shiek obeyed, delivered his message, and the cripple hastened 
 to the stable as quickly as his distorted limbs allowed. He 
 had quick eye« and a good memory, so that he was able, with* 
 
THB OBSBBYSita JUDOB. 
 
 m 
 
 \m to op 
 ;ht decide 
 
 statement, 
 1, "Leave 
 done, and 
 ictions. 
 
 iiose imme- 
 ) hear the 
 he peasant, 
 cadi to the 
 er." Then 
 le peasant, 
 )beyed, and 
 
 \\Q butcher, 
 oney ; it is 
 il-merchant, 
 
 " It was 
 his money, 
 id the crip- 
 orse among 
 
 " Yes, my 
 ed the crip- 
 hey entered 
 ! among the 
 
 the tribu- 
 le disguised 
 lie hastened 
 lowed. He 
 s able, with- 
 
 oat the slightest hesitation, to place his hand on the right 
 animal. 
 
 5. '"Tis well," said the cadi; "return to the tribunal." 
 The cadi soon afterwards resumed his place, and, when the 
 cripple arrived, judgment was pronounced. "The horse is 
 thine," said the cadi to Bou-Akas ; "go to the stable and take 
 him." Then to the officer, " Giire this cripple fifty blows.' 
 It was done ; and Bou-Akas wen; to take his horse. 
 
 6. When the cadi, after concluding the business of the day, 
 was retiring to his house, he four^d Bou-Akas waiting for him. 
 "Art thou discontented with my award?" asked the judge. 
 "No, quite the contrary," replied the sheik. "But I want 
 to .ask by what inspiration thou hast rendered justice ; for I 
 doubt not that the other two causes were decided as equitably 
 as mine. I am not a merchant ; I am Bou-Akas, sheik of the 
 twelve tribe« ; ' ^ wanted to judge for myself of thy reputed 
 wisdom." 
 
 7. The cadi bowed to the ground, and kissed his master's 
 hand. " I am anxious," said Bou-Akas, " to know the rea- 
 sons whush determined your three decisions." " Nothing, my 
 lord," replied the cadi, " can be more simple. Your highness 
 saw that I detained for a night the three things in dispute ?'' 
 "I did." 
 
 8. "Well, early in the mommg I caused the woman to be 
 called, and I said to her suddenly, ' Put firesh ink m my ink- 
 stand.' Like a person who has done the same thing a hunr 
 dred times before, she took the bottle, removed the cotton, 
 washed them both, put in the cotton again, and poured in 
 fresh ink, doing it all with the utmost neatness and dexterity. 
 So I said to myself, 'A peasant's wife would know nothing 
 about inkstands — she must belong to the taleb.'" 
 
 9. " Good 1 " said Bou-Akas, nodding his head. " And the 
 money?" "Did your highness remark," asked the cadi, 
 " that the merchant had his clothes and hands covered with 
 oil?" "Certainly I did." "Well; I took the money, and 
 placed it in a vessel filled with water. This morning I looked 
 at it, and not a particle of oil was to be seen on the surface 
 of the water. So I said to myself, 'If this money belonged 
 
246 
 
 THE FOUBTE BBADEil. 
 
 to the oil-merchant, it would be greasy, from the touch of hifl 
 hands ; as it is not so, the butcher's story must be true/'' 
 
 10. Bou-Akas nodded in token of approval. ''Good!'* 
 said he. "And my horse?" "Ah I that was a different 
 business; and, itil this morning, I was greatly puzzled." 
 "The cripple, I suppose, did not recognize the animal?'' 
 remarked the sheik. "On the contrary," said the cadi, "he 
 pointed him ont immediately." " How, then, did you discover 
 that he was not the owner ?" 
 
 11. " My object," replied the cadi, "in bringing you sep. 
 arately to the stable, was not to see whether you would know 
 the horse, but whether the horse would acknowledge you. 
 Now, when you approached him, the creature turned towards 
 you, laid back his ears, and neighed with delight ; but when 
 the cripple touched him, he kicked. Then I imew that you 
 were truly his master." 
 
 12. Bou-Akas thought for a moment, and . then said, 
 "Allah has given thee great wisdom. Thou oughtest to be 
 in my place, and I in thine. And yet, I know not ; thou art 
 certainly worthy to be sheik, but I fear that I should but 
 badly fill thy place as cadi 1" 
 
 67. Henbt the Hermit. 
 
 IT was an island where he dwelt, 
 A solitary islet, bleak and bare. 
 Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots 
 Its gray stone surface. Never mariner 
 Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast, 
 Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark 
 Anchor'd beside its shore. It was a place 
 Befitting well a rigid anchoret. 
 Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys. 
 And purposes of life ; and he had dwelt 
 Many long years upon that lonely isle ; 
 For in ripe manhood he abandon'd arms, 
 
;ch of his 
 le.'" 
 
 'Goodl" 
 different 
 puzzled." 
 animal ? '< 
 cadi, "he 
 I discover 
 
 you sep. 
 aid know 
 idge you. 
 towards 
 but when 
 that yoQ 
 
 len said, 
 
 est to be 
 
 thou art 
 
 tiould bat 
 
 \a 
 
 HEMBT, TEPB HEBMH. 
 
 Honors and friends and country and the world| 
 And had grown old in solitude. That isle 
 Some solitary man in other tunes 
 Had made his dwelling-place ; and Henry found 
 The little chapel which his toil had built 
 
 W[ 
 
 Now by the storms unroof 'd ; his bed of leaves 
 Wind-scatter'd ; and his grave o'ergrown with grass, 
 And thistles, whose white seeds, winged in vain. 
 Withered on rocks, or in the waves were lost. 
 So she repaired the chapeFs roin'd roof. 
 
248 
 
 THB FOUBTH BEADEB. 
 
 I 
 1 
 
 Glear'd the gray lichens from the altar-stone, 
 And underneath a rock that shelter'd him 
 From the searblast, he bnilt his hermitage. 
 The peasants from the shore would bring him fo<>«l, 
 Aiid beg hif! prayers ; but human converse else 
 He knew not «;hat utter solitude, 
 Nor ever vlsi j. vhe haunts of men, 
 Save when eome sinful wretch on a sick-bod 
 Implored his blessing and his aid in death. 
 That summons he delay'd not to obey, 
 Though the night tempest or autumnal wmd 
 Madden'd the waves ; and though the marmer, 
 Albeit relying on his saintly load. 
 Grew pale to see the peril. Thus he lived 
 A most austere and self-denying man, 
 Till abstinence, and age, and watchfulness 
 Had worn him down, and it was pain at last 
 To rise at midnight from his bed of leaves 
 And bend his knees in prayer. Yet not the 1^^ 
 Though with reluctance of infirmity, 
 Bose he at midnight from his bed of leaves, 
 And bent his knees in prayer ; but with more ze^l^ 
 More self-condemning fervor, raised his voice 
 For pardon for that sm, 'till that the sm 
 Repented was a joy like a good deed. 
 
 One night upon the shore his chapel bell 
 
 Was heard ; the air was calm, and its far sounds 
 
 Over the water came distinct and loud. ; 
 
 Alarm'd at that unusual hour to hear 
 
 Its toll irregular, a monk arose, 
 
 The boatmen bore him willmgly across. 
 
 For well the hermit Henry was beloved. ^ 
 
 He hastened to the chapel ; on a stone 
 
 Henry was sitting there, cold, stifif, and dead, 
 
 The bell-rope in his hand, and at his feet 
 
 The lamp that streamed a long unsteady light 
 
f-J. 
 
 QOD 18 EVEBYWHEBB. 
 
 2«9 
 
 'i 
 
 ■n 
 
 68. God is Etebywhebe. 
 
 8/ 
 
 e^ 
 
 Is 
 
 COME, Edith, and look at the ship sailing oat of the bay,** 
 said Charles to his sister. " See how gracefully she floats 
 upon the water. She is going far away, thousands of miles, 
 and will not be back for many months.'' 
 
 2. ^* Perhaps she will never come back," said Edith, as she 
 ^k>: came to the window, and stood, with her brother, looking at 
 
 the noble vessel, just sailing out upon the broad, pathless, 
 stomiy ocean. "I would not be in her for the world I " 
 
 3. "Why not, Edith?" asked Charles. "Oh I I am sure 
 I should be drowned," replied the little girl. 
 
 4. "You would be just as safe as you are here," said 
 Charles. " Ton know, father tells us that we are «s safe in 
 one place as in another, for the Lord, who takes care of us, is 
 everywhere." 
 
 5. "But think how many people are drowned at sea, 
 Charles ? '"' " And think how many people are killed on the 
 land," replied Charles. " Don't you remember the anecdote 
 father told us one day about a sailor. 
 
 6. " There was a great storm, and the ship was in much 
 dangei . Many of the passengers were terribly frightened, but 
 this sailor was as calm as if the sun was shining abo^e, and 
 the sea undistnrbed' below. ' Are you not afiraid ? ' said one 
 
 replied the sailor, 'why dioold I 
 
 passengers. 
 
 Jll» 
 
260 
 
 THE fOUBTB BWAPTO, 
 
 be afraid?' 'We may all be drowned,' sdd the pasaenger. 
 'All of OS have once to die/ piilinly returned the sailor. 
 
 I. " The passenger was surprised to see the man's compo- 
 sure. 'Have you followed the sea long?' he asked. 'Ever 
 since I was a boy ; and my father followed it before me.' 
 
 8. " * Indeed I And where did your father die ? ' * He was 
 drowned at sea/ replied the sailor. 'And your grandfather, 
 where did he die?' 'He was also drowned at sea,' said the 
 sailor. 'Father and grandfather drowned at sea ! ' exclaimed 
 the passenger in astonishment, 'and you not afraid to go to 
 sea ? ' 'No I God is everywhere,' said the sailor reverently. 
 
 9. '"And now,' he added, after pausing a moment, 'may I 
 ask yon where your father died?' 'In his bed,' replied the 
 passenger. 'And where did his father die?' 'In his bed,' 
 was again answered. 'Are you not, then, afraid to go to 
 bed,' said the sailor, 'if your father and grandfather both 
 died there?'" 
 
 10. " Oh yes I I remember it very well now," said Edith. 
 " I know that the Lord takes care of us always, wherever we 
 may be. I know that he is everywhere present." 
 
 II. "And he will take as good care of the people in that 
 ship as he does of those who are on the land," replied Charles. 
 " Father says that we should always go where our duties call 
 us, whether it be upon land or upon sea, for the Lord can and 
 will protect us as much in one place as in another." 
 
 69. Anecdote of Fbederice the Great. 
 
 FREDERICK the Great, king of Prussia, having rung 
 his. bell one day, and nobody answering, opened the door 
 where his page was usually in waiting, and found him asleep 
 on a sofa. 
 
 2. He was going to awake him, when he perceived the end 
 of a billet or letter hanging out of his pocket. Having the 
 curiosity to know its contents, he took and read it, and found 
 it waa a letter from his mother, thanking him for having tent 
 
A BKAUi OAXlOaiBIL 
 
 251 
 
 her a part of his wages to assist her in het distress, and con* 
 dnding with beseeching God to bless him for his filial attention 
 to her wants. 
 
 8. The king returned softly to his room, took a purse of 
 dacats, and slid them with the letter into the page's pocket. 
 Returning to his^ apartment, he rung so Tiolently that the 
 page awoke, opened the door, and entered. 
 
 4. " You have slept yneW," said the king. The page made 
 an apology, and, in his confusion, he happened to put his hand 
 into his pocket, and felt with astonishment the purse. He 
 drew it out, turned pale, and looking at the king, burst into 
 tears, without being able to speak a word. 
 
 5. "What is the matter?" asked the king; "what ails 
 you?'' "Ah, sir," said the young man, throwing himself at 
 his feet, " somebody has wished to ruin me. I kn^w not how 
 I came by this money in my pocket." 
 
 6i "My friend," said Frederick, "God often sends us good 
 in our sleep. Give the money to your mother ; salute her in my 
 name, and assure her that I shall take care of her and you." 
 
 7. This story furnishes an excellent instance of the gratitude 
 and duty which children owe to their aged, infirm, or unfortu- 
 nate parents. 
 
 8. And, if the children of such parents will follow the ex- 
 ample of Frederick's servant, though they may not meet with 
 the reward that was conferred on him, they shall be amply 
 recompensed by the pleasing testimony of their own minds, 
 and by that God who approves, as he has commanded, every 
 expression of filial love. 
 
 If 
 
 hi 
 
 70. A Small Catechism. 
 
 1. ITTHY are children's eyes so bright ? 
 'V Tell me why?" 
 *"Tis because the infinite, 
 Which they've left Js still in sight. 
 And they know no worldly blight- 
 Therefore 'tis their eyes are bright** 
 
252 
 
 THE FOURTH READER. 
 
 (If 
 
 i. 
 
 2. "Why do children laugh so gay ? 
 Tell me why?" 
 "Tis because their hearts have play 
 In their bosoms, every day, 
 Free from sin and sorrow's sway — 
 Therefore, 'tis they laugh so gay." 
 
 8. "Why do children speak so free T 
 Tell me why?" 
 '"Tis because from fallacy. 
 Cant, and seeming, they are free, 
 Hearts, not lips, their organs be — 
 Therefore, 'tis they speak so free." 
 
 4. "Why do children love 80 true ? 
 TeUmewhy?" 
 *"Ti8 because they cleave unto, 
 A familiar fav'rite few, 
 Without art or self in view — 
 
 Therefore children love so true.'' 
 
 71. The Prodigal Son. 
 
 A CERTAIN man had two sons. And the younger of 
 them said to his father : ' Father, give me the portion 
 of substance that falleth to me.' And he divided unto them 
 his substance. • 
 
 2. "And not many days after, the younger son gathering 
 all together, went abroad into a far country, and there wasted 
 his substance by living riotously. And after he had spent all, 
 there came a mighty famine in that country, and he began to 
 be in wafat. 
 
 3. " And he went, and joined himself to one of the citizens 
 of that country. And he sent, him into his farm, to feed his 
 swine : and he would fain have filled his belly with the husks 
 the swine did eat ; and no man gave unto him. 
 
 \ 
 
THB PRODIGAL SOH. 
 
 253 
 
 4. "And returning to himself, he said : ' How many hired 
 servants in my father's house have plenty of bread, and I here 
 perish with hunger I I will arise, and I will go to my father, 
 and say to hira : Fai/Uer, I have sinned against heaven, ond 
 before thee ; I am not now worthy to be called thy son ; 
 make me as one of thy hired servants.' And rising up, he 
 went to his father 
 
 m 
 
 5. "And when he was yet a great way off, his father saw 
 him, and was moved with compassion, and, running to him, 
 fell upon his neck, and kissed him. And the son said to him : 
 ' Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee I I 
 am not now worthy to be called thy son.' 
 ' 6. " But the father saiti to his servants : * Bring forth 
 quickly the first robe, and put it on him, and put a ring on his 
 hand, and shoes on his feet : and bring hither the fatted calf, 
 and kill it, and let us eat and be merry ; because this my son 
 was dead, and is come to life again : he was lost and is found.' 
 And they began to be merry , 
 
 *l. " Now his elder son was in the field : and when he came, 
 and drew nigh to the house, he heard music and dancing : and 
 
 ( 
 
 wi 
 
254 
 
 THE VOUBTH BEADEIt 
 
 I 
 
 he called one of the serrants, and asked what these thingi 
 meant. And he said to him : 'Thy brother is come, and thy 
 father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath received him 
 safe.' And he was angry, and would not go in. 
 
 8. "His father, therefore, coming out, began to entreat 
 him. And he, answering, said to his father : ' Behold, for so 
 many years I serre thee, and I have never transgressed thy 
 commandment ; and yet thou hast never given me a kid to 
 make merry with my firiends : but as soon as this thy son is 
 come, who hath devoured his substance with harlots, thou 
 hast killed for him the fatted calf.' 
 
 9. "But the father said to him: 'Son, thou art always 
 with me, and all I have is thine. But it was fit that we should 
 make merry and be glad : for this thy brother was dead, and 
 is come to life again : he was lost, and is found."* 
 
 10. After this parable, so tender and so touching ; after 
 this language, so simple and yet so profound, so far beyond 
 all human conceptions ; after these lofty revelations of the 
 world, of life, of the human heart, and of God, one would wish 
 to speak but cannot : the heart is foil, but we cannot give 
 expression to our feelings. What shall I tell you, children ? 
 do you not understand, do you not feel the parable, that this 
 father is God? that these two sons are men, the children of 
 God, some faithful, others unfaithful to their father? 
 
 11. If it is the youngest who leaves the paternal house, it 
 is because that it is in youth, the age of weakness and inex- 
 perience, that the errors and sad excesses of life usually occur. 
 When a man has remained faithful to God, on through youth 
 to mature age, the age of strength and reason, it is very 
 rarely that he falls away from his service at a later period. 
 
 12. That a prodigal squanders away his substance in the 
 distant country to which he betakes himself, you can also 
 easily understand. At the very moment when one abandons 
 God, he loses all the treasures of the soul, sin robs him of all. 
 That there is famine in that strange land, how could it be 
 otherwise ? God is*the only source of life, of good, of happi< 
 ness ; away from him, what can there be but famine, indigence, 
 and misery I 
 
BLiNOHl OF OASHLB. 
 
 261^ 
 
 thingi 
 md thy 
 red him 
 
 entreat 
 , for 80 
 Bed thy 
 kid to 
 f son ia 
 bs, thoa 
 
 always 
 e should 
 Bad, and 
 
 g; after 
 > beyond 
 3 of the 
 )ald wish 
 not give 
 ;hildren ? 
 that this 
 Idren of 
 
 house, it 
 ,nd inex- 
 ly occur, 
 jh youth 
 is yery 
 eriod. 
 le in the 
 can also 
 abandons 
 m of all. 
 Id it be 
 [)f happi' 
 idigence, 
 
 18. Then, instead of serring a fother, the sinner becomes 
 the slare of a master, and a master as cruel and pitiless as the 
 father was kind and good. In that degrading bondage, all is 
 forgotten; nobility of birth, generous sentiments, all, all is 
 lost sight of, and the wretched slave humbles himself, at the 
 bidding of his tyrant, even to feed swine, that is to say, the 
 shameful passions of the heart; and he is repaid for this 
 degradation by having himself no other food but that which 
 feeds the swine, namely, filthy pleasures and degrading ex- 
 cesses. 
 
 14. The new tyrant thus served, the passion which 'Jos 
 enslaved the soul, takes pleasure in debasing and insulting its 
 slave in the most cruel manner ; it humbles him to the very 
 dust, and trails him through the mire : " Bow down," it sayti, 
 "and let me pass;*' and he bows down, and it tramples hiisi 
 under its feet. 
 
 72. Blakohe of Oastile. 
 
 BLANCHE was the daughter of Alphonsus IX., king of 
 Castile, and of Eleanor of England. From her childhood 
 she displayed great firmness of character, and an austerity of 
 manners far beyond her age. She was married at the age of 
 thirteen to the young Prince Louis, eldest son of Philip Au- 
 gustus, and who afterwards reigned under the title of Louis 
 Till. This union, which took place on the 23d of Ma^^ 1 200, 
 was one of the conditions of the peace concluded tlv- :>jne 
 year between this monarch and the King of England, uncle to 
 the bride. 
 
 2. She was conducted to Normandy, where the marriage 
 took place with a magnificence worthy of the tiiree kingdoms 
 interested in this alliance. Every fete and amusement then in 
 vogue was inaugurated in honor of the occasion ; but the two 
 betrothed were their most beautiful and graceful ornament. 
 They were of the same age, and gifted with every quality 
 which could attract the esteem and love of those who sur- 
 rounded them. The most flattering eulogy has been pro* 
 
266 
 
 THE FOUXlTn yty-APff iB. 
 
 •ill ! 
 
 ! I 
 
 nonnced on them, that they lived together for twenty-six years 
 withont a single disagreement. 
 
 8. But the wit and wisdom of Blanche were no less re- 
 markable than her beauty and nobleness of character ; so that 
 her father-in-law. the king, would 6ften consult her, and pay 
 the greatest deference to her advice ; and so great was the 
 ascendency she acquired over her husband, that he would in^ 
 sist on her presence in the council-chamber, and even on his 
 military journeys. 
 
 4. When Blanche became a mother, she displayed still 
 greater virtues. Esteeming it a great duty to nourish her 
 children, she would not suffer this care to devolve on another. 
 The eldest of her sons dying at an early age, the second, 
 being destined to rule over France, became the object of his 
 mother's tenderest care. She seemed to foresee the glory 
 which this prince would shed over his house, and at his birth 
 ordered the church bells to be rung (which had ceased for fear , 
 of disturbing the queen), " to invite all the people to go and 
 praise God for having given her so sweet a son" 
 
 5. Blanche devoted herself enturely to the formation of the 
 mind of this young prince. Every evening before they retired 
 to rest, she took her children on her knee, caressed them with 
 great affectimi, and told them some little anecdote of some 
 virtuous action, so as to impress it on their infant minds. She 
 repeatedly said to Louis — "My son, God knows how tenderly 
 I love you 1 but I would rather see you dead at my feet than 
 guilty of onh mortal sin I " — words repeated from age to age 
 to the praise of the good Blanche of Castile t 
 
 73. Hail 1 Virgin op Virgins. 
 
 1. TTAIL 1 Virgin of virgins I 
 Jl Thy praises we sing, 
 Tliy throne is in heaven, 
 Thy Son is its King. 
 
SIX years 
 
 less re- 
 ; so that 
 and pay 
 
 was the 
 would in- 
 »n on his 
 
 lyed still 
 urish her 
 1 another, 
 e second, 
 ect of his 
 the glory 
 b his birth 
 sd for fear , 
 ;o go and 
 
 ion of the 
 ley retired 
 them with 
 e of some 
 nds. She 
 w tenderly 
 feet than 
 a,ge to age 
 
 HAIL, VIBOIM OF VIBOINS. 
 
 The saints and the angels 
 Thy glory proclaim ; 
 
 All nations devoutly 
 Bow down at thy nam& 
 
 257 
 
 :1I 
 
 Let all sing of Mary, 
 
 The mystical Rod, 
 The Mirror of Justice 
 
 The Handraai4 of God. 
 Let valley and mountain 
 
 Unite in her praise ; 
 The sea with its waters. 
 
 The sun with its rays. 
 
268 
 
 THE FOUBTH BV.ADRB. 
 
 3. Let sonlis that are holy 
 
 Still holier be, 
 To sing with the angels, 
 
 Sweet Mary, of thee. 
 Let all who are sinners 
 
 To virtue return. 
 That hearts without number 
 
 With thy love may bum. 
 
 i. Thy name is our power, 
 
 Thy love is our light ; 
 We praise thee at morning, 
 
 At noon and at night. 
 We thank thee, we bless thee^ 
 
 When happy and free ; 
 When, tempted by Satan, 
 
 We call upon thee. 
 
 6. The world does not love the^ 
 
 beautiful one I 
 Because it despises 
 
 The cross of thy Son. 
 But thou art the Mother 
 
 Of all Adam^s race ; 
 The birth-fltain of Eva 
 
 '£m thine to efface. 
 
 6. Oh ! be, then, our Mother, 
 
 And pray to the Lord, 
 That ! 11 may acknowledge 
 
 And worship his Word ; 
 That good men with courage 
 
 May walk in his ways. 
 And bad men converted 
 
 May join in his praise. 
 
LEGEMD OF DAinEL TEE ANOHOBET. 
 
 359 
 
 
 ^:- 
 
 74. liEaEND OF Daniel the Anohobet. 
 
 DANIEL the Anchoret knelt in prayer, and he grieved over 
 the evil times npon which his lot had fallen. "The 
 charity of God has gone from the earth and returned to 
 heaven. She has folded her wings there near the throne, and 
 purposes not to visit earth again. There is no one to yield 
 the tear of sympathy, or the mite of relief to the poor of the 
 Lord. There is no charity left upon the earth," said Daniel. 
 Ho rose and trimmed the lam[> that haug before his favorite 
 shrine, and its rays lit up lus cell vnth unwonted splendor. 
 
 2. The stream of light seemed suddenly to grow into shape, 
 and the holy man became suddenly aware of a jewelled sandal, 
 a flowing robe, and a snowy wing, revealing the presence of an 
 angel close by his side. He would have prostrated himself to 
 venerate the messenger of God ; but the angel forbade him, 
 and motioned him to take his 6taff and sally forth from the 
 hermitage. " Follow me and I will show thee one who hath 
 true charity for the poor." 
 
 3. The Anchoret folded his mantle about him, and bending 
 his head, he followed the angel wheresoever he would lead. 
 They went on until they entered the outskirts of the neigh- 
 boring town, and there the angel stopped before an humble 
 cottage and disappeared, leavmg the Anchoret to contemplate 
 the scene before him, and learn wisdom from what he might 
 see. Blocks of marble and slabs of travertine, rough-shapened 
 by the chisel,. lay scattered round about, showing that the oc- 
 cupant of the cottage followed the craft of a stone-dresser. 
 
 4. The craftsman himself was seated in front of his door 
 under a canopy formed by a luiniriant vine, now laden wHh 
 bunches of purple grapes. Some ragged little children, and a 
 few aged persons, nearly all blind or crippled, were grouped 
 around the stone-mason, whose name, it appeared from the 
 discourse, which Daniel overheard, was Eulogius. He was 
 instructmg and encouraging his listeners to love God, be 
 thankful to him for his mercies, and resigned to the trials and 
 privations which had fallen to their share. 
 
I 
 
 960 
 
 TBE FOUBTE BEABIS. 
 
 6. It became clear, from the parting blessings of the poor, 
 that they were to see him again on the morrow, and farther- 
 mortf, that he was in the habit each day of gathering them 
 aronnd hun and distribating ' mong them all his earnings 
 not strictly tieoessary to supply his own simple wants. The 
 Anchoret was charmed and e M^^l beyond measure by all he 
 had seen and heard. He rejoicea exceedingly and gave thanks 
 to God. 
 
 6. Here, then, was one true friend of the poor. But oh I 
 he began to think, what a pity it is tha^; one who is so great 
 of heart should be so poor himself, and able to do so little 
 good. His charity is indeed unbounded ; but his means, alas I 
 are not equal to his good-wilL And straightway the holy 
 man betook himself to prayer, and he begged of God that the 
 generous artisan might become rich and great ; for if he was 
 so liberal in n condition bordering upon indigence, he would 
 be much the more liberal with unlimited resources subject to 
 his command. 
 
 t. The angel appeared again to the Anchoret. "Thy 
 prayer, O Daniel, is not a wise one ; it were not well for 
 Eulogius to become rich.'' But Daniel could not help think- 
 ing of the greater number of poor who would be relieved, and 
 of the splendid example the virtuous and frugal Eulogius 
 would give to other rich men, were he mdeed to become rich 
 himself. He continued to pray that his wish might be 
 granted, and in the fervor of his zeal he pledged hunself to 
 God as security for the good use his fellow-eervant would 
 make of wealth and power, were they to become his portion. 
 
 8. So, then, God granted the prayer of the Anchoret, and 
 he ordained that Eulogius, while hewing stone from the side 
 of a hill, displaced a mass of loose fragments and earth, which 
 took his feet from under him and threw him upon the ground. 
 Eulogius was terrified ; but when the noise was over, and the 
 dust had cleared away, he rose and saw lying at his feet a 
 huge lump of pure shining gold. He was rich, and that 
 neighborhood saw him no more, for, taking with hun his 
 wonderful treasure, he went to the court of Justin the Elder, 
 and became a great general of the empire. 
 
LEaSMD OF DANCIL THE AMOHORET. 
 
 261 
 
 hem 
 ings 
 The 
 11 he 
 tanks 
 
 75. Legend of Daniel the AsoEOKer—continned, 
 
 SEVERAL years were past and gone, and Daniel the 
 Anchoret still continued to trim the little lamp that 
 burned before the shrine in the mountain cave, which he had 
 chosen for^^is cell. His head was now bent, his step was 
 slower and less firm as he went down the mountain side to 
 visit and console the neighboring poor« whom he loved so 
 much. 
 
 2!. The old man's thoughts rrere fixed upon the future. 
 His long hair and venerable beard wfere tufted with white,-— 
 "crests," he would say, "upon the wave of tune about to 
 break upon the shore of eternity." It chanced one night, 
 about this season, that Daniel had knelt long in prayer, when 
 it seemed to him to behold the throne of God suddenly 
 erected as for a solemn judgment about to take place, and the 
 culprit summoned before the awful presence of the Judge 
 was (but oh I how changed from his former self I) the stone* 
 dresser Eulogius. 
 
 3. Daniel, likewise, to his infinite sorrow and dismay, was 
 called to appear by the side of him for whose good conduct 
 he had pledged himself as security, in his inconsiderate zeal to 
 promote the welfare of the poor. Oh 1 what a dark catalogue 
 of sins was brought forward against the unfortunate culprit. 
 He had used the gold, by miracle put within his reach, to 
 purchase the servants of tiie aged Emperor Justin, and gain 
 access to his favor. 
 
 4. He had been made, by means of bribery and corruption, 
 the chief of a great army ; and he bad outstripped all the 
 soldiery in excesses of every kind, in the same proportion as 
 he rose above them in power. He had robbed the churches 
 and pillaged the cloisters, and finally had joined one Pompey, 
 and one Hypatius, in a conspiracy to take the life of 
 the Emperor Justinian, who had succeeded Justin on the 
 thrOhe. 
 
 5. Daniel was not able to see or hear more, but weeping 
 bitterly, he fell prostrate on his face in the presence of God, 
 
 III' 
 
 V*' 
 
 I 
 
 jiSi 
 
 III 
 
•mmmasa-mKm 
 
 262 
 
 THB FOOBTH READBB. 
 
 and begged him to bring Enlogiiis back to his former con- 
 dition, and to release him from a pledge that had proved so 
 injurious for both parties concerned. 
 
 6. The angel bore to the foot of the throne the prayer of 
 the aged servant of God, whose heart was filled with grief 
 and bitter remorse, and the request it contained was again 
 •mercifully granted. The conspiracy in which Eulogius wivs 
 implicated came to be discovered, his accomplices were brought 
 to justice, and he narrowly escaped with his iiife. 
 
 h. lie did penance for his sms, returned to his former 
 obscurity, worked again at his craft as a stone-dresser, aud 
 in time resinned the practice of alms-giving, which he had 
 changed in an evil houi' for deeds of rapine and plunder. Thus 
 the good angel guiriian of Daniel the Anchoret succeeded at 
 length in convincing liim >Jiat avarice bnt too often hardens 
 the heart of wealth, thn^ iiisturbing the order of God's provi- 
 dence on earth, and i\i9.i the poor are not mifrequently the 
 best frJends of the poor. 
 
 76. Childhood's Yeabs. 
 
 1. TN yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls, 
 -L In many a fold, the mantlmg woodbme falls, 
 The village matron kept her little school. 
 Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule ; 
 Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien ; 
 Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely dean : 
 Her neatly-border'd cap, as lily fair. 
 Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care ; 
 And pendant ruffles, of the whitest lawn. 
 Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn. 
 Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes, 
 A pur of spectacles their want supplies ; 
 These does she guard secure, in leathern case. 
 From thoughtless wights, in some onweeted pkkce. 
 
OmLDHOODS YEAB8. 
 
 268 
 
 con- 
 ed so 
 
 8. Here first I enter*!!, though with toil and pain, 
 The low-arch'd vestibule of learning's fame : 
 Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way, 
 Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display. 
 Much did I grieve, on that ill-fated morn, 
 When I was first to school reluctant borne ; 
 Severe I thought the dame, though oft she tried 
 To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd ; 
 And oft, when harshly shu reproved, I wept, 
 To my lone corner broken-hearted crept, 
 And thought of t«nder home, where anger never kept 
 
 •lil 
 
 8. But soon mured to alphabetic toils. 
 
 Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles ; 
 
 First at the form, my task forever true, 
 
 A little favorite rapidly I grew : 
 
 And oft she stroked my head with fond delight. 
 
 Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight ; 
 
 And as she gave my diligence its praise, 
 
 Talk'd of the honors of my future days. 
 
 4. Oh, had the venerable matron thought 
 Of all the ills by talent often brought ; 
 Could she have seen me when revolving years 
 
!i 
 
 iKH IHB VOUBTH BBADBB. 
 
 Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears, 
 Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate 
 Had been a lowlier, an unlettered state ; 
 Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife. 
 Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd through life. 
 
 6. Where in the busy scene, by peace unblest. 
 Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest ? 
 A lonely mariner on the stormy main. 
 Without a hope, the calms of peace to gain ; 
 Long toss'd by tempests o'er the world's wide shore, 
 When shall his spirit rest, to toil no more ? 
 Not till the light foam of the sea shall lave 
 The sandy surface of his uni^ept grave. 
 Childhood, to thee I turn from life's alarms, 
 Serenest season of perpetual cahns, — 
 Turn with delight, and bid tto passions cease, 
 And joy to thmk with thee I tasted peace. 
 Sweet reign of innocence, when no crime defiles. 
 But each new object brings attendant smiles ; 
 When future evils never haunt the sight, 
 But all is pregnant with unmixt delight ; 
 To thee I turn, from riot and from noise, — 
 Turn to partake of more coogenial joys. 
 
 6. 'Neath yonder elm, that stands upon the moor, 
 When the clock spoke the hour of labor o'er, 
 What clamorous throngs, what happy grou{»3 were seen, 
 In various postures scatt'ring o'er the green I 
 Some shoot the marble, others join the chase / 
 
 Of self-made stag, or run the emulous race ; 
 While others, seated on the dappled grass. 
 With doleful tales the light-wing'd minutes pass. 
 Well I remember how, with gesture starch'd, 
 A band of soldiers, oft with pride we march'd ; 
 For banners, to a tall ash we did bind 
 Our kerchiefs, flapping to the whistling wind ; 
 And for our warlike arms we sought the mead, 
 
BBBAKFA8T-TABLB BOIBNOB. 286 
 
 And gtms and ipMn we made cf brittle reed ; 
 Then, in nncoath arrays onr feats to crown, 
 We storm'd some min'd pignsty for a town. 
 
 7. Pleased with our gay disports, the dame was wont 
 To set'her wheel before the cottage front 
 And o'er her spectacles would often peer, 
 To view our gambols, and our boyish gear. 
 Still as she look'd, her wheel kept turning round. 
 With its beloved monotony of sound. 
 When tired with play, we'd set us by her side 
 (For out of school she never knew to chide). 
 And wonder at her skill — ^well known to fame — 
 For who could match in spinning with the dame ? 
 Her sheets, her linen, which she show'd with pride 
 To strangers, still her thriftiness testified ; 
 Though we poor wights did wonder much, in troth, 
 How 'twas her spinning manufactured cloth 
 
 77. Bbeaefast-Table Science. 
 
 ¥HAT is an object lesson?'' said Lucy to her mother, 
 one day after breakfast. " I have been reading about 
 one in a book ; and I do not know, exactly what it means.'' 
 
 "An object lesson," said her mother, ''is a lesson which 
 teaches the properties, or qualities, of objects. An object is 
 any thing which yon can see, or feel, or taste. A tree is an 
 object ; so is a chair ; so is a slice of bread. 
 
 2. "A lesson about a tree tells you of the properties which 
 dMinguish a tree from other thin^ ; of its root, its trunk, its 
 branches, its leaves, its fruit, its bark ; of the way it grows, • 
 and the uses made of its wood. Object lessons teach us to 
 use our senses ; to observe, and compare, and reflect." 
 
 " I should like to have some object lessons ; will you be so 
 good as to give me some ?" 
 
 8. " I will, my dear daughter, on one condition ; and that 
 
 12 
 
266 
 
 THE R>UBTH nlB4nf}^^, 
 
 m\ 
 
 i! 
 
 i; 
 
 i 
 
 is, that yoa giro me yoar carefUl attention. ^Ton must listen 
 to mo with your cars, and give heed to me with yoor mind." 
 
 " I will do so, my dear mother,** said Lucy, " and be much 
 obliged to you besides. What object will you teach me 
 about?" 
 
 4. "Here is the breakfast-tablo," said her mother, "with 
 the remains of the breakfast upon it, with cups and saucers, 
 spoons, plates, and knives and forks. Here U substance 
 enough for many object lessons. Suppose I give yon some 
 lessons in the science of the breakfttst-table. And, first of 
 all, let US see what it is that all these things rest upon and 
 are held up by." 
 
 "Itisatable.'» 
 
 6. "Very good. And the table w made of mahogany. 
 Mahogany is the wood of a tree which grows in the West 
 Indies, in Central America, and iu many parts of South 
 America. Men go into the woods and cut down the trees, 
 just as lumbermen go into the woods of Maine and cat down 
 pine-trees. They are then floated down to the searcoast, and 
 shipped to Europe or this country, k 
 
 6. "This is very hard work ; the men who do it are obliged 
 to go mto woods and swamps, where it is yetj hot, and often 
 unhealthy. 
 
 ' " Mahogany, as you see, is a beantifnl wood, and takes a 
 fine polish. It was introduced into England about the end of 
 the seventeenth century.* 
 
 *l. "A captain of a West Indian ship brought home some 
 logs, which he had put on board his vessel simply as ballast ; 
 that is, as weight to make it steady. He gave them to his 
 Vother, a physician, who was building a house, supposing 
 tiiey might be useful to him ; bat the carpenters would not 
 do any thing with the wood, saying that it was too hard for 
 their tools. >- 
 
 8. " Some time after, the wife of this physician was in want 
 of a candle-box, and she told the cubinet-maker to majiLe it 
 out of one of the logs of mahogany which had been thrown 
 
 ^ Th* aevmUMth eeniwy is the period between 1600 aod 1701. 
 
 ■il'i 
 
 ■ li ' 
 
BBBAKFA8T-TABLB SOIEvnB. 
 
 267 
 
 it Uaten 
 aind." 
 lb much 
 ach me 
 
 r, 
 
 with 
 
 saucers, 
 ibstance 
 on some 
 first of 
 pon and 
 
 iiliogany. 
 ;he West 
 )f South 
 he trees, 
 mt down 
 oast, and 
 
 e obliged 
 md ofteu 
 
 takes a 
 16 ead of 
 
 ime some 
 ballast ; 
 m to his 
 mpposing 
 'ould not 
 hard for 
 
 s in want 
 mal^e it 
 a thiiown 
 
 1701. 
 
 aside. He was nnwilling at first, because he thought it 
 would spoil his tools ; but he at last cousented. When the 
 box was made and polished, it far outshone any thing in the 
 pliysician's now Louse ; and people came from far and near to 
 loolc at it. 
 
 9. "A lady of rank had a bureau made from one of the logs ; 
 and from this time the use of mahogany was gradually ex- 
 tended till it became general. /, 
 
 " Articles of mahogany furniture were once formed of the 
 lolid wood, which made them quite expensive ; but that has 
 been obviated by a modem invention. 
 
 10. "A log of mahogany is now cut into very thin pieces, 
 called veneers, by sharp saws ; and these veneers are nicely 
 glued upon pine, so that we can have now what looks like a 
 mahogany table, though it is really made of pine, with a 
 covering of mahogany outside. Such a table is much cheaper 
 than if it were all mahogany. Then next comes the table- 
 cloth. This is made of linen. Linen is produced from a plant 
 •Milled flax. Have you ever seen flax growing 7 " 
 
 11. "Yes, father showed me some last summer growing la 
 a field on g^ndfather's farm. It had a green stalk, with a 
 pretty blue flower. When father showed it to me, he repeated 
 a piece of poetry about a little girl that was lost in a ship* 
 wreck, and it said, 'Blue were her eyes as the faiiy flax.' 
 Father told me that this meant that her eyes were as blue as 
 those flowers." < 
 
 12. "I am very glad, my dear, that yon remember so well 
 what your father tells you. After the flowers are dead, the 
 plants are pulled up. The seeds are then beaten out; the 
 stalks are soaked in water, and dried,, and combed, and 
 bleached, utitil they become a bundle of fibres, like very fine 
 hair. These are spun into threads, and the threads are woven 
 into cloth. 
 
 13. "You will see that the surface of the table-cloth is not 
 uniform, or all alike, but that it has patterns, or figures, 
 wrought mto it. This is all done by very curious and in* 
 genious machinny. " 
 
 "Flax is not modi raised in onr conntry; nor are there 
 
THB rOUBTB RlADlBi 
 
 manj manafactories of linen here. Thej raiio it in great 
 quantities in England, Ireland, Belgiom, and parts of Oe^ 
 many ; and it is manufactured in Scotland, England, the north 
 of Ireland, and Germany. 
 
 14. "This tablecloth was brought in a ship from Liver- 
 pool, in England." 
 
 " You said Just now that the flax wcte bleached. What is 
 that?" 
 
 "To bleach is to mp}:'' ^hite. The natural color of flax is 
 a kind of brown, liLe the brown linen thread I hare in my 
 work-basket ; and it has to be whitened by art. 
 
 15. " Most linen fabrics are whitened after they are woven. 
 It used to be done by spreading the cloth upon the grass, in 
 the sun, and frequently wetting it ; but now the cloth is dipped 
 into a kmd of liquid which takes the colpr out at once. 
 
 16. "Now we have the table set, and the cloth spread ; we 
 will next see what there is on the table. Here are the coffe&> 
 pot, the teapot, the water-pot, the cream-jug, and the sugar- 
 bowl. What do you think these are made of?" 
 
 17. "They are made of silver, I suppose. They look like 
 the silver half-dollar father gave me once." 
 
 "Your answer is a natural one, my dear Lucy. Older per* 
 sons than you judge of things by thehr outward appearance. 
 These are not made of silver, though they look like it 
 
 18. " Rich people have them of silver, but ours are made 
 of a white metal, commonly called German silver, covered 
 over, or plated, with real silver. German silver is made of 
 copper, zinc, and nickel ; all of which are metals. Articles of 
 this kind are made in great numbers in the city of Birmingham, 
 in England. They are also made in. our country." 
 
 78. Bbeaefast-Table Science — continued, 
 
 LET us next go to the cups and saucers, and the plates. 
 They are of the same substance, and of a white color ; 
 bat they may be of other colon. Oar dinner-plates, you 
 
BUAIFABT-TAIILB flCHNOB. 
 
 269 
 
 n great 
 of Ge^ 
 le north 
 
 I Livcr- 
 
 l^hat \b 
 
 if flax is 
 e in my 
 
 e woven, 
 grass, in 
 is dipped 
 
 3. 
 
 ead; we 
 e coffe©" 
 e sugar- 
 look like 
 
 )lder per- 
 >pearance. 
 it 
 
 are made 
 ', covered 
 made of 
 irticles of 
 mingham, 
 
 the plates, 
 lite color; 
 tlates, yon 
 
 know, are coTered all over with bine fignres. They are all 
 called, in common speech, earthen-ware, or crockery-ware, and 
 sometimes China-ware, because much of it comes from Ohina. 
 
 8. "All kinds of crockcry-waro are made out of earth or 
 clay. Ttie finest sorts, which are sometimes called porcelain, 
 are made partly of clay, and partly of flint stones which have 
 beeh burned, pounded, and ground into a powder. 
 
 "This material is mixed with water, and made into a sort 
 of paste or dough ; this is shaped or moulded into cups, plates, 
 or dishes, and it is done very quickly and neatly by men who 
 are accustomed to it. 
 
 3. "They use a wheel to help them shape it. Then it is 
 put into an oven and heated, and when it comes out it is 
 glazed, and sometimes painted with figures and colored." 
 
 4. " What do you meaii by glazed, mother ? " 
 
 " If you look at a cup, or plate, carefully, yon will see that 
 the surface is not merely smooth, but polished and bright, 
 something like glass. This is the effect of the glazing. A 
 substance made of lead, called litharge of lead, is put into 
 water, and mixed up with ground flints, or granite, so as to 
 make a liquid like thick cream ; and Into this the articles which 
 require glazing are dipped. 
 
 5. "They are then put into an oven and heated agam. The 
 glazing makes them easily washed, and enables them to hold 
 any liquid without absorbing it. 
 
 "Earthen-ware and porcelain-ware are made in England, 
 France, China, and to some extent in our country. There is a 
 place in France where they make plates and cnps and saucerv 
 which have most beautiful paintings upon them of birds, or 
 flowers, or places. 
 
 6. "These sell for a great deal of money; and in looking 
 at them, it seems impossible to believe that they were made of 
 clay and flint stones. 
 
 " The knives are divided into two parts, the blade and the 
 handle. The blade is mode of steel, which is a preparation of 
 uron. Iron is a metal which is dug out of the earth. 
 
 T. "When first found, it is not in the state in which you 
 now see it, but it looks like a rongh, dark-brown stone. Thie 
 
270 
 
 ^TBE FOUBTH BEADES. 
 
 i: 
 
 !i 
 
 . !;i 
 
 is put into a farnace and melted, and the iron is drawn off in 
 a liquid form. Iron is the most useful of metals, and it is 
 found in nearly all parts of the world. 
 
 8. " Steel is made by putting bars of iron into a close box 
 with fine-powdered charcoal, and then heating the whole very 
 hot The vapor of the charcoal acts in a peculiar way upon 
 the iron, and makes it harder, more elastic, and less liable to 
 rust. Steel, also, when struck, sounds, or rings, louder than 
 nron, and it takes a brighter polish. 
 
 9. "The handles of knives are made of ivory, bone, horn, 
 or wood. Ours are made of bone. Knives are made in En^ 
 land, Germany, and also in our own country. Sheffield, in 
 England, is a place where many are made. 
 
 " Do you see any thing else on the table that Is made of 
 iron?" 
 
 10. "No, mother, I do not." 
 
 "There is something else, though yon do not perceive it 
 This waiter is made of iron. It is made of very thin iron, 
 called sheet iron, which is first painted, and then varnished. 
 A great deal of ware of this kind is made in Birmingham, in 
 ilngland. This is a large and rich city, and the people are 
 mostly employed in various manufactures of metal. 
 
 11. "They make buttons, buckles, thimbles, pencil-cases, 
 steel pens, teapots, trays, cake-baskets, and many other similar 
 articles. 
 
 "The spoons are made of silver, — ^real silver. Silver is a 
 metal, which is dug out of the ground. It is one of the pre- 
 cious metals, so called ; it comes next in value to gold and 
 platinum, which latter is rarely used. 
 
 12. " Money is coined from gold and silver. Silver is used 
 for many purposes ; and various beautiful and useful things 
 are made from it It comes mostly from Mexico and South 
 America. 
 
 " Having now disposed of the table, its covering, and the 
 furnishing of the table, let us proceed to consider what we 
 have had to eat. 
 
 13. " Onr breakfast has consisted of tea, coffee, sugar, bread) 
 batter, milk, boiled eggs, and baked apples. 
 
 I 
 1 
 c 
 
 s 
 I 
 
SBEAEFASTJrANM 80IEN0E. 
 
 271 
 
 ''Tea is tbe leaf of a shrab which grows in China and 
 Japan. It is from fonr to six feet high. The leaves are 
 gathered twice a year ; in the spring and the autumn. They 
 are dried a little in the sun, then laid on plates of hot iron, 
 and afterwards rolled on mats with the palm of the hand. 
 There are many varietieb of tea, but they are divided into two 
 great classes, black tea and green tea. 
 
 14. " These do not come from the same kind of plant. 
 
 " The Chinese are very fond of tea, and always have been 
 so. It was introduced into Europe about the year 1660 ; and 
 it is now very much used, especially in England and America. 
 A great many ships come from China which are entirely filled 
 with tea. It is packed in wooden chests, whicih have a lining 
 of lead. 
 
 15. " Coffee is the berry of an evergreen shrub which grows 
 in Arabia, and the East and West Indies. It is about ten feet 
 high, and its berry, when ripe, is red, and not very unlike a 
 cherry. At the proper time the fruit is gathered, dried in the 
 sun, and the berries extracted by the help of mills. The ber- 
 ries are again dried, packed in bags, and sent away in vessels. 
 When we want to make coffee, the berries, or grains, are 
 roasted, ground, and boiled in water. The finest coffee comes 
 from Mocha, in Arabia. 
 
 16. "Tea is made by steeping the leaves in boiling water, 
 which uncurls them, and makes them look larger than they 
 were when put in. Thus tea is properly an infusion. But 
 coffee is a decoction, because it is made by boiling. Now will 
 you promise to remember the distinction between these two 
 hard words?" 
 
 It. "I will try. Decoction is when you boil any thing, 
 and infusion is when you only steep it." 
 
 " Your father drinks coffee for breakfast, and I drink tea ; 
 but you drink milk. Tea and coffee both belong to those arti- 
 cles of food which are called stimulants. They act upon the 
 nerves, and produce a slight exhilaration or excitement. They 
 are not good for little boys and girls; and they should be 
 used only in moderation by grown persons. 
 
 18. "When your father comes home at night, tired with 
 
 111 
 ii 
 
 ii 
 
 f/J 
 
272 
 
 IBS FOURTH SEADEB. 
 
 I i 
 
 I! 
 
 his day's work, a cap of tea refreshes him ; bat if he were to 
 drink too much, or drink it too strong, it would keep him 
 awake, and he would hare a headache the next momiog. 
 Many persons injure themselves by drinking too much strong 
 tea and coffee. 
 
 19. " Sugar is the produce of a plant called the sugar-cane, 
 which grows in the West Indies, <».nd many other warm coun- 
 tries. It is about ten feet high, and about two inches in 
 diameter ; it looks a good deal like our Indian com. When 
 ripe, the canes are full of a rich, sweet juice. 
 
 20. " They are then cut down, and next crushed iu a mill ; 
 the liquid that runs out is boiled away, and a little lune-water 
 is mixed with it, to help to clarify it, that is, make it clear. 
 
 " When this liquid cools, it settles down in the form of 
 brown sugar ; and the liquid that runs off is molasses. Brown 
 sugar, which is sometimes called raw sugar, is refined and pu- 
 rified, and thus turned into loaf sugar. To do this, it is boiled 
 in lime-water, and the heated liquor is cleansed, or purified, 
 and then poured into conical moulds ; and when it cools, it 
 appears in the form of a loaf of hard white sugar. 
 
 21. " Sugar is made from other substances than the jniee 
 of the sugar-cane. In France, the juice of the beet-root is 
 much used for this purpose. Sugar has also been obtained 
 from grapes, and from liquorice root. In our country, much 
 maple-sugar is made by boiling down the juice of a kind of 
 maple-tree." 
 
 79. Bbeaefast-Table Soiencb — candvded, 
 
 YOU will observe that there are two kinds of bread on th« 
 table ; one is brown and the other is white ; but they ar^ 
 both made of wheat. Wheat is the growth of a plant which 
 looks something like a very tall blade of grass ; when it \b 
 ripe, it is cut down, and spread upon the floor of a bam, and 
 then beaten with a wooden stick called a flail, which causes 
 the wheat to drop out 
 
BBEAXFABT-TABLB BOEEKOI. 
 
 273 
 
 irereto 
 ep him 
 
 lorniog. 
 Btrong 
 
 ar<»tne, 
 
 n coan- 
 
 iches in 
 
 When 
 
 lamill; 
 ae-water 
 clear, 
 form of 
 Brown 
 and pu- 
 is boiled 
 purified, 
 cools, it 
 
 the juice 
 jt-root is 
 obtsdned 
 ry, much 
 kind of 
 
 A on th« 
 they ar^ 
 int which 
 hen it is 
 )am, and 
 ;h causes 
 
 3. "It then appears in the form of small, brown grains as 
 big as apple-seeds. 
 
 " These grains are carried to a mill and ground into flour. 
 This is done by having them put between two stones, the low- 
 er of which is fixed, while the upper one turns round. The 
 brown bread is made of flour in the state it is when it comes 
 from the mill. 
 
 3. "The white bread is made of flour which has been passed 
 through a very fine sieve, or bolted, as it is sometimes called. 
 The outer husk or covering, of- the grains of wheat, makes, 
 when ground, a substance called bran. In the unbolted flour 
 this bran is retained ; in the bolted it is not. Many persons 
 who are not strong and well find the brown bread more 
 healthy for them. 
 
 4. " In order to make bread, the flour is mixed with water, 
 in which state i^ is called dough. It has to be kneaded, or 
 stirred about, for a considerable time, in order to make the 
 water and the flour blend together perfectly. Then ye t is 
 put into the dough, which makes it rise, or swell. 
 
 5. "When you cut a slice of bread, you will notice that it 
 is porous, or fall of IHtle holes. This is owing to the eflfect 
 produced by the yeast. When it is sufficiently risen, it is put 
 into an oven and baked. 
 
 6. "Yeast is a liquid, frothy substance, commonly made 
 ii'om hops, and obtained from brewers who make beer. But 
 there are '^ther ways of procuring it, and there »r»^ other sub- 
 stances that produce the same efiect. In what manner the 
 yeast acts upon th^ bread so as to make it rise, I could not 
 explain to you without using many hard words, which would 
 go into one of your little ears and out of the other. 
 
 7. "When you are older, and study chemistry, you will un- 
 derstand it. Dough which has been mixed with yeast is called 
 leaven, a word sometimes used in the Bible. Unleavened bread 
 means bread which has not had any yeast, or leaven, put into it. 
 At times, the Jews were required to eat only unleavened bread." 
 
 8. "But mother, is not bread sometimes made of other 
 things than wheat ? I have eaten at grandfather's a kind of 
 bread which is called rye and Indian bread.'' 
 
 21* 
 
974 
 
 THE FOURTH BEAi>ESB. 
 
 I t 
 
 "Yon are right, my dear. Bread is sometimed made of 
 rye, of barley, of oats, and of Indian com. The bread of 
 which you speak is made of rye flour and Indian meal. Bye 
 is a grain of the same kind as wheat. 
 
 9. " Indian com is the fruit of a plant which we call by the 
 same name, and is also termed maize. It grows in the form 
 of yellow grains, much larger than those of wheat, which are 
 set round what is called the cob. Bye and Indiaii bread is 
 very common among New England farmers. 
 
 10. "I have now told yon al)out every thmg we have had 
 to eat for our breakfast, except the milk and cream, the but- 
 ter, the baked apples, and the eggs. Milk, as you know, is 
 drawn from the cow ; you have often seen them milk the cows 
 at your grandfather's. 
 
 ''Butter is made of cream, and creem comes from milk. 
 Milk, when first drawn from the cow, is Composed of two 
 parts, one of which is watery and sweet, and the other oHy. 
 After it has been allowed to stand some time, the cream rises 
 to the top. 
 
 11. "This is the oily part of the milk, and it rises because it 
 is lighter than the rest The cream is taken off, or skimmed 
 from the top, and put into a long, round-shaped box, called a 
 churn. Here it is shaken and stured by a handle, and in a 
 short time th^ watery particles of the cream separate from 
 those which are oily. The watery part is called buttermilk, 
 and is commonly given to the pigs; the oily part is but- 
 ter, and is given to good little buys and good little girls, 
 like yon. 
 
 12. "The apple is a fruit which grows upon a tree, and is 
 gathered in the nutumn. A collection of apple-trees is called 
 an orchard. You have sometimes been into your grandfather's 
 orchard and helped to pick up apples. There are many kinds 
 of apples I some are sweet and some are sour. 
 
 13. "Sweet apples are commonly used for baking, and sour 
 ones for making pies The apple is a very valuable fruit, and 
 many persons in our country support themselves by raising and 
 selling apples. 
 
 " Eggs are produced or laid, by hens. You know how fond 
 
BBEAKViSlVrABLE SOIKNOE. 
 
 275 
 
 made of 
 :)read of 
 al. Bye 
 
 all by the 
 the foria 
 which are 
 L bread is 
 
 ) have had 
 a, the but- 
 u know, is 
 k the cows 
 
 from ToSSk. 
 
 Bcd of two 
 
 other oily. 
 
 cream rises 
 
 ;8 because it 
 or skimmed 
 lox, called a 
 lie, and in a 
 larate from 
 bnttermilk, 
 lart is bnt- 
 little girls, 
 
 tree, and is 
 
 ses is called 
 
 randfather's 
 
 many kinds 
 
 ig, and sour 
 
 lie firuit, and 
 
 rai^ng and 
 
 )w how fond 
 
 yon are of going into yonr grandfather's bam, and looking for 
 eggs. All kinds of birds lay eggs, and they are of various 
 sizes. \ 
 
 14. "An ostrich's egg is as big as your head, and a huji- 
 ming-bird'g egg is no bigger than a pea. , 
 
 " An egg is a wonderful thing, though it is so common. It 
 contains a germ, or principle, of life ; that is, something which 
 may hereafter become alive. When you break open the egg 
 of a hen, you find a yellow, thick liquid in the middle, called 
 the yolk, and around it a white, sticky liquor, which is called 
 the white. 
 
 15. "Thjere is nothing here which looks like bones, or 
 feathers, or flesh. But if it be left in the nest, and the hen 
 sit upon it a number of days, the warmth of her body hatches 
 it, and turns it into a chickjn, whicn breaks the shell, and 
 runs about, and is a Uvmg <;rc^ture. 
 
 " This is the same with all kinds of fowls and birds. That 
 tall turkey at your grandfather's, which so frightened you 
 when you were a little girl, was once an egg ; and so was that 
 magnificent eagle that I showed you last summer at the White 
 MoutttaiDS. 
 
 16. *' This property of the egg is one of God's wonderful 
 works. We sometime call it a mystery ; that is, it is some- 
 thing that we cannot understand. We do not know ho^r it 
 is that the warmth of a hen's body converts an egg into a 
 chicken, but we know that such is the fact. 
 
 "And now, my dear Lucy, look round the table .'vud see if 
 there be any objects on it about which I have not tcld you." 
 
 17. "Yes, mother, there are the mats and the salt-cellars." 
 " Yery true ; and I am glad that you make such good use 
 
 of your eyes. The mats are made of the leaves of the palm- 
 tree. These are dried, cut into very narrow strips, and woven 
 or plaited. Your brother Willy in the summer wears a straw 
 hat which is made of the same material. The palm-tree grows 
 in Asia and Africa. 
 
 18. " The salt cellars are made of glass. Glass is made of 
 fine sand and soda, or potash. Potash is a substance obtained 
 from the ashes of plants and vegetables. The materials for 
 
276 
 
 IBS FOURTH RieAT> Ti!H, 
 
 f; i 
 
 forming glass are put into large pots, and melted, nntil it be* 
 comes a red hot liquid substance. Then the workman dips 
 the end of a long iron tube into it, and takes up a bit, which 
 he first rolls on a polished iron plate, to make it smooth on 
 the outside. Then he blows into the other end of the iron 
 tube, and the hot glass swells and expands, and it is shaped 
 into the required form. In this way bottles and decanters 
 are made. 
 
 19. " Saltcellars and other things of the kind are shaped 
 in a mould. The finer and costlier articles of glass are cut. 
 This is done by grinding the surface with small wheels of stone, 
 metal, or wood. The glass is held up to the wheel. A small 
 stream of water is kept continually running on the glass, to 
 prevent its getting too hot. Friction, or the rubbing of one 
 thing against another, produces heat. 
 
 " The process of making glass is very curious, and tbo arti- 
 cles made are very beautiful. One of these days you shall go 
 with me to a glass manufactory. 
 
 20. " Salt is formed from sea-water, which has, as you know, 
 a salt taste. It is pumped mto shallow pans, or reservoirs, 
 and evaporated by the heat of the sun. Water is said to be 
 evaporated when it is dried up, or taken away, by the air. 
 The water in time passes ofi", and leaves the salt at the bot- 
 tom. This is afterwards boiled, skimmed, purified, and dried. 
 
 21. " In many parts of our country there are springs of salt- 
 water, a great way off from the sea. Salt is made from the 
 water of these springs in the same way as from that of the 
 sea. Salt is also dug out of the earth, in a solid form, in 
 many parts of the world. This is called rock salt. 
 
 "Thus, my dear Ll /, I l,;,ve told you all about the break- 
 fast-table, and the various objects upon it. I hope you will 
 remember it." 
 
 22. "I will try to remember it, mother." 
 
 " And now I want to make one or two remarks upon what 
 we have been talking about. I wish you to form the habit of 
 reflecting as well as of observing ; that is, I want you to think 
 about what you see, and hear, and read. Yon will notice that 
 the articles of which we have spoken have come from all parts 
 
BBEAEPAST-TABLB 80IEN0E. 
 
 277 
 
 of the world. The tea is from China, the coffee from Java, 
 the sugar from the West Indies, the mahogany from Hondu> 
 ras, the table-cloth from Europe. 
 
 23. " And then a great number of persons have helped to 
 prepare our breakfast, and our breakfast-table furniture, for 
 ns. The iron of which the knives are made, for instance, was 
 first dug out of the earth by miners ; then it was melted in a 
 furnace by firemen ; then it was converted into steel by another 
 set of workmen ; then the steel was made into blades, and fit- 
 ted into the handles by cutlers. 
 
 24. "Add so of the table-cloth. Furst, we have the farm^ 
 er to raise the flax, the workmen to prepare it to be maoo* 
 factnred, the men and the machines to spin and weave it, and 
 the ship and the sailors to bring it to this country. Indeed, 
 if all the people who have directly and indirectly helped to get 
 our breakfast for us were brought together, they would form 
 a considerable village. 
 
 25. "This is one of the advantages of living in what is 
 called a state of civilization; that is, a state in which we 
 have laws, and books, and trades, and arts, and sciences, agri- 
 culture, commerce, and manufactures. In such a state each 
 works for all, and all works for each. Had you been a little 
 Indian girl, your breakfast would have been a bit of broiled 
 fish, a handful of parched com, and some water out of a 
 gourd." 
 
 26. "Mother, I am very glad I u,::n not a little Indian 
 girl." 
 
 "That is just what I was coming to, my dear child. I 
 want you to be not only glad, but grateful to God, who has 
 caused you to be born in a situation where you enjoy so many 
 blessings; where you can have convenient and comfortable 
 clothing, and abundance of healthy food, and schools to go to, 
 and books to read." 
 
 27. " And a dear good mother, who teHs mo every thing I 
 want to know," said Lucy. 
 
 " And now it is time," said her mother, " to get ready to 
 go to school. I hope I have not filled your little head so full 
 that there will be no room for your lessons." 
 
 
278 
 
 THB FOURTH BEADEB. 
 
 ( 
 
 li 
 
 ti| I 
 
 i'i 
 hi 
 
 w 
 
 80. Tired op Play. 
 
 1. miRED of play I Tired of play ! 
 
 J- What hast thou done this livelong day I 
 The birds are silent, and so is the bee ; 
 The sun is creeping up steeple and tree ; 
 The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves, 
 And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves ; 
 TwiMght gathers, the day is done — 
 How hast thou spent it — restless one I 
 
 2. Playing ? But what hast thou done beside 
 To tell thy mother at eventide ? 
 
 What promise of morn is left unbroken ? 
 What kind word to thy playmate spoken? 
 Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven 7 , 
 How with thy fanits has duty striven ? 
 What hast thou leani'd by field and hill, 
 By greenwood path, and by singing rill ? 
 
 il ' 
 
MELROBE ABBEY. 
 
 279 
 
 8. There will come an eve to a longer day, 
 That will find thee tired — but not of play 1 
 And thon wilt lean, as thou leanest now, 
 With drooping limbs and aching brew, 
 And wish the shadows would faster creco, 
 And long to go to thy quiet sleep. 
 
 4. Well were it then if thine aching brow 
 Were as free from sin and shame as now ! 
 Well for thee if thy lip could tell 
 
 A tale like this, of a day spent well. 
 
 5. If thine open hand hath relieved distress-- 
 If thy pity hath sprung to wretchedne«8 — 
 If thou ha^t foi^ven the sore offence, 
 And humbled thy heart with penitence—* 
 If Nature's voices have spoken to thee 
 With her holy meanings eloquently— 
 
 6. If every creature hath won thy love, 
 
 From the creeping worm to the brooding dovo— 
 If never a sad, low-spoken word 
 Hath plead with thy human heart unheard — 
 Then, when the night steals on, as now. 
 It will bring relief to thy aching brow, 
 • And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest, 
 Thou wilt Bi]± to sleep on thy mother's breast. 
 
 81. Melbose Abbey. 
 
 ivesi 
 
 ONE of the most interesting remains of sacred art any- 
 where to be found, is the ruined abbey of Melrose, in 
 Scotland. There are in that country the remains of four 
 Bpleridid abbeys, of which that of Melrose is perhaps the 
 most beautifiil. It. is on many accounts most attractive to 
 persorfl of cultivated taste. To the Christian, too, it is 
 interesting :is a glorious memento of the faith and piety of 
 by-gone ages. 
 
 2. 'Melrose \bbey," says a modem writer, "is indeed a 
 vast and b«autifal ruin. No person can help admiring it, 
 
280 
 
 THB FOUIITH BEADEB. 
 
 ij II 
 
 II 
 
 I ; 
 I' I 
 
 I I 
 
 .i 
 
 whether he snrroy it narrowly, or contemplate it at uome 
 distance ; whether he examine it in detail, or in one comprtv 
 •-hensive view. It is n<' one of those rode edifices which, 
 irhcn seen from afar, wiu u contrasted with some neighbornjaf 
 object, and magnified or embellished with imagined perfections, 
 strike the eye with admiration of their vastness and beauty, 
 but from the coarseness of their materials, or the ignorance 
 of those who constructed them, sink into deformity when 
 subjected to a minute and critical inspection. 
 
 8. It is impossible to view it from any quarter, or in any 
 direction, without perceiving it to be a most admirable speci- 
 men of the architecture of former times, and a striking monu- 
 ment of the taste of the builder, as well as of the piety of its 
 founder. It pleases alike by the nia^nificenee of its plan and 
 the exquisite fineness of its workmanship, by its local situation 
 and the interesting associations to which it gives rise. 
 
 4. He who can view the abbey of Melrose without being 
 highly gratified, has neither understanding that is cultivated, 
 nor feelings that one might envy. He is ruder than the ground 
 on which he treads, he is more insensible than the structure 
 wbo&e beauties he cannot see. 
 
OURINO THE BLIND. 
 
 281 
 
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 H 
 
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 82. Cubing the Bond. 
 
 A POOR blind man, having learned that Jesus was passing 
 along, came forth to meet him, and cried with all his 
 strength: "Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me !" The 
 disciples would have driven him away ; but he only cried the 
 louder: "Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me I" And 
 Jesus, having him brought near, asked him : " What wilt thou 
 that I do for thee?" 
 
 2. " Lord, that I may see ! " replied the blind man. 
 "Receive thy sight," said Jesus to him, "thy faith hath 
 
 made thee whole." 
 
 And immediately the blind man opened his eyes and saw, 
 and he followed Jesus, giving thanks to God. And the mul- 
 titude who witnessed this prodigy, also joined in his thanks- 
 giving. 
 
 3. But this was not the only blind man to whom Jesus 
 gave sight. In Jerusalem he met one who had been blind 
 from his birth. His disciples, seeing him, asked : " Master, 
 
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THE lOUBTH mjat^i^ 
 
 who hath sinned, this man or his parents, that he shoold be 
 bomblmd?" 
 
 As though the infirmities wherewith some are bom were 
 always chastisements from God, whereas they are often in- 
 tended as special graces in the merdftd designs of Provi- 
 dence. 
 
 4. The Sayionr answered: "Neither hath this man sinned, 
 nor his parents ;'^ he is bonr blind in order "that the works 
 of God may be made manifest in him.^ 
 
 He then spat upon the ground, made clay of the spittle, 
 and with it mbbed the eyes of the blind man, saying : "Go 
 wash in the pool of Silod." 
 
 5. This was a pablie fountain of Jerusalem. The man went 
 as directed, washed himself, and recovered his sight And his 
 friends and acquaintances asked each other, "Is it, indeed, th^ 
 same man whom we have seen sitting here begging ?^ 
 
 " Yes," he repUed, " I am he." 
 
 6. And they asked him how his eyes had been opened. 
 And he told them : "That man who is called Jeens, made clay 
 with his spittle, and anointed my eyes, and said to me : ' Go 
 to the pool of Silod and wash.' I went, I washed, and I see." 
 
 And they asked him, "Where is he ?" And he replied, "I 
 know not." 
 
 The man was immediately brought to the Pharisees, and to 
 them he related how Jesus had restored his sight. 
 
 7. Now, it was on the Sabbath, the day of rest, that Jesus 
 had cured him ; and the Pharisees were embarrassed. Some 
 said : "This man is not of God, who keepeth not the Sab- 
 bath." But others said: "How can a man that is a sinner 
 do such miracles ?" And then they asked the man that had 
 been blind : "What say est thou of this man ? " And he said : 
 " He is a prophet, a man sent from God." 
 
 8. But the Pharisees, stiU obstinate in their incredulity, 
 refused to believe that he had been blind, or cured, and they 
 questioned his family on the subject. Behold, children, Low 
 the most dazzling miracles of the Saviour were strictly exam* 
 ined, so that their authenticity was clearly established. 
 
 9. "If this your son, whom some say was born blind?" 
 
Diildba 
 
 n were 
 
 Ptcn in- 
 
 Provi- 
 
 Binned, 
 e works 
 
 spittle, 
 f: "Go 
 
 an went 
 And his 
 ieed, thd 
 
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 le: 'Go 
 d I see." 
 jUed, "I 
 
 3, and to 
 
 lat Jesos 
 Some 
 the Sab- 
 
 a sinner 
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 he said : 
 
 credulity, 
 and they 
 Iren, liOW 
 tly exam* 
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 blind?" 
 
 THE OOUSIBT EBUjO^TB ' AND THE ASS. 
 
 289 
 
 said the PhiEuisees to the parents of him who had been blind. 
 " How, then, doth he now see ?" 
 
 "Tes," said they, "he is our son. He was bom blind, and 
 he now sees. Ask himself how he was enred." They were, 
 themselves, afraid to tell the truth. So the Pharisees went 
 again and interrogated the man who had been cared. 
 
 10. "Give glory to God," said they, "we know that this 
 man is a sinner." 
 
 " If he be a dnner," he replied, " I know not. One thing I 
 know, that, whereas I was blind, I now see. And we know 
 that God doth not hear smners. From the beginning of the 
 world it hath not been heard that any man hath opened the 
 eyes of one bom blind. Unless this man were of God, he 
 could not do the things that he hath done." 
 
 11. The Pharisees, being angry with the man, exclauned: 
 "Wretch, thoa wiast wholly bora in sin, and dost thou teach 
 us ? " And they drove him from their presence. Jesus, having 
 heard of this, came to the man, and said ; "Dost thou believe 
 in the Son of God?" 
 
 And he answered : "Who is he. Lord, that I may beUeve 
 in him?" . 
 
 And Jesus said : "It is he who talketh with thee." Hea^ 
 log this, the man fell down and adored him. 
 
 83. The Oountrt Fellows Am) the Ass. 
 
 1. A GOUNTRT fellow and his son, they tell 
 •I*- In modem fables, had an ass to sell : 
 For this intent they tum'd it out to play. 
 And fed so well, that by the destined day, 
 They brought the creature into sleek repair, 
 And drove it gently to a neighboring fair 
 
 8. As they were jogging on, a rural class 
 
 Was heard to say, " Look ! look there, at that 
 
284 '^BE FOUBTH BEADEB. 
 
 And those two blockheads trudging on each ride, 
 That have not, either of 'em, sense to ride ; 
 Asses all three 1 " And thus the country folks 
 On man and boy began to cut their jokes. 
 
 8. Th' old fellow minded nothing that they said, 
 But every word stuck in the young one's head ; 
 And thus began their comment thereupon : 
 "Ne'er heed 'em, lad." "Nay, father, do get on." 
 "Not I, indeed." "Why then let me, I pray." 
 ** Well do ; and see what pratmg tongues will say." 
 
 4. The boy was mounted ; and they had not got 
 Much forther on, before another knot. 
 
 Just as the ass was passing by, pad, pad, 
 Cried, " Oh 1 that lazy booby of a lad 1 
 How unconcernedly the gaping brute 
 Lets the poor aged fellow walk afoot." 
 
 5. Down came the son cm hearing this account, 
 
 And begg'd, and pray'd, and made his father mount : 
 
 Till a third party on a further stretch, 
 
 " See I see ! " exclaimed, " that otd hard-Hearted wretch fi 
 
 How like a justice there he rits, or squire ; 
 
 While the poor lad keeps wading through '" mire.'* 
 
 6. "Stop," cried the lad, still vez'd in deeper mmd, 
 "Stop, father, stop ; let me get on behind." 
 
 This done, they thought they certainly should pkASCI. 
 Escape reproaches, and be both at ease ; ' 
 
 For having tried each practicable way. 
 What could be left for jokers now to say ? 
 
 7. Still disappointed, by succeeding tone, 
 
 " Hark ye, yon fellows ! Is that ass your own f 
 Get off, for shaine I or one of you at least I 
 You both deserve to carry the poor beast I 
 Beady to drop down dead upon the road. 
 With such a huge unconscicmable load." 
 
BE WJBBfT OBUSADK. 
 
 8. On this they both dismotmted ; and, some say, 
 Contrived to carry, like a tmss of hay, 
 
 The ass between 'em ; prints, they add, are seen 
 With man and lad, and slinging ass between ; 
 Others omit that fancy in the print, 
 As overstraining an ingenious hint. 
 
 9. The copy that we follow, says, The man 
 Rnbb'd down the ass, and took to his first plan. 
 Walked to the fair, and sold him, got his price, 
 And gave his son this pertinent advice : 
 
 " Let talkers talk ; stick thon to what is best ; 
 To think of pleasing all — ^is all a jest/' 
 
 285 
 
 84 The First Crusade. 
 
 PETER the Hermit, the preacher of the first crasade, was 
 descended from a noble family of Picardy. Having madu 
 a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, one day, while prostrated 
 before the holy sepulchre, he believed that he heard the 
 Toice of Christ, which said to him, — " Peter, arise 1 hasten 
 to proclaim the sufferiRgs of my people } it is time that my 
 
S66 
 
 SHB JODBTH HEADUt. 
 
 / 
 
 gervantfl shoald reoeiye help, and that the holy places ihoiild 
 be delivered.'* ^ 
 
 2. Full of the spirit of these words, which sounded un- 
 ceasingly in his ears, and charged with letters from the 
 patriarch, he- quitted Palestine, crossed the seas, landed on 
 the coast of Italy, and hastraed to cast hmnelf at the feet 
 of the pope. The chair of St. Peter was then occupied by 
 Urban II., who had been the disciple and confidant of both 
 Gregory and Victor. Urban embraced with ardor a project 
 which had been entertained by his predecessors ; he received 
 Peter as a prophet, applauded his design, and bade him go 
 forth and announce the approaching deliverance of Jerusalem. 
 
 Feteb the Hebutt and Kebbooha. 
 
 8. The leaders of the Christian army who had prepared' 
 the enthusiasm of the soldiers, now employed themselves in 
 taking advantage of it. They sent deputies to the general of 
 the Saracens, to offer him either a smgle combat or a general 
 battle. Peter the Hermit, who had evmced more enthusiasm 
 than any other person, was chosen for this embassy. 
 
 4. Although received with contempt in the eamp of the 
 infidels, he delivered himself no less haughtily w boldly. 
 "The princes assembled m Antioch,** sidd Peter, addressing 
 the Saracen leaden, " have sent me to demand justice of you. 
 These provinces, stamed with the blood oi martyrs, have 
 belonged to Ohristian nations, and as all Christian people are 
 brothers, we are come into Asia to avenge the h^furies of 
 those who have been persecuted, and to aefend the heritage 
 of Clirist and his disciples. 
 
 5. " Heaven has allowed the cities of Syria to fall for a time 
 into the power of infidels, in order to chastise the offences of 
 his people ; but learn that the vengeance of the Most High is 
 appeased ; learn that the tears and penitence of the Christians 
 have turned aside the sword of divme justice, and that the 
 God of armies has arisen to fight on our side. NeverthdesB 
 we still consent to speak of peace. 
 
 6. " I coi\{ure you, in the name of the all^werM God, to 
 
f 
 
 shodld 
 
 led un- 
 [)m the 
 ided on 
 tlie feet 
 pied by 
 of both 
 
 project 
 received 
 
 him go 
 misalem. 
 
 iselves in 
 eneral of 
 ageneraJ 
 tthufflasm 
 
 p of the 
 r boldly. 
 ddresBing 
 e of yon. 
 yrs, have 
 eople are 
 Jivies of 
 heritage 
 
 for a time 
 fences of 
 It High is 
 iristians 
 that the 
 [yertheleBB 
 
 God, to 
 
 'VBTEB THB BSBKIT AMD SIBBOOHA. 
 
 «7 
 
 abandon the territory of Antioch and retam to your own 
 country. The Christians promise yon, by my voice, not to 
 molest you in yonr retreat. We will even put up prayers for 
 you that the true God may touch your hearts, and permit 
 you to see the truth of our faith. If Heaven designs to listen 
 to us, how delightful it will be to us to give you the name of 
 brethren, and to conclude with you a lasting peace I 
 
 7. "But if you are not willing to accept either the blessmgs 
 of peace or the benefits of the Christian religion, let the fate 
 of battle at length decide the justice of our cause. As the 
 Christians will not be taken by surprise, and as they are not 
 accustomed to steal victories, they offisr you the choice of 
 combat." 
 
 8. When finishing his discourse, Peter fixed his eyeu upon 
 the leader of the Saracens, and said, " Choose from among 
 the bravest of thy army, and let them do battle with an equal 
 number of the Crusaders ; fight thyself with one of our Chris- 
 tian princes ; or g^ve the signal for a general battle. What* 
 ever may be thy choice, thou shalt soon learn what thy 
 enemies are, and thon shalt know what the great God is 
 whom we serve I 
 
 9. Kerbogh&, who knew the sitnation of the Christians, and 
 who was not aware of the kind of succor they had received 
 in their distress, was much surprised at such language. He 
 remained for some time mute with astonishment and .rage, 
 but at length stud, " Return to them who sent yon, and teU 
 them it is the part of the conquered to receive conditions, 
 and not to dictote them. Miserable vagabonds, extenuated 
 men, phantoms may terrify women ; but the warriors of Asia 
 are not intimidated by vain words. 
 
 10. "The Christians shall soon learn that the land we tread 
 npon belongs to us. Nevertheless, I am willing to entertain 
 some pity for them, and if they will acknowledge Mohammed, I 
 may forget that this city, a prey to famine, is already in my 
 power ; I may leave it in their hands, and give them arms, 
 clothes, bread, women, in short, all that they have not ; fiw 
 the Koran bids us pardon all who submit to its laws. 
 
 .11. "Bid thy companions hasten, and on this very day take 
 
ns^ 
 
 THB FOUBTH BEADER. 
 
 adyantage of mj clemency ; tomorrow they shall only leare 
 Antioch by the sword. They will then see if their crucified 
 God, who could not save hhnself firom the cross, can save 
 them from the fate which is prepared for them." 
 I 12. This speech was loudly applauded by the Saracens, 
 whose fanaticism it rekindled. Peter wished to reply, but the 
 Sultan of Mossoul, placing his hand upon his sword, com- 
 manded that these miserable mendicants, who united blindness 
 with insolence, should be driven away. 
 
 13. The Christian deputies retired in haste, and were in 
 danger of losing then: lives several times while passing through 
 the army of the infidels. Peter rendered an account of his 
 mission to the assembled princes and barons ; and all im- 
 mediately prepared for battle. The heralds-at-arms proceeded 
 through the different quarters of the city, and battle was 
 promised for the next day to the impatient valor of tht 
 CmsaderSr 
 
 85. The Battle of Antiooh. 
 
 ALL at once the Saracens commenced the attack by dis- 
 charging a cloud of arrows and then rushing on the 
 Crusaders, uttering barbarous cries. In spite of their im- 
 petuous shock, their right wing was soon repulsed and pene- 
 trated by the Christians. 
 
 2. Godfrey met with greater resistance in theur left wing ; 
 he succeeded, however, in breaking it, and carrying disorder 
 among their ranks. At the moment that the troops of 
 Kerbogha began to give way, the Sultan of Nice, wh6 had 
 made the tour of the mountain and returned along the banks 
 of the Orontes, fell with impetuosity upon the rear of the 
 Christian army, and threatened deslmction to the body of 
 reserve commanded by Bohemond. V 
 
 8. The Crusaders, who fought on foot, could not resist the 
 first charge af the Saracen cavalry. Hugh the Great, warned 
 of the danger of Bohemond, abandoned the pursuit of the 
 fu^tives, and hastened to the succor of the body of reserve. 
 
 
TBI BiTTUB or AMTIOOH. 
 
 inly leaT« 
 
 crucified 
 
 can save 
 
 Saracens, 
 y, but the 
 rord, com- 
 l blindness 
 
 d were in 
 g through 
 unt of his 
 id all im* 
 proceeded 
 battle was 
 iop of thi\ 
 
 ck by dis- 
 ng on the 
 their int* 
 and peno* 
 
 left wing ; 
 i; disorder 
 troops of 
 wh6 had 
 the banlcs 
 ar of the 
 B body of 
 
 resist the 
 at, warned 
 vit of the 
 of re8ery«. 
 
 Then the battle was renewed with redoabled Itarj. Kili^l 
 Arslan, who had to avenge the shame of several defeats, as 
 well as the loss of his states, fought lilce a lion at the head of 
 his troops. A squadron of three thousand Saracen horse, 
 clothed in steel and armed with clubs, carried disorder and 
 terror through the ranks of the Christians. 
 
 4. The standard of the Count de Yermandois was carried 
 away, and retaken, covered with the blood of Crusaders and 
 infidels. Godfrey and Tancred, who flew to the assistance of 
 Hugh and Bohemond, signalized their strength and valor by 
 the death of a great many Mussulmans. 
 
 5. The Sultan of Nice, whom no reverse could overcome, 
 firmly withstood the shock of the Christians. In the heat of 
 the combat, he ordered lighted flax to be thrown among the 
 low bushes and dried grass which covered the plain. Im- 
 mediately a blaze arose which enveloped the Christians in 
 masses of flame and smoke. Then* ranks were for a moment 
 broken ; they could no longer either see or hear their leaders. 
 The Sidtan of Nice was about to gather the fruits of his 
 stratagem, and victory was on the pomt of escaping from the 
 hands of the Crusaders. 
 
 6. At this moment, say the historians, a squadron was 
 seen to descend from the summit of the mountains, preceded 
 by three horsemen clothed in white and covered with shining 
 armor. "Behold I" cried Bishop Adhemar, "the heavenly 
 succor which was promised to you. Heaven declares ^>r the 
 Christians; the holy martyrs, George, Demetrius, and ''W 
 odore, come to fight for you." Immediately all eyes were 
 turned towards the celestial legioa A new ardor inspired 
 the Christians, who were pursuaded that God himself was 
 coming to their aid, and the war-cry "Mis (he vnU of Ood/" 
 was heard as at the beginning of the battle. 
 
 7. The women and children who had remained in Antioch, 
 and were collected on the walls, animated the courage of the 
 Crusaders by their cries and acclamations, while the priests 
 contmued to raise then hands towards heaven, and returned 
 thanks to God by songs of praise and thanksgiving fw tht 
 
 . inccor he had sent to the Christians. 
 
 18 
 
Sio 
 
 TBM lOUBTB BIADIB. 
 
 8. Of the Orasaden themselyes each man became a hero, 
 and nothing oonld stand before their impetuous charge. In a 
 moment the ranks of the Saracens were everywhere broken, 
 and they only fonght in confusion and disorder. They en* 
 deavored to rally on the other side of a torrent and npon an 
 elevated pdnt, whence their trumpets and clarions resounded ; 
 bnt the Oonnt de Yermandois attacked them in this last post, 
 (and completely routed them. They had now no safety but in 
 flight, and the banks of the Orontes, the woods, the plains, 
 the monntahis were covered with the fhgitives, who abandoned 
 both their arms and theur baggage. 
 
 9. Eerbogh&, who had been so certain of victory as to 
 have announced the defeat of the Christians to the Oaliph of 
 Bagdad and the Sultan of Persia, fled towards the Euphrates, 
 escorted by a small body of his most faithful soldiers. Several 
 of the emirs had taken to flight before the end of the battle. 
 
 10. Tancred and some others, mounted on the horses of the 
 conquered enemy, pursued till nightfall the Sultans of Aleppo 
 and Damascus, the Emir of Jerusalem, and the scattered 
 wreck of the Saracen army. The conquerors set fire to the 
 lintrenchments behind which the enemy's infontry had sought 
 refuge, and a vast number of Mussulmans perished in the flames. 
 
 11. According to the account of several contemporary his* 
 torians, the infidels left a hundred thousand dead on the field 
 of battle. Four thousand Crusaders lost their lives on this 
 glorious day, and were placed among the ranks of the martyrs. 
 
 12. The Christians found abundance beneath the tents of 
 thehr enemies ; fifteen thousand camels and a great number of 
 horses fell into their hands. As they passed the night in the 
 camp of the Saracens, they had leisure to admire the luxury 
 of the Orientals, and they examined with the greatest surprise 
 the tent of the King of Mossoul, resplendent with gold and 
 precious stones, which, divided into long streets flanked by 
 high towers, resembled a fcnrtified city. They employed several 
 days in carrying the spoils into Antioch. The booty was 
 immense, and every Crusader, according to the remark of 
 Albert d'Aix, found himself much richer than he was when he 
 quitted Europe. 
 
TBI TXLLiOl IGBOOIJIAfrrBB. 
 
 abfiro, 
 . In a 
 broken, 
 ?hey en- 
 upon an 
 ounded ; 
 ast post, 
 y but in 
 B plains, 
 landoned 
 
 ry as to 
 laUpb of 
 uphrsutes, 
 
 Several 
 ) battle, 
 les of the 
 f Aleppo 
 scattered 
 re to the 
 kd sought 
 he flames, 
 orary hlS' 
 
 the field 
 » on this 
 9 martyrs. 
 ) tents of 
 inmber of 
 ght in the 
 he luxury 
 st surprise 
 
 gold and 
 lanked by 
 red several 
 booty was 
 remark of 
 ^ when he 
 
 86. The YiiLAaE Sohoolicabteb. 
 
 BESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the way 
 With blossom'd furze nnprofitably gay — 
 There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 
 The village master taught his little school ; 
 A man severe he was, and stem to view, 
 I knew him well, and every truant knew ; 
 Well had the boding tremblers leam'd to trace 
 The day's disaster? m his morning face ; 
 Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
 Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
 Oonvey'd the dismal ticUngs when he frown'd— « 
 Tet he was kind, or if severe in aught. 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
 The village all declared how much he knew ; 
 Twas certain he could write and cipher too ; 
 Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 
 And even the story ran that he could guage. 
 In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill, 
 For even though vanquished, he could argue still ; 
 While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound 
 Amazed the gaping rustics ranged around — 
 And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew 
 That one small head could carry all .he knew. 
 
992 
 
 TBI lOUBfTB RFiAPF.II, 
 
 87. The Becttob of Guionen and his Yioar. 
 
 THE rector of Qaignon, a venerable old man, and his curate, 
 had been a short time before put to death in the city of 
 Ronnes, when I went to see my sister, Madame Junsions, who 
 lived at a short distance flrom Quignen ; she related to me 
 the following incidents of the captore of these two victims : 
 
 2. They had been warned of the search that was being made 
 for them, and attempted to escape through the fields, when they 
 were perceived by those in pursuit of them. They were, how- 
 ever, a considerable distance ahead, and the curate, who was 
 much the youngest and more active, might easily have escaped. 
 
 8. They gained, however, upon the old priest, firing their 
 guns at him as they pursued him. The curate had crossed a 
 brook and ascended the opposite bank, and was out of the 
 reach of his pursuers, when looking back he perceived that the 
 aged rector was unable to get up the steep ascent. His pur- 
 saers were shouting with joy at his unavailing efforts. 
 
 4. The young man immediately turned back, to the surprise 
 \f the soldiers, who could not but admire his heroic charity, 
 and endeavored to assist the good old parish priest. He de- 
 scended the bank, recrossed the brook, and covering him with 
 his body, strove to aid him across. But he was unable to do 
 60 before the soldiers came up and took them both prisoners, 
 to be led, as they well knew, to certain death. 
 
 6. The soldiers stopped at my sister's house, with their 
 prisoners, on their way to the city. The leader of the party, 
 the infamotis and dreaded D ^n, who had already distin- 
 guished himself by many similar captures, and was a man of 
 frightful aspect and most sanguinary disposition, told my sister 
 the circumstances which I have related above, with some 
 expressions of a sort of admiration and pity, the tnore striking 
 from the mouth of such a monster. 
 
 6. " I almost regret," he said, " that such a brave fellow 
 will have to be put to death, after such a noble action. He 
 was quite safe, citizcness (citoyenne)," he added. "We had 
 given him up, but we were gaining on the old one, when lo 1 
 
THE RECTOR OF OUIOMEN AND HIS VIOAR. 
 
 298 
 
 !AR. 
 
 curate, 
 I city of 
 )n8, who 
 i to me 
 tlms : 
 ing made 
 rhen they 
 ere, how- 
 
 who WM 
 8 escaped, 
 ring their 
 
 crossed a 
 
 mt of the 
 
 d that the 
 
 His pur- 
 
 [he surprise 
 »ic charity, 
 t. He de- 
 g him with 
 Dabletodo 
 prisoners, 
 
 with their 
 the party, 
 eady distin- 
 18 a man of 
 )ld my sister 
 witii some 
 aore striking 
 
 brave fellow 
 action. Ho 
 " We bad 
 me, when lo I 
 
 he turned bock and came to help him cross th** brook, all the 
 time covering him with his body against the fire of our guns. 
 
 It was a remarkable and affecting scene." Yet, as soon as 
 they had got some refreshments, they hurried on with their 
 prisoners to the tribunal, and f^om the tribunal they went the 
 same day to the scaffold. 
 
294 
 
 THE rOXTBTH HEADER. 
 
 88. The Thbee Homes. 
 
 1. TTTHERE is thy home?" I ask'd a child, 
 
 H Who, in the morning air, 
 Was twining flowers most sweet and wild 
 
 In garland for her hair : 
 " My home," the happy heart replied, 
 . And smUed in childish glee, 
 " Is on the sunny mountain side, 
 
 Where the soft winds wander free.** 
 Oh ! blessings fall on artless youth. 
 
 And all its rosy hours, 
 When every word is joy and troth. 
 
 And treasures live in flowers I 
 
 2. "Where is thy home?" I ask'd of one 
 
 Who bent with flushing face. 
 To hear a warrior's tender tone 
 
 la the wild wood's secret place. 
 She spoke not, but her varymg cheek 
 
 The tale might well impart ; 
 The home of her young spirit meek 
 
 Was in a kindred heart. 
 Ah ! souls that well might soar above. 
 
 To earth will fondly cling. 
 And build their hopes on human love. 
 
 That light and fragile thing 1 
 
 & "Where is thy home, thou lonely man?" 
 
 I ask'd a pilgrim gray. 
 Who came with furrow'd brow, and wai^, 
 
 Slow musing on his way : 
 He paused, and with a solemn mein 
 
 Upturn'd his holy eyes — 
 " The land I seek thou ne'er hast seen, 
 
 My home is in the skies I " 
 
««»s)ji«iS»«aj«i. ''iteS-i 
 
 8T. PETEB DEXIVEBISD OUT OF FIOSON. 
 
 Oh 1 bless'd — thrice blessed, the heart mnst be 
 To whom si^ch thoughts are given, 
 
 That walks from worldly fetters free- 
 Its only home in heaven. 
 
 89. St. Peteb deliyebed out of Prison. 
 
 THE favorable accoont which St. Peter gave of his excm> 
 sion to Ceesarea, very soon silenced the objections of 
 those who had been ready to find faalt ; the faithful were 
 happy to see the Gentiles thus called to partake with them in 
 the grace of eternal life, and exceedingly rejoiced when they 
 were likewise informed of the great numbers who had embraced 
 the faith at Antioch. 
 
 2. Barnabas, a good man, as the Scriptures witness, frill of 
 faith and the Holy Ghost, was sent thither to promote the 
 work which the grace of God had so happily begun. Uppa 
 
r - 
 
 296 
 
 T&B FOUBTH BEADBBi 
 
 his atriral he could not bat rejoice at the pleasing prospect of 
 religion : an extensive field was opened to his zeall the harvest 
 of souls was very great, the workmen few. He encouraged 
 them to persevere in the happy course they had undertaken, 
 and went to Tarsus in quest of Saul. 
 
 3. He found him and brought him back to Antioch, where 
 .they employed themselves for a whole year in the service of 
 'the Lord ; they preached, they instructed, they labored with 
 unwearied zeal, and had the consoletion to see their labors 
 crowned with success. The proselytes they made, were very 
 numerous, and each one vied with his neighbor in the study of 
 good works : then and there it was, that the followers of Ohiist/s 
 .doctrine were first distmguished by the name of Christians. 
 
 4. About the same time there came prophets thither ftom 
 Jerusalem, and among them one called Agabus, who foretold 
 ft great &mme. The Christians were alarmed at the prc^hecy, 
 and b^an to provide against the tune of distress, which hap- 
 pened under Claudius. They collected considerable sums, 
 which they put into the hands of Saul and Barnabas for the 
 relief of their brethren dwelling in Judea. 
 
 ^. The church of Jerusalem was at that time sorely aggrieved 
 by a persecution, which Herod, at the instigation of the Jews, 
 hadi commenced against the &ithfiil ; the wicked king had al- 
 ready slain St. James, the brother of St. John, and was then 
 meditating the death of St. Peter. Having caused him to 
 be apprehended during the Easter time, he kept him in prison 
 under a strong guard, till the holydays were over, when he 
 intended to bring him forth to the people. 
 
 6. The faithful were struck with dismay at this disastrous 
 event, rightly judging that the welfare of the flock was closely 
 coiiuected with that of the pastor, and therefore day and 
 night did they send up their most fervent prayers to heaven 
 for his deliverance. The Almighty graciously heard their 
 petition, and delivered his Apostle on the very night that 
 preceded his intended execution. 
 
 7. Bound vith two chains, St. Peter lay asleep between two 
 soldiers in the prison, perfectly resigned within himself either 
 to life or death, when' the angel of the Lord came with great 
 
ST. jr ^TEB DBUYBBBD OUT OF PBISON. 
 
 907 
 
 'osp«ct of 
 le harvest 
 icoaraged 
 idertaken, 
 
 )ch, where 
 service of 
 jored with 
 leir labors 
 
 were very 
 tie study of 
 I of Christ's 
 ristians. 
 bither firom 
 ho foretold 
 e prophecy, 
 
 which hap- 
 rable sams, 
 bas for the 
 
 ly aggrieved 
 Df the Jews, 
 cing had al- 
 id was then 
 ised him to 
 lira in prison 
 ■er, when he 
 
 is disastrous 
 t was closely 
 jre day and 
 ;rs to heaven 
 heard their 
 y mght that 
 
 between two 
 limself either 
 ae with great 
 
 brightness to ti. o place, and striking him on the side, said, "Arise 
 quickly/' That moment the chains fell off from the Apostle's 
 hands ; he speedily arose, put on his sandals, threw his garment 
 round him, and followed the angel through the first and second 
 ward, till they came to the iron gate which led to the city. 
 
 8. At their approach the gate of itself flew open, and they 
 went on to the end of the street, where the angel left him. 
 
 , The saint then came to himself, for hitherto he seemed to have 
 been in a dreamland said, "N5w I know that the Lord hath 
 sent his angel, and delivered me from the hand of Herod, and 
 from all the expectations of the Jews." Musing on the event 
 he came to the hou^ of Mary, the mother of Mark, and 
 knocked at the gate. 
 
 9. Many of the faithful were there met to pray : a girl called 
 Rhode hearing some one knock, went to hearken at the door, 
 and unmediately knew it to be Peter's voice ; instead of letting 
 him in, she ran back in a transport of joy to acquaint the com- 
 pany that Peter was at the gate. They told her she had lost 
 her senses ; but she positively assured them that so it was : 
 still they would not believe her, and said it was his angel she 
 had heard. 
 
 10. Peter in the mean while continued knocking : they then 
 went to the door, and on opening it saw him, and were aston- 
 ished. He beckoned to them with his hand not to say a word, 
 silently entered into the house, and gave them an account of 
 what God had done for him. When he had finished his 
 narration, he desired them to repeat it to James and the rest 
 of the brethren, and hastened immediately out of the city, as 
 privately as he could. 
 
 11 The wonderful release of St. Peter out of prison has 
 been thought to be of such importance to the Church, that she 
 has instituted a day of thanksgiving to God on that account. 
 She then experienced, as she has often experienced since, that 
 God is the sovereign disposer of all things here below ; that 
 he sets what bounds he pleases to the power of tyrants ; that 
 he opens or shuts prisons at his nod, and makes even the 
 passions of men subservient to his will, in the execution of his 
 tmchangeable decrees. 
 
 18* 
 
^SS^ 
 
 r" 
 
 898 
 
 THE FOUBTH BfiADBBi 
 
 90. The Hebmit. 
 
 X. rpTTRN, gentle Hermit of the dale, 
 J- And guide my lonely way 
 To where yon taper cheers the yale 
 With hospitable ray. 
 
 S. "For here, forlorn and lost, I tread 
 With fainting steps and slow — 
 Where wilds, immeasnrably spread, 
 Seem lengthening as I go.'' 
 
 8. " Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, 
 " To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 
 For yonder faithless phantom flies 
 To lure thee to thy doom. 
 
 V 
 
 4. " Here, to the houseless child of want 
 My door is open still ; 
 And though my portion is but scant, 
 I give it with good will. 
 
POPE LEO THE OBXA.T ASD ATTELA. 
 
 6. "Then tnrn to-night, and freely share 
 Whate'er my cell bestows — 
 My rushy couch and frugal fare, 
 My blessing and repose. 
 
 a "No flocks that range the yalley free 
 To slaughter I condemn — 
 Taught by that power that pities me, 
 I learn to pity them ; 
 
 T. "But, from the monntdn^s grassy side 
 ' A guiltless feast I bring — 
 A scrip with herbs and fruits suppUed, 
 And water from the spring. 
 
 8. "Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares for^o; 
 All earth-bom cafes are wrong : 
 Man wants but little here below, 
 Nor wants that little long.'' 
 
 91. PoPB Leo the Gbeat and Attila. 
 
 IN the year 450, Attila began his expedition against the 
 Western Empure. With an immense army, he set off from 
 Hungary, directing his course through Germany, towards the 
 Lower Rhine. Large swarms of adventurers joined him upon 
 the march, and swelled his whole force to half a million of 
 hardy combatants. Devastation, plunder, cruelty, and blood- 
 shed, with every kind of outrage that can be dreaded from 
 armed and lawless savages, accompanied the march of Attila. 
 He bore down all before him : Metz, Triers, Tongres, Rheims, 
 Gambrai, and all the towns from the banks of the Rhine to 
 the very centre of Oaul, were plundered, burned, or laid in 
 ruins. 
 
 2. The former mvaders of Gaul, the Goths, Burgnndians, 
 Franks, and Alains, then saw themselves in danger of losing 
 their new possessions, and that to preserve their existence it 
 
800 
 
 THE FOUBTH iwat^wp 
 
 ^ ^^^Ifas necessary to nnite their forces against the common ene* 
 ioay. They jomed the Roman standard nnder the conunand 
 of jEtius. 
 
 8. In the plains of Champagne, near Chalons, the two 
 armies met. Fierce, obstinate, and bloody was the conflict. 
 No less than a hnndred and sixty-two thousand Huns are 
 Euid to have fallen in that memorable battle, fought in the 
 IDrear 451. This defeat forced Attila to quit Gaul, and to lead 
 back his broken troops into Hungary. 
 
 4. In the following spring, Attila overran Italy. Meeting 
 with no resistance, he ravaged the country at discretion, re- 
 duced several of the fairest towns to heaps' of stones and 
 ashes ; and, to finish the work of desolation by one decisive 
 stroke, marched against Rome. Rome was not in a state to 
 resist. Submissive offers and n^otiation were the only weap- 
 ons she had to ward off the blow. In the chair of St. Peter 
 was seated the holy and eloquent Leo, the successor of Sixtus 
 III., who had succeeded Celestine. 
 
 5. The venerable Pontiff, moved at the danger that threat- 
 ened the capital of the empire, generously consented to put 
 himself into the power of a savage Tartar, and to expose his 
 life for the public safety. Without arms, and without a 
 guard, relying solely on the protection of God, who guides 
 the hearts of kings, he went to treat with the . sanguinary 
 monarch, who was styled the scourge of God and the terror 
 of mankind. 
 
 6. Contrary to exp^tation, Attila received him with honor, 
 listened with attention to his pathetic and eloquent harangue, 
 and for once suffered the natural ferocity of his temper to be 
 softened into reason. He promised peace to the Romans, 
 drew off his troops, and evacuated Italy. 
 
 t, Not long after his return to the royal village which he 
 had chosen for his residence in Hungary, upon the fertile 
 banks of the Danube, he burst an artery in his sleep, and was 
 suffocated in his own blood. The quarrels that divided his 
 sons and the followers of his standard, dissolved the vast, 
 unwieldy empire of the Huns, which had extended from the 
 Volga to the Rhine. 
 
CHILDHOOD OV 0HBI8T. 
 
 m 
 
 aon ene- 
 lommaud 
 
 the two 
 conflict, 
 luns are 
 it in the 
 id to lead 
 
 Meeting 
 retion, re- 
 tones and 
 e decisive 
 ft state to 
 )nly weap- 
 St. Peter 
 of Siitus 
 
 [lat threat- 
 ied to put 
 expose his 
 without a 
 rho guides 
 sanguinary 
 the terror 
 
 rith honor, 
 
 harangue, 
 
 mper to be 
 
 e Romans, 
 
 :e which he 
 the fertile 
 (p, and was 
 divided his 
 the vast, 
 d from the 
 
 
 
 
 
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 ^B 
 
 ^ 
 
 *- Vw' 
 
 
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 ^a?v;,. 
 
 
 
 
 
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 ,*i'* 
 
 ■ ■*■ ' ' ' ■ ' ^ Jz:^ 
 
 92. Childhood of Chbist. 
 
 ¥HEN Herod was dead, Joieph brought back that holy 
 family to Nazareth, in Judea. It was there that Jesus 
 lived up to the commencement of his public life. " The child,'' 
 says the Gospel, " grew, and waxed strong, full of wisdom * 
 and the grace of God was in him." 
 
 2. Is he not adorable, that child Jesus, who, filled with 
 wisdom as a God, but subjecting himself to the condition of 
 humanity, gradually develops himself, and hidden in Nazareth 
 with his mother, grows also in wisdom and in grace, according 
 as he grows in age, awaiting the time, when, as a full-grown 
 man, he may manifest to the world the treasures of knowledge 
 and wisdom which are in him I 
 
 3. And you, children, like the divine infant Jesus, do you 
 grow and strengthen, but grow in wisdom, that the grace of 
 God may be with you. childhood 1 charming age I fairest 
 of all ages t age of innocence ! But do yon know, children, 
 what innocence is ? Listen : an innocent child is a little angel 
 
802 
 
 THB VOUBSra BBADBBt 
 
 on earth. Look in that spotleos muror : how wdl jom fanage 
 is reflected t Thua the heart of an famooent child reflects the 
 image of God. 
 
 4. Behold that pore and limpid stream where the heavens 
 are mirrored, and the twinkling stars 1 Thus is Qod mirrored 
 in the heart of a pnre and innocent child. Behold the dazding 
 whiteness of the lily, and mark what a sweet, flresh perfome 
 exhales from iti graceftal cnp ! So is innocence the perfume 
 of the BonI, which embalms earth and heaven. Behold the 
 ■now that whitens the fields, and covers them in the dreary 
 days of winter with a mantle of surpassing beanty ! Thus 
 innocence is the beantifid covering of the sonl. 
 
 6. Oh unhappy day, fatal day, when a child first loses' its 
 innocence, — Closes it forever ? Oh, how his soul is disfigured 1 
 Who could recognize it ? The foul mirror no longer refiects 
 your image ; the troubled stream gives back no longer the 
 azure of the sky ; the withered lily hangs its faded head, With- 
 ocit beauty or sweetness ; the white snow is become filthy mud. 
 A pnre child is, as we said, an angel ; but, alas 1 if his wings 
 are once defiled with earthly mire, can the angel still fly up to 
 heaven ? 
 
 6. It is to the little infant Jesus, children, that yon must 
 recommend your innocence, praying hun, at the same tune, to 
 give yon a portion of his wisdom. His modesty made him 
 conceal his treasures ; but he one day manifested them, and 
 then even the wise themselves were mute with astonishment. 
 
 ♦ ' ■* 
 
 8. 
 
 93. The Buttebflt's Ball, anp the Gbasshoppeb's 
 
 Feast. 
 
 1. pOME take up your hats, and away let ns haste 
 v^ To the Butterfly's ball and the Grasshopper's feast : 
 The trumpeter Gad-fly has summoned the crew, 
 And the revels are now only waiting for you. 
 
TBI BU ' ITlR f L T AKD aBABSBOFFBR. 
 
 acts the 
 
 heaTens 
 ooirrored 
 
 dazing 
 perftnnc 
 perfume 
 (bold the 
 le dreary 
 f\ Thus 
 
 b loses* Its 
 lig&goredl 
 ;er reflects 
 Longer the 
 head, wlth- 
 filthy mttd. 
 f lus wings 
 ai fly up to 
 
 i you must 
 me time, to 
 f made lum 
 them, aod 
 inishment. 
 
 3HOPPl»'8 
 
 S. On the smooth shaven grass, by the side of a wood, 
 Beneath a broad oak, which for ages had stood. 
 See the children of earth, and the tenants of air. 
 To an evening's amusement together repair. 
 
 8. And there came the Beetle, so blind and so black, 
 Who carried the Emmet, his Mend, on his back ; 
 And there came the Gnat and the Dragon-fly too, 
 And all their relations, green, orange, and blue ; 
 
 4. And tiiere came the Moth, witii her plumage of down, 
 And the Hornet, with jacket of yellow and brown, 
 Who with him the Wa^, his companion, did bring. 
 But they promised, that evemng, to lay hj their sting ; 
 
 5. Then the sly little Dormouse peep'd out of his hole. 
 And led to the feast, his blind cousin the Mole ; 
 
 And the Snail, with her horns peeping out of her shell. 
 Came, fatigued with the distance, the length of an ell ; 
 
 6. A mushroom the table, and on it was spread, 
 
 A water-dock leaf, which their table-cloth made, 
 The viands were various, to each of their taste. 
 And the Bee brought the honey to sweeten the feast ; 
 
 7. With steps more majestic the Snail did advance. 
 And he promised the gazers a minuet to dance ; 
 
 But they all laugh'd so loud that he drew in his head, 
 And wenfc, in his own little chamber to bed ; 
 
 8. Then, as evening gave way to the shadows of night. 
 Their watchman, the Glow-worm, came out with his light, 
 So home let us hasten, while yet we can see ; 
 
 For no watchman is waiting for you or for me ! 
 
 haste 
 Lper's feast: 
 
804 
 
 TBI VOUBTH BBADEB. 
 
 
 94. The Ascension. 
 
 OTJR blessed Lord remained forty days apon earth after his 
 resorrection, appearing sometimes to all his Apostles at 
 once, and sometimes only to some, that he might thereby fully 
 convince them of his being risen, and wean them by degrees 
 from his corporeal presence. Daring that time, he instructed 
 them in the nature and the nse of those spiritual powers 
 which he had imparted to them for the good of mankind. 
 What those instructions were in particular, the evangelists do 
 not mention. St. Luke in general terms says, that he spoke to 
 them of the kingdom of God, which, according to St. Gregory, 
 is his Ohurch upon earth. 
 
 2. St. Matthew and St. Mark both finish their Gospel his- 
 tory with these remarkable words of our blessed Saviour to 
 his Apostles, saying, "To me is gpven all power in heaven and 
 on earth } go ye, therefore, teach all nations, baptizing them 
 
TBI AflOENBIOlf . 
 
 806 
 
 earth after bia 
 lis Apostles at 
 it thereby fully 
 em by degrees 
 5, he instructed 
 jiritual powers 
 d of mankind, 
 evangelists do 
 ;hathe8poketo 
 to St. Gregory, 
 
 leir Gospel hia- 
 
 jsed Saviour to 
 
 jr in heaven and 
 
 baptizing them 
 
 in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy 
 Ghost. He who shall believe and be baptized, shall be saved ; 
 but he who shall not believe, shall be condemned. Teach 
 them, therefore, to observe every thing that I have com- 
 manded you ; for, behold, I am always with you, even to the 
 end of the world." 
 
 3. Jesus Christ had now finished the work for which he 
 came down from heaven and dwelt among us. He had en- 
 lightened the world by his doctrine, and redeemed it by his 
 death ; by his miracles he had confirmed the truth of his re- 
 vealed religion ; he had established his Church, which he com- 
 mands all to hear ; he had promised to assist his Church with 
 the Spirit of Truth to the end of ages ; he had appointed his 
 vicar as a universal pastor, to preside over the Church in his 
 name, and to feed his flock, both sheep and lambs, in his 
 absence : nothing more remained than to take possession of 
 that seat of bliss, which he had merited for his own sacred 
 humanity and us. 
 
 4. Therefore, on the fortieth day after his resurrection from 
 the dead, he led his disciples forth to the Mountain of Olives, 
 near Jerusalem ; he there gave them his last blessing and 
 raised himself from the earth towards heaven. They fixed 
 their eyes upon him, as he ascended through the air, till an 
 intervening cloud received him out of theu* sight. By his own 
 divine power he ascended into heaven, where he sits at the 
 right hand of the Father ; being, as he has ever been and shall 
 ever be, the same consubstahtial and co-eternal God with him 
 and the Holy Ghost in one and the same divine nature. The 
 Apostles kept their eyes still fixed on heaven, when two young 
 men in white apparal came and asked them why they stood 
 thus gazing at the heavens : the Jesus whom you have seen 
 taken from you into heaven, said they, will in the same manner 
 come again from thence to judge the living and the dead. . 
 
 5. Trivial is the pomp of this vain world to a devout and 
 fervent Christian, when he contemplates the glory of Jesus 
 Christ, and considers the never-ending happiness of the citizens 
 of heaven. Heaven is the object on which we ought to turn 
 our eyes ; thither ought our hearts and wishes to aspire. 
 
808 
 
 TBI VOUBTH BBADBB. 
 
 We never shonld forget, that the country to which we belong, 
 that the bread which nourishes our souIh, that the giacc 
 which supports our virtues, that the happiness which we liope 
 to partake of, and the Head of which we are members, is in 
 heaven. 
 
 6. The spiritual treasures which we herp enjoy, and the 
 temporal advantages which we receive from creatures, are 
 appointed us by Ahnighty Ood, as helps towards our last 
 end. It was to open us an entrance into heaven that Christ 
 shed his blood ; it was to draw our hearts thither that he 
 ascended before the last day. The heavenly princes rere 
 commanded to. lift up their eternal gates, and the King of 
 glory, the Lord of powers, entered into his kkigdom, which 
 he had acquired by his sufforings and death. 
 
 95. The Travelleb. 
 
 1. Tl'EN now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
 Sh I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
 And placed on high, above the storm's career, 
 Look downward where a hundred realms appear— 
 Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 
 
 The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 
 
 2. When thus creation's charms around combme, 
 Amidst the store should thankless pride repine 7 
 Say, should the philosophic mind disdnia 
 
 That good which makes each humbler bot-^oio vnmi 
 8. Let school-taught pride dissemble all It cuix, 
 
 These little things are great to little man ; 
 
 And wiser he whose sympathetic mind 
 
 Sxults in all the good of all mankind. 
 L Te fluttering towns with wealth and splendor crown'd J 
 
 >'i> icalds vfl?>re summer spreads profusion round • 
 
 '/e Ii^es vhose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
 
 Ye bending swains that dress the flowery vale ; 
 
m? 
 
 THE MOORISH WAII8 III SPAIN. 
 
 For mo your tril "*ary sturett i^ombino ; 
 Croation'8 hair, the * vrH, the world is minet 
 
 ao7 
 
 6. As some lone miser, visiting his store, 
 
 Bends at his treasure, counts, recoonts it o'er ; 
 
 Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill. 
 
 Yet still he nighs, for hoards are wanting still : 
 
 Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
 
 Pleased with each good that Heaven to man suppUea^ 
 
 Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall. 
 
 To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; 
 
 And oft I Wish, amidst the scene, to find 
 
 Some spot to real happiness consign'd. 
 
 Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest^ 
 
 May gather bliss, to see my fellows blest 
 
 I 
 
 pown'd J 
 
 96. The Moorish Wars m Spain. 
 
 THB history of Europe presents no pages of greater interest 
 than thoso which record the gallant struggle made by the 
 Spanish natlub to throw off the galling yoke of the infidel 
 
808 
 
 THE FOUBTH READER. 
 
 Moors from Africa, who had overrun their fair country and 
 reduced the Christian inhabitants of many of its provinces to 
 a state of abject slavery. 
 
 2. They had possession of the entire province of Granada, 
 one of the fairest and most fertile portions of Spain, and in 
 its ancient capital they had established their seat of empire. 
 
 fhe palace of the Moorish kings of Granada, called the Alham* 
 bra, is still to be seen in a ruined state in the neighborhood of 
 that city, and appears to have been one of the most magnifi< 
 cent buildings ever erected for a royal dwelling. 
 
 3. But at length the Christian princes of Spain succeedec] 
 in conquering those rich and powerful Moors, whose cruelty 
 can hardly be told in words. The honor of that great triumph 
 was reserved for King Eerdinand and Queen Isabella his wife^ 
 
^..Mmmmtlmmm^ 
 
 THE MONKS OF OLD. 
 
 309 
 
 ry and 
 ttcesto 
 
 ranada, 
 and in 
 empire. 
 
 and when they had succeeded in wresting Granada from the 
 infidels, they re-established the true faith, and restored to their 
 rightful owners the churches, so long desecrated by Moham- 
 medan worship. 
 
 4. There was then in Spain an illustrious nobleman named 
 Alonzo d'Aguilar, distinguished as much for his eminent vir- 
 tues and great valor as for his high rank. He it was whom 
 the queen intrusted with the final overthrow of the Moors and 
 their expulsion from Spain. Thousands immediately flocked 
 to his standard, and the greatest enthusiasm prevailed. 
 
 5. The Archbishop of Granada blessed the banners of the 
 Christian army in his cathedral, after offering up the holy 
 sacrifice of the mass for the success of this new crusade. Fer- 
 dinand was in another portion of their dominions at the time, 
 but the queen and all her court were present. The queen her- 
 self placed the banner in Alpnzo's hand, and charged him to 
 defend it with his life. The noble and pious knight promised 
 to do so, and he kept his word. 
 
 lit 
 
 the Alham* 
 iborhood of 
 ost mdgnifi' 
 
 n succeeded 
 hose cruelty 
 eat triumph 
 eiia bis wife, 
 
 97. The Monks of Old. 
 
 1. T ENYY them, those monks of old, 
 
 J- Their books they read, and their beads they told; 
 To hnman softness dead and cold. 
 
 And all life's vanity. 
 
 2. They dwelt like shadows on the earth, ^ 
 Free from the penalties of birth. 
 
 Nor let one feeling venture forth. 
 
 But charity. 
 
 8. I envy them ; their cloister'd hearts 
 Knew not the bitter pang that parts 
 Beings that all affection's arts 
 
 Had link'd in unity. 
 
'i # 
 
 ^10 
 
 THE POUIITH READER. 
 
 4. The tomb to them was not a place 
 To drown the beat-loved of their race, 
 And blot oat each sweet memory's trace 
 
 In dull obscurity. 
 
 5. To them it was the calmest bed 
 That rests the aching human head : 
 They look'd with envy on the dead, 
 
 And not with agony. 
 
 6. No bonds they felt, no ties they broke, 
 No music of the heart they woke, 
 When one brief moment it had spoke, 
 
 To lose it suddenly. 
 
 *l. Peaceful they lived, — peaceful they died ; 
 And those that did their fate abide 
 Saw Brothers wither by their side 
 
 In all tranquillity. 
 
 8. They loved not, dream'd not, — for their sphere 
 Held not joy's visions ; but the tear 
 
 Of broken hope, of anxious fear, 
 
 Was not their misery. 
 
 9. t envy them, those monks of old. 
 And when their statues I behold, 
 Carved in the marble, calm and cold, 
 
 How true an effigy ! 
 
 IQ I wish my heart as calm and still 
 
 To beams that fleet, and blasts that chill, 
 And pangs that pay joy's spendthrift ill 
 
 With bitter usury. 
 
 S§^^^ 
 
 m 
 
THE SAOBED PIOTUBES. 
 
 811 
 
 98. The Saobed Piotuees. 
 
 A VALIANT knight, named Hildebrand, had been deeply 
 injured and offended by Bruno, another knight. Anger 
 bumed in his heart ; and he could hardly await the day to 
 take bloody revenge on his enemy. He passed a sleepless 
 night ; and at dawn of day he girded on his sword, and sallied 
 forth at once to meet his enemy. But as it was very early, he 
 entered a chapel by the way-side, and sat down and looked at 
 the sacred pictures which were suspended on the walls, lit up 
 by the rays of the morning sun. 
 
 2. There were three pictures. The first represented our 
 Saviour in the ptfrple robe of scorn, before Pilate and Herod, 
 and bore the inscription: "When he was reviled, he reviled 
 not again." The second picture showed the scourging of our 
 Lord, and under it was written : "He threatened not when 
 he suffered." And the third was the crucifixion, with these 
 words : " Father, forgive them." 
 
 3. When the knight had seen these words, he knelt down 
 und prayed. 
 
 !> 
 
3n 
 
 THE FOUBTH BWADF.lt. 
 
 Now, when he left the chapel, he met servants coming from 
 Bruno, who said: "We seek you. Our lord demands to 
 speak with you ; he is dangerously ill." And he went with 
 them. 
 
 When Hildebrand entered the hall where the knight lay, 
 Bruno said : " Forgive me my injustice. Alas, I have injured 
 thee deeply I" 
 
 4. Then the other stud kindly : "My brother, I have noth- 
 ing to forgive thee." And they grasped each other's hand, 
 embraced and comforted each other, and parted in sincere 
 amity. 
 
 Then the light of evening was more lovely to the retoming 
 knight than the light of the morning had been. 
 
 . 99. Truth in Parentheses. 
 
 1. T REALLY take it very kin^ 
 J- This visit, Mrs. Skinner I 
 
 I have not seen you such an age — 
 (The wretch has come to dinner !) 
 
 2. "Your daughters, too, what loves of girls— 
 
 What heads for painters' easels I 
 Come here and kiss the infant, dears, — 
 (And give it, perhaps, the measles I) 
 
 8. "Your charming boys I see are home 
 From Reverend Mr. Russel's ; 
 Twas very kind to bring them both,-^- 
 (What boots for my new bru.«els 1) 
 
 4. "What! little Clara left at home ? 
 Well now I call that shabby : ^ 
 I should have loved to kiss her so, — 
 (A flabby, dabby babby 1) 
 
 6. " And Mr. S., I hope he's well, 
 Ah 1 though he lives so haud-y, 
 
><«„««Mii<itt4a^k^:A^^^ 
 
 ing from 
 aands to 
 Tent witb 
 
 light lay, 
 ,ve iiyured 
 
 lave noth- 
 
 ier'8 hand, 
 
 in sincere 
 
 le retnnring 
 
 JAPANESE 1IABTTS8. 
 
 He never now drops in to snp,— 
 (The better for our brandy !) 
 
 6. "Gome, take a seat — I long to bear 
 About Matilda's marriage ; 
 Tou're come of coarse to spend the day I'- 
 (Thank Heaven, I hear the carriage I) 
 
 t. What I must yon go? next time I hope 
 Toa'U give me longer measure ; 
 Nay — I shall see you down the stairs — 
 (With most unconmion pleasure I) 
 
 8. " Good-by 1 good-by I remember all, 
 Next tune ybuTJ take your dinners I 
 (Now, David, mind I'm not at home 
 In future to the Skmners I) 
 
 818 
 
 rirlft— 
 
 100. Japanese Mabtyrs. 
 
 THE martyrdom of Don Sunon, a Japanese nobleman and 
 valiant soldier, was full of a noble interest ; he was con- 
 demned to be beheaded : when the tidings were brought him in 
 the evening, he put on his best robes, as if he had been going 
 to a banquet ; he took leave of his mother, his wife, and family; 
 they wept bitterly, but Agnes would not be comforted. This 
 beautiful and great soul fell presently on her knees, praying 
 hun to cut o£f her hair, for fear, she added, " that if I chance 
 to survive you, the world may think I have a mind to marry 
 again." 
 
 2. He told her that after his death she was free to take 
 her choice. " Oh, my lord," replied Agnes, " I vow, in the 
 presence of God, I never will have any spouse but you." He 
 then desired his three cousins to be called in. " Am I not a 
 happy man," he said, " to die a martyr for Jesus Christ? what 
 can I do to be gratefiil for so singular a favor?" " Pray for 
 
m 
 
 THB FOUBTH BBAOEB. 
 
 08, WO beseech yon," said one of them, "when yon come to 
 hoaycn, that we may partake with you m your glory." " Pre- 
 pare to meet me" he replied, " for it will not be long before 
 you follow." 
 
 8. Having foretold them what soon came to pass, they 
 an fell on their knees, the mother, the wife, and the relatives 
 reciting aloud the Contiteor ; this done, he entertained himself 
 a while interiorly with God : then desiring the picture of our 
 Saviour to be brought, they walked down into the hall where 
 he was to suffer, each bearing a crucifix and a lighted torch 
 in their hands. 
 
 4. Many now gathering around him, gave way to their 
 sorrow. "Weep not for me," said the martyr, "for this is the 
 happiest moment of my whole life ;" then kneeling down, his 
 head was struck off at one blow, in the thu*ty-fifth year of his 
 «ge. 
 
 Agnes looked at the scene, pale and immovable ; she then 
 knelt, and gazed on the face for some time, and kissed it, and 
 
 gal 
 
 exi 
 
 JaJ 
 
■.m^mMifl^^i^m.-i^m^. 
 
 JAPANESE ICABTYBe 
 
 315 
 
 come to 
 g before 
 
 tbey 
 
 ^he relatives 
 
 tained bimself 
 
 Ipicture of our 
 
 Ve ball wbere 
 
 ligbted toreb 
 
 I way to tbeir 
 I'fortbisistbe 
 
 lling down, his 
 Iftb year of bis 
 
 [able ; s^e tben 
 kissed it, and 
 
 bathed it with her tears. " Oh 1 my hnsband, who had the 
 honor of dying for Him who first died for thee — oh ! glorious 
 martyr, now that thou reignest with God in heaven, be mind- 
 ful of thy poor desolate wife, and call her to thyself." Her 
 words were like a prediction. 
 
 5. An intimate fiiend of Simon, of the name of Don John, 
 a man of rank, was also beheaded ; leaving his widow Magda- 
 lene, and his little son Lewis, a boy about seven or eight years 
 of age. In the course of a few days they were all called upon 
 to follow the dead. Four crosses were erected at the place 
 of execution, to which they were borne in palanquins. The 
 first they crucified was the mother of Don Simon, a person of 
 heroic resolution ; the next was the Lady Magdalene. 
 
 6. Her own torment was nothing to what she endured from 
 that of the little Lewis, whom they executed in her sight. 
 The child, seeing them tie his mother, went of his own accord 
 to the executioners, praying them to fasten him to his cross : 
 "What," said they, "are not you afraid to die?" "No," 
 replied the child, "I fear it not ; I will die with my mother." 
 Then the executioners took and tied him to his cross, that 
 stood right over-against that of Magdalene ; but draw'ng the 
 cords too tight, he gave a shriek. Being raised aloft in the 
 air, he fixed his eyes on his mother, and she hers on him. 
 "Son," said she, "we are going to heaven ; take courage : say 
 Jesus, Mary." 
 
 t. The child pronounced them, and the mother repeated ; 
 jand these, their last words, were spoken with so much solem- 
 nity and sweetness, that all wept around. After they had 
 hung in this manner for some time, one of the executioners 
 struck at him, but the lance slipping on one side, he missed 
 his blow. However, if he spared the child, it is certain he 
 pierced the mother to the heart. Fearing that he might be 
 daunted by such a stroke, she called to him, "Lewis, take 
 courage ; say, JesuS, Mary." 
 
 8. The child seemed not in the least dismayed, and neither 
 gave a shriek nor shed a tear, but waited patiently till the 
 executioner, repeating his blow, pierced him through. The 
 Japonian crosses have a seat in the middle, for the sufferer to 
 
m 
 
 THE VOUBTH ng.Ami'.n, 
 
 sit on ; instead of nailing the body, they bind the hands and 
 feet with cords, and place an iron ring about the neck ; that 
 done, the cross is raised aloft in the air, and after a few rnin* 
 utes, the executioners, with sharp lances fit for the purpose, 
 strike right at the heart through the left side. By this means, 
 the sufferer dies almost in an i>a8tant in a deluge of uls own 
 blood. 
 
 There was now only remaining the ardent and beautiful 
 Agnes, whom they reserved to the last ; . ".he knelt on the 
 bank, and, clasping her hands on her breast, blessed God 
 aloud for permitting her to die on the wood of the cross, 
 which himself had sanctified by bis precious death. 
 
 9. She then made a sign for the officers to tie her : but not 
 a man approached her, all were so overwhelmed with grief. 
 She called to them again, and still they stood immovable like 
 statues: she then extended herself in the best manner she 
 could on the cross. Some idolaters that were present, between 
 the hopes of a reward and the menaces of the officers, stepped 
 up and bound her fast, and then raised her aloft in the air. 
 
 10. The s]3ectators, seeing a person of her quality, so deli* 
 cate and tender, ready to suffer for no other crime but that 
 of being true and faithful to her God, could not keep from 
 tears. Some wept most bitterly ; others again covered their 
 faces, and were not able to look up at such a spectacle, which 
 was ready to tear their hearts to pieces. 
 
 11. In the mean while she fixed her eyes on heaven, and 
 prayed without intermission, m expectation of the fatal blow ; 
 but not one offered to do her this favor, insomuch that the 
 same persons that bound her were forced to take up the exe- 
 cutioners' lances, and do the office for them | but being quite 
 inexperienced, they gave her blow upon blow before she was 
 dead. 
 
 12. The lady all the while fixed her eyes on the picture of 
 Christ, upon which her husband had gazed so fondly before 
 his death, and which she held in her hand. Many Christians 
 forced then* way through the crowd, and without regard to 
 the soldiers' threats, dipped their handkerchiefe in the blood, 
 
 land oat off small pieces of the robes. 
 
. ,«u.»a.iasSki--^...ji«~. 
 
 PAIN IN A FLIASUBE-BOAT. 
 
 817 
 
 e handB and 
 a neck •, that 
 er a few min- 
 the purpose, 
 By this means, 
 ge of ula own 
 
 and beautiful 
 5 knelt on the 
 t, blessed God 
 I'of the cross, 
 
 sath. 
 
 lie her: but not 
 Imed with grief, 
 immovable like 
 jest manner she 
 present, between 
 e officers, stepped 
 
 [oft in the air. 
 r quality, so deh- 
 ,r crime but that 
 Id not keep from 
 ain coveted thetf 
 spectacle, which 
 
 L on heaven, and 
 If the fatal blow ; 
 Lomuch that the 
 [take up the exo- 
 1. but being quite 
 W before she was 
 
 on the picture of 
 
 *- so fondly before 
 
 Many Christiana 
 
 without regard to 
 
 aeffe in the blood, 
 
 'J ^\. Pain in a Pleasure-Boat, 
 
 ^ Boatman. 
 
 Shove off there 1 — ^ship the rudder, Bill — cast off I she's under 
 
 way 1 
 
 Mrs. F. 
 
 She's under what ? — I hope she's not I good gracious, what a 
 
 spray I 
 
 Boatman. 
 
 Bun out the jib, and rig the boom 1 keep clear of those two 
 brigs 1 
 
 Mrs. p. 
 I hope they don't intend some joke by running of their rigs I 
 
 Boatman. 
 Bill, shift them bags of ballast aft — she's rather out of trim I 
 
 Mrs. Jr. 
 Great bags of stones I they're preity things to help a boat to 
 swim. 
 
 Boatman. 
 The wind is fresh — if she don't scud, it's not the breeze's 
 fault I 
 
 Mrs. F. 
 Wind fresh, indeed, I never felt the air so full of salt ! 
 
818 
 
 THB VOUBTD it«Ang», 
 
 Boatman. 
 
 That Bchooner, Bill, ham't left the roads, with oiangei and 
 nuts I 
 
 f ' Mrs. F. 
 If seas have roads, they're very rough — I never felt such ruts I 
 
 Boatman. 
 It's neap, ye see, she's heavy lade, and couldn't pass the bar. 
 
 Mrs. P. 
 The bar I what, roads with turnpikes too 7 I wonder wliere 
 they are 1 
 
 Boatman. 
 
 Hoi brig ahoy! hard up. I hard npt that lubber cannot 
 steer ! 
 
 Mrs. P. 
 Yes, yes, — ^hard up upon a rock 1 I know some danger's 
 
 near I 
 Gracious, there's a wave I its coming in 1 and roaring like a 
 bull! 
 
 Boatman. 
 
 Nothing, ma'am, but a little slop ! go large, Bill I keep her 
 fuUI 
 
 Mrs. p. 
 What, ke^ her fbll * what daring work 1 when fhll she mnst 
 go down I 
 
 Boatman. 
 
 Why, Bill, it lulls ! ease off a bit — ^it's coming off the town I 
 Steady your hehu ! we'll clear the Fintl lay right for yonder 
 piiikl 
 
 Mrs. p. 
 Be steady — ^well, I hope they can ! but they've got a pint of 
 drink 1 
 
 Boatman. 
 "Bill, give that sheet another haul — she'll fetch it up this 
 reach 
 
 Mrs. p. 
 I'm getting rather pale, I know, and they see it by that 
 
 speech I 
 X wonder what it is, now, but — ^I never felt so queer t 
 
Ith onngei and 
 sr felt such ruts 1 
 't pass the bar. 
 I wonder where 
 
 t labber cannot 
 
 jr Bosme danger's 
 d I'ouxing like a 
 
 ), Bill 1 keep her 
 
 len M she must 
 
 ig off the town! 
 r right for yonder 
 
 r've got a pint of 
 
 fetch it np this 
 
 ly see it by that 
 so queer I 
 
 ^••i-Mrtwsfi^iajj.^^^4^ 
 
 
 '^ W A FLMDHB-BQAT. 
 
 819 
 
 ' ^"i, keep her out to sea. 
 
 me I '' M »ea?-lKW black they look u 
 
 It's veering r„„„d_I .^''"'">'- 
 
 Off iriai her head t -1. ^"'- *"• 
 
 aeen. to si^* ' ""^ ^ "•""» ' -""t with ?-^ ^ , 
 
 Sho^^otkeepherownSfr-^eshaBh 
 
 "»^ / «e, we shall have topuU her 
 
 l^k o„ty«. know, be i±^ »,':•. 
 
 «Bd , . readjr, Bdl-jiat when she take, the 
 
 The sand-O LoM i * ."'^- *^ 
 
 pWd I "* "»»«»? -«y moath I how eve.y thing j. 
 
 I'm handsDike Rni • P°^™*»- 
 
 stepTtw^'"--^™'^ •«« « iand , now, ^-a^ j^ 
 
 ^hat I ain't T »^ ^*^- ^- 
 
 ^<^. Heaven C^T^'^r'^'' ■•» ».««.. 
 
 '^«»»»«^anynK»ft 
 
I 
 
 8S0 
 
 TBK rOUmV BEADSR. 
 
 102. FlOWBBS 70B THE AlTAB ; OB, FULT AMD EaBNEST. 
 
 DRAMATIS riMON^. 
 
 Hblbn, ten yean old. Aoku, Beven yoara old. 
 
 Oswald, nine years old. Fathir Domimio. 
 
 The Uardener, Miller, &o. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 A mill-stream, with a weir, down which the water mshes towards the mill. 
 AoNiea crosses a little bridge, listens, and tlien searches for a wliile among 
 the sedges on the bank. At length she otters an exclamation of Joy, and 
 at the same moment a beaotifol bantam hen rashes out, clucking. 
 
 Agnea. Five eggs, and all mj own 1 One each, for papa, 
 mamma, Helen, Oswald, and myself ! Yet, no ; poor old 
 Kitty Oliver shall have this one, and I will boil it for her in 
 her little tin saucepan. O sly Bantam, naughty Bruyere, to 
 make your nest in such an out-of-the-way place 1 Had I ndt 
 been up so very early this morning, and heard your " Cluck, 
 cluck 1 " you would have cheated us all. 
 
 Helen and Oswald call, Agnes 1 Agnes I 
 
 Agnes. They are coming this way, and calling me. I will 
 not tell them of my good fortune until breakfast-time, and 
 then it will be such a pleasant surprise. They will all won- 
 der so to see Bruyere's eggs, but they will never guess where 
 she had hidden them. 
 
 Enter Helbn and Oswald. Aonss hastily gathers up her apron 
 
 with the eggs. 
 
 Oswald. Agnes, we want you. We have invented a new 
 game ; and while we are planning all the rules and the meet- 
 ing-places, and so on, you must gather some sedges for us. 
 
 Agnes. What can you want with sedges ? 
 
 Oswald. What is that to you ? You will know by and by 
 when play-time comes ; so lose no time, if you please, but do 
 as you are bid. 
 
 Agnes. In a minute. Just let me run to the house and 
 back. I will fly as fast as a bird. 
 
 Oswald. Stuff and nonsense I Who can wait for you ? 
 Breakfast will be ready in a quarter of an hour, and we have 
 invented a new game, I tell you ; so go and gather the sedges. 
 
WUmMM POB THB ALTAB. 
 
 Mi 
 
 AKNEflT. 
 
 Id. 
 
 ds the mill, 
 rhlle among 
 of Joy, and 
 iking. 
 
 for papa, 
 poor old 
 for ber in 
 {ruyere, to 
 Had I ndt 
 IT " Cluck, 
 
 ne. I ^W 
 trtime, and 
 ill all won- 
 ruess where 
 
 er apron 
 
 ted a new 
 the meet- 
 for us. 
 
 by and by 
 jase, but do 
 
 house and 
 
 for you? 
 nd we have 
 the sedges. 
 
 'Affnea [implor'ngly]. O Oswald, pray let mo take what I 
 have in my apron to the house. It is a secret; jou shall 
 know it presently, but let me go. 
 
 Osvoald I know what it is, by the way yon are holding up 
 your apron. You have been gathering some flowers for the 
 altar, and wish to make a mystery of it ; but there would 
 have been plenty of time before four o'clock to gather them, 
 so you are a great simpleton to do it so early. 
 
 Agnea [wide]. The eggs at breakfast will set him right in 
 
 that particular, so I will say no more now, but run for it. 
 
 Bbe tnrnH qaiokly, and nins as flut ai she can. Oswald parraea, over- 
 takes, roughly seiiea her apron, and breaks all the eggs. Agnes barsta 
 into tears. 
 
 Helen. O Oswald t what have you done ? Those must be 
 Bruydre's eggs, that Agnes has been hunting for for more 
 than a week 1 
 
 Oswald. Then why did she not say so at once 7 I suppose 
 Bbe was afraid I should want one of them for my breakfast. 
 Selfish little animal t 
 
 AoKM lobs violently, bnt says nothing. 
 
 Helen. Gome, come, Oswald, do not be unfair to Agnes. 
 She is a fretful little thing, with plenty of faults, as well as 
 some of her neighbors, but she is not a greedy child. 
 AoMas smiles, and looks gratefully at Hklin. 
 
 Oswald. In that case it is a pity ceirtainly for tcs that the 
 
 eggs are broken, and a greater pity to cry about the matter. 
 
 \^He singti] : 
 
 " Humpty Dnmpty sat on a wall, 
 Humpty Dumpty had a greal fall; 
 Not all the king's horses nor all the king's men 
 Could set Humpty Dumpty up again." 
 
 Agnes \lav/ghing']. That is very true, Oswald, dear ; so we 
 will think no more of our Humpty Dumpty's misfortunes. 
 
 She runs to the brook, and begins to gather sedges. 
 
 Oswald. By the way, those sedges are not quite the thing. 
 Bring me the tallest flags and bulrushes yon can find : pull 
 them up close to the root Every one moat be as tall as 
 yours^. 
 
322 
 
 THE FOUBTH BEADEB. 
 
 Agnen. They are very hard to break off ; I am afraid they 
 will cut my hands. 
 
 (hioald. Oh, that is a trifle. You must pull the harder ; 
 and wheD you have finished, lay them in a bundle at the door 
 of the isnmmer-house, that when the recreation-hour comes, we 
 may begin without loss of time. 
 
 Agnes. I wonder what the play is to be. 
 
 Helen. I will tell you all about it at breakfast-time. 
 ■ Oswald. And remember, that if you cry at every word that 
 is spoken, and if you complain when the flags cut your hands, 
 you will never make one in our game. None but the very 
 bravest of the brave can learn to play vrith us at that. 
 
 Exeunt Helkn and Oswald ; manet Aokes, who gathers flags and bulrush- 
 es, and carries them to the sommer-honse. She performs her task with 
 much perseverance and patience, and never looks at her bleeding hands 
 until the breakfast-bell is heard. 
 
 Agnes. There is the bell for breakfast, and I have not 
 gathered my flowers, though I thought of them the last thing 
 at night and the first thing in the morning. Well, well ; 
 patience was my virtue for yesterday's practice, and it cer- 
 tainly was not much tried ; I must keep it until after break- 
 fast, and then choose another for to-day. 
 
 She dips her hands into the stream to wash them, lays her bundle at the 
 door of the aomraer-house, and trips gayly homeward. 
 
 Scene II. 
 A flower garden. Enter the three chfldren. 
 
 Agne8. Oh, yes, it wiH be lovely I To walk in procession 
 and sing the litanies with flags in our hands to look like palms 1 
 Thank you again and again, dear Helen, for inventing such a 
 sweet play. 
 
 Oswald. It was not Helen who invented it ; it was I. 
 
 Eden. For shame, Oiswald ; how can you say so ! 
 
 Oswald. Well, though yon may have thought of it first, I 
 pat your thought into shape for you. 
 
 Agnes. Thank you, then, dear Oswald. 
 
 Oswald [to Agnes]. Now, mind, we onty allow yoa a 
 
FLOWEBS FOB THE ALTAB. 
 
 398 
 
 »id they 
 
 I harder; 
 , the door 
 zomeB, we 
 
 le. 
 
 word that 
 our hands, 
 t the very 
 kat. 
 
 and bulrash- 
 ler task with 
 Beding hands 
 
 ; have not 
 e last thing 
 Well, well ; 
 and it cer- 
 rfter break- 
 
 )Tindle at ih« 
 ud. 
 
 procession 
 
 ike palms 1 
 
 iting such a 
 
 was I. 
 
 ol 
 
 of it first, I 
 
 llow yott » 
 
 quarter of aa hour to gather your flowers ; and the very 
 moment I whistle, you must come and join us in the forum. 
 
 Agnea. The forum 1 What is that? 
 
 Oswald. Why the grass-plot, to be sure, stupid. Do you 
 not remember that the summer-house is the temple of Jupiter, 
 where the martyrs are to refuse to oflfer sacrifice : and that 
 the weather-cock is the Roman eagle, and the grass-plot is — 
 
 Agnes. Oh, yes, I remember all about it now ! I promise 
 to join you when you whistle for me in a quarter of an hour. 
 
 lExeunt Helen and Oswald. 
 
 Agues {whUe putting on her garden-apron and gloves, and 
 talcing out her flower-shears']. Oh, happy day, happy day 1 
 To dress our Lady's altar with my own roses, all my own I 
 Thirteen white ones that I counted yesterday, with ever so 
 many buds, and twenty-five red ones ; and then the moss-rose 
 tree, that seems to have come out on purpose for to-day, it is 
 so full of buds 1 How beautiful they will look 1 Our Blessed 
 Lady shall have them all — every one ; I would not give one 
 to anybody else to-day for the world — unless, perhaps, — [she 
 pauses a moment, and then, clapping her hands together, 
 adds with a happy smile and upward glance'] no, not even to 
 Father Dominic. This is far better than even our new play : 
 this is happiness, while that is only pleasure [she looks 
 thoughtful, and a cloud comes over her countenance]. 
 
 Father Dominic is seen approaching with his breviary in his hand. 
 
 Agnes [stiU musing]. There is Father Dominic. I would 
 ask him, only he is saying his office. 
 
 Father Dominio crosses the path, and, without speaking, holds ont his 
 finger, which Agnes takes, looking up in his face, and walking beside 
 him for a few minntes in silence. 
 
 Father D. [shuts his hook and smiles genUy at Agnes]. 
 Well, my child, what is it you are wishmg to say to me ? 
 
 Agnes [aside]. How is it he knows so well what I have in 
 my thoughts ? [aloud] Father, is there any harm in playing 
 at martyrs? 
 
 Father D. Yon must first explain to me a little what sort 
 of a game that is. 
 
 Agnet. We are to pretend that we are eome of the holy 
 
324 
 
 THE FOUBTH BEADEB. 
 
 saints who stiffered martyrdom under the emperor Diocletiaa 
 Oswald is to be the pagan tyrant ; the smnmer-hoose is to be 
 the Roman temple, where Helen and myself are to refuse to 
 offer sacrifice to Jupiter ; and then we are to walk to prison 
 and to death singing the Litanies, with make-believe palms in 
 pur hands. 
 
 Father D. And you wish to know ? — 
 
 Agnes. Whether the sufferings of the saints is not too holy 
 a subject to be turned into play ? 
 
 Father D. Tell me, my child, which is the most holy occu- 
 pation that children can have ? 
 
 Agnes, [after thinking a whUe}. Father, you have told me 
 that, with simplicity and obedience, every occupation is holy 
 to a little child ; so that play in play-time, is as holy as study 
 in school-time, or even as meditation itself. 
 
 Father D. And what is it that sanctifies your meditation, 
 your work, and your play, so as to nmke them equally accept- 
 able to our Lord ? 
 
 Agnes. The constant remembrance of his adorable presence. 
 
 Fahter D. Go, my child, to your play. For my part, I 
 think it the prettiest I have heard of for many a long day, and 
 I should like to be a little chUd like you for a while to join in 
 it. Though your palms are make-believe ones, your litanies 
 are real, and whenever yon sing them your angel guardian joms 
 his voice with yours. Who knows but that our Lord, when 
 he sees little children amusing themselves with good disposi- 
 tions, may bestow On them in reality the spuit of martyrdom 1 
 
 Agnes. Do people need the spirit of martyrdom now, when 
 there are no longer any heathen emperors? What is the 
 spirit of martyrdom. Father ? 
 
 Father D. [sighing]. Yes, my dear child, we want it still, 
 and shall do so to the end of the world ; but if you ask me 
 what it is, I answer it is a gift from Heaven, to be obtained, 
 like all other perfect gifts, by asking for it. Let this be the 
 vurtue you choose for to-day ; pray for it, my dear child, and 
 it will be given to you both to know and to practise it, whether 
 in play-time or at any other time, should the occasion be given 
 when yoQ need it ; ajid this may be sooner than you think. 
 
iocletiaiik 
 3 is to be 
 refuse to 
 to prison 
 I palms in 
 
 »t too holy 
 
 holy occu- 
 
 ive told me 
 ion is holy 
 )ly as study 
 
 meditation, 
 lally accept- 
 
 ble presence. 
 
 my part, I 
 ong day, and 
 ile to join in 
 your litanies 
 ^ardian joins 
 r Lord, when 
 good disposi- 
 
 martyrdom I 
 m now, when 
 
 What is the 
 
 want it still, 
 ' you ask me 
 be obtained, 
 let this be the 
 [ear child, and 
 ]iise it, whether 
 sion be given 
 I yon think. 
 
 VLOWEBS FOB THE ALTAB. 
 
 325 
 
 Agnes. O Father, I am such a coward I I am afraid of 
 every thing and everybody ; and if ever so slightly hurt, can 
 scarcely refrain from tears. Oswald says he would make the 
 best martyr that ever was, for he is so brave that he does not 
 mind pain in the least, and never cries at all. Pray for me, 
 that I may be as brave as Oswald, before I am ever required 
 to suffer, lest I should deny my Lord : that would be terrible 1 
 
 A whistie ia heard. 
 
 Agnes. Oh, listen ! they are calling me already. What 
 shall I do ? what shall I do ? 
 
 OsvxHd whistles again, and Helen caUs, Agnes I Agnes I 
 we are waiting. 
 
 Agnes [wringing her hands]. What must I do? I prom- 
 ised to go when they called, and I have not gathered my 
 flowers. 
 
 Father D. Keep your promise, my child, at all risks : bear 
 a disaf^intment rather than break a promise. 
 
 Agnes. But there are two promises. Father ; and one of 
 them must be broken. I had promised our Blessed Lady every 
 rose in my garden for this feast, and that I would say a 
 Memorare before they were gathered ; and now the only time 
 I had has slipped by. This was my first promise, and my best ; 
 I cannot break it. 
 
 T?iey caU, impaiiently, Agnes 1 Agnes ! 
 
 Father D. Give me your basket, my child. Offer to our 
 Lord every little good action as a flower for the altar. I will 
 gather these flowers for you, and leave them in the summer- 
 house ; while you go down the lawn, say the Memorare, and 
 I will say it at the same time. Will that do ? 
 
 Agnes looks gratefully at Father Dohimio, kiBses his band, and walks 
 quietly down the lawn, saying her little prayer with recollection. When 
 it is ended, she runs towards the sammer-honse, olapping her hands with 
 delight. 
 
 SCENE IIL 
 
 The three children are seen coming oat of the sammer-hotue. Oswald ia 
 dressed as a Roman lictor, bearing in his hand an axe tied In a handle 
 of rods. Helen and Aoneb have long whit« veils, and each wears a 
 passion-flower in her boaom. 
 
326 
 
 THE FOUBTH RWAPBB. 
 
 Oswald [fiercdy]. Gome on, wretches, and suffer the pnn* 
 ishment which Caesar so justly awards to your crimes. Thrice 
 have you impiously refused to sacrifice, and thrice shall you be 
 beaten with these rods before the axe closes your miserable and 
 detestable lives. In the mean time, thrice shall yon be driven 
 through the city and round its boundaries, that every Roman 
 may behold your ignominy, and may tremble at your fate. 
 
 He driven them before him for some time, and then stops opposite the 
 
 sammer-hoiue. 
 
 Oswald to Agnes. Maiden, your tender years inspire me 
 with some compassion for your folly : only bow as you pass 
 that standard, and I will intercede for you with the emperor. 
 
 AOMKS walks orect past the sommer-house. 
 
 Oswald. Wilt thou not bend? 
 
 Agnes, No. 
 
 Hden [^pushing her]. You do not do it properly. Make 
 a speech, cannot you? Plain "no" sounds so stupid. 
 
 Agnes. I do not know what else to say. 
 
 Helen. Yon ought to make a grand speech, to defy the 
 lictoi, and abuse the emperor and the gods of Rome. You 
 shall hear by and by how /will do it. 
 
 Oswald [threatening loith his rod]. Once for all, wilt thou 
 bow to the standard of Rome, to the royal bird of Jupiter ? 
 
 Agnes. Never I 
 
 Oswald. Here then will I teach thee what it is to be ob- 
 stinate. [He strikes her somewhat harder than he intended.] 
 
 The Angel gnardtan of Aonbs approaches and whispers to her fl^quently 
 daring this scene and the rest of the drama. The words Of the Angei 
 seem to Aonk thoughts, for she does not see the Angel, but she knows 
 he is near, and speaks to him also in thoughts. 
 
 Angel. Courage, Agnes. A flower for the altar 1 
 Oswald to Hden. To thee also is mercy for the last time 
 oflered. Disgrace not a name held in honor throughout the 
 world, that of a Roman matron ; nor afford a pretence to thy 
 children to desert the holy temples, where their ancestors wor- 
 shipped, and forsake the protecting gods of their hearths and 
 homes. 
 
the putt- 
 L Thrice 
 all you be 
 arable and 
 
 bo driven 
 ry Roman 
 r fate, 
 opposite the 
 
 inspire me 
 a you pass 
 I emperor. 
 
 FLOWEBS FOB THE ALTAB. 
 
 827 
 
 rly. Make 
 >id. 
 
 to defy the 
 pome. You 
 
 1, wilt thou 
 ' Jupiter ? 
 
 is to be oV 
 intended.] 
 
 |er frcquentiy 
 
 of the Angei 
 
 kat she knows 
 
 1 
 
 ke last time 
 pughout the 
 [ence to thy 
 Btors wor^ 
 Learths and 
 
 Hden. Tour gods are but demons; and had they been 
 mortals, they would have been, by your own account of them, 
 a disgrace to humanity. Your temples are dens of the vilest 
 wickedness ; your emperor is a base tyrant, and deserves him- 
 self to be torn by the beasts of the circus. I defy him and 
 you, together with all the tortures you can inflict, and desire 
 to be led to martyrdom. 
 
 Agnes [(mde]. Oh, how good Helen is! how noble she 
 looks I I should never be able to say all that. 
 
 OsiixUd to Helen, So thou pratest, dost thou? By the 
 emperor's command, thus will I silence thee. [He gives her 
 a blow with the rod. 
 
 Helen [angrily]. Don't, Oswald 1 You hurt me. 
 
 Oswald. Hurt you ? that is impossible. I hit Agnes much 
 harder, and she only smiled. I did not hurt you, I am sure. 
 
 Helen, You did, Oswald ; and I will not play with yon if 
 you do it i^in. 
 
 Oawald. And I will not play with you if you call me 
 Oswald ; you are breaking the rules of the game, to call me 
 Oswald instead of lictor. 
 
 They seem about to quarrel violently. 
 
 Angel to Agnes. Make peace between them ; that will be 
 a flower for the altar. 
 
 Agnes. Dear Oswald, I tMnk you must haye hurt Helen a 
 little more than you intended ; for see, ther» is a blae mark 
 on her arm. Had we not better leave off this part of the 
 game? Suppose the lictor should suddenly be converted; 
 and then we can all be Christians going together to martyr' 
 dom, carrying our pahns and Gongmg our hymns. 
 
 Hden. With all my heart. 
 
 Oswald. Very well, I am ready ; and for a beginning I will 
 kick down titu altar of Jupiter, and throw away my fasces. 
 
 [Exeunl. 
 
 SOINB IV. 
 
 The ehlMrem are waiting In procenion, bearing th^mosk paltna. Hnni 
 and AoNRS have their hands bound. They sing "Ave maris Stella." 
 A group of little villagers stand In the road, looting through the gate of 
 the garden to listen and to watoh them as they pass. 
 
828 
 
 TBB FOrSIH BEA0EB. 
 
 l8t OhUd. Well, if that ain't beantifiil 7 I wonder whether 
 we could play at that, or whether it coold be only for gentle- 
 folks. 
 
 2(2 ChUd. Why shonldn^ us? If as can sing in the 
 church, us has as good a right as they any how and any- 
 where. 
 
 Angd to Agnes. Love the poor and welcome them every- 
 where. 
 
 Agnes. Perhaps this may be a flower for the altar. 
 
 Bhe runs to her mother, who is sitting readinc; on one of the garden-seats, 
 and asks permission for the village children to join their procession. 
 This being granted, Aonbs tells the ehildren where to find the bundle 
 of palms, and again takes her plaee behind Helen. They walk on, 
 singing, " Virgo, aingularis, inter omnes mitis," &c., Ac. Kitty Oliver, 
 who is weeding a flower bed, looks up when she hears their voices, and 
 calls to the gardener. 
 
 Kitty. John, John, come here and hearken. Yon have 
 beard me tell about Miss Agnes' singing. Come and listen to 
 it yourself, and you will say with me that there is not one of 
 them to be compared with her. Bless her little heart ! she 
 dngs like an angel, as she is. 
 
 AoNBS, who hears tUs, Mashes. 
 
 A.gnes to her Angel guardian. If it will be a flower for the 
 altar to shun human praise, let me sing in mjr heart only, and 
 do you sing for me. 
 
 The Angel sings, and Aomks keeps silence. They walk along the bank of 
 the river, singhig the Litmiy of Loretto, when the village ehildren arrive 
 carrying their mock palms : they follow the procession, and join in the 
 litany. 
 
 Ostoald. [turning sharply round]. Who is that roaring the 
 Orapro nobis, spoiling our singing? 
 
 Ist Child. [Hlinking back]. Twasn't me, sir. 
 
 2d Child, [pulling his forelock, and scrt^ng a rustic 
 bow], I humbly ax your pardon, sir. 
 
 Zd Child [grumbling]. I don^ see what harm there is, 
 when missis gave us leave. 
 
 ith Child. [sturdUy]. Mother says that the day may come 
 when the quality of the gentlefolks will be glad enough to 
 have the prayers of the poor. 
 
FLOWBBS TOB THB ALTAB. 
 
 399 
 
 r whether 
 !or gentle- 
 
 ng in the 
 and any- 
 
 iiem every 
 
 ax. 
 
 garden-seats, 
 Ir procession, 
 id the bundle 
 'hey walk on, 
 iiTTY Oliver, 
 eir voices, and 
 
 Yon have 
 and listen to 
 is not one of 
 B heart I she 
 
 flower for the 
 art only, and 
 
 kng the bank of 
 
 I children arrive 
 
 and join ia the 
 
 %t roanng 
 
 the 
 
 ing a ru8tic 
 there is, 
 
 iay may come 
 enough to 
 
 Helen [vrUh a patronizing air]. And your mother said very 
 right, my dear ; so, since mamma has given you permission, 
 you may walk in our procession ; only you must talco care to 
 keep at a respectful distance, and not to sing too loud. 
 The village children fall back. 
 
 Angel to Agnes. Our Lord so loved the poor, that he be- 
 came one of them, and lived among them as his friends. 
 
 Agnes. Let my littleness be of itself an humble flower for 
 
 our Lord. I am unworthy to be the least among the poor, 
 
 since he so loved them. 
 
 She retires, and mingles with the village children. When the litaniep 
 are ended, Helen and Oswald stand still, and the rest await their 
 orders. 
 
 Helen. I am tired of walking in procession and siuging, are 
 not you ? What shall we do next ? 
 One of the village children advances with a basket of roses in his hand. 
 
 Child to Oswald. If you please, uir, I found this in the 
 summer-house, where Miss Agnes sent us for our flags and 
 bulrushes; and thinking mayhap you wanted these roses to 
 dress up for your procession, I made bold to bring them with 
 me here. 
 
 Oswald. Oh, that is famous I We are now in the amphi 
 theatre, awaiting the arrival of the emperor Diocletian, who 
 is anxious to witness the tortures of the phristian martyrs. 
 Somebody must represent the emperor Diocletian, and none 
 can act Ihat part so well as myself ; because I am up in the 
 Roman history, and undek-stand Latin and all that. I will 
 just go behind that arbutus to arrange my toga, and to throw 
 away my palm ; and then you, Charlie Baker, you will do for 
 a trumpeter to announce my arrival ; and all the rest, except 
 Helen and Agnes, must cry, " Long live CeBsar I long live the 
 immortal Diocletian I " and must strew these roses in my path 
 when I arrive. This basket comes just in the right time. 
 
 Agnes. No, Oswald, no 1 Pray do not touch those roses ; 
 they were gathered from my own garden, and you know what 
 for. 
 
 Osteoid. If I choose to have them, I should like to see you 
 prevent me I I will make you repent of it if you try. 
 
w 
 
 330 
 
 TBB VOUBTH BBAPSB. 
 
 Angd. Ooarage to suffer for Justice' sake is a flower worthy 
 of the altar. 
 
 Agnen. Oswald, you shall not touch one of those flowers. 
 They are neither yours nor mine ; they were given to oar 
 BlesHed Lady, and she shall have them. 
 
 Oswald IsarcasticaUy]. Oh, ho 1 Agnes turned vixen, anr* 
 daring to dictate to me : that is capital I It is very remark- 
 able that I don't feel more frightened. Never was cooler in 
 my life, ha, ha, ha I [He holda the basket over his head and 
 hughs."] 
 
 Angd. To bear affronts and mockery is a choice flower, and 
 very dear to our Lord. 
 
 Agnes [meekly]. Oswald, I forgive you from my heart ; 
 i9ut pray give me those flowers. 
 
 Tke poor children rarroand her. 
 
 t>mne9. Never mind, Miss Agnes, you shall have plenty of 
 flowers for our Lady's altar ; we will all go and gather the 
 very best we have, and will be back again in ten minutes. 
 They run in dilTerent directiona to gather flowers for Agnes. 
 
 Oswald. There I do you hear ? you will have twice as many 
 as these in ten minutes, so don't be bothering me any more, 
 for I mean to have them, and have them I will. 
 
 Angd to Agnes. Zeal for the house of our Lord is beanti* 
 ful and fragrant to him. 
 
 Agnes. No, Oswald, no: yon shall not even touch them. 
 What is given to the Church is already holy, and I will pray 
 that you may not have one of them. 
 
 Bden. For shame, Oswald I What a coward you are to 
 take advantage of a child like Agnes ! Put down the basket 
 this instant, or I will go and tell mamma. 
 
 Oswald [angrily] . Go along with you then, and tell tales, 
 and see what you will get by them. There is no use in hold* 
 iug out your hands, Agnes ; they are tied fast enough. 
 
 He runs across the bridge pursued by Helbn. When he has reached tht 
 other side, he throws the basket into the mill'itream, and laoghs seorib 
 fully. AoNES bursts into tears. 
 
 Angd. Pray for Oswald. 
 
 Agnes. And do you also pray for him as I do. 
 
:.4W^*U'' 
 
 FLOWlBBS FOB TBI ALTAB. 
 
 881 
 
 irortby 
 
 flowers, 
 to oar 
 
 xen, an<^ 
 ' remark- 
 cooler itt 
 head and 
 
 ower, and 
 ny heart; 
 
 5 plenty oi 
 gather the 
 onutes. 
 
 rice as many 
 e any more, 
 
 is beauti* 
 
 Itonch them. 
 1 wUl pray 
 
 yon are to 
 the basket 
 
 lad tell tales, 
 lo nse in bold* 
 pngh. 
 
 reaobed VbM 
 
 The bMket ta whirled roond in the eddy nntil it ii almoit wHhin reach. 
 AoNES Beises a long sticic, iiid approaching the edge of the river tries to 
 draw her prize to ahore : ? touches it, and Beeins on the eve of gaining 
 her point, but her hands being bound, she ia prevented Arom controlling 
 her own movements or those of the atiokt she loses her footing, and 
 falls into the river. Her Angel guardian folds her close within his wings 
 aa she is carr.od by the stream out of sight, round a sudden bend of the 
 river between the bridge and the mill. 
 
 Oisuxdd screams: Oh, the mill 1 the mill ! My God I let 
 me not see it ! let me not do it I [He covers his face with 
 his handit, and throws himself on the ground in agony and 
 terror.] 
 
 Helen [falling on her knees]. Mother of good counsel 
 pray for us ! Refuge of sinners, pray for us ! [She turns to 
 Oswald, takes hold of his arm, and speaks quietly but firmr 
 ly. ] Oswald, we must do what we can, and not despair of 
 the goodness of Almighty God. Untie my hands. [OsfuxM 
 obeys mechaniccilly.] Now run as fast as you can to the 
 mill ; take the short cut by the lane. I see Dick the miller 
 leaning over his gate ; he will know whether any thing can 
 be done. Go, and may God speed you, while I run for Father 
 Dominic. 
 
 Helen flies away like lightnhig. Oswald makes towards the lane, bnt 
 can scarcely stagger along ; his knees tremble, and he is obliged to catch 
 at the branches of the hedge to keep himself f^om ftJling. Dick, the 
 miller, perceives that something is wrong, and runs tc meet him aa 
 quickly as hia old legs will carry him. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 The road from the village. Father Doimno and Hblbm are harrying 
 along. The clock strikes. 
 
 Father Dominic [thinking aloud]. One o'clock I All 
 this must have happened a full hour ago ; for the cottage 
 where Helen fonnd nie is a gaod mile and a half from the 
 bridge. — [To Helen.] I would not bid you cease to hope, my 
 child, for with Almighty God all things are possible ; but be 
 prepared to submit in all things to his adorable will. Your 
 little sister was ripe for heaven ; and if our Lord desired to 
 take her to himself, we have no right to murmnr if he re- 
 fiises to work a miracle for omr sakes merely, our seMsh sake* t 
 
—■« _^ ^.* » ' 
 
 882 
 
 THB VOUBTH BEADIB. 
 
 HuiiN lobf heaTily from time to time, and they walk on for lome way 
 withont Baying another word. 
 
 Helen. Who is that coming across tho field towards the 
 road? 
 
 Father D. It is Dick the miller ; he is hurrying towards us. 
 
 Dick shouts: Not that way, Father ; to the house, to the 
 house I 
 
 He takei off hla broad hat, and wipes his face, which Is as pale as death* 
 
 aud qoickly Johis them. 
 
 Father D. To the house, did you say ? 
 Dick. Yes, Father ; she is found and carried home. 
 Father D. [aside]. I dare not ask the particulars — I see 
 how it is. 
 Helen. Oh, tell me ; is she dead ? 
 
 The miller looks at her sorrowfully. 
 
 Helen. Oh, let me go on by myself: I cannot wait for yon : 
 I must go and comfort mamma. 
 
 Father D. Go, my child ; and may your heavenly Mother 
 help you in your task, [exit Helen.'] Now, tell me, I pray 
 you, every particular. Who found her 1 Was life quite extinct 
 If hen she was taken from the mill-wheel ? 
 
 Dtck. The mill-wheel 1 [he shudders.] No, thank God, we 
 are spared that trial I Her cheek is as smooth as a lily flower, 
 and as pale, and there is neither scratch nor stain on her little 
 white limbs ; and there she lies, with a smile on her face like 
 an angel asleep. 
 
 Father D. God is indeed merciful in the midst of his judg- 
 ments. 
 
 Dick. Here is how it was : when Master Oswald told me 
 what had happened, away I ran at once to the mill to stop 
 the machinery ; and (God forgive my want of faith 1) I said, 
 " Of a certainty it is too late ; nothing can hinder the course 
 of a mill-stream, and we shall find her all torn and mangled 
 among the wheels." No, sir, she had never reached the .nill. 
 Away I went up the river towards the bridge ; and there, just 
 in th& bend, on the side next the mill, there she lay among the 
 flags and sedges. The current must have carried her within 
 reach of them, for she had caught hold of them with the clutch 
 
rXiOWiBs roB tbb aia^ab. 
 
 torn* way 
 i^arda the 
 
 owards us. 
 ise, to the 
 
 ale as death. 
 
 me. 
 
 liars — ^I see 
 
 fait for you: 
 
 TOnly Mother 
 
 U me, I pray 
 
 quite extinct 
 
 lank God, we 
 a Wy flower, 
 . on her little 
 iher face like 
 
 It of ins judg- 
 
 [wald told me 
 mUl to stop 
 kil) I said, 
 ier the course 
 and mangled 
 ched the nill. 
 [and there, just 
 (lay among the 
 fied her within 
 nth the clutch 
 
 of death ; and this it was that stopped her ttom being carried 
 over the weir. She had so firm a hold of those flags that I 
 was obliged to cut them off near the roots to disengage her ; 
 and to see her lying there, with her hands bound, and the long 
 leaves in them that they tell me she had been playing at mar- 
 tyrs with, and with that heavenly smile on her countenance I 
 I never should forget that sight if I were to live a hundred 
 years, and a hundred more on the top of them. 
 
 Father D. That sight, Dick, will be remembered to all 
 eternity in heaven. It is one worthy the attention of men 
 and of angels. 
 
 Dick. Well, sir, and that was not all ; for close beside her, 
 among the rushes, lay that basket of roses that I saw you 
 gathering this morning out of her own little garden. Thej 
 say that her last words were to give those roses to the Blessed 
 Virgin. 
 
 Father D, And Oswald — how does he bear it ? 
 
 Dick. Oh, sir, he is very quiet ; but still I think he is clear 
 mt ol his senses, for he will have it that Miss Agnes is not 
 dead. I carried her home in my arms, and sent my wife first 
 to prepare madam for the sorrow that was coming upon her. 
 As for Master Oswald, he had taken the basket and had gone 
 on too. He walked along without even so much as lifting up 
 his eyes ; but I saw him from time to time kissing the basket 
 that he held in his hand, as if he was not worthy to carry it, 
 until I lost sight of him altogether. I slackened my steps, sir, 
 as I came near the house — ^for I had not the heart to think of 
 the mother — and I was plotting in my head how I should 
 behave, and what I should say, when who should I see but 
 madam herself coming out of the gate with the servants, and 
 walking without hurry or agitation, as collected and calm as 
 when she goes up the aisle of a Sunday morning. She comes 
 up to me, and takes Miss Agnes into her arms, oh, so tenderly I 
 and walks straight up the steps, and through the porch into 
 the church, and there she laid her at the foot of the altar, and 
 said the Salve Regina, in which we all joined. Master Oswald 
 had been there before ris, for the basket of flowers was on our 
 Lady's altai- ; but he did not come near us. He had hidden 
 
884 
 
 THB lOVKTE BKADEB. 
 
 himself in some corner when we came in, for I heard him 
 sobbing. When we left the chnrch I followed them home. 
 Madam carried Miss Agnes herself upstairs, where every thing 
 had been made ready to receive her ; and when I came away, 
 the mother and the old nurse were busy chafing the body, and 
 using all the means possible to restore life, if such a thing were 
 possible. When I came out of the room to go and meet you, 
 sir, there was Master Oswald outside the door on his knees. 
 He will not stir from that spot ; but he tells everybody that 
 goes by that his sister is not dead, and that she will not die, 
 because then he would be a murderer. But as to that — as to 
 any chance of that ! — I carried her home in my arms, and 
 bless your heart alive, sir I 
 
 Here Dick shakes his gray head, and the tears trickle down his cheeks. 
 
 Scene YI. 
 
 A bedchamber. AoNn is lying pale and apparently lifeless on her littl* 
 bed. Her mother and Hblin, with the nnrse, are chafing her limbs and 
 applying restoratives. No one speaks. 
 
 Enter Fathkb DoMnno. 
 
 Father D. Sweet little lamb ! dear to our Lord I Your 
 prayer of toKiay went straight up to heaven ; it was soon 
 answered. 
 
 He kneels beside the bed ; the others also kneel. A pause. 
 
 Father D. to the mother. Was there any thing like life ? 
 Had you, have ^ou, any hope that life is not quite extinct? 
 
 Mother I ^ve fancied, from time to time, that there was 
 a slight pvlmiion of the heart, but my own beats so strongly 
 that I may easily be mistaken. 
 
 Fathi* Dovnczc plaices his hand on the child's heart, and bending his ear 
 down Iiat«L^ attentively ; !ie then takes a glass ftom the table, aad holds 
 it to hef mot 4. The mother watches anxioosly. He gives th* glass to 
 the motker. 
 
 MoOker. The glass is dimmed by her breath, — she fivet 1 
 Father B. No time mist now be lost in givii^g her the last 
 IMirnmrint of tbe Chnrch. Perhaps it was for 1^ great grace 
 
VLOWBRS FOR THX ALTAR. 
 
 ^85 
 
 [leard him 
 tem home, 
 jvery thing 
 ame away, 
 body, and 
 thing were 
 I meet you, 
 his knees. 
 7body that 
 rill not die, 
 that — as to 
 ' arms, and 
 
 n his cheeks. 
 
 M on her Uttt# 
 [ her limbs and 
 
 ,ord 1 Your 
 it was BOOB 
 
 paose. 
 
 Qg like life? 
 
 extinct? 
 at there was 
 
 80 strongly 
 
 bending his ear 
 Able, and holds 
 yes tta* i^aas to 
 
 «he Iiye« 1 
 
 her the last 
 8 great grace 
 
 that this little spark of life was allowed to remain. Yon see 
 she is perfectly insensible to all external things ; she is evi- 
 dently unconscions — her moments may be very few. 
 
 Mother. Father, I will hope against hope ! If our Lord 
 has granted to a mother's prayer this little breath of life, how 
 much more will he not bestow an answer to that sacrament 
 which pleads for life in the very presence of death, and to 
 irhich he has given a promise that it shall bring health to the 
 sick, as well as forgiveness to the sinner. [She kneeh beside 
 Agues and whify)er8 in her ear.] My child. Father Dominic 
 is here, to give you the last sacrament of the Church. If you 
 have any consciousness, say a little prayer. 
 
 Angd whispers to Agnes : Jesus, Mary, Joseph ! 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 The same room, darkened. Hblbn sits watching beside the bed, and from 
 time to time peeps between the curtains. 
 
 Helen. She still sleeps ; and now she looks like herself 
 again. How little did I think we should ever see again that 
 pink bloom (Mi her cheek, and those hands, which were so rigid 
 but a fi^w hours since, relaxed by sleep, and meekly crossed 
 upon hitc- bioisom as usual. Oh, how delightful to sit here, if 
 itwei«» only to hear her breathe I even for that I could never 
 be we&Tj of thanking God. The last five hours seem only 
 lifce so many minutes ; and yet I have done nothing but sit 
 bwft, and Usten to the same breathing that I might have heard 
 •I any time for the last seven years. How little we think of 
 the mercies every day bestowed upon us, just because we are 
 never without them I The very reason that we should ne/er 
 be without gratitude to God 1 Let me offer up ev^ breath 
 of my life now, once for all, in grateful adoration. But see ! 
 she moves, she wakes ; with her eyes still closed she makes 
 the sign of the cross, and offers up her first thoughts to God. 
 
 Agnes. Is Oswald there ? 
 
 Helen. No, sweetest, it is I. Yoa shall not see Oswald 
 imtil yoa wish it yourself. But ha is not gomg to tease you 
 •ay mon. 
 
836 
 
 THE FOURTH BEADEB. 
 
 Agnes. Good morning, dear Helen. Giro me a kiss, and 
 then ask Oswald to come to me directly ; bat do not distorb 
 mamma, for she wants rest. lExU Hden. 
 
 Enter Oswald. 
 
 Agnes. Come hither, dear ; I want to speak to yon. 
 
 Oswald comes forward in tears, and buries his head in the counterpane as 
 he kneels beside Aones. Aonks pats her arm round him, and draws 
 him near enough to whisper in his ear — 
 
 I know all about it, dear ; I know what yon are thinking of. 
 
 Oswald beats his breast, but does not say a word. 
 
 My poor Oswald 1 how much yon have suffered I Would you 
 do any thing I f^ked you now ? 
 
 Oswald kisses her hand and sobs. 
 
 You will. Well, then, promise me that, when at any time 
 you think of yesterday and of all that happened to us, you 
 will think of it in this way : Once upon a time Almighty God, 
 in his infimte mercy, preserved my little Agnes in a wonderful 
 way, in order that she might love me and I love her, and both 
 of OS love him a thousand times more than ever we did before, 
 01 ever could have done otherwise. 
 
 Oswcdd. I will. 
 
 Agnes. And when yon cannot help reproaching yourself, 
 you will not do it more unkindly than you can help, but will 
 say, " Out of this fault, with God's help, shall spring ten vir- 
 tues?" 
 
 Oswald. I will. 
 
 Agnes. And now, dear Oswald, give me a drink. I am 
 still very weak, but shall soon be well. If Helen comes in, 
 tell her it is your turn to watch. There, put your hand under 
 my cheek, that t may kiss it when I awake. .That is nice ; I 
 can go to sleep again now. Good-night, dear. How happy 
 we shall all be, now, if Almighty God gives us the grace of 
 perseverance to the end 1 
 
 THX KRD. 
 
% kiss, and 
 lot disturb 
 ^xit Helen, 
 
 rou. 
 
 anterpane u 
 1, and draws 
 
 hinking of. 
 
 1. 
 
 Would you 
 
 b any time 
 to us, you 
 jghty God, 
 b wonderful 
 r, and both 
 did before, 
 
 g yourself, 
 Ip, but will 
 iig ten vir- 
 
 ink. I am 
 I comes in, 
 hand under 
 t is nice ; I 
 EEow happy 
 le grace of 
 
 »'/->. a