THE YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK; A SEIiECTION OF LESSONS FOR READING, PROSE AND VERSE. BY EBEIVEZER BAIIiEY, PRINCIPAL OF THE YOUNG LADIES* HIGH SCHOOL, BOSTON. BOSTON: LINCOLN AND EDMANDS. QPLUNS AND HANNAY, NEW YORK ; KEY AND MEILKE, PHILADEL- PfflAj CCrSHING AND SONS, BALTIMORE. 1832. EDUC-PSYCH Entered, according to Act^ Congress, in the year 1831, by Ebeitezer Bailet, in the Clerk'^jEce of the District Court of Massachusetts. TABLE OF CONTENTS. 'Uli>'^ .^ roue- ^ PSYCH. lISftARY LESSONS IN PROSE. The names of American writers are in small capitals. Lesson. Page. 1. On Elocution and Reading N. A. Review. 9 ^ I 2. Education of Females Story. 11 6. Contrasted Soliloquies , Jane Taylor. 17 10. Character of a wise and amiable Woman Freeman. 25 12. Scenery at the Notch of the White Mountains .... Dwight. 29 13. " The Fashion of this World passeth anray" Pierpont. 33 14. The same, concluded J^^ Ibid. 37 i^j 19. Instability of Character ^r. Alison. 45 20. The same, concluded , Ibid. 47 21. Stability of Character Ibid. 49 23. The Village Grave- Yard Greenwood. 53 25. The Wife Irving. 60 26. The same, concluded Ibid. 64 S9. The Mountain of Miseries Mdison. 72 30. The same, concluded Ibid. 75 31. Advantages of a Taste for the Beauties of Nature . . Percival. 77 35. Government of the Temper Mrs. Chapone. 83 36. Peevishness Ibid. 86 37. Obstinacy Ibid. 83 41. Art of Pleasing Chesterfield. 94 42. Politeness Miss Talbot. 96 43. Confessions of a bashful Man Anonymous. 97 44. Intemperate Love of Praise Blair. 101 47. Description of the Custom of Whitewashing .... Hopkinson. 109 48. On considering both Sides of a Question Beaumont. 113 61. Influence of Christianity in elevating the Character of Females Carter. 118 52. Letter on Watering-places Mrs. Barbauld. 120 53. The same, concluded Ibid. 123 55. Character and Decay of the North American Indians. . .Story. 129 59. Portrait of a worldly-minded Woman Freeman. 137 60. Portrait of a selfish Woman Ibid. 140 62. Extracts from " A Father's Legacy" Gregory. 146 63. The same, concluded Ibid. 148 65. A Family Scene Miss Ferrier. 153 66. The same, concluded Ibid. 156 67. Local Associations Otis. 160 583 iv CONTENTS. '■ Xiesson. Page 70. Influence of the Female Character Thacher. 164 72. On the relative Value of Good Sense and Beauty in the Female Sex Literary Gazette. 171 78. A Solid and a Superficial Education contrasted . . . Ruhnken. 180 80. On Discretion Addison. 188 81. Advantages of a well-cultivated Mind Bigland. 191 85. Candor, in estimating the Attainments of others . Freeman. 198 86. The Profession of a Woman Miss Beecher. 201 90. On Respect for Ancestors QciNcy. 210 91 . Character of the Puritans Story. 210 92. The Coming of the Pilgrims Sullivan. 214 93. Lady Arabella Johnson Story. 216 98. Effects of the Institutions and Example of the first Settlers of New England Qcincy. 226 99. New England Mrs. Child. 228 100. Conclusion of a Discourse, in Commemoration of the first Settlement of Salem, Mass Story. 229 105. Childhood JV. M. Magazine. 239 106. The same, concluded Ibid. 242 107. Dialogue : Mr. and Mrs. Bolingbroke Miss Edgeworth. 245 108. The Burning of Moscow Labaume. 247 109. The same, concluded Ibid. 250 110. View of Mont Blanc at Sunset Griscom. 253 117. Comparison of Waters Miss Edgeworth. 260 118. Female Economy . .j^^ Hannah More. 262 119. Maternal Influence^T Mrs. Sigourney. 263 120. Primitive Tea-Parties in New York Irving. 265 123. Baneful Effects of Intemperance Sprague. 270 125. The Uncalled Avenger London Museum. 275 128. Extract from ''Suggestions on Education" . Miss Beecher. 282 129. Female Accomplishments Hannah More. 284 132. Conclusion of a Discourse in Commemoration of the Lives of Adams and Jefferson Webster. 291 133. Education a Life Business Francis. 293 137. Lilias Grieve Wilson. 299 138. The same, concluded Ibid. 303 1 39. Hopes and Fears of Parents Francis. 306 142. Western Emigration Everett. 315 143. The tjod of Universal Nature Chalmers. 316 146. Dignity and Excellence of the Poetical Art Channing. 324 147. Popular Institutions favorable to Intellectual Improve- ment Everett. 327 153. The moral Principles of the Bible of universal Applica- tion . . . : Wayland. 336 158. An Incident in the early History of America Scott. 345 163. Fashionable Follies Flint's Western Review. 356 169. Grandeur of Astronomical Science N. A. Review. 373 170. Escape from a Panther Cooper. 376 174. Indolence and Intellectual Dissipation Wirt. 389 176. The Tiger's Cave Edinburgh Literary Journal. 393 177. The same, concluded Ibid. 396 CONTENTS. ^ LESSONS IN VERSE. Lesson. T?tge 3. Breathings of Spring Mrs. HemaTis. 12 4. The Winged Worshippers Sprague. 14 5. Select Paragraphs 15 7. To the Rainbow Campbell. 20 8. Christian Hymn of Triumph Mllman. 22 9. Consolations of Religion to the Poor Percival. 24 11. Scene of Filial Affection Shakspeare. 27 15. Passing Away Miss Jcicsbury. 40 16. The Death of the Flowers Bryant. 41 17. The Autumn Evening Peabody. 42 18. Autumn Woods Bryant. 43 22. The First Wanderer Miss Jewshury. 52 24. Consumption Percival. 58 27. Elysium Mrs. Hemans. 67 28. Better Moments Willis. 70 32. The Common Lot Montgomery. 79 33. The Deserted Wife Percival. 80 34. The Last Man Campbell. 81 38. Evening Prayer at a Girl's School Mrs. Hemans. 90 39. Seasons of Prayer .^ Ware. 91 40. Solitude ■ Byron. 93 45. God's First Temples ^^ Bryant. 104 46. Morning Hymn Milton. 107 40 The Flight of Xerxes Miss Jewsbury. 115 50. Pairing Time anticipated Cowper. 116 54 The Tear of Penitence Moore. 125 56. Melancholy Fate of the Indians Sprague. 132 57. Concluding Lines of the "Fall of the Indian" ..McLellan. 135 58. Death-Song of Outalissi Campbell. 136 61. Fancy and Philosophy contrasted Benttie. 142 64. To a Log of Wood upon the Fire . . JVcw Monthly Magazine. 151 68. To Seneca Lake Percival. 162 69. Lake Superior Goodrich. 163 71. A Scene in a private Mad-House Lewis. 169 73. Maternal Affection Mrs. Hemans. 173 74. Napoleon at Rest Pierpont. 174 75. The Warrior Anonymous. 175 76. War Porteiis. 177 77. The Battle of Blenheim Sonthey. 178 79. Conversation Cowper. 186 82. The Vulture of the Alps Anonymous. 194 83. Song of the Stars Bryant. 196 84. Domestic Love Croly. 197 87. Curiosity Sprague. 203 88. The Love of Country and of Home Montgomery. 206 89. Columbus in Chains Miss Jezvsbury. 207 94. The Pilgrim Fathers Sprague. 21a 95. Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers Mrs. Hemans. 221 96. Hymn Pierpont. 222 97. The Western World Bryant. 223 101. The Death of Moses Taylor. 233 102. Sonnet on the Entrance of the American Woods Gait. 23o 103. Marco Bozzaris Halleck. 236 1* vi CONTENTS. Lesson. Page 104. Reflections of a Belle N. E. Weekly Review. 2.38 111. To the Stars Croly. 254 112. Sabbath Morning Grahame. 255 113. The Evening Cloud Wilson. 257 114. Twilight Halleck. 257 115. Perpetual Adoration Moore. 259 116. Music of Nature Pierpont. 260 121. The Recluse Beuttie. 267 122. Farewell to the Dead Mrs. Hemans. 269 124. Night,— a Field of Battle Shelley. 273 126. Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouny . . Coleridge. 278 127. The Soldier's Widow Willis. 281 130. To the Evening Wind Bryant. 286 131. To the Ursa Major Ware. 287 134. Parrhasius Willis. 295 135. The Soul's Defiance Anonymous. 298 136. Sonnet to the South Wind Bryant. 299 140. Scene from Hadad Hillhouse. 308 141. Immortality Dana. 313 144. Rome Byron. 319 145. Dialogue : Rienzi and Angelo Miss Mitford. 320 148. After a Tempest Bryant. 329 149. The Rejected Bayley. 330 150. Rhine Song of the ^rman Soldiers Mrs. Hemans. 332 151. The Isles of Greec^^ Byron. 333 152. Liberty to Athens .^?. Percival. 335 154. The Dead Mother: a Dialogue Anonymous. 340 155. Burial of the Young Mrs. Sigourney. 342 156. On the Loss of Professor Fisher in the Albion .. Brainard. 344 157. The Sunday School Mrs. Sigourney. 344 159. Trust in God Wordsworth. 349 160. The Patriot's Wish Sprague. 351 161. Summer Noon Wilcox. 353 162. Summer Wind Bryant. 354 164. Lochiel's Warning Campbell. 360 165. Joan of Arc in Rheims Mrs. Hemans. 363 166. Raphael's Account of the Creation Milton. 365 167. Elegy written in a Country Church-Yard Gray. 367 ^ 168. Dialogue : Gesler and Tell Knowles. 371 * 171. Order of Nature Pope. 381 172. A Sister pleading for the Life of a Brother Shakspeare. 383 173. The Passions Collins. 386 175. Darkness Byron. 391 178. The Sword Miss Landon. 399 179. Address to the Deity Mrs. Barhauld. 400 180. God Bowring. 402 181. Scene from " The Vespers of Palermo" Mrs. Hemans. 405 182. Address to Light Milton. 407 IIVDEX OF AUTHORS. Lessons. Addison, Joseph 29, 30, 80. Alison, A 19,20,21. Anonymous . .43, 75, B2, 135, 154. Barbauld, Mrs. AnnaL. 52,53,179. Bayley, Thomas Haynes . . . 149. Beattie, James 5, Gl, 121. Beaumont 48. Beecher, Miss Catherine E. . .86, 128. Bigland 81. Bkir, Hugh 44. Bowring, John 180. Brainard, John G. C 156. Bryant, WiUiam Cullen . . 16, 18, 45, 83, 97, 130, 136, 148, 162. Byron, George Gordon . .40, 144, 151, 175. Campbell, Thomas . .7, 34, 58, 164. Carter, James G 51. Chalmers, Thomas 143. Channing, WilUam Ellery . . 146. Chapone, Mrs. Hester . .35, 36, 37. Chesterfield 41. Child, Mrs 99. Coleridge, Samuel Taylor . . .126. ColUns, William 173. Cooper 170. Cowper, William 50, 79. Croly, George 84, 111. Dana, Richard H 141. D wight, Timothy 12. Edge worth, Miss Maria. .107, 117. Edinburgh Literary Journal . . 176, 177. Everett, Edward 142, 147. Lessons. Ferrier, Miss 65, 66. Flint, Timothy 163. Francis, Convers 133, 139. Freeman, James . . 10, 59, 60, 85. Gait 102. Gay, John 5. Goodrich, Samuel G 69. Grahame, James 112. Gray, ^omas 167. Greened, F. W. P 23. Gregory, John 62, 63. Griscom, John 110. Halleck, Fitz Greene . . .103, 114. Hemans, Mrs. Felicia . .3, 27, 38, 73,95,122,150, 165,181. Hillhouse, James A 140. Hopkinson, Francis 47. Irving, Washington . .25, 26, 120. Jewsbury, Miss Maria Jane . . 15, 22, 49, 89. Knowles, James Sheridan . . .168. Labaume 108, 109. Landon, Miss L. E 178. Lewis, M. G 71. Literary Gazette 72. London Museum 125 McLellan, Isaac, Jr. . . .' 57. Milman, Henry Hart 8 Milton, John 46, 166, 182. Vlll INDEX OF AUTHORS. Lessons. Mitford, Miss Mary Russell. .145. Montgomery, James 32, 88. Moore, Thomas 54, 1]5. More, Hannah 118, 129. New England Review 104. New Monthly Magazine . .64, 105, 106. North American Review . .1, 169. Otis, Harrison Gray .67. Peabody, W. B. 17. Percival, J. G. . . 9, 24, 33, 68, 152. Percival, Thomas 31. Pierpont, John . . 13, 14, 74, 96, 116. Pope, Alexander 171. Porteus 76. Quincy, Josiah -^SO, 98. Rogers, Samuel 5. Ruhnken 78. Scott, Sir Walter 158. Lessonsu Shakspeare, William ... .11, 172. Shelley, Percy Bysshe 124. Sigourney, Mrs. Lydia H. . . 119, 155, 157. Southey, Robert 77. Sprague, Charles . . 4, 56, 87, 94, 123, 160. Story, Joseph . . 2, 55, 91, 93, 100. Sullivan, William 92. Talbot, Miss 42. Taylor, Miss Jane 6. Taylor, John S 101. Thacher, S. C 70. Thomson, James 5. Ware, Henry, J 39, 131. Wayland, Francis, Jr 153. Webster, Daniel 132. Wilcox. Carlos 16] . Willis, Nathaniel P. . .28, 127, 134. Wilson, John 113, 137, 138. Wirt, WilHam 174. Wordsworth, William 159. Young, Edward 5. THE YOUNG LADIES^ CLASS BOOK. LESSON I. On Elocution and Reading. — N. A. Review. The business of training our youth in elocution must be commenced in childhood. The first school is the nursery. There, at least, may be formed a distinct articulation, which is the first requisite for good speaking. How rarely is it found in perfection among our orators! Words, says one, referring to articulation, should " be delivered out from the lips, as beautiful coins, newly issued from the mint ; deeply and accurately impressed, perfectly finished, neatly struck by the proper organs, distinct, in due succession, and of due weight." How rarely do we hear a speaker, whose tongue, teeth and lips do their office so perfectly as, in any wise, to answer to this beautiful description ! And th<^ common faults in articulation, it should be remembered, take their rise from the very nursery. But let us refer to other particulars. Grace in eloquence — in the pulpit, at the bar — cannot be separated from grace in the ordinary manners, in private life, in the social circle, in the family. It cannot well be superin- duced upon all the other acquisitions of youth, any more than that nameless, but invaluable quality, called good breeding. You may, therefore, begin the work of forming the orator with your child ; not merely by teaching him to declaim, but, what is of much more consequence, by observ- ing and correcting his daily manners, motions and attitudes. You can say, when he comes into your apartment, or presents you with something, a book or letter, in an awkward and blundering manner, " Just return, and enter this room again," or, " Present me that book in a different manner," or, 10 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. " Put yourself into a different attitude." You can explain to him the difference between thrusting or pushing out his hand and arm, in straight lines and at acute angles, and moving them in flowing, circular lines, and easy, graceful action. He will readily understand you. Nothing is more true than that " the motions of children are originally graceful ;" and it is by suffering them to be perverted, that we lay the foundation for invincible awkwardness in later life. We go, next, to the schools for children. It ought to be a leading object, in these schools, to teach the art of reading. It ought to occupy three-fold more time than it does. The teachers of these schools should labor to improve themselves. They should feel, that to them, for a time, are committed the future orators of the land. We had rather have a child, even of the other sex, return to us from school a first-rate reader, than a first-rate performer on the piano-forte. We should feel that we had a far bette? pledge for the intel%ence and talent of our child. The accomplishment, in its perfection, would give more pleasure. The voice of song is not sweeter than the voice of eloquence ; and there may be eloquent readers, as well as eloquent speak* ers. We speak oi perfection in this art ; and it is something, we must say in defence of our preference, which v/e have never yet seen. Let the same pains be devoted to reading, as are required "to form an accomplished performer on an instrument ; let us have — as the ancients had — the formers of the voice, the music-masters of the reading voice ; let us see years devoted to this accomplishment, and then we should be prepared to stand the comparison. It is, indeed, a most intellectual accomplishment. So is music, too, in its perfection. We do by no means under- value this noble and most delightful art; to which Socrates applied himself, even in his old age. But one recommenda- tion of the art of reading is, that it requires a constant exercise of mind. It demands continual and close reflec*- tion and thought, and the finest discrimination of thought. It involves, in its perfection, the whole art of criticism on language. A man may possess a fine genius, without being a perfect reader ; but he cannot be a perfect reader without genius. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. H LESSON II. Education of Females. — Story. If Christianity may be said to have given a permanent elevation to woman, as an intellectual and moral being, it is as true that the present age, above all others, has given play to her genius, and taught us to reverence its influence. It was the fashion of other times, to treat the literary acquire- ments of the sex as starched pedantry, or vain pretension ; to stigmatize them as inconsistent with those domestic affec- tions and virtues, which constitute the charm of society. We had abundant homilies read upon their amiable weaknesses and sentimental delicacy, upon their timid gentleness and submissive dependence ; as if to taste the fruit of knowledge were a deadly sin, and ignorance were the sole guardian of innocence. Their whole lives were " sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;" and concealment of intellectual power was often resorted to, to escape the dangerous imputation of masculine strength. In the higher walks of life, the satirist was not without color for the suggestion, that it was " A youth of folly, an old age of cards f and that, elsewhere, " most women had no character at all," beyond that of purity and devotion to their families. Ad- mirable as are these qualities, it seemed an abuse of the gifts of Providence, to deny to mothers the power of instructing their children, to wives the privilege of sharing the intellec- tual pursuits of their husbands, to sisters and daughters the delight of ministering knowledge in the fireside circle, to youth and beauty the charm of refined sense, to age and infirmity the consolation of studies, which elevate the soul, and gladden the listless hours of despondency. These things have, in a great measure, passed away. The prejudices, which dishonored the sex, have yielded to the influence of truth. By slow but sure advances, education has extended itself through all ranks of female society. There is no longer any dread lest the culture of science 12 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. should foster that masculine boldness or restless indepen- dence, which alarms by its sallies, or wounds by its inconsistencies. We have seen that here, as every where else, knowledge is favorable to human virtue and human happiness; that the refinement of literature adds lustre to the devotion of piety ; that true learning, like true taste, is modest and unostentatious ; that grace of manners receives a higher polish from the discipline of the schools ; that culti- vated genius sheds a cheering light over domestic duties, and its very sparkles, like those of the diamond, attest at once its power and its purity. There is not a rank of female society, Jiowever high, which does not now pay homage to literature, or that wouM not blush even at the suspicion of that ignorance, which, a half century ago, was neither uncommon nor discreditable. There is not a parent, whose pride may not glow at the thought, that his daughter's happiness is, in a great measure, within her own command, whether she keeps the cool, sequestered vale of life, or visits the busy walks of fashion. A new path is thus opened for female exertion, to alleviate the pressure of misfortune, without any supposed sacrifice of dignity or modesty. Man no longer aspires to an exclusive dominion in authorship. He has rivals or allies in almost every department of knowledge ; and they are to be found among those, whose elegance of manners and blamelessness of life command his respect, as much as their talents excite his admiration. LESSON III. Breathings of Spring. — Mrs. Hemans. What wak'st thou. Spring 1 — Sweet voices in the woods, And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute j Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes. The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute, Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee. Even as our hearts may be. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. I3 And the leaves greet thee, Spring ! — the joyous leaves, Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade, Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, When thy south wind hath pierced the whispery shade, And happy murmurs, running through the grass, Tell that thy footsteps pass. And the bright waters — they, too, hear thy call, Spring, the awakener ! thou hast burst their sleep ! Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall Makes melody, and in the forests deep, Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray Their windings to the day, # And flowers — the fairy-peopled world of flowers ! Thou from the dust hast set that glory free, Coloring the cowslip with the sunny hours. And penciling the wood-^anemone : Silent they seem ; yet each to thoughtful eye Glows with mute poesy. But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring — The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs I Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing. Restorer of forgotten harmonies ! Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou art : What wak'st thou in the heart ? Too much, oh 1 there too much ! — we know not well Wherefore it should be thus, yet, roused by thee, What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell, Gush for the faces we no more may see ! How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone, By voices that are gone ! Looks of familiar love, that never more, Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, Past words of welcome to our household door. And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feet- Spring ! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees, Why, why reviv'st thou these 1 2 I 1^ YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Vain longings for the dead ! — why come they back With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms ? Oh ! is it not, that from thine earthly track Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs ? Yes, gentle Spring ; no sorrow dims thine air, Breathed by our loved ones there ! LESSON IV. The Winged Worshippers. — C. Sprague. [Addressed to two SwaJlows, that flew into Church during Divine Service.] Gay, guiltless pair. What seek ye from the fields of heaven 1 Ye have no need of prayer. Ye have no sins to be forgiven. Why perch ye here. Where mortals to their Maker bend 1 Can your pure spirits fear The God ye never could offend ? Ye never knew The crimes for which we come to weep : Penance is not for you. Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. To you 'tis given To wake sweet nature's untaught lays ; Beneath the arch of heaven To chirp away a life of praise. Then spread each wing. Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands, And join the choirs that sing In yon blue dome not reared with hands. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Or, if ye stay To note the consecrated hour, Teach me the airy way, And let me try your envied power. Above the crowd, On upward wings could I but fly, I'd bathe in yon bright cloud, And seek the stars that gem the sky. 'Twere heaven fndeed, Through fields of trackless light to soar, On nature's charms to feed, And nature's own great God adore. LESSON V. SELECT PARAGRAPHS. Memory. — Rogers. Hail, Memory, hail ! In thy exhaustless mine, From age to age, unnumbered treasures shine ! Thought, and her shadowy brood, thy call obey, And Place and Time are subject to thy sway I Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone, — The only pleasures we can call our own. Lighter than air, Hope's summer-visions die If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky ; If but a beam of sober Reason play, Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away. But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power, Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour 1 These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, Pour round her path a sUeam of living light, And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest. Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blessed. 15 10 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. True Dignity. — Beattie. Vain man, is grandeur given to gay attire ? Then let the butterfly thy pride upbraid ; — To friends, attendants, armies, bought with hire 1 It is thy weakness that requires their aid ; — To palaces, with gold and gems inlaid? They fear the thief, and tremble in the storm ; — To hosts, through carnage who to conquest wade? Behold the victor vanquished by the worm ! Behold what deeds of wo the locusts can perform ! True dignity is his, whose tranquil mind Virtue has raised above the things below ; Who, every hope and fear to Heaven resigned, Shrinks not, though fortune aim her deadliest blow. Beauty. — Gay. What is the blooming tincture of the skin To peace of mind and harmony within ? What the bright sparkling of the finest eye To th€ soft soothing of a calm reply ? Can comeliness of form, or shape, or air, With comeliness of words or deeds compare ? No . — those at first the unwary heart may gain ; But these, these only, can the heart retain. Indolence. — Thomson. Their only labor was to kill the time ; And labor dire it is, and weary wo. They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme : Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go, Or saunter forth, with tottering step and slow : This soon too rude an exercise they find ; Straight on their couch their limbs again they throw, Where, hours on hours, they, sighing, lie reclined, And court the vapory god, soft-breathing in the wind. „■ YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 17' Cfiange. — Young. Look nature through ; 'tis revolution all : All change ; no death. Day follows night, and night > The dying day ; stars rise, and set, and rise ; / Earth takes the example. See, the Summer, gay •: With her green chaplet and ambrosial flowers, i' Droops into, pallid Autumn : Winter, gray. Horrid with frost, and turbulent with storm. Blows Autumn, and his golden fruits,, away; — Then melts into the Spring. Soft Spring, with breath Favonian, from warm chambers of the south, Recalls the first. All, to re-flourish, fades ; As in a wheel, all sinks to re-ascend — Emblems of man, who passes, not expires. LESSON VI. Contrasted Soliloquies. — Jane Taylor. " Alas !" exclaimed a silver-headed sage, " how narrow is the utmost extent of human science! — how circum- scribed the sphere of intellectual exertion! I have spent my life in acquiring knowledge ; but how little do I know ! The farther I attempt to penetrate the secrets of nature, the more I am bewildered and benighted. Beyond a certain limit, all is but confusion or conjecture ; so that the advan- tage of the learned over the ignorant, consists greatly in having ascertained how little is to be known. " It is true that I can measure the sun, and compute the distances of the planets ; I can calculate their periodical movements, and even ascertain the laws by which they per- form their sublime revolutions; but with regard to their construction, and the beings which inhabit them, what do I know more than the clown ? " Delighting to examine the economy of nature in our own world, I have analyzed the elements ; and have given names 2* 18 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. to their component parts. And yet, should I not be as much at a loss to explain the burning of fire, or to account for the liquid quality of water, as the vulgar, who use and enjoy them without thought or examination? " I remark that all bodies, unsupported, fall to the ground; and I am taught to account for this by the law of gravitation. But what have I gained here more than a term 1 Does it convey to my mind any idea of the nature of that mysterious and invisible chain, which draws all things to a common centre ? I observe the effect, I give a name to the cause ; but can I explain or comprehend it 1 " Pursuing the track of the naturalist, I have learned to distinguish the animal, vegetable and mineral kingdoms ; and to divide these into their distinct tribes and families : but can I tell, after all this toil, whence a single blade of grass derives its vitality ? Could the most minute researches enable me to discover the exquisite pencil, that paints and fringes the flower of the field 1 Have I ever detected the secret, that gives their brilliant dye to the ruby and the era^ erald, or the art that enamels the delicate shell ? " I observe the sagacity of animals ; I call it instinct, and speculate upon its various degrees of approximation to the reason of man. But, after all, I know as little of the cogi- tations of the brute, as he does of mine. When I see a flight of birds overhead, performing their evolutions, or steering their course to some distant settlement, their signals and cries are as unintelligible to me, as are the learned languages to the unlettered rustic : I understand as little of their policy and laws, as they do of Blackstone's Commentaries. ''But, leaving the material creation, my thoughts have often ascended to loftier subjects, and indulged in metaphys- ical speculation. And here, while I easily perceive in myself the two distinct qualities of matter and mind, I am baffled in every attempt to comprehend their mutual dependence and mysterious connexion. When my hand moves in obedi- ence to my will, have I the most distant conception of the manner in which the volition is either communicated or understood ? Thus, in the exercise of one of the most sim- ple and ordinary actions, I am perplexed and confounded, if I attempt to account for it. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. jg " Again, how many years of my life were devoted to the acquisition of those languages, by the means of which I might explore the records of remote ages, and become famil- iar with the learning and literature of other times ! And what have I gathered from these, but the mortifying fact, that man has ever been struggling with his own impotence, and vainly endeavoring to overleap the bounds which limit his anxious inquiries 1 " Alas ! then, what have I gained by my laborious re- searches, but an humbling conviction of my weakness and ignorance? How little has man, at his best estate, of which to boast ! What folly in him to glory in his contracted pow- ers, or to value himself upon his imperfect acquisitions !" "Well," exclaimed a young lady, just returned from school, " my education is at last finished ! — indeed, it would be strange, if, after five years' hard application, any thing were left incomplete. Happily, that is all over now ; and I have nothing to do, but to exercise my various accomplish- ments. " Let me see ! — As to French, I am mistress of that, and speak it, if possible, with more fluency than English. Italian I can read with ease, and pronounce very well ; as well, at least, as any of my friends ; and that is all one need wish for in Italian. Music I have learned till I am perfectly sick of it. But, now that we have a grand piano, it will be delight- ful to play when we have company ; I must still continue to practise a little ; — the only thing, I think, that I need now improve myself in. And then there are my Italian songs ! which every body allows I sing with taste ; and as it is what so few people can pretend to, I am particularly glad that I can. " My drawings are universally admired, — especially the shells and flowers, which are beautiful, certainly : besides this, I have a decided taste in all kinds of fancy ornaments. And then my dancing and waltzing, — in which our master himself owned that he could take me no farther ; — ^just the figure for it, certainly ; it would be unpardonable if I did not excel. 20 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. " As to common things, geography, and history, andpoetry^, and philosophy, — thank my stars, I have got through them all ! so that I may consider myself not only perfectly accom- plished, but also thoroughly well informed. — Well, to be sure^ how much I have fagged through ! — the only wonder is, that one head can contain it all 1" LESSON VII. To the Rainbow. — Campbell. Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud philosophy To teach me what thou art. Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, A midway station given, For happy spirits to alight Betwixt the earth and heaven. Can all, that optics teach, unfold Thy form to please me so. As when I dreamed of gems and gold, Hid in thy radiant bow ? When Science from Creation's face Enchantment's veil withdraws. What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws ! And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams Wa«i woven in the sky. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. gj When, o'er the green, undeluged earth, Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's gray fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign ? And when its yellow lustre smiled O'er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child To bless the bow of God. Methinks, thy jubilee to keep. The first-made anthem rang, On earth, delivered from the deep, And the first poet sang. Nor ever shall the Muse's eye Unraptured greet thy beam : Theme of primeval prophecy, Be still the poet's theme ! The earth to thee her incense yields, The lark thy welcome sings. When, glittering in the freshened fields. The snowy mushroom springs. How glorious is thy girdle, cast O'er mountain, tower and town. Or mirrored in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down ! As fresh in yon horizon dark. As young, thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark. First sported in thy beam. For, faithful to its sacred page. Heaven still rebuilds thy span. Nor lets the type grow pale with age, That first spoke peace to man. y 22 YOUNG LADIES' GLASS BOOK. LESSON VIII. Christian Hymn of Triumph ;—from " The Martyr of An- tioch" MiLMAN. Sing to the Lord ! let harp, and lute, and voice, Up to the expanding gates of heaven rejoice, While the bright martyrs to their rest are borne ! Sing to the Lord ! their blood-stained course is run, And every head its diadem hath won, Rich as the purple of the summer morn — Sing the triumphant champions of their God, While burn their mounting feet along their sky-ward road. Sing to the Lord ! for her, in beauty's prime, Snatched from this wintry earth's ungenial clime, In the eternal spring of paradise to bloom ; For her the world displayed its brightest treasure, And the airs panted with the songs of pleasure. Before earth's throne she chose the lowly tomb. The vale of tears with willing footsteps trod, Bearing her cross with thee, incarnate Son of God Sing to the Lord ! it is not shed in vain. The blood of martyrs ! from its freshening rain High springs the church, like some fount^eh ado wing palm : The n,ations crowd beneath its branching shade. Of its green leaves are kingly diadems made. And, wrapt within its deep, embosoming calm. Earth shrinks to slumber like the breezeless deep. And war's tempestuous vultures fold their wings and sleep, Sing to the Lord I no more the angels fly — Far in the bosom of the stainless sky — The sound of fierce, licentious sacrifice. From shrined alcove and stately pedestal. The marble gods in cumbrous ruin fall ; Headless, in dust, the awe of nations lies ; Jove's thunder crumbles in his mouldering hand. And mute as sepulchres the hymnless temples stand. yOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. ' 33 Sing to the Lord ! from damp, prophetic cave No more the loose-haired Sybils burst and rave ; Nor watch the augurs pale the wandering bird : No more on hill or in the murky wood, Mid frantic shout and dissonant music rude, In human tones are wailing victims heard ; Nor fathers, by the reeking altar stone, Cowl their dark heads to escape their children's dying groan. Sing to the Lord ! no more the dead are laid In cold despair beneath the cypress shade, To sleep the eternal sleep, that knows no morn : There, eager still to burst death's brazen bands, The angel of the resurrection stands ; While, on its own immortal pinions borne, Following the breaker of the imprisoning tomb. Forth springs the exulting soul, and shakes away its gloom. Sing to the Lord ! the desert rocks break out, And the thronged cities in one gladdening shout, — The farthest shores by pilgrim step explored ; Spread all your wings, ye winds, and waft around, Even to the starry cope's pale waning bound, Earth's universal homage to the Lord ; Lift up thine head, imperial capitol, Proud on thy height to see the bannered cross unroll. Sing to the Lord ! when time itself shall cease, And final Ruin's desolating peace Enwrap this wide and restless world of man ; When the Judge rides upon the enthroning wind. And o'er all generations of mankind Eternal Vengeance waves its winnowing fan ; To vast infinity's remotest space, While ages run their everlasting race, Shall all the beatific hosts prolong, Wide as the glory of the Lamb, the Lamb's triumphant song 34 yOUNG LADIES' CLAS3 BOOK. LESSON IX. Consolations of Religion to the Poor. — J. G. Percival. There is a mourner, and her heart is broken ; She is a widow ; she is old and poor ; Her only hope is in that sacred token Of peaceful happiness when life is o'er ; She asks nor wealth nor pleasure, begs no more Than Heaven's delightful volume, and the sight Of her Redeemer. Sceptics, would you pour Your blasting vials on her head, and blight Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms, and charms her being's night? She lives in her affections ; for the grave Has closed upon her husband, children ; all Her hopes are with the arm she trusts will save Her treasured jewels : though her views are small, Though she has never mounted high, to fall. And writhe in her debasement, — yet the spring Of her meek, tender feelings, cannot pall Her unperverted palate, but will bring A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting. Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er With silent waters, kissing, as they lave. The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore Of matted grass and flowers, — so softly pour The breathings of her bosom, when she prays, Low-bowed, before her Maker : then no more She muses on the griefs of former days ; Her full heart melts, and flows in Heaven's dissolving rays. And faith can see a new world, and the eyes Of saints look pity on her : Death will come — A few short moments over, and the prize Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 35 Becomes her fondest pillow ; all its gloom Is scattered. What a meeting there will be To her and all she loved here ! and the bloom Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee : Theirs is the health which lasts through all eternity. LESSON X. Character of a wise and amiable Woman. — Freeman. The woman, whom I would exhibit to your view, possesses a sound understanding. She is virtuous, not from impulse, instinct, and a childish simplicity ; for she knows that evil exists, as well as good ; but she abhors the former, and reso- lutely chooses the latter. As she has carefully weighed the nature and consequences of her actions, her moral principles are fixed ; and she has deliberately formed a plan of life, to which she conscientiously adheres. Her character is her own ; her knowledge and virtues are original, and are not the faint copies of another character. Convinced that the duty of every human being, consists in performing well the part, which is assigned by divine Providence, she directs her principal attention to this object ; and, whether as a wife, a mother, or the head of a family, she is always diligent and discreet. She is exempt from affectation, the folly of little minds. Far from her heart is the desire of acquiring a reputation, or of rendering herself interesting, by imbecilities and im- perfections. Thus she is delicate, but not timid : she has too much good sense, ever to be afraid where there is no danger ; and she leaves the affectation of terror to women, who, from the want of a correct education, are ignorant of what is truly becoming. She is still farther removed from the affectation of sensibility ; she has sympathy and tears for the calamities of her friends ; but there is no artificial whining on her tongue ; nor does she ever manifest more grief than she really feels. In so enlightened an understanding, humility appears with 3 S6 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. peculiar grace. Every wise woman must be humble ; be- cause every wise woman must know, that no human being has anything to be proud of. The gifts, which she possesses, she has received ; she cannot therefore glory in them, as if they were of her own creation. There is no ostentation in any part of her behavior : she does not affect to conceal her virtues and talents, but she never ambitiously displays them. She is still more pleasingly adorned with the graces of mild- ness and gentleness. Her manners are placid, the tones of her voice are sweet, and her eye benignant ; because her heart is meek and kind. From the combination of these virtues arises that general effect, which is denominated loveliness, — a quality which renders her the object of the complacence of all her friends, and the delight of every one who approaches her. Believing that she was born, not for herself only, but for others, she endeavors to communicate happiness to all who are around her ; in particular, to her intimate connexions. Her children, those immortal beings, who are committed to her care, that they may be formed to knowledge and vir- tue, are the principal objects of her attention. She sows in their minds the seeds of piety and goodness ; she waters them with the dew of heavenly instruction ; and she eradi- cates every weed of evil, as soon as it appears. Thus does she benefit the church, her country, and the world, by train- ing up sincere Christians, useful citizens, and good men. It is scarcely necessary to observe, that, with so benevolent a heart, she remembers the poor, and that she affords them, not only pity, but substantial relief As she is a wise woman, who is not afraid to exercise her understanding, her experience and observation soon convince her, that the world, though it abounds with many pleasures, is not an unmixed state of enjoyment. Whilst, therefore, she is careful to bring no misfortunes on herself by imprudence, folly, and extravagance, she looks with a calm and steady eye on the unavoidable afflictions through which she is doomed to pass; and she arms her mind with fortitude, that she may endure, with resolution and cheerfulness, the severest trials. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 27 When sickness and distress at last come, she submits to them with patience and resignation. A peevish complaint does not escape from her lips ; nor does she once murmur because the hand of her heavenly Father lies heavy upon her. She is, if possible, more serene, more mild, more gentle, on the bed of disease, than she was in the seasons of health and felicity. So affectionate is she to her surrounding friends, and so grateful for the attentions which they pay to her, that they almost forget that she suffers any pain. The love of God crowns all her virtues : religion is deeply fixed in her heart ; but here, as in all her behavior, she ia without parade. Her piety is sincere and ardent, but humble and retired. * * # * # * ^ mind, in which strength and gentleness are thus united, may be compared to the soft light of the moon, which shines with the perpetual rays of the sun. We are, at first view, ready to imagine that it is more lovely than great, more charming than dignified ; but we soon become convinced, that it is filled with true wisdom, and endowed with noble purposes. LESSON XI. Scene of Filial Affection. — Lear, Cordelia and Physician. SlIAKSPEARE. Cor. O MY dear father ! Restoration hang Her medicine on my lips, and let this kiss Repair those violent harms, that my two sisters Have in thy reverence made ! — Had you not been their father, these white flakes Did challenge pity of them. Was this a face To be exposed against the warring winds ? To stand against the deep, dread-bolted thunder t In the most terrible and nimble stroke Of quick, cross lightning 1 My enemy's dog, 28 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Though he had bit me, should have stood that night Against my fire : and wast thou fain, poor father, To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn, In short and musty straw 1 Alack, alack ! 'Tis wonder, that thy life and wits, at once, Had not concluded. — Ah \ he wakes ; speak to him. Phys. Madam, do you ; 'tis fittest. Cor. How does my royal lord 1 How fares your majesty ? Lear. You do me wrong to take me out o' th' grave ; Thou art a soul in bliss, but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead. Cor. Sir, do you know me 1 Lear. You are a spirit, I know ; when did you die ? Cor. Still, still far wide— Phys. He's scarce awake ; let him alone awhile. Lear. Where have I been 1 where am I ? fair daylight 1 I'm mightily abused ; I should even die with pity To see another thus. I know not what to say ; J" - I will not swear these are my hands : let's see — I feel this pin prick : would I were assured Of my condition. Cor. Oh ! look upon me, sir, And hold your hand in benediction o'er me — Nay, you must not kneel. Lear. Pray, do not mock me ; I am a very foolish, fond old man, Fourscore and upward ; and, to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and know this man ; Yet I am doubtful : for I'm mainly ignorant What place this is ; and all the skill I have Remembers not these garments ; nay, I know not Where I did lodge last night. Pray, do not mock me ; For, as I am a man, I think this lady To be my child Cordelia. Cor. And so I am ; I am. — Lear. Be your tears wet ? yes ; I pray you, weep not. If you have poison for me, I will drink it. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 39 I know you do not love me ; for your sisters Have, as I do remember, done me wrong. You have some cause ; they have not. Cor. No cause, no cause. Lear. Am I in France ? Cor. In your own kingdom, sir. Lear. Do not abuse me. Phys. Be comforted, good madam ; — Desire him to go in ; trouble him no more Till farther settling. Cor. Wiirt please your highness walk ? Lear. You must bear with me ; Pray you now forget and forgive ; I am old and foolish. LESSON XII. Scenery at the Notch of the White Mountains. — Dwight. The Notch of the White Mountains is a phrase appropri- ated to a very narrow defile, extending two miles in length between two huge cliffs, apparently rent asunder by some vast convulsion of nature. This convulsion was, in my own view, that of the deluge. There are here, and throughout New England, no eminent proofs of volcanic violence, nor any strong exhibitions of the power of earthquakes. Nor has history recorded any earthquake or volcano, in other countries, of sufficient efficacy to produce the phenomena of this place. The objects rent asunder are too great, the ruin is too vast and too complete, to have been accomplished by these agents. The change appears to have been effected when the surface of the earth extensively subsided ; when countries and continents assumed a new face ; and a general commotion of the elements produced a disruption of some mountams, and merged others beneath the common level of desolation. Nothing less than this will account for the sun- dering of a long range of great rocks, or rather of vast 3» 30 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. mountains ; or for the existing evidences of the immense forde, by which the rupture was effected. The entrance of the chasm is formed by two rocks, stand- ing perpendicularly, at the distance of twenty-two feet from each other ; one about twenty feet in height, the other about twelve. Half of the space is occupied by a brook which is the head stream of the Saco ; the other half, by the road. The stream is lost and invisible beneath a mass of fragments, partly blown out of the road, and partly thrown down by some great convulsion. When we entered the Notch, we were struck with the wild and solemn appearance of every thing before us. The scale, on which all the objects in view were formed, was the scale of grandeur only. The rocks, rude and ragged in a manner rarely paralleled, were fashioned and piled by a hand operating only in the boldest and most irregular man- ner. As we advanced, these appearances increased rapidly. Huge masses of granite, of every abrupt form, and hoary with a moss which seemed the product of ages, speedily rose to a mountainous height. Before us, the view widened fast to the south-east. Behind us, it closed almost instanta- neously, and presented nothing to the eye but an impassable barrier of mountains. About half a mile from the entrance of the chasm, we saw, in full view, the most beautiful cascade, perhaps, in the world. It issued from a mountain on the right, about eight hundred feet above the subjacent valley, and at the distance from us of about two miles. The stream ran over a series of rocks almost perpendicular, with a course so little broken as to preserve the appearance of a uniform current, and yet so far disturbed as to be perfectly white. The sun shone with the clearest splendor, from a station in the heavens the most advantageous to our prospect ; and the cascade glittered down the vast steep, like a stream of burnished silver. At the distance of three quarters of a mile from the en- trance, we passed a brook, known, in this region, by the name of the fiume ; from the strong resemblance to that object, exhibited by the channel, which it has worn, for a considerable length, in a bed of rocks ; the sides being per- pendicular to the bottom. This elegant piece of water we YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 31 determined to examine farther; and, alighting from our Iiorses, we walked up the acclivity perhaps a furlong. The stream fell from a height of two hundred and forty, or two hundred and fifty, feet over three precipices; the second receding a small distance from the front of the first, and the tliird from that of the second. Down the first and second it fell in a single current ; and down the third in three, which united their streams, at the bottom, in a fine basin, formed, by the hand of Nature, in the rocks immediately beneath us. It is impossible for a brook of this size to be modelled into more diversified or more delightful forms ; or for a cascade to descend over precipices more happily fitted to finish its beauty. The cliffs, together with a level at their foot, furnished a considerable opening, surrounded by the forest. The sun- beams, penetrating through the trees, painted here a great variety of fine images of light, and edged an equally numer- ous and diversified collection of shadows ; both dancing on the waters, and alternately silvering and obscuring their course. Purer water was never seen. Exclusively of its murmurs, the world around us was solemn and silent. Every thing assumed the character of enchantment; and, had I been educated in the Grecian mythology, I should scarcely have been surprised to find an assemblage of Dryads, Naiads and Oreades, sporting on the little plain below our feet. The purity of this water was discernible, not only by its limpid appearance, and its taste, but from several other cir- cumstances. Its course is wholly over hard granite ; and the rocks and the stones, in its bed and at its side, instead of being covered with adventitious substances, were washed perfectly clean ; and, by their neat appearance, added not a little to the beauty of the scenery. From this spot the mountains speedily began to open with increased majesty; and, in several instances, rose to a per- pendicular height little less than a mile. The bosom of both ranges was overspread, ,in all the inferior regions, by a mixture of evergreens with trees, whose leaves are deciduous. The annual foliage had been already changed by the frost. Of the effects of this change it is, perhaps, impossible for an 32 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. inhabitant of Great Britain to form an adequate conception, without visiting an American forest. In this country, it is often among the most splendid beau- ties of nature. All the leaves of trees, which are not evergreens, are, by the first severe frost, changed from their verdure, towards the perfection of that color, which they are capable of ultimately assuming, through yellow, orange and red, to a pretty deep brown. As the frost affects different trees, and different leaves of the same tree, in very different degrees, a vast multitude of tinctures is commonly found on those of a single tree, and always on those of a grove or forest. These colors also, in all their varieties, are generally full ; and, in many instances, are among the most exquisite, which are found in the regions of nature. Different sorts of trees are susceptible of different degrees of this beauty. Among them, the maple is preeminently distinguished by the prodigious varieties, the finished beauty, and the intense lustre of its hues ; varying through all the dyes between a rich green and the most perfect crimson, or, more definitely, the red of the prismatic image. I have remarked, that the annual foliage on these moun- tains, had been already changed by the frost. Of course, the darkness of the evergreens was finely illumined by the brilliant yellow of the birch, the beech and the cherry, and the more brilliant orange and crimson of the maple. The effect of this universal diffusion of gay and splendid light, was, to render the preponderating deep green more solemn. The mind, encircled by this scenery, irresistibly remembered, that the light was the light of decay, autumnal and melan- choly. The dark was the gloom of evening, approximating to night. Over the whole, the azure of the sky cast a deep, misty blue ; blending, towards the summit, every other hue, and predominating over all. As the eye ascended these steeps, the light decayed, and gradually ceased. On the inferior summits rose crowns of conical firs and spruces. On the superior eminences, the trees, growing less and less, yielded to the chilling atmos- phere, and marked the limit of forest vegetation. Above, the surface was covered with a mass of shrubs, terminate YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 33 ing, at a still higher elevation, in a shroud of dark-colored moss. As we passed onward, through this singular valley, occa- sional torrents, formed by the rains and dissolving snows, at the close of winter, had left behind them, in many places, perpetual monuments of their progress, in perpendicular, narrow and irregular paths, of immense length, where they had washed the precipices naked and white, from the sum- mit of the mountain to the base. Wide and deep chasma aJso met the eye, both on the summits and the sides ; and strongly impressed the imagination with the thought, that a hand of immeasurable power had rent asunder the solid rocks, and tumbled them into the subjacent valley. Over all, hoary cliffs, rising with proud supremacy, frowned awful- ly on the world below, and finished the landscape. By our side, the Saco was alternately visible and lost, and increased, almost at every step, by the junction of tributary streams. Its course was a perpetual cascade ; and, with its sprightly murmurs, furnished the only contrast to the scenery around us. LESSON XIII. " The Fashion of this World passeth away." — Pierpont. The earth, and all that dwell upon the face of it, speak a language that is in mournful and melancholy accordance with that of an apostle — " The fashion of this world passeth away." A testimony, thus concurrent, is solemn, and we cannot distrust it. It is eloquent, and we cannot but feel it. We are wise if we open our eyes and our ears to the evi- dence, which nature gives to the truths of revelation, and labor that we may impress distinctly and deeply upon our minds the moral lessons, which that evidence is calculated to enforce. The mournful, but gentle voice of Autumn, invites us forth, that we may see, for ourselves, how the fashion of this world is passing away, in regard to the dress in which it so lately 34 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. presented itself to our view. The gardens and the groves, — how are they changed ! The deep verdure of their leaves is gone. The many-colored woodland, which, but a few weeks since, was arrayed in a uniform and lively green, now presents a gaudier show indeed, but one of which all the hues are sickly, and are all but the various forms of death. In the garden, the brown and naked stalk has succeeded to the broad blossoms of summer, as they had, but lately, to the young leaves and swelling buds of spring. The orchards, that, but a few short months ago, were white with promise, and that loaded with perfume the very winds that visited them, are now resigning their faded leaves and their mel- low fruit. The wayfaring man, who contemplates these changes, that present themselves to his eye, in Nature's dress, cannot be insensible that her voice has also changed. To his ear there is something more religious in the whisper of the winds, something more awful in their roar ; and even the waters of the brook have changed their tone, and go by him with a hollower murmur. And how soon shall all these things be changed again ! The course of the stream shall be checked. Its voice shall be stifled by the snows, in which the earth shall wrap herself, during her long and renovating sleep of winter. In these respects the fashion of the world passeth away, we will not say with every year, but with each successive season of every year. Their general effect is moral and highly salutary. In them all we hear a voice, which speaks to us what we may not, and what we cannot, speak to one another. They are full of the gentle, but faithful admo- nitions of a parental Providence, who would remind us by the changes, which we so often see going on around us, that *' we, too, shall all be changed." Yet these are changes in the fashion of this world, which, from their very frequency, lose a part of their effect. The fashions which pass away with the departing seasons, we know, will be brought back again, when the same seasons return; and those scenes, which we know will be again presented, we believe that we Bhall live to witness and enjoy. But there are alterations in the fashion of the world, which time is more slow in producing, and which, when we YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 35 witness them, are more striking, more melancholy, and of more abiding influence. Who will doubt this ? for who has not felt it ? and who is he that has ever felt, and has now forgotten it ? Surely not you, my friend, who, by the ap- pointments of an overruling Providence, have been compelled to spend your days as a stranger and a pilgrim in the earth. Did you, in your young manhood, leave your home among the hills, the scenes and the companions of your youthful sports, or of your earliest toils? Were you long strug- gling with a wayward fortune, in distant lands, or in seas that rolled under the line, or that encircled the poles in their cold embrace ? Did sickness humble the pride of your man- hood, or did care whiten your temples before the time ? How often, in your wanderings, did the peaceful image of your home present itself to your mind! How often did you visit that sacred spot, in your dreams by night ! and how faithful to your last impressions was the garb in which, when you were far away, your long forsaken home arrayed itself! The fields and the forests that were around it, underwent no change in their appearance to your imagination. The trees, that had given you fruit or shade, continued to give the same fruits and the same shade to the inmates of your paternal dwelling; and even in those objects of filial or fraternal affection, no change appeared to have been wrought by time, during your long absence. But when, at length, you return, how different is the scene, that comes before you in its melancholy reality, from that which you left in your youth, and of which a faithful picture has been carried near to your heart, in all your wanderings ! Those who were once your neighbors and school-fellows, and whom you meet, as you come near to your father's house, either you do not recognize, or you are grieved that they do not recognize you. The woods, which clothed the hills around, and in which you had often indulged the vague, but delicious anticipations of childhood, have been cleared away ; and the stream that once dashed through them, breaking their religious silence by its evening hymn, and whitening, as it rushed through their shade, " to meet the sun upon the upland lawn," now creeps faintly along its contracted channel, through fields 36 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. that have been stripped of their golden harvest, and through pastures embrowned by a scorching sun. The fruit trees are decayed. The shade trees have been uprooted by a storm, or their hollow trunks and dry boughs remain, vener- able, but mournful witnesses to the truth, that the fashion of this world passeth away. More melancholy still are the witnesses that meet you as you enter your father's house. She, on whose bosom you hung in your infancy, and whom you had hoped once more to embrace, has long been sleeping in the dark and narrow house. Your father's form, how changed ! Of the locks that clustered around his brow, how few remain ! and those few, how thin ! how white ! His full toned and manly voice has lost its strength, and trembles as he inquires if this is indeed his son. The sister, whom you left a child, is now a wife, and a mother ; the wife of one whom you never knew, one who looks upon you as a stranger, and one towards whom it is impossible for you to kindle up a brother's love, now that you have found so little in the scenes of your child- hood, to satisfy the affectionate anticipations with which you returned to them. While you are contemplating these melancholy changes, and the chill of disappointment is going through your heart, the feeling comes upon you, in all its bitterness, that the mournful ravages, which time has wrought upon the scenes and the objects of your attachment, will not, and cannot be repaired by time, in any of his future rounds. Returning years can furnish you with no proper objects for the fresh and glowing affections of youth ; and even if those objects could be furnished, it is too late, now, for you to feel for them the correspondent affection. The song of your moun- tain-stream can never more soothe your ear. The grove that you loved shall invite you to meditation and to worship no more. Another may, indeed, spring up in its place ; but you shall not live to see it. It may shade your grave ; but your heart shall never feel its charm. Your affections are robbed of the treasures, to which they clung so closely and so long, and that forever. The earth, where it had appeared most lovely, is changed. The things that were nearest to your heart, have changed with it. The YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 37 fashion iii which the world was arrayed, when it took hold on you with the strongest attachment, has passed away ; its mysterious power to charm you has fled ; all its holiest en- The south win^J searches for the flowers, whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side : In the cold, moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of ours. So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. LESSON XVII. The Autumn Evening. — ^Peabodt. Behold the western evening light ! It melts in deepening gloom : So calmly Christians sink away. Descending to the tomb. The winds breathe low, the withering leaf Scarce whispers from the tree : So gently flows the parting breath. When good men cease to be. How beautiflil on all the hills The crimson light is shed ! *Tis like the peace the Christian give* To mourners round his bed. How mildly, on the wandering cloud, The sunset beam is cast ! *Tis lijce the memory left behind, When loved ones breathe their last YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 43 And now, above the dews of night, The yellow star appears : So faith springs in the hearts of thoee Whose eyes are bathed in tears. But soon the morning's happier light Its glories shall restore ; And eyelids, that are sealed in death, Shall ope, to close no more. LESSON XVIII, Autumn Woods. — Bryant. Ere, in the northern gale. The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of autumn, all around our vale, Have put their glory on. The mountains that infold. In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round, Seem groups of giant kings in purple and gold. That guard the enchanted ground. I roam the woods that crown The upland, where the mingled splendors glow, — Where the gay company of trees look down On the green fields below. My steps are not alone In these bright walks ; the sweet south-west, at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strewn Along the winding way. And far in heaven, the while. The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile, — The sweetest of the year. 44 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Where now the solemn shade, — Verdure and gloom where many branches meet,— So grateful, when the noon of summer made The valleys sick with heat ? Let in through all the trees Come the strange rays ; the forest depths are bright ; Their sunny-colored foliage, in the breeze, Twinkles, like beams of light. The rivulet, late unseen, Where, bickering through the shrubs, its waters run, Shines with the image of its golden screen. And glimmerings of the sun. Beneath yon crimson tree, Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame. Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame. O Autumn, why so soon Depart the hues that make thy forests glad,— Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon. And leave thee wild and sad ? Ah ! 'twere a lot too blest Forever in thy colored shades to stray, Amidst the kisses of the soft south-west To rove and dream for aye ; And leave the vain, low strife That makes men mad — the tug for wealth and power, Tho passions and the cares that wither life And waste its little hour. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 45 LESSON XIX. Instability of Character. — Alison. Wherever we turn our eyes upon the wodd, we meet with men, who seem never to have formed to themselves any fixed plan, either of irtellectual or moral pursuit, and who suffer themselves to be led by no other principles than those of constitutional humor or casual caprice. Even with ex- cellent powers of understanding, they are ever changing their studies and their designs ; attracted by what is new in knowledge, rather than by what is useful, and seemingly unconscious of any other ends of science or of learning, than to amuse the passing hour. They are, still more fre- quently, inconstant and unstable in their affections ; perpet- ually changing their connexions, their companions and their friendships, and violating often the finest, as well as the mosi Bacred ties of life, less from violence of passion, than from mere levity and fickleness of mind. Their time, their tal- ents, their advantages, whether of power or of wealth, are all consumed rather than employed; and life, at last, often closes upon them, before they are conscious either for what it was given, or what will be required. • • • • The necessities of nature, whatever the idle and the quer- ulous may think, are ever friendly to human character, and almost unavoidably produce some degree of steadiness of purpose, and energy of pursuit. They, whose labor is, every day, to provide for the day that is passing, have an object from which they are not permitted to deviate, which summons their powers into continual activity, and which insensibly gives to their general character the same features of steadiness and of energy. Even in the middle conditions of life, among those who, in the various professions and oc- cupations which cultivated society creates, are providing for themselves and for their families, this character of instability is seldom found. The virtuous and important purpose they have in view, — the habits of foresight and activity which aro demanded, — the rivalship with their fellow candidates for profit or for praise, — all tend to form them to some strength 46 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. and energy of mind, and, whatever may be the other fail- ings to which they are exposed, at least to save them from caprice and instability. It is among those, to whom fortune and education have given every means to improve, and every power to bless hu- manity, that this character of weakness is, unhappily, most frequently to be found. They, who, in their early years, have never felt the necessities of life,— to whom " to-morrow has always been as to-day, and yet more abundant," — and who see themselves, at once, in possession of all that other men are struggling to acquire, — are raised above the influence of those motives which animate the activity of the generality of men. The pressure is removed, which usually hardens the human character into any degree of consistence and solidity. It may be right in others, they think, to labor ; — it is right in them to enjoy. Others are bound to direct all their talents to one purpose or end ; — they are happily free from the thraldom, — and the whole circle of human pleasures and pursuits is thrown open to them, in which they may range at will. It may be honorable in humbler men, they imagine, to devote themselves to the sober path of duty. In them, on the contrary, it is honorable to avail themselves of the advan- tages, which nature has given them ; and, in a gay exemption from all serious pursuits, to exhibit to a lower world the envied privilege of their rank. Amid such impressions, the first foundations of this fataJ weakness of character are laid. While neither necessity nor duty seems as yet to compel them to form any settled plans of pursuit or of conduct, they naturally yield themselves to the more pleasing guidance of imagination ; and the character of their understanding soon marks the incompetence of the gnide. The regular paths of science seem too laborious and too tedious for their attempt. They satisfy themselves, therefore, with the acquisition of some loose and superficial knowledge. The sober details of business seem beneath their regard, and can always be devolved upon some inferior or friend ; and even in the acquisitions which are made, it is the new, the splendid, or the fashionable, that is sought, i&. stead of the solid or the useful. The habits of levity and YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 47 (iaprice, thus too naturally begun, gain insensibly a progre*. sive influence over their minds; and thus youth, and the irrecoverable years of youth, are often passed, not in vice, perhaps, but in frivolous amusements, or, wh?Li is worse than these, in frivolous and unmanly pursuits. LESSON XX. T7ie same, — concluded. This disposition of mind unfits men, in a singular manner, for the performance of their parts in social life. Whatever may be the opinions of youth, life cannot proceed far without bringing with it many serious duties to all; — scenes, where labor, perseverance and self-denial must be exerted, and where the character is brought to a severe and unsparing trial. For these scenes of trial, the men of the unstable character, we are considering, are, unhappily, little fitted. They want all the habits of thought and of activity, which are requisite for honor and success. It is " an armor which they have not proved ;" and they thus enter upon the eventful field of life, with all its private and public duties, unarmed for the rude struggle, which is every where prepared for them. They begin then, perhaps, to lament the levity and thoughtlessness of their former days ; but youth and all its invaluable hours are gone ; habits have acquired dominion ; — others are passing them in the road of fame and honor ; — and, shrinking from a contest in which they no longer dare hope for success, they finally retire to hide their disgrace in indolence and obscurity. From this melancholy period, the character sinks every day more deeply down into insignifi- cance and uselessness. The poor remainder of life is given to frivolous pursuits or capricious amusements ; and, not unfrequently, their gray hairs are disgraced, by vainly imi- tating the follies and the levities of youth. It is with still more fatal consequences that this disposition IS attended, in respect to moral excellecce. In a world such 48 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. as this, in which the beneficence of the Almighty halh opened so many sources of enjoyment, it requires, in every situation, the steady employment of faith and of fortitude to withstand their assault ; and no discipline can ever lead tD honor and to virtue, but that w^hich inspires resolution, and habituates to self-command. In this respect, too, the men of this unstable character come singularly unprepared for the combat. The scenes, in which they have been engaged, have nurtured no firmness or energy of mind. No great objects of pursuit have opened upon them, which might ani- mate voluntary exertion ; and, what is perhaps of more conr sequence, in the same proportion, in which the active powers of their minds have been unemployed, their passive sensibilities to pleasure have been increased. To dispositions thus diseased, the simple pleasures, and the sober tranquillities of domestic virtue, are ill adapted. Their habits have accustomed them to freedom of pursuit, and variety of indulgence ; and they tire, in the midst of happiness, merely from the sameness of possession. Other amusements are looked for ; — gayer associates are soon found ; — and vice, ever in the rear of folly, begins, by unmarked steps, to take final possession of the heart. It is at this fatal period, that the sad effects of this disposition upon the hap- piness of social life begin to display themselves ; and that all the sacred duties of domestic life are sometimes seen to be sacrificed without remorse. It is almost unnecessary, I feel, to add, that this instability of character is equally fatal to human happiness. If it be in such vices as have been described, that the character finally ends, it were a treachery to nature and to virtue, to speak of happiness along with them. Even upon the most favorable supposition, though nothing more than weakness and indolence should be the result, there are still considera- tions which it is hard to bear. Every man has some sense of what God and the world require of him ; — some conscious- ness, however indistinct, of the purposes for which the mighty advantages of nature and fortune were given : and to every man, time, as it passes, has a voice which no mortal heart can forget. It seems to ask us what we have done, and what we are doing ; and, in every periodical return, it leaves, YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 49 inevitably, "that bitterness of joy which the heart alone knoweth." It is painful to us all, we know, to lie down at night, and think that the duties of the day have not been done. It is more painful to close the year, and to think that it has been wasted in idleness and folly. But what, alas ! must be the feelings of those, who lie down at last upon the bed of death, and look back upon their past lives with no remembrances of goodness ! who can recall only riches wasted, and power abused, and talents misemployed, — and see that grave open- ing to receive them, upon which no tear will be shed, and no memorial of virtue raised ! Let it then be remembered, even in the midst of youth and of prosperity, that life hath its duties as well as its pleasures ; and that no situation can exempt the Christian from the ob- ligations of labor and of exertion. Let it be remembered, that weakness is ever the parent of vice ; and that it is in the genial hours of youth, that all those habits of thought and of conduct are acquired, which determme the happiness or the misery of future days. Let it, lastly, be remembered, that all the honors of time and of eternity belong only to wisdom and perseverance. LESSON XXI. Stability of Character. — Alison. Stability of character is, in all pursuits, the surest foun- dation of success. It is a common error of the indolent and the imprudent, to attribute the success of others to some peculiar talents, or original superiority of mind, which is not to be found in the g»:;nerality of men. Of the falseness of this opinion, the slightest observation of human life may sat- isfy us. The difference of talents, indeed, and the varieties of original character, may produce a difference in the aims and in the designs of men ; and superior minds will naturally form to themselves superior objects of ambition. But the attainment of these ends, the accomplishment of these d©- 5 50 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. signs, is, in all cases, the consequence of one means alone,— that of steadfastness and perseverance in pursuit. " It is the hand of the diligent," saith the wise man, '' that maketh rich." It is the same diligence, when directed to other ends, that maketh great. Every thing which we see with admiration in the world around us, or of which we read with delight in the annals of history, — the acquisitions of knowledge, the discoveries of science, the powers of art, the glories of arms, the dignities of private, or the splendors of pubhc virtue, — all have sprung from the same fountain of mind, from that steady but unseen perseverance, which has been exerted in their pursuit. The possession of genius alone, is, alas ! no certain herald of success ; and how many melan- choly instances has the world afforded to us all, of how little avail mere natural talents are to the prosperity of their possessors, and of the frequency with which they have led to ruin and disgrace, when unaccompanied with firmness and energy of mind ! This stability of character is the surest promise of honor. It supposes, indeed, all the qualities of mind that are regarded by the world with respect ; and which constitute the honora- ble and dignified in human character. It supposes that profound sense of duty, which we every where look for as the foundation of virtue, and for the want of which no other attainments can ever compensate. It supposes a chastened and regulated imagination, which looks ever to " the things that are excellent," and which is incapable of being diverted from their pursuit, either by the intoxications of prosperous, or the depressions of adverse fortune. It supposes, still more, a firm and intrepid heart, which neither pleasure has been able to seduce, nor indolence to enervate, nor danger to intimidate ; and which, in many a scene of trial, and under many severities of discipline, has hardened itself at last into the firmness and consistency of virtue. A character of this kind can never be looked upon without admiration ; and, wherever we meet it, whether amid the solendors of prosperity, or the severities of adversity, we feel ourselves disposed to pay it a pure and an unbidden homage. The display of wild and unregulated talents may sometimes, indeed, excite a temporary admiration ; but it is the admira- YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 51 tion we pay to the useless glare of the meteor, which is extinguished while it is beheld ; while the sentiment we feel for the steady course of principled virtue, is the admiration with which we regard the majestic path of the sun, as he slowly pursues his way, to give light and life to nature. This stability of character is, in another view, the surest foundation of happiness. There are, doubtless, many ways in which our happiness is dependent upon the conduct and the sentiments of others ; but the great and perennial source of every man's happiness is in his own bosom, — in that secret fountain of the heart, from which the " waters of joy or of bitterness" perpetually flow. It is from this source,, the man of steadfast and persevering virtue derives his peculiar happiness ; and the slightest recurrence to our own experience can tell us both its nature and its degree. It is pleasing, we all know, to review the day that is past, and to think that its duties have been done ; to think that the purpose, with which we rose, has been accomplished ; that, in the busy scene which surrounds us, we have done our part, and that no temptation has been able to subdue our firmness and our resolution. Such are the sentiments with which, in every year of life, and still more in that solemn moment when life is drawing to its close, the man of persevering virtue is able to review the time that is past. It lies before him, as it were, in order and regularity; and, while he travels over again the various stages of his progress, memory restores to him many images to soothe and to animate his heart. The days of trial are past ; the hard- ships he has suffered, the labors he has undergone, are remembered no more ; but his good deeds remain, and from the grave of time seem to rise up again to bless him, and to speak to him of peace and hope. Such are, then, the consequences of firmness and stability of character ; and such the rewards which he may look for, who, solemnly devoting himself to the discharge of the duties of that station or condition which Providence has assigned him, pursues them with steady and undeviating labor. It is the character which unites all that is valuable or noble in human life, the tranquillity of conscience, the honors of wisdom, and the dignity of virtue. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. LESSON XXII. The first Wanderer. — Maria J. Jewsbury. Creation's heir ! — the first, the last, That knew the world his own ; — Yet stood he, mid his kingdom vast, A fugitive — o'erthrown ! Faded and fi-ail his glorious form. And changed his soul within. Whilst Fear and Sorrow, Strife and Storm, Told the dark secret — Sin I Unaided and alone on earth. He bade the heavens give ear ; — But every star that sang his birth, Kept silence in its sphere : He saw, round Eden's distant steep. Angelic legions stray ; — Alas ! he knew them sent to keep His guilty foot away. Then, reckless, turned he to his own, — The world before him spread ; — But Nature's was an altered tone, And breathed rebuke and dread : Fierce thunder-peal, and rocking gale. Answered the storm-swept sea. Whilst crashing forests joined the wail ; And all said—" Cursed for thee." This, spoke the lion's prowling roar, And this, the victim's cry ; This, written in defenceless gore, Forever met his eye : And not alone each sterner power Proclaimed just Heaven's decree,— The faded leaf, the dying flower. Alike said—" Cursed for thee." YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 53 Though mortal, doomed to many a length Of life's now narrow span, Sons rose around in pride and strength ; — They, too, proclaimed the ban. 'Twas heard, amid their hostile spears, Seen, in the murderer's doom. Breathed, from the widow's sftent tears, Felt, in the infant's tomb. Ask not the wanderer's after-fate, His being, birth, or name, — Enough that all have shared his state, That man is still the same. Still brier and thorn his life o'ergrow. Still strives his soul within ; Whilst Care, and Pain, and Sorrow show The same dark secret — Sin. LESSON XXIIL The Village Crrave-Yard. — Greenwood. In the beginning of the fine month of October, I was travelling, with a friend, in one of our Northern States, on a tour of recreation and pleasure. We were tired of the city, its noise, its smoke, and its unmeaning dissipation ; and, with the feelings of emancipated prisoners, we had been breathing, for a few weeks, the perfume of the vales, and the elastic atmosphere of the uplands. Some minutes before the sun- set of a most lovely day, we entered a neat little village, whose tapering spire we had caught sight of, at intervals, an hour before, as our road made an unexpected turn, or led us to the top of a hill. Having no motive to urge a farther progress, and being unwilling to ride in an unknown country after night-fall, we stopped at the inn, and determined to lodge there. Leaving my companion to arrange our accommodations with the landlord, I strolled on towards the meeting-house. 5* 54 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Its situation had attracted my notice. There was much more taste and beauty in it than is common. It did not stand, as I have seen some meeting-houses stand, in the most frequent- ed part of the village, blockaded by wagons and horses, with ■a court-house before it, an engine-house behind it, a store- house under it, and a tavern on each side ; it stood away from all these things, as it ought, and was placed on a spot of gently rising ground, a short distance from the main road, at the end of a green lane, and so near to a grove of oaks and walnuts, that one of the foremost and largest trees brushed against the pulpit window. On the left, and lower down, there was a fertile meadow, through which a clear brook wound its course, fell over a rock, and then hid itself in the thickest part of the grove. A little to the right of the meeting-house was the grave-yard. I never shun a grave-yard. The thoughtful melancholy, which it inspires, is grateful, rather than disagreeable to me. It gives me no pain to tread on the green roof of that dark mansion, whose chambers I must occupy so soon; and I often wander, from choice, to a place where there is neither solitude nor society. Something human is there ; but the folly, the bustle, the vanities, the pretensions, the competitions, the pride of humanity, are gone. Men are there; but their passions are hushed, and their spirits are still : — malevolence has lost its power of harming ; appetite is sated, ambition lies low, and lust is cold ; anger has done raving, all disputes are ended, all revelry is over ; the fellest animosity is deeply buried, and the most dangerous sins are safely confined by the thickly-piled clods of the valley ; vice is dumb and pow- erless, and virtue is waiting, in silence, for the trump of the archangel, and the voice of God. I never shun a grave-yard, and I entered this. There were trees growing in it, here and there, though it was not regularly planted ; and I thought that it looked better than if it had been. The only paths were those, which had been worn by the slow feet of sorrow and sympathy, as they fol- lowed love and friendship to the grave : and this, too, was well ; for I dislike a smoothly rolled gravel-walk in a pla^se like this. In a corner of the ground rose a gentle knoll, the top of which was covered by a clump of pines. Here my ''" YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 55 walk ended ; I threw myself down on the slippery couch of withered pine leaves, which the breath of many winters had shaken from the boughs above, leaned my head upon my hand, and gave myself up to the feelings, which the place aad the time excited. The sun's edge had just touched the hazy outlines of the western hills ; it was the signal for the breeze to be hushed, and it was breathing like an expiring infant, softly, and at distant intervals, before it died away. The trees before me, as the wind passed over them, waved to and fro, and trailed their long branches across the tomb-stones, with a low, moaning sound, which fell upon the ear like the voice of grief, and seemed to utter the conscious tribute of nature's sympathy, over the last abode of mortal man. A low, con- fused hum came from the village ; the brook was murmuring in the wood behind me ; and, lulled by all these soothing sounds, I fell asleep. But whether my eyes closed, or not, I am unable to say ; for the same scene appeared to be before them ; the same trees were waving, and not a green mound had changed its form. I was still contemplating the same trophies of the unsparing victor, the same mementoes of human evanescence. Some were standing upright ; others were inclined to the ground; some were sunk so deeply in the earth, that their blue tops were just visible above the long grass which surrounded them; and others were spotted or covered with the thin yellow moss of the grave-yard. I was reading the inscriptions on the stones which were nearest to me : they recorded the virtues of those who slept beneath them, and told the travel- ler that they hoped for a happy rising. Ah ! said I — or I dreamed that I said so — this is the testimony of wounded hearts — the fond belief of that affec- tion, which remembers error and evil no longer ; but could the grave give up its dead — could they, who have been brought to these cold, dark houses, go back again into the land of the living, and once more number the days which they had spent there — how differently would they then spend them ! and when they came to die, how much firmer would be their hope ! and when they were again laid in the ground, how much more faithful would be the tales, which these same 56 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Stones would tell over them ! The epitaph of praise would be well deserved by their virtues, and the silence of partiality no longer required for their sins. I had scarcely spoken, when the ground began to tremble beneath me. Its motion, hardly perceptible at first, increased every moment in violence, and it soon heaved and struggled fearfully ; while in the short quiet, between shock and shock, I heard such unearthly sounds, that the very blood in my heart felt cold ; subterraneous cries and groans issued from every part of the grave-yard, and these were mingled with a hollow, crashing noise, as if the mouldering bones were bursting from their coffins. Suddenly all these sounds stopped; the earth on each grave was thrown up ; and human figures, of every age, and clad in the garments of death, rose from the ground, and stood by the side of their grave-stones. Their arms were crossed upon their bosoms ; their countenances were deadly pale, and raised to heaven. The looks of the young children alone were placid and unconscious ; but over the features of all the rest, a shadow of unutterable meaning passed and repassed, as their eyes turned with terror from the open graves, and strained anxiously upward. Some appeared to be more calm than others : and when they looked above, it was with an expression of more confidence, though not less humility ; but a convulsive shuddering was on the frames of all, and on their faces that same shadow of unutterable meaning. While they stood thus, I perceived that their bloodless lips began to move ; and, though I heard no voice, I knew, by the motion of their lips, that the word would have been — Pardon ! But this did not continue long : they gradually became more fearless ; their features acquired the appearance of se- curity, and at last of indifference ; the blood came to their lips ; the shuddering ceased, and the shadow passed away. And now the scene before me changed. The tombs and grave-stones had been turned, I knew not how, into dwell- ings ; and the grave-yard became a village. Every now and then, I caught a view of the same faces and forms, which I had seen before ; but other passions were traced upon their faces, and their forms were no longer clad in the garments YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 57 of death. The silence of their still prayer was succeeded by the sounds of labor, and society, and merriment. Some- times, I could see them meet together with inflamed features and angry words ; and sometimes I distinguished the outcry of violence, the oath of passion, and the blasphemy of sin. And yet there were a few, who would often come to the threshold of their dwellings, and lift their eyes to heaven, and utter the still prayer of pardon ; while others, passing by, would mock them. I was astonished and grieved, and was just going to ex- press my feelings, when I perceived, by my side, a beautiful and majestic form, taller and brighter than the sons of men, and it thus addressed me : "Mortal, thou hast now seen the frailty of thy race, and learned that thy thoughts were vain. Even if men should be wakened from their cold sleep, and raised from the grave, the world would still be full of entice- ment and trials ; appetite would solicit, and passion would burn, as strongly as before ; the imperfections of their nature would accompany their return, and the commerce of life would soon obliterate the recollection of death. It is only when this scene of things is exchanged for another, that new gifts will bestow new powers, that higher objects will banish low desires, that the mind will be elevated by celestial con*- verse, the soul be endued with immortal vigor, and man be prepared for the course of eternity." The angel then turned from me, and, with a voice which I hear even now, cried, " Back to your graves, ye frail ones ! and rise no more, till the elements are melted." Immediately a sound swept by me, like the rushing wind; the dwellings shrunk back into their original forms, and I was left alone in the grave-yard, with nought but the silent stones and the whispering trees around me. The sun had long been down ; a few of the largest stars were timidly beginning to shine, the bats had left their lurking places, my cheek was wet with the dew, and I was chilled by the breath of evening. I arose, and returned to the inn. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. LESSON XXIV. Consumption. — J. G. Percival. There is a sweetness in woman's decay, When the light of beauty is fading away, When the bright enchantment of youth is gone. And the tint that glowed, and the eye that shone, And darted around its glance of power, And the lip that vied with the sweetest flower. That ever in PsBstum's garden blew, Or ever was steeped in fragrant dew, — When all, that was bright and fair, is fled. But the loveliness lingering round the dead. Oh ! there is a sweetness in Beauty's close, Like the perfume scenting the withered rose j For a nameless charm around her plays, And her eyes are kindled with hallowed rays. And a veil of spotless purity Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly dye, Like a cloud, whereon the queen of night Has poured her softest tint of light ; And there is a blending of white and blue. Where the purple blood is melting through The snow of her pale and tender cheek ; And there are tones, that sweetly speak Of a spirit who longs for a purer day. And is ready to wing her flight away. In the flush of youth, and the spring of feeling,- When life, like a sunny stream, is stealing Its silent steps through a flowery path. And all the endearments, that Pleasure hath. Are poured from her full, o'erflowing horn. When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn,— In her lightness of heart, to the cheery song, The maiden may trip in the dance along, YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK, And think of the passing moment, that lies, Like a fairy dream, in her dazzled eyes, And yield to the present, that charms around With all that is lovely in sight and sound, Where a thousand pleasing phantoms flit. With the voice of mirth, and the burst of wit, And the music that steals to the bosom's core, And the heart, in its fulness, flowing o'er With a few big drops, that are soon repressed ; For short is the stay of grief in her breast : — In this enlivened and gladsome hour. The spirit may burn with a brighter power ; But dearer the calm and quiet day. When the Heaven-sick soul is stealing away. And when her sun is low declining. And life wears out with no repining, And the whisper, that tells of early death, Is soft as the west wind's balmy breath. When it comes at the hour of still repose, To sleep in the breast of the wooing rose ; And the lip, that swelled with a living glow. Is pale as a curl of new-fallen snow ; And her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair, But the hectic spot that flushes there, — When the tide of life from its secret dwelling, In a sudden gush, is deeply swelling, And giving a tinge to her icy lips. Like the crimson rose's brightest tips, As richly red, and as transient too. As the clouds in autumn's sky of blue, That seem like a host of glory met To honor the sun at his golden set : — Oh! then, when the spirit is taking wing, How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling ! So fondly the panting camel flies, Where the glassy vapor cheats his eyes. And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest, And the infant shrinks to its mother's breast. ^ YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. And though her dying voice be mute, Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute, And though the glow from her cheek be fled, And her pale lips cold as the marble dead, Her eye still beams unwonted fires, With a woman's love and a saint's desires. And her last, fond, lingering look is given To the love she leaves, and then to Heaven, As if she would bear that love away To a purer world and a brighter day. LESSON XXV. The Wife. — Washington Irving. I have often had occasion to remark the fortitude, with which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters, which break down the spirit of a man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their character, that, at times, it approaches to sublimity. Nothing can be more touching, than to behold a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while tread- ing the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and supporter of her husband u»- der misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs ; so is ^it beautifully ordered by Providence, thai woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calamity ; winding hersfelf into the rugged re- cesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping bead, and binding up the broken heart. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 61 I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. '*I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, '*than to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they are to share your prosperity ; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married man, falling into misfortune, is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than a single one ; partly, because he is more stimulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence ; but chiefly, because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self-respect is kept alive by finding, that though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, of which he is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to run to waste and self-neglect ; to fancy himself lonely and aban- doned ; and his heart to. fall to ruin, like some deserted man- sion, for want of an inhabitant. These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no fortune ; but that of my friend was ample, and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies, that spread a kind of witchery about the sex. "Her life," said he, "shall be like a fairy tale." The very difference in their characters produced a harmo- nious combination : he was of a romantic, and somewhat serious cast ; she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute rapture, with which he would gaze upon her in company, of which her sprightly powers made her the delight ; and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and ac- ceptance. When leaning on his arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall, manly person. The fond, confiding air, with which she looked up to him, seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tender- ness, as if he doated on his lovely burthen for its very helplessness. Never did a couple set forward, on the flowery 6 ^ YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK- path of early and well suited marriage, with a fairer prospect of felicity. It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embarked his property in large speculations ; and he had not been married many months, when, by a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept from him, and he found himself re- duced to almost penury. For a time, he kept his situation to himself, and went about with a haggard countenance, and a breaking heart. His life was but a protracted agony ; and what rendered it more insupportable was, the necessity of keeping up a smile in the presence of his wife ; for he could not bring himself to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. She marked his altered looks and sti- fled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win him back to happiness ; but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saw cause to love her, the more torturing was the thought that he was soon to make her wretched. A little while, thought he, and the smile will vanish from that cheek ; the song will die away from those lips ; the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow ; and the happy heart, which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down, like mine, by the cares and miseries of the world. At length he came to me, one day, and related his whole situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I had heard him through, I inquired, " Does your wife know all this ?" At the question, he burst into an agony of tears. " For God's sake !" cried he, ** if you have any pity on me, don't mention my wife ; it is the thought of her that drives me almost to madness !" " And why not V said I. " She must know it, sooner or later : you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence may break upon her in a more startling manner than if im- parted by yourself; for the accents of those we love soften the harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts of her sympathy ; and not merely that, but also endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together — an unreserved community of thought and feeling. She will YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 63 soon perceive, that something is secretly preying upon your mind ; and true love will not brook reserve : it feels under- valued and outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it." " Oh ! but, my friend, to think what a blow I am to give to all her future prospects ! how I am to strike her very soul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar ! that she is to forego all the elegances of life, all the pleasures of society, to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity! to tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere, in which she might have continued to move in constant briglitness — the light of every eye — the admiration of every heart !-— How can she bear poverty t She has been brought up in all the refinements of opulence. How can she bear neglect ? She has been the idol of society. Oh ! it will break her heart — it will break her heart !" I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow ; for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resum- ed the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation, at once, to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but positively. "But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary she should know' it, that you may take the steps proper to the alteration of your circumstances. You must change your style of living — nay," observing a pang to pass across his countenance, *' don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have never placed your happiness in outward show ; you have yet friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being less splendidly lodged : and surely it does not re- quire a palace to be happy with Mary — " "I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, "in a hovel ! — I could go down with her into poverty and the dust ! — I could — I could — God bless her ! — God bless her !" cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness. " And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up and grasping him warmly by the hand, " believe me, she can be the same with you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride and triumph to her ; it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sympathies of her nature ; for she will rejoice to 64 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. prove thai she loves you for yourself. There is, in every true woman's heart, a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity ; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes, in the dark hour of adversity. No man knows what the wife of his bosom is — no man knows what a ministering angel she is — until he has gone with her through the fiery trials of this world." There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and the figurative style of my language, that caught the excited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with ; and, following up the impression I had made, I finished by persuading him to go home, and unburtfien his sad heart to his wife. LESSON XXVL The same, — concluded. I MUST confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the fortitude of one, whose whole life has been a round of pleas- ures 1 Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark, downward path of low humility, suddenly pointed out before her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto revelled. Besides, ruin, in fashionable life, is accompanied by so many galling mortifications, to which, in other ranks, it is a stranger. In short, I could not meet Leslie, the next morning, without trepidation. He had made the disclosure. " And how did she bear it ?" "Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a relief to her mind ; for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if this was all, that had lately made me unhappy. — But, poor girl," added he, " she cannot realize the change we must undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the abstract : she has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels, as yet, no privation : she suffers no loss of ac- customed conveniences or elegances. When we come practically to experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty humiliations — then will be the real trial." YOUxNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 65 " But," said I. " now that you have got over the severest task, — that of breaking it to her, — the sooner you let the world into the secret the better. The disclosure may be morti- fying ; but then it is a single misery, and soon over ; whereas you otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. It is not poverty, so much as pretence, that harasses a ruined man — the struggle between a proud mind and an empty purse ; the keeping up a hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have the courage to appear poor, and you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting." On this point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no false pride himself, and, as to his wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered fortunes. Some days afterwards, he called upon me in the evening. He had disposed of his dwelling-house, and taken a small cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had been busied all day in sending out furniture. The new establish- ment required few articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the splendid furniture of his late residence had been sold, excepting his wife's harp. That, he said, was too closely associated with the idea of herself; it belonged to the little story of their loves ; for some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were those when he had leaned over that instrument, and listened to the melting tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this instance of romantic gallantry in a doating husband. He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had been all day, superintending its arrangement. My feelings had become strongly interested in the progress of this family story, and, as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany him. He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as we walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. ''Poor Mary!" at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his lips. " And what of her ?" asked I ; " has any thing happened to her f "What?" said he, darting an impatient glance; " is it noth- ing to be reduced to this paltry situation 1 to be caged in ft 6* 6§ YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. miserable cottage ? to be obliged to toil almost in the meniaJ concerns of her wretched habitation ?" " Has she, then, repined at the change ?" " Repined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and good humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her ; she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and comfort !" " Admirable girl !" exclaimed I. " You call yourself poor, my friend ; you never were so rich ; you never knew the boundless treasures of excellence you possessed in that woman." " Oh ! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first day of real experience : she has been introduced into an humble dwelling ; she has been employed all day in arranging its miserable equipments ; she has, for the first time, known the fatigues of domestic employment ; she has, for the first time, looked around her on a home destitute of every thing elegant ; almost of every thing convenient ; and may now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty." There was a degree of probability in this picture, that I could not gainsay ; so we walked on in silence. After turning from the main road, up a narrow lane, so thickly shaded by forest trees, as to give it a complete air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet ; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end with a profusion of foliage ; a few trees threw their branches gracefully over it ; and I observed several pots of flowers, tastefully disposed about the door, and on the grass- plot in front. A small wicket-gate opened upon a footpath, that wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached, we heard the sound of music. Leslie grasped my arm ; we paused and listened. It was Mary's voice, singing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, a little air, of which her husband was peculiarly fond. I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped for- ward, to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 67 gravel-walk. A bright, beautiful face glanced out at the window, and vanished ; a light footstep was heard, and Mary came tripping forth to meet us. She was in a pretty rural dress of white ; a few wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair ; a fresh bloom was on her cheek ; her whole counte- nance beamed with smiles. I had never seen her look so lovely. "My dear George," cried she, "I am so glad you are come ! I have been watching and watching for you ; and running down the lane, and looking out for you. I've set out a table under a beautiful tree behind the cottage ; and I've been gathering some of the most delicious strawberries, for I know you are fond of them ; and we have such excel- lent cream, and every thing is so sweet and still here. — Oh !" said she, putting her arm within his, and looking up brightly in his face, " Oh ! we shall be so happy !" Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom ; he folded his arms round her ; he kissed her again and again ; — he could not speak ; but the tears gushed into his eyes ; and he has often assured me, that though the world has since gone prosperously with him, and his life has indeed been a happy one, yet never has he experienced a moment of more exquisite felicity LESSON XXVII. Elysium. — Mrs. Hemans Fair wert thou, in the dreams Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers, And summer-winds, and low-toned, silvery streams, Dim with the shadows of thy laurel-bowers ! Where, as they passed, bright hours Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things ! # ^ YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Fair wert thou, with the light On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast, From purple skies ne'er deepening into night, Yet soft, as if each moment were their last Of glory, fading fast Along the mountains ! — but thy golden day Was not as those that warn us of decay. And ever, through thy shades, A swell of deep Eolian sound went by, From fountain voices in their secret glades, And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply To summer's breezy sigh ! And young leaves trembling to the wind's light breath, Which ne'er had touched them with a hue of death ! And the transparent sky Rung as a dome, all thrilling to the strain Of harps that, midst the woods, made harmony Solemn and sweet ; yet troubling not the brain With dreams and yearnings vain. And dim remembrances, that still draw birth From the bewildering music of the earth. And who, with silent tread. Moved o'er the plains of waving Asphodel 1 Who, called and severed from the countless dead, Amidst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell. And listen to the swell Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale The spirit wandering in the immortal gale? They of the sword, whose praise, With the bright wine at nation's feasts, went round ! They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays, On the morn's wing, had sent their mighty sound. And, in all regions, found Their echoes midst the mountains ! — and become, In man's deep heart, as voices of his home ! YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 69 They of the daring thought ! Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied , Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths, had sought The soul's far birth-place — but without a guide ! Sages and seers, who died. And left the world their high mysterious dreams, Born midst the olive-woods, by Grecian streams. But they, of whose abode, Midst her green valleys, earth retained no trace. Save a flower springing from their burial-sod, A shade of sadness on some kindred face, A void and silent place In some swieet home ; — thou hadst no wreaths for thestf Thou sunny land ! with all thy deathless trees I The peasant, at his door, Might sink to die, when vintage-feasts were spread, And songs on every wind ! — From thy bright shore No lovelier vision floated round his head ; Thou wert for nobler dead ! He heard the bounding steps which round him fell, And sighed to bid the festal sun farewell ! The slave, whose very tears Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast Shut up the woes and burning thoughts of years, As in the ashes of an urn comprest ; — He might not be thy guest ! No gentle breathings from thy distant sky Came o'er his path, and whispered, " Liberty !" Calm* on its leaf-strown bier. Unlike a gift of nature to decay, Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear. The child at rest before its mother lay ; E'en so to pass away. With its bright smile ! — Elysium ! what wert thou^ To her, who wept o'er that young slumberer's brow ? fQ YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK- Thou hadst no home, green land, For the fair creature from her bosom gone. With life's first flowers just opening in her hand, And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown, Which in its clear eye shone. Like the spring's wakening ! — But that light was pasl— — Where went the dew-drop, swept before the blast 1 Not where thy soft winds played. Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep ! — Fade, with thy bowers, thou land of visions, fade ! From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep. And bade man cease to weep ! Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove, ^ Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love ! For the most loved are they, ■ ' Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion-voice in regal hails i the shades o'erhang their way ; The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, And gentle hearts rejoice Around their steps ! — till silently they die. As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. And the world knows not then, — Not then, nor ever, — what pure thoughts are fled ! Yet these are they, that, on the souls of men. Come back, when Night her folding veil hath spread, The long-remembered dead ! But not with thee might aught save glory dwell — — Fade, fade away, thou shore of Asphodel ! LESSON XXVIII. Better Moments. — Wilus. My mother's voice ! how often creep Its accents o'er my lonely hours ! Like healing sent on wings of sleep, Or dew to the unconscious flowers. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 7| 1 can forget her melting prayer, While leaping pulses madly fly ; But in the still, unbroken air, Her gentle tones come stealing by, And years, and sin, and manhood, flee, And leave me at my mother's knee. The book of nature, and the print Of beauty on the whispering sea, Give aye to me some lineament Of what I have been taught to be. My heart is harder, and perhaps My manliness hath drunk up tears, And there's a mildew in the lapse Of a few miserable years ; But nature's book is even yet With all my mother's lessons writ, I have been out, at eventide. Beneath a moonlit sky of spring, When earth was garnished like a bride. And night had on her silver wing — When bursting leaves, and diamond grass, And waters leaping to the light. And all that make the pulses pass With wilder fleetness, thronged the night j When all v/as beauty — then have I, With friends on whom my love is flung, Like myrrh on winds of Araby, Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung. And, when the beauteous spirit there Flung over me its golden chain, My mother's voice came on the air. Like the light dropping of the rain, Showered on me from some silver star: ^' Then, as on childhood's bended knee, I've poured her low and fervent prayer That our eternity might be. •33 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK To rise in heaven, like stars at night, And tread a living path of light I have been on the dewy hills, When night was stealing from the dawn. And mist was on the waking rills, And tints were delicately drawn In the gray east, — when birds were waking, — With a slow murmur, in the trees. And melody by fits was breaking Upon the whisper of the breeze, — And this when I was forth, perchance. As a worn reveller from the dance ; — And when the sun sprang gloriously And freely up, and hill and river Were catching, upon wave and tree. The subtile arrows from his quiver, — I say, a voice has thrilled me then, Heard on the still and rushing light, Or creeping from the silent glen, Like words from the departing night — Hath stricken me, and I have pressed On the wet grass my fevered brow. And, pouring forth the earliest, First prayer, with which I learned to bow. Have felt my mother's spirit rush Upon me, as in by-past years. And, yielding to the blessed gush Of my ungovernable tears. Have risen up — the gay, the wild — As humble as a very child. LESSON XXIX. The Mountain of Miseries. — Addison. It is a celebrated thought of Socrates, that, if all the misfortunes of mankind were cast into a public stock, in YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 73 order to be equally distributed among the whole species, those who now think themselves the most unhappy, would prefer the share they are already possessed of, before that which would fall to them by such a division. As I was ruminating upon this remark, I insensibly fell asleep; when, on a sudden, methought there was a proclama- tion made by Jupiter, that every mortal should bring in his griefs and calamities, and throw them together in a heap. There was a large plain appointed for this purpose. I took my stand in the centre of it, and saw, with a great deal of pleas- ure, the whole human species marching one after another, and throwing down their several loads, which immediately grew up into a prodigious mountain, that seemed to rise above the clouds. There was a certain lady, of a thin, airy shape, who was very active in this solemnity. She carried a magnifying glass in one of her hands, and was clothed in a loose, flowing robe, embroidered with several figures of fiends and spectres, that discovered themselves in a thousand chimerical shapes, as her garment hovered in the wind. There was something v/ild and distracted in her looks. Her name was Fancy. She led up every mortal to the appointed place, after having very officiously assisted him in making up his pack, and lay- ing it upon his shoulders. My heart melted within me, to see my fellow-creatures groaning under their respective burdens, and to consider that prodigious bulk of human calamities which lay before me. There were, however, several persons who gave me great diversion upon this occasion. I observed one bringing in a fardel, very carefully concealed under an old embroidered cloak, which, upon his throwing it into the heap, I discovered to be poverty. Another, after a great deal of puffing, thre\f down his luggage, which, upon examining, I found to be his wife. There were multitudes of lovers, saddled with very whimsi- cal burdens, composed of darts and flames ; but, what was very odd, though they sighed as if their hearts would break under these bundles of calamities, they could not persuade themselves to cast them into the heap, when they came up to 7 74 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK, it; but, after a few faint efforts, shook their heads, and marched away as heavy-laden as they came. I saw multf- tudes of old women throw down their wrinkles, and several young ones strip themselves of a tawny skin. There were very great heaps of red noses, large lips, and rusty teeth. The truth of it is, I was surprised to see the greatest part of the mountain made up of bodily deformities. Observing one advancing towards the heap, with a larger cargo than ordinary upon his back, I found, upon his near approach, that it was only a natural hump, which he disposed of, with great joy of heart, among this collection of human miseries. There were likewise distempers of all sorts; though I could not but observe, that there were many more imaginary than real. One little packet I could not but take notice of, vdiich was a complication of all the diseases incident to hiv man nature, and was in the hand of a great many fine people : this was called the spleen. But what most of all surprised me, was, that there was not a single vice or folly thrown into the whole heap; at which I was very much astonished, hav- ing concluded within myself, that every one would take this oppK)rtunity of getting rid of his passions, prejudices, and frailties. I took notice, in particular, of a very profligate fellow, who,. I did not question, came loaded with his crimes ; but, upon searching into his bundle, I found, that, instead of throwing his guilt from him, he had only laid down his memory. He was followed by another worthless rogue, who flung away his modesty instead of his ignorance. When the whole race of mankind had thus cast their bur- dens, the phantom, which had been so busy on this occasion, seeing me an idle spectator of what had passed, approached towards me. I grew uneasy at her presence, when, of a sudden, she held her magnifying glass full before my eyes. I no sooner saw my face in it, but I was startled at the short- ness of it, which now appeared to me in its utmost aggrava- tion. The immoderate breadth of the features made me very much out of humor with my own countenance, upon which, I threw it from me like a mask. It happened, very luckily, that one who stood by me had, just before, thrown YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 75 down his visage, which, it seems, was too long for him. It was, indeed, extended to a most shameful length ; I believe the very chin was, modestly speaking, as long as my whole face. LESSON XXX. The same, — concluded. As we were regarding, very attentively, this confusion of miseries, this chaos of calamity, Jupiter issued a second proc- lamation, that every one was now at liberty to exchange his affliction, and to return to his habitation with any such other bundle as should be delivered to him. Upon this, Fancy began again to bestir herself, and, par- celling out the whole heap with incredible activity, recom- mended to every one his particular packet. The hurry and confusion, at this time, was not to be expressed It was pleasant enough to see the several exchanges that were made, for sickness against poverty, hunger against want of appetite, and care against pain. The female world were very busy among themselves in bartering for features : one was trucking a lock of gray hairs for a carbuncle, another was making over a short waist for a pair of round shoulders, and a third cheapening a bad face for a lost reputation ; but, on all these occasions, there was not one of them who did not think the new blemish, as soon as she had got it into her possession, much more disagreeable than the old one. I made the same observation on every other misfortune or calamity, which every one in the assem- bly brought upon himself in lieu of what he had parted with : whether it be that all the evils which befall us, are, in some measure, suited and proportioned to our strength, or that every evil becomes more supportable by our being accustom- etl to it, I shalL not determine. I must not omit my own particular adventure. My friend with a long visage had no sooner taken upon him my short face, but he made such a grotesque figure in it, that, as 1 JQ YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. looked upon him, I could not forbear laughing at myself, insomuch that I put my own face out of countenance. The poor gentleman was so sensible of the ridicule, that I found he was ashamed of what he had done : on the other side, I found that I myself had no great reason to triumph ; for, as I went to touch my forehead, I missed the place, and clapped my finger upon my upper lip. Besides, as my nose was ex- ceedingly prominent, I gave it two or three unlucky knocks, as I was playing my hand about my face, and aiming at some other part of it. I saw two other gentlemen by me, who were in the same ridiculous circumstances. These had made a foolish swop between a couple of thick bandy legs and two long trapsticks. One of these looked like a man walking upon stilts, and was 80 lifted up into the air, above his ordinary height, that his head turned round with it ; while the other made such awk- ward circles, as he attempted to walk, that he scarcely knew how to move forward upon his new supporters. Observing him to be a pleasant kind of fellow, I stuck my cane in the ground, and told him I would lay him a bottle of wine, that he did not march up to it, on a line that I drew for him, in a quarter of an hour. The heap was at last distributed among the two sexes, who made a most piteous sight, as they wandered up and down under the pressure of their several burdens. The whole plain was filled with murmurs and complaints, groans and lamenta- tions. Jupiter, at length, taking compassion on the poor mor- tals, ordered them a second time to lay down their loads, with a design to give every one his own again. They discharged themselves with a great deal of pleasure : after which, the phantom, who had led them into such gross delusions, was commanded to disappear. There was sent, in her stead, a goddess of a quite different figure : her motions were steady and composed, and her as- pect serious but cheerful. Her name was Patience. She had no sooner placed herself by the Mount of Sorrows, but, what I thought very remarkable, the whole heap sunk to such a degree, that it did not appear a third part so big as it was before. She afterwards returned every man his own propei calamity, and, teaching him how to bear it in the most com YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK, 77 modious manner, he marched off with it contentedly, being very well pleased that he had not been left to his own choice, as to the kind of evils which fell to his lot. Besides the several pieces of morality to be drawn out of this vision, I learned from it never to repine at my own misfor- tunes, nor to envy the happiness of another ; since it is impos- sible for any man to form a right judgment of his neighbor's sufferings : for which reason, also, I have determined never to think too lightly of another's complaints, but to regard the sorrows of my fellow-creatures with sentiments of humanity and compassion. LESSON XXXI. Advantages of a Taste for the Beauties of Nature. — Percival. That perception and sensibility to beauty, which, when cultivated and improved, we term taste, is most general and uniform with respect to those objects, which are not liable to variation from accident, caprice, or fashion. The verdant lawn, the shady grove, the variegated landscape, the bound- less ocean, and the starry firmament, are contemplated with pleasure by every beholder. But the emotions of different spectators, though similar in kind, differ widely in degree; for, to relish with full delight the enchanting scenes of nature, the mind must be uncorrupted by avarice, sensuality, or am- bition ; quick in her sensibilities, elevated in her sentiments, and devout in her affections. If this enthusiasm were cherished by each individual, in that degree which is consistent with the indispensable duties of his station, the felicity of human life would be considera- bly augmented. From this source the refined and vivid pleasures of the imagination are almost entirely derived. The elegant arts owe their choicest beauties to a taste for the contemplation of nature. Painting and sculpture are ex- press imitations of visible objects : and where would be th' charms of poetry, if divested of the imagery and embellish- 7* 78 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. ments which she borrows from rural scenes? Painters, statuaries and poets, therefore, are always ambitious to ac- knowledge themselves the pupils of nature ; and, as their skill increases, they grow more and more delighted with every view of the animal and vegetable world. The scenes of nature contribute powerfully to inspire that serenity, which heightens their beauties, and is necessary to our full enjoyment of them. By a secret sympathy, the soul catches the harmony which she contemplates, and the frame within assimilates itself to that without. In this state of sweet composure, we become susceptible of virtuous impres- sions from almost every surrounding object. The patient ox is viewed with generous complacency ; the guileless sheep, with pity ; and the playful lamb, with emotions of tenderness and love. We rejoice with the horse in his liberty and ex- emption from toil, while he ranges at large through enamelled pastures. We are charmed with the songs of birds, soothed with the buzz of insects, and pleased with the sportive motion of fishes, because these are expressions of enjoyment ; and, having felt a common interest in the gratifications of inferior beings, we shall be no longer indifferent to their sufferings, or become wantonly instrumental in producing them. But the taste for natural beauty is subservient to higher purposes, than those which have been enumerated. The cultivation of it not only refines and humanizes, but dignifies and exalts the affections. It elevates them to the admiration and love of that Being, who is the Author of all that is fair, sublime and good in the creation. Scepticism and irreligion are hardly compatible with the sensibility of heart, which arises from a just and lively relish of the wisdom, harmony and order subsisting in the world around us. Emotions of piety must spring up spontaneously in the bosom, that is in unison with all animated nature. Actuated by this beneficial and divine inspiration, man finds a fane in every grove ; and, glowing with devout fervor, he joins his song to the universal chorus, or muses the praise of the Almighty iii more express- ive silence. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 79 LESSON XXXII. The Common Lot. — Montgomery. Once, in the flight of ages past, There lived a man : — and who was he *? — Mortal, howe'er thy lot be cast, That man resembled thee. Unknown the region of his birth ; The land in which he died unknown • ^ His name has perished from the earth ; This truth survives alone : — That joy and grief, and hope and fear. Alternate, triumphed in his breast ; His bliss and wo, — a smile, a tear : — Oblivion hides the rest. The bounding pulse, the languid limb, The changing spirits' rise and fall, — We know that these were felt by him. For these are felt by all. He suffered, — but his pangs are o'er ; Enjoyed, — but his delights are fled ; Had friends, — his friends are now no more ; And foes, — his foes are dead. He loved, — but whom he loved, the grave Hath lost in its unconscious womb : Oh ! she was fair ; but nought could save Her beauty from the tomb. He saw whatever thou hast seen; Encountered all that troubles thee : He was whatever thou hast been : He is what thou shalt be. so YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. The rolling seasons, day and night, Sun, moon and stars, the earth and maio, Erewhile his portion, life and light, To him exist in vain. The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye That once their shades and glory threw, Have left in yonder silent sky No vestige where they flew. The annals of the human race, Their ruins since the world begaii, ^ Of him afford no other trace Than this, — there lived a man. LESSON XXXIIL The Deserted Wife. — J. G. Percival. He comes not. I have watched the moon go down, But yet he comes not. Once it was not so. He thinks not how these bitter tears do flow. The while he holds his riot in that town. Yet he will come and chide, and I shall weep ; And he will wake my infant from its sleep. To blend its feeble wailing with my tears. Oh ! how I love a mother's watch to keep Over those sleeping eyes, — that smile, which cheers My heart, though sunk in sorrow fixed and deep ! I had a husband once, who loved me. Now He ever wears a frown upon his brow. But yet I cannot hate. Oh ! there were hours, When I could hang forever on his eye, And Time, who stole with silent swiftness by, Strowed, as he hurried on, his path with flowera. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Ql I loved him then — he loved me too. My heart Still finds its fondness kindle, if he smile ; The memory of our loves will ne'er depart; And though he often sting me with a dart, Venomed and barbed, and waste, upon the vile, Caresses, which his babe and mine should share ; Though he should spurn me, I will calmly bear His madness ; and, should sickness come, and lay Its paralyzing hand upon him, then I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay, Until the penitent should weep, and say, How injured and how faithful I had been. LESSON XXXIV. The Last Man. — Campbell. All w^orldly shapes shall melt in gloom. The Sun himself must die. Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality. I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of Time : I saw the last of human mould, That shall Creation's death behold. As Adam saw her prime. The Sun's eye had a sickly glare. The Earth with age was wan; The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man. Some had expired in fight, — the brands Still rusted in their bony hands, — In plague and famine some : Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ; And ships were drifting, with the dead. To shores where all was dumb. 82 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood. As if a storm passed by. Saying, " We're twins in death, proud Sun : Thy face is cold, thy race is run, — 'Tis Mercy bids thee go ; For thou, ten thousand thousand years, Hast seen the tide of human tears. That shall no longer flow. " What though beneath tTiee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill. And arts that made fire, flood and eartl^. The vassals of his will ; — . * Yet mourn not I thy parted sway, Thou dim, discrowned king of day ; For all those trophied arts And triumphs, that beneath thee sprang, Healed not a passion or a pang. Entailed on human hearts. " Go, let Oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men. Nor with thy rising beams recall Life's tragedy again : Its piteous pageants bring not back, Nor waken flesh, upon the rack Of pain anew to writhe ; Stretched in Disease's shapes abhorred. Or mown in battle by the sword. Like grass beneath the scythe. " E'en I am weary, in yon skies To watch thy fading fire ; Test of all sumless agonies, Behold not me expire. My lips, that speak thy dirge of death — Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 93 To see thou shalt not boast : The eclipse of nature spreads my pall,— The majesty of Darkness shall Receive my parting ghost. " This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark ; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark. No ; it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine, By Him recalled to breath, Who captive led Captivity, Who robbed the grave of Victory, And took the sting from Death. "Go, Sun, v/hile Mercy holds me up, On Nature's awful waste. To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste — Go, tell that night which hides thy face Thou saw'st the last of xidam's race. On Earth's sepulchral clod, The dark'ning universe defy To quench his immortality. Or shake his trust in God." LESSON XXXV. Government of the Temper. — Mrs. Chaponb. The principal virtues or vices of a woman, must be of a private and domestic kind. Within the circle of her own family and dependents lies her sphere of action ; the scene of almost all those tasks and trials, which must determine her character and her fate, here and hereafter. Reflect, for a moment, how much the happiness of her husband, children and servants, must depend on her temper, and you will see ^ YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. , . that the greatest good or evil, which she ever may have ill her power to do, may arise from her correcting or indulging its infirmities. * * * * It is true, we are not all equally happy in our dispositions ; but human virtue consists in cherishing and cultivating every good inclination, and in checking and subduing, every pro- pensity to evil. If you had been born with a bad temper, it might have been made a good one, at least with regard to its outward effects, by education, reason and principle ; and, though you are so happy as to have a good one while young ^ do not suppose it will always continue so, if you neglect to maintain a proper command over it. Power, sickness, dis- appointments, or worldly cares, may corrupt and imbitter the finest disposition, if they are not counteracted by reason and religion. It is observed that every temper is inclined, in some degree, either to passion, peevishness, or obstinacy. Many are so unfortunate as to be inclined to each of the three in turn : it is necessary, therefore, to watch the bent of our nature, and to apply the remedies proper for the infirmity to which we are most liable. With regard to the first, it is so injurious to society, and so odious in itself, especially in the female char- acter, that one would think shame alone would be sufficient to preserve a young woman from giving way to it ; for it is as unbecoming her character to be betrayed into ill-behavior by passion as by intoxication ; and she ought to be ashamed of the one as much as of the other. Gentleness, meekness and patience are peculiar distinctions ; and an enraged woman is one of the most disgusting sights in nature. It is plain, from experience, that the most passionate peo^ pie can command themselves, when they have a motive suf- ficiently strong, such as the presence of those they fear, or to whom they particularly desire to recommend themselves. It is, therefore, no excuse to persons, whom you have injured by unkind reproaches and unjust aspersions, to tell them you were in a passion : the allowing yourself to speak to them in a passion, is a proof of an insolent disrespect, which the meanest of your fellow-creatures would have a right to resent. When once you find yourself heated so far, as to desire to YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 85 say what you know would be provoking and wounding to another, you should immediately resolve either to be silent, or to quit the room, rather than give utterance to any thing dictated by so bad an inclination. Be assured, you are then unfit to reason or to reprove, or to hear reason from others. It is, therefore, your part to retire from such an occasion to sin ; and wait till you are cool, before you presume to judge of what has passed. By accustoming yourself thus to conquer and disappoint your anger, you will, by degrees, find it grow weak and manageable, so as to leave your reason at liberty. You will be able to restrain your tongue from evil, and your looks and gestures from all expressions of violence and ill-will. Pride, which produces so many evils in the human mind, is the great source of passion. Whoever cultivates in himself a proper humility, a due sense of his own faults and insuf- ficiencies, and a due respect for others, will find but small temptation to violent or unreasonable anger. In the case of real injuries, which justify and call for re- sentment, there is a noble and generous kind of anger, a proper and necessary part of our nature, which has nothing in it sinful or degrading. I would not wish you insensible to this ; for the person, who feels not an injury, must be inca- pable of being properly affected by benefits. With those who treat you ill, without provocation, you ought to maintain your own dignity. But, in order to do this, whilst you show a sense of their improper behavior, you must preserve calmness, and even good-breeding; and thereby convince them of the impo- tence, as well as injustice, of their malice. You must also weigh every circumstance with candor and charity, and consider whether your showing the resentment deserved, may not produce ill consequences to innocent persons ; and whether it may not occasion the breach of some duty, or necessary connexion, to which you ought to sacrifice even your just resentments. Above all things, take care that a particular offence to you does not make you unjust to the general character of the offending person. Generous anger does not preclude esteem for whatever is really estimable, nor does it destroy good-will 8 g|^ YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. to the person of its object : it even inspires the desire of overcoming him by benefits, and wishes to inflict no other punishment, than the regret of having injured one who de- served his kindness ; it is always placable, and ready to be reconciled, as soon as the offender is convinced of his error ; nor can any subsequent injury provoke it to recur to past disobligations, which had been once forgiven. The consciousness of injured innocence naturally pro- duces dignity, and usually prevents excess of anger. Our passion is most unruly, when we are conscious of blame, and when we apprehend that we have laid ourselves open to con- tempt. Where we know we have been wrong, the least injustice in the degree of blame imputed to us, excites our bitterest resentment ; but, where we know ourselves faultless, the sharpest accusation excites pity or contempt, rather than rage. LESSON XXXVI. Peevishness. — Mrs. Chapone. Peevishness, though not so violent and fatal in its imme- diate effects, is still more unamiable than passion, and, if possible, more destructive of happiness, inasmuch as it operates more continually. Though the fretful man injures us less, he disgusts us more, than the passionate one ; be- cause he betrays a low and little mind, intent on trifles, and engrossed by a paltry self-love, which knows not how to bear the very apprehension of any inconvenience. It is self-love, then, which we must combat, when we find ourselves assaulted by this infirmity; and, by voluntarily enduring inconveniences, we shall habituate ourselves to bear them with ease and good-humor, when occasioned by others. Perhaps this is the best kind of religious mortification ; as the chief end of denying ourselves any innocent indulgences, must be to acquire a habit of command over our passions and inclinations, particularly such as are likely to lead us ittto evil. i'OUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. g7 Another method of conquering this enemy, is to abstract Our minds from that attention to trifling circumstances, which usually creates this uneasiness. Those, who are engaged in high and important pursuits, are very little affected by small inconveniences. I would, therefore, wish your mind to haw always some object in pursuit worthy of it, that it may not be engrossed by such as are in themselves scarce worth a mo- ment's anxiety. It is chiefly in the decline of life, when amusements fail, and when the more importunate passions subside, that this infirmity is observed to grow upon us ; and perhaps it will seldom fail to do so, unless carefully watched, and counter- acted by reason. But though the aged and infirm are most liable to this evil, — and they alone are to be pitied for it, — yet we sometimes see the young, the healthy, and those who enjoy most outward blessings, inexcusably guilty of it. The smallest disappointment in pleasure, or diflaculty in the most trifling employment, will put wilful young people out of temper ; and their very amusements frequently become sources of vexation and peevishness. How often have I seen a girl, preparing for a ball, or for some other public appear- ance, unable to satisfy her own vanity, fret over every orna- ment she put on, quarrel with her maid, with her clothes, her hair ; and, growing still more unlovely as she grew more cross, be ready to fight with her looking-glass, for not making her as handsome as she wished to be ! She did not consider, that the traces of this ill-humor on her countenance, would be a greater disadvantage to her appearance, than any defect in her dress ; or even than the plainest features enlivened by joy and good-humor. There is a degree of resignation necessary even to the enjoyment of pleasure ; we must be ready and willing to give up some part of what we could wish for, before we can enjoy that which is indulged to us. I have no doubt that she, who frets all the while she is dressing for an assembly, will suffer still greater uneasiness when she is there. The same craving, restless vanity will there endure a thousand mortifications, which, in the midst of seeming pleasure, will secretly corrode her heart ; whilst the meek and humble generally find mor« gratification than they expected, and return home pleased 08 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. and enlivened from every scene of amusement, though they oould have stayed away from it with perfect ease and conr tentment. LESSON XXXVII. Obstinacy. — Mrs. Chapone. SuLLENNEss, or obstinacy, is, perhaps, a worse fault of temper than either passion or peevishness ; and, if indulged, may end in the most fatal extremes of stubborn melancholy, malice and revenge. The resentment which, instead of be- ing expressed, is nursed in secret, and continually aggravated by the imagination, will, in time, become the ruling passion ; and then how horrible must be his case, whose kind and pleasurable affections are all swallowed up by the tormenting as well as detestable sentiments of hatred and revenge ! Brood not over a resentment, which, perhaps, was at first ill-grounded, and which is undoubtedly heightened by a heated imagination. But, when you have first subdued your own temper, so as to be able to speak calmly, reasonably and kindly, then expostulate with the person you suppose to be in fault ; hear what she has to say ; and either reconcile your- self to her, or quiet your mind under the injury by the principle of Christian charity. But if it should appear, that you yourself have been most to blame, or if you have been in an error, acknowledge it fairly and handsomely ; if you feel any reluctance to do so, be certain that it arises from pride, to conquer which is an absolute duty. " A soft answer turneth away wrath," and a generous confession oflentimes more than atones for the fault which requires it. Truth and justice demand, that we should acknowledge conviction as soon as we feel it, and not main- lain an erroneous opinion, or justify a wrong conduct, merely from the false shame of confessing our past ignorance. A false shame it undoubtedly is, and as impolitic as unjust, since your error is already seen by those who endeavor to set you right ; but your conviction, and the candor and generosi- YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. g9 ty of owning it freely, may still be an honor to you, and would greatly recommend you to the person with whom you disputed. Nothing is more endearing than such a confession ; and you will find such a satisfaction in your own consciousness, and in the renewed tenderness and esteem you will gain from the person concerned, that your task, for the future, will be made more easy, and your reluctance to be convinced will, on every occasion, grow less and less. The love of truth, and a real desire of improvement, ought to be the only motives of argumentation ; and, where these axe sincere, no difficulty can be made of embracing the truth, as soon as it is perceived. But, in fact, people oftener dis- pute from vanity and pride, which make it a grievous mortification to allow that we are the wiser for what we have heard from another. To receive advice, reproof and in- struction, properly, is the surest sign of a sincere and humble heart, and shows a greatness of mind, which commands our respect and reverence, while it appears so willingly to yield to us the superiority. * * * ♦ I know not whether that strange caprice^ that inequality of taste and behavior, so commonly attributed to our sex, may be properly called a fault of temper ; as it seems not to be connected with, or arising from, our animal frame, but to be rather the fruit of our own self-indulgence, degenerating, by degrees, into such a wantonness of will as knows not how to please itself When, instead of regulating our actions by reason and principle, we suffer ourselves to be guided by every slight and momentary impulse of inclination, we shall, doubtless, appear so variable and inconstant, that nobody can guess, by our behavior to-day, what may be expected from us to-morrow ; nor can we ourselves tell whether what we de- lighted in a week ago, will now afford us the least degree of pleasure. It is in vain for others to attempt to please us ; we cannot please ourselves, though all we could wish for traits our choice. Thus does a capricious woman become "sick of herself, through very selfishness,-" and, when this is the case, it is easy to judge how sick others must be of her, and how contemptible and disgusting she must appear. This wretched state is the usual consequence of power and flattery. 8* ^ YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. LESSON XXXVIII. Evening Prayer at a GirVs School — Mrs. Hemans. Hush ! 'tis a holy hour ; the quiet room Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom And the sweet stillness, down on bright young heads, With all their clustering locks, untouched by care. And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in prayer. Gaze on, — 'tis lovely ! childhood's lip and cheek Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought ; Gaze — yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek. And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought ? Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, What death must fashion for eternity. Oh ! joyous creatures, that will sink to rest. Lightly, when those pure orisons are done. As birds, with slumber's honey-dew oppressed. Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun, — Lift up your hearts ! though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes ; — Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs Of hope make melody where'er ye tread ; And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread ; Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low. Is woman's tenderness — how soon her wo ! Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep. And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sumless riches, from Affection's deep. To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower ! And to make idols, and to find them clay. And to bewail that worship — therefore pray. YODNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. gj Her lot is on you — to be found, untired, Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired. And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain j — Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, And, oh ! to love through all things — therefore pray. And take the thought of this calm vesper time. With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, On through the dark days fading from their prime, As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight. Earth will forsake — oh ! happy to have given The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven ! LESSON XXXIX. Seasons of Prayer. — H. Ware, Jr. To prayer ! to prayer ! — for the morning breaks. And earth in her Maker's smile awakes. His light is on all, below and above — The light of gladness, and life, and love. Oh ! then, on the breath of this early air, Send upward the incense of grateful prayer. To prayer ! — for the glorious sun is gone, And the gathering darkness of night comes on. Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows. To shade the couch where his children repose. Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright, And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of night. To prayer ! — for the day that God has blest Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest. It speaks of creation's early bloom, It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb. Then summon the spirit's exalted powers, And devote to Heaven the hallowed hours. J YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes, For her new-born infant beside her lies. Oh ! hour of bliss ! when the heart o'erflows With rapture a mother only knows : — Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer ; Let it swell up to Heaven for her precious care There are smiles and tears in that gathering band, Where the heart is pledged with the trembling hand. What trying thoughts in her bosom swell, As the bride bids parents and home farewell ! Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair, And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer. Kneel down by the dying sinner's side, And pray for his soul, through him who died. Large drops of anguish are thick on his brow : — Oh ! what are earth and its pleasures now ? And what shall assuage his dark despair. But the penitent cry of humble prayer ? Kneel down at the couch of departing faith, And hear the last words the believer saith. He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends ; There is peace in his eye, that upward bends; There is peace in his calm, confiding air ; For his last thoughts are God's, — his last words, prayer. The voice of prayer at the sable bier ! — A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer. It commends the spirit to God who gave ; It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave ; It points to the glory where he shall reign, Who whispered, " Thy brother shall rise again." The voice of prayer in the world of bliss ' — But gladder, purer than rose from this. The ransomed shout to their glorious King, Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing ; YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. But a sinless and joyous song they raise, And their voice of prayer is eternal praise. Awake ! awake ! and gird up thy strength, To join that holy band at length. To Him, who unceasing love displays, Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise- To Him thy heart and thy hours be given ; For a life of prayer is the life of heaven. LESSON XL. Solitude . — Byron. 'Tis night, when meditation bids us feel We once have loved, though love is at an end : The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal. Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. Who with the weight of years would wish to bend. When youth itself survives young love and joy? Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend, Death hath but little left him to destroy ! Ah ! happy years ! once more who would not be a boy ? Thus, bending o'er the vessel's laving side, To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere. The soul forgets her schemes of hope and pride, And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possessed A thought, and claims the homage of a tear — A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell. To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been j 94 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; — This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled. But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men. To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen. With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ; Minions of splendor shrinking from distress I None that, with kindred consciousness endued. If we were not, would seem to smile the less, Of all that flattered, followed, sought and sued ; — This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude ! LESSON XLI. Art of Pleasing. — Chesterfield. The desire of being pleased is universal ; the desire of pleasing should be so too. It is included in that great and fundamental principle of morality, of doing to others what we wish they should do to us. There are, indeed, some moral duties of a much higher nature, but none of a more amiable ; and I do not hesitate to place it at the head of the minor virtues. The manner of conferring favors or benefits is, as to pleasing, almost as important as the matter itself Take care, then, never to throw away the obligations, which, per- haps, you may have it in your power to confer upon others, by an air of insolent protection, or by a cold and comfortless manner, which stifles them in their birth. Humanity inclines, religion requires, and our moral duties oblige us, as far as we are able, to relieve the distresses and miseries of our fellow- creatures : but this is not all ; for a true, heart-felt benevo- lence and tenderness will prompt us to contribute what we caji to their ease, their amusement, and their pleasure, as YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 9§ far as innocently we may. Let us, then, not only scatter benefits, but even strow flowers, for our fellow-travellers in the rugged ways of the world. There are some, and but too many in this country par- ticularly, who, without the least visible taint of ill-nature or malevolence, seem to be totally indifferent, and do not show the least desire to please ; as, on the other hand, they never designedly offend. Whether this proceeds from a lazy, neg- ligent and listless disposition, from a gloomy and melancholic nature, from ill health, low spirits, or from a secret and sullen pride, arising from the consciousness of their boasted liberty and independence, is hard to determine, considering the va- rious movements of the human heart, and the wonderful errors of the human head. But, be the cause what it will, that neutrality which is the effect of it, makes these people, as neutralities always do, despicable, and mere blanks in so- ciety. They would surely be roused from their indifference, if they would seriously consider the infinite utility of pleasing. The person who manifests a constant desire to please, places his perhaps small stock of merit at great interest. What vast returns, then, must real merit, when thus adorned, necessarily bring in ! Civility is the essential article toward pleasing, and is the result of good nature and good sense : but good-breeding is the decoration, the lustre of civility, and only to be acquired by a minute attention to good company. A good-natured ploughman may be intentionally as civil as the politest cour- tier ; but his manner often degrades and vilifies the matter ; whereas, in good-breeding, the manner always adorns and dignifies the matter to such a degree, that I have often known it give currency to base coin. Civility is often attended by a ceremoniousness, which good-breeding corrects, but will not quite abolish. A certain degree of ceremony is a necessary outwork of manners : it keeps the forward and petulant at a proper distance, and is a very small restraint to the sensible and to the well-bred part of the world. 36 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. LESSON XLII. Politeness. — Miss Talbot. Politeness is the just medium between form and rudeness. It is the consequence of a benevolent nature, which shows itself to general acquaintance in an obliging, unconstrained civility, as it does to more particular ones in distinguished acts of kindness. This good nature must be directed by a justness of sense, and a quickness of discernment, that knows how to use every opportunity of exercising it, and to proportion the instances of it to every character and situation. It is a restraint laid by reason and benevolence upon every irregularity of the temper, which, in obedience to them, is forced to accommodate itself even to the fantastic cares, which custom and fashion have established, if, by these means, it can procure, in any degree, the satisfaction or good opinion of any part of mankind ; thus paying an obliging deference to their judgment, so far as it is not inconsistent with the higher obligations of virtue and religion. This must be accompanied with an elegance of taste, and a delicacy observant of the least trifles, which tend to please or to oblige ; and, though its foundation must be rooted in the heart, it can scarce be perfect without a complete knowledge of the world. In society, it is the medium that blends all different tempers into the most pleasing harmony ; while it imposes silence on the loquacious, and inclines the most reserved to furnish their share of the conversation. It re- presses the desire of shining alone, and increases the desire af being mutually agreeable. It takes off the edge of raillery, and gives delicacy to wit. To superiors, it appears in a respectful freedom. No greatness can awe it into servility, and no intimacy can sink it into a regardless familiarity. To inferiors, it shows itself in an unassuming good nature. Its aim is to raise them to you, not to let you down to them. It at once maintains the dignity of your station, and expresses the goodness of your heart. To equals, it is every thing that is charming ; it studies their inclinations, prevents their desires, attends to YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 97 every little exactness of behavior, and all the time appears perfectly disengaged and careless. Such and so amiable is true politeness ; by people of wrong heads and unworthy hearts disgraced in its two extremes ; and, by the generality of mankind, confined within the nar- row bounds of mere good breeding, which, in truth, is only one instance of it. There is a kind of character, which does not, in the least, deserve to be reckoned polite, though it is exact in every punctilio of behavior ; such as would not, for the world, omit paying you the civility of a bow, or fail in the least circum- stance of decorum. But then these people do this merely for their own sake : whether you are pleased or embarrassed with it, is little of their care. They have performed their own parts, and are satisfied. LESSON XLIII. Confessions of a bashful Man^ — Anonymous. You must ^ know, that, in my person, I am tall and thin, with a fair complexion, and light flaxen hair ; but of such extreme sensibility to shame, that, on the smallest subject of confusion, my blood all rushes into my cheeks. Having been sent to the university, the consciousness of my unhappy fail- ing made me avoid society, and I became enamored of a college life. But from that peaceful retreat I was called by the deaths of my father and of a rich uncle, who left me a fortune of thirty thousand pounds. I now purchased an estate in the country ; and my com- pany was much courted by the surrounding families, es- pecially by such as had marriageable daughters. Though I wished to accept their offered friendship, I was forced repeatedly to excuse myself, under the pretence of not being quite settled. Often, when I have rode or walked with full intention of returning their visits, my heart has failed me as I approached their gates, and I have returned home- ward, resolving to try again the next day. Determined, 9 98 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. however, at length, to conquer my timidity, I accepted of an invitation to dine vrith one, whose open, easy manner, left me no room to doubt a cordial welcome. Sir Thomas Friendly, who lives about two miles distant, is a Baronet, with an estate joining to that I purchased. He has two sons and five daughters, all grown up, and living, with their mother and a maiden sister of Sir Thomas's, at Friendly Hall. Conscious of my unpolished gait, I have, for some time past, taken private lessons of a professor, who teaches " grown gentlemen to dance ;" and though I at first found wondrous difficulty in the art he taught, my knowledge of the mathematics was of prodigious use in teaching me the equilibrium of my body, and the due adjustment of the centre of gravity to the five positions. — Having acquired the art of walking without tottering, and learned to make a bow, I boldly ventured to obey the Baronet's invitation to a family dinner, not doubting but my new acquirements would enable me to see the ladies with tolerable intrepidity ; but, alas ! how vain are all the hopes of theory, when unsupported by habit- ual practice ! As I approached the house, a dinner bell alarmed my fears, lest I had spoiled the dinner by want of punctuality. Im- pressed with this idea, I blushed the deepest crimson, as my name was repeatedly announced by the several livery ser- vants, who ushered me into the library, hardly knowing what or whom I saw. At my first entrance, I summoned all my fortitude, and made my new-learned bow to Lady Friendly ; but, unfortunately, in bringing back my left foot to the third position, I trod upon the gouty toe of poor Sir Thomas, who had followed close at my heels, to be the nomenclator of the family. The confusion this occasioned in me is hardly to be conceived, since none but bashful men can judge of my dis>- tress. The Baronet's politeness, by degrees, dissipated my concern ; and I was astonished to see how far good breeding could enable him to suppress his feelings, and to appear with periect ease alter so painiiil an accident. The cheerfulness of her ladyship, and the familiar chat of the young ladies, insensibly led me to throw off" my reserve and sheepishness, till, at length, I ventured to join the conver** sation, and even to start fresh subjects. The library being YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 99 richly furnished with books in elegant bindings, I conceived Sir Thomas to be a man of literature, and ventured to give my opinion concerning the several editions of the Greek classics ; in which the Baronet's opinion exactly coincided with my own. '" "T^cf this subject I was led by observing an edition of Xen- ophon in sixteen volumes, which (as I had never before heard of such a thing) greatly excited my curiosity, and I rose up to examine what it could be. Sir Thomas saw what I was about, and, as I supposed, willing to save me trouble, rose to take down the book, which made me more eager to prevent him, and, hastily laying my hand on the first volume, I pulled it forcibly ; but, lo ! instead of books, a board, which, by leather and gilding, had been made to look like sixteen volumes, came tumbling down, and unluckily pitched upon a Wedgewood inkstand on the table under it. In vain did Sir Thomas assure me there was no harm ; I saw the ink stream- ing from an inlaid table on the Turkey carpet, and, scarce knowing what I did, attempted to stop its progress with my cambric handkerchief. In the height of this confusion, we were informed that dinner was served up ; and I, with joy, perceived that the bell, which at first had so alarmed my fears, was only the half hour dinner bell. In walking through the hall, and suite of apartments, to the dining room, I had time to collect my scattered senses, and was desired to take my seat betwixt Lady Friendly and her eldest daughter at the table. Since the fall of the wood- en Xenophon, my face had been continually burning like a firebrand ; and I was just beginning to recover myself, and to feel comfortably cool, when an unlooked-for accident rekin- dled all my heat and blushes. Having set my plate of soup too near the edge of the table, in bowing to Miss Dinah, who politely complimented the pattern of my waistcoat, I tumbled the whole scalding contents into my lap. In spite of an immediate supply of napkins to wipe the surface of my clothes, my black silk dress was not stout enough to save me from the painful effects of this sudden fomentation ; and for some minutes I seemed to be in a boiling caldron ; but, recol- lecting how Sir Thomas had disguised his torture when I XOO YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. trod upon his toe, I firmly bore my pain in silence, amidst the stifled giggling of the ladies and the servants. I will not relate the several blunders which I made, during the first course, or the distress occasioned by my being desi> ed to carve a fowl, or help to various dishes that stood near me ; spilling a sauce-boat, and knocking down a salt-cellar : rather let me hasten to the second course, where fresh disas- ters overwhelmed me quite. I had a piece of rich, sweet pudding on my fork, when Miss Louisa Friendly begged to trouble me for a pigeon that stood near me. In my haste, scarce knowing what I did, I whipped the pudding into my mouth, hot as a burning coaL It was impossible to conceal my agony ; my eyes were starting from their sockets. At last, in spite of shame and resolution, I was obliged to drop the cause of torment on my plate. Sir Thomas and the ladies all compassionated my misfortune, and each advised a different application. One recommended oil, another water ; but all agreed that wine was best for drawing cmt the fire ; and a glass of sherry was brought me from the sideboard, which I snatched up with eagerness : but, oh ! how shall I tell the sequel ? Whether the butler by accident mistook, or purposely design- ^ to drive me mad, he gave me the strongest brandy, with which I filled my mouth, already flayed and blistered. To tally unused to every kind of ardent spirits, with my tongue, throat and palate as raw as beef, what could I do ? I could not swallow; and, clapping my hands upon my mouth, the liquor squirted through my fingers like a fountain, over all the dishes ; and I was crushed by bursts of laughter from all quarters. In vain did Sir Thomas reprimand the servants, and Lady Friendly chide her daughters ; for the measure of my shame and their diversion was not yet complete. To relieve me from the intolerable state of perspiration which this accident had caused, without considering what I did, I wiped my face with that ill-fated handkerchief, which was still wet from the consequences of the fall of Xenophon, and covered all my features with streaks of ink in every di» rection. The Baronet himself could not support the shock, but joined his lady in the general laugh ; while I sprung YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. IQl from the table in despair, rushed out of the house, and ran home in an agony of confusion and disgrace, which the most poignant sense of guilt could not have excited. LESSON XLIV. Intemperate Love of Praise. — Blair. The intemperate love of praise not only w^eakens the true principles of probity, by substituting inferior motives in their stead, but frequently also impels men to actions which are directly criminal. It obliges them to follow the current of popular opinion, whithersoever it may carry them. They will be afraid to appear in their own form, or to utter their genu- ine sentiments. Their whole character will become fictions, opinions will be assumed, speech and behavior modelled, and even the countenance formed, as prevailing taste exacts. From one who has submitted to such prostitution, for the sake of praise, you can no longer expect fidelity or attach- ment on any trying occasion. In private life, he will be a timorous and treacherous friend. In public conduct, he will be subtle and versatile ; ready to desert the cause which he had espoused, and to veer with every shifting wind of popu- lar favor. In fine, all becomes unsound and hollow in that heart, where, instead of regard to the divine approbation, there reigns the sovereign desire of pleasing men. This passion, when it becomes predominant, most com- monly defeats its own end, and deprives men of the honor which they are so eager to gain. Without preserving liberty and independence, we can never command respect. That servility of spirit, which subjects us to the opinion of others, and renders us tributaries to the world for the sake of ap- plause, is what all mankind despise. They look up with reverence to one, who, unawed by their censures, acts ac- cording to his own sense of things, and follows the free im- pulse of an honorable mind. But him, who hangs totally on their judgment, they consid- er as their vassal. They even enjoy a malignant pleasure in 9* 102 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. humbling his vanity, and withholding that praise which he is seen to court. By artifice and show, he may shine for a time in the public eye ; but it is only as long as he can sui>- port the belief of acting from principle. When the inconsis- tencies, into which he falls, detect his character, his reputation passes away like the pageant of a day. No man ever obtained lasting fame, who did not, on several occasions, contradict the prejudices of popular opinion. There is no course of behavior, which will, at all times, please all men. That which pleases most generally, and which only commands durable praise, is religion and virtue. Sincere piety towards God, kind affection to men, and fidel- ity in the discharge of all the duties of life ; a conscience pure and undefiled ; a heart firm to justice and to truth, su- perior to all terrors that would shake, and insensible of all pleasures that would betray it ; unconquerable by the oppo- sition of the world, and resigned to God alone ; these are the qualities which render a man truly respectable and great. Such a character may, in evil times, incur unjust reproaclu But the clouds, which envy or prejudice has gathered around it, will gradually disperse ; and its brightness will come forth, in the end, as the noon day. As soon as it is thoroughly known, it finds a witness in every breast. It forces approbar tion, even from the most degenerate. The human heart is so formed as to be attuned, if we may use the expression, to its praise. In fact, it is this firm and inflexible virtue, this determined regard to principle beyond all opinion, which has crowned the characters of such as now stand highest in the rolls of lasting fame. The truly illustrious are they, who did not court the praise of the world, but who performed the actions which deserve it. ' As an immoderate passion for human praise is dangerous to virtue, and unfavorable to true honor ; so it is destructive of self-enjoyment and inward peace. Regard to the praise of God, prescribes a simple and consistent tenor of conduct, which, in all situations, is the same ; which engages us in no perplexities, and requires no artful refinement. But he, who tarns aside from the straight road of duty, in order to gain applause, involves himself in an intricate labyrinth. He will be often embarrassed concerning the course which he ought YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 103 to hold. His mind will be always on the stretch. He will be obliged to listen with anxious attention to every whis- per of the popular voice. The demands of those masters, whom he has submitted to serve, will prove frequently con- tradictory and inconsistent. He has prepared a yoke for his neck, which he must resolve to bear, how much soever it may gall him. The toils of virtue are honorable. The mind is supported under them by the consciousness of acting a right and becoming part. But the labors to which he is doomed, who is enslaved to the desire of praise, are aggravated by reflec- tion both on the uncertainty of the recompense which he pursues, and on the debasement to which he submits. Coi> science will, from time to time, remind him of the improper sacrifices which he has made, and of the forfeiture which he has incurred, of the praise of God for the sake of praise from men. Suppose him to receive all the rewards which the mistaken opinion of the world can bestow, its loudest ap- plause will often be unable to drown the upbraidings of an inward voice ; and if a man is reduced to be ashamed of himself, what avails it him to be caressed by others? But, in truth, the reward towards which he looks, who pro- poses human praise as his ultimate object, will be always flying, like a shadow, before him. So capricious and uncei- tain, so fickle and mutable, is the favor of the multitude, that it proves the most unsatisfactory of all pursuits in which men can be engaged. He, who sets his heart on it, is preparing for himself perpetual mortifications. If the greatest and best can seldom retain it long, we may easily believe, that from the vain and undeserving it will suddenly escape. There is no character but what, on some side, is vulnerable by censure. He who lifts himself up to the observation and notice of the world, is. of all men, the least likely to avoid it ; for he draws upon himself a thousand eyes, that will nar- rowly inspect him in every part. Every opportunity will be watched of bringing him down to the common level. His errors will be more divulged, and his infirmities more magnir fied, than those of others. In proportion to his eagerness for praise, will be his sensibility to reproach. Nor is it re- proach alone that will wound him. He will be as much 104 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. dejected by silence and neglect. He puts himself under the power of every one to humble him, by withholding expected praise. Even when praise is bestowed, he is mortified by its being either faint or trite. He pines when his reputation stagnates. The degree of applause, to which he has been accustomed, grows insipid ; and to be always praised from the same topics, becomes, at last, much the same with not being jwaised at all. All these chagrins and disquietudes are happily avoided by him, who keeps so troublesome a passion within its due bounds ; who is more desirous of being truly worthy, than of being thought so ; who pursues the praise of the world with manly temperance, and in subordination to the praise of God. He is neither made giddy by the intoxicating vapor of ap- plause, nor humbled and cast down by the unmerited attacks of censure. Resting on a higher approbation, he enjoys himself, in peace, whether human praise stays with him, or flies away. LESSON XLV. God's First Temples. A Hymn. — Bryant. The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them, — ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems, — in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences, That, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven, Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath, that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless Power YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. And inaccessible Majesty. Ah ! why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd, and under roofs That our frail hands have raised 1 Let me, at least, Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, Offer one hymn ; thrice happy, if it find Acceptance in his ear. Father, thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns ; thou Didst weave this verdant roof Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose All these fair ranks of trees. They in thy sun Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze. And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches ; till, at last, they stood, As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark. Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. Here are seen No traces of man's pomp or pride ; no silks Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes Encounter ; no fantastic carvings show The boast of our vain race to change the form Of thy fair works. But thou art here ; thou fill'st - The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds That run along the summits of these trees In music ; thou art in the cooler breath. That, from the inmost darkness of the place. Comes, scarcely felt ; the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee. Here is continual worship; nature, here. In the tranquillity that thou dost love. Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around. From perch to perch, the solitary bird Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs, Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left Thyself without a witness, in these shades. 1€6 106 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength and grace, Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak — By whose immovable stem I stand, and seem Almost annihilated — not a prince, In all the proud old world beyond the deep, E'er wore his crown as loftily as he Wears the green coronal of leaves, with which Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, With scented breath, and look so like a smile. Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, An emanation of the indwelling Life, A visible token of the upholding Love, That are the soul of this wide universe. My heart is awed within me, when I think Of the great miracle that still goes on, In silence, round me — the perpetual work Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed Forever. Written on thy works, I read The lesson of thy own eternity. Lo ! all grow old and die : but see, again. How, on the faltering footsteps of decay. Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful youth — In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Moulder beneath them. Oh ! there is not lost One of earth's charms : upon her bosom yet, After the flight of untold centuries. The freshness of her far beginning lies. And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate Of his arch enemy Death ; yea, seats himself Upon the sepulchre, and blooms and smiles, And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. There have been holy men, who hid themselves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outliyed The generation born with them, nor seemed YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. ' 1Q7 Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them ; and there have been holy men, Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and, in thy presence, reassure My feeble virtue. Here, its enemies, The passions, at thy plainer footsteps, shrink, And tremble, and are still. O God ! when thou Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill. With all the waters of the firmament. The swift, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woods. And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call. Uprises the great deep, and throws himself Upon the continent, and overwhelms Its cities ; — who forgets not, at the sight Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by ! Oh ! from these sterner aspects of thy face Spare me and mine ; nor let us need the wrath Of the mad, unchained elements, to teach Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, And to the beautiful order of thy works Learn to conform the order of our lives. LESSON XLVI. Morning Hymn. — Milton. These are thy glorious works. Parent of good, Almighty ! thine this universal frame. Thus wondrous fair ! Thyself how wondrous, then I Unspeakable ! who sitt'st above these heavens, To us mvisible, or dimly seen In these thy lowest works : yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divina 108 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOEL Speak ye, who best can tell, ye sons of light, Angels ! for ye behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, day without night, Circle his throne rejoicing. Ye in heaven : On earth, join, all ye creatures, to extol, Him first, him last, him midst, and without end ! Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. Thou Sun, of this great world both eye and soul, Acknowledge him thy greater ; sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall's Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fliest With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb, that flies ; And ye five other wandering fires, that move In mystic dance, not without song ; resound His praise, who out of darkness called up light. Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix. And nourish all things ; let your ceaseless change Vary to our great Maker still new praise. Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray, Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, In honor to the world's great Author rise. Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky, Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers ; Rising or falling, still advance his praise. His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines, With every plant, in sign of worship wave. Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praiscw YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 109 Join yoices, all ye living souls ! ye birds That, singing, Up to heaven's gate ascend, ,. Bear on your wings and iit your notes his praise. Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep. Witness if I be silent, mom or even. To bill or valley, fountain or fresh shade, •Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise. Mailf VH&iyersal Lord ! be bounteous still To^give us only good : and if the night Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed. Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark ! LESSON XLVIL Description of the Custom of Whiteicashing. — Hopkinson. When a young couple are about to enter into the matri- monial state, a never-fiiiling article in the marriage treaty is, that the lady shall have and enjoy the free and unmolested exercise of the rights of tohifeioashing, with all its ceremoni- als, privileges and appurtenances., A young woman would forego the most advantageous coniilkion, and even disappoint the warmest wish of her heart, rather than resign the inval- uable right. ' You would wonder what this privilege of whitewashing^is : — I will endeavor to give you some idea of the ceremony, as I -have seen it performed. There is no season of the year, in which the lady may not claim her privilege, if she pleases ; but the latter end of May is most generally fixed upon for the purpose. The attentive husband may judge, by certain prognostics, when the storm is nigh at hand. When the lady is unusually fretful, finds fault with the servants, is discontented with the children, and complains much of the filthiness of every thing about her — these are signs which ought not to be neglected ; yet they are not decisive, as they sometimes come on and go oflf again, without producing any farther effect. 10 1X0 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. But if, when the husband rises in the morning, he should observe in the yard a wheelbarrow, with a quantity of lime in it, or should see certain buckets with lime dissolved in water, there is then no time to be lost ; he immediately locks up the apartment or closet, where his papers or his private property are kept, and, putting the key in his pocket, betakes himself to flight ; for a husband, however beloved, becomes a perfect nuisance during this season of female rage ; his authority is superseded, his commission is suspended, and the very scullion, who cleans the brasses in the kitchen, becomes of more consideration and importance than he. He has nothing for it but to abdicate, and run from an evil, which he can neither prevent nor mollify. The husband gone, the ceremony begins. The walls are, in a few minutes, stripped of their furniture ; paintings, prints and looking-glasses lie in a huddled heap about the floors ; the curtains are torn from the testers, the beds crammed into the windows ; chairs and tables, bedsteads and cradles, crowd the yard ; and the garden fence bends beneath the weight of carpets, blankets, cloth cloaks, old coats and ragged breeches. Here, may be seen the lumber of the kitchen, forming a dark and confused mass ; for the foreground of the picture, gridirons and frying-pans, rusty shovels and broken tongs, spits and pots, and the fractured remains of rush-bottomed chairs. There, a closet has disgorged its contents — cracked tumblers, broken wine-glasses, phials of forgotten physic papers of unknown powders, seeds and dried herbs, handfuls of old corks, tops of teapots, and stoppers of departed decan- ters ; — from the rag-hole in the garret to the rat-hole in the cellar, no place escapes unrummaged. This ceremony completed, and the house thoroughly evac- uated, the next operation is, to smear the walls and ceilings of every room and closet with brushes dipped in a solution of lime, called whitewash ; to pour buckets of water over every floor, and scratch all the partitions and wainscots with rough brushes wet with soap-suds, and dipped in stone-cutter'i? sand. The windows by no means escape the general deluge. A servant scrambles out upon the penthouse, at the risk of her neck, and, with a mug in her hand and a bucket withip YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. lU reach, she dashes away innumerable gallons of water against tlie glass panes, to the great annoyance of passengers in the street. I have been told, that an action at law was once brought against one of these water-nymphs, by a person who had a new suit of clothes spoiled by this operation ; but, after a long argument, it was determined by the whole court, that the action would not lie, inasmuch as the defendant was in the exercise of a legal right, and not answerable for the con* sequences ; and so the poor gentleman was doubly nonsuited ; for he lost not only his suit of clothes, but his suit at law. These smearings and scratchings, washings and dashings, being duly performed, the next ceremony is, to cleanse and replace the distracted furniture. You may have seen a' house- raising, or a ship-launch, when ail the hands within reach are collected together ; recollect, if you can, the hurry, bustle, confusion and noise of such a scene, and you will have some idea of this cleaning match. The misfortune is, that the sole object is to make things clean ; it matters not how many useful, ornamental or valuable articles are mutilated, or sufFel death, under the operation ; a mahogany chair and carved frame undergo the same discipline ; they are to be mad^ clean at all events ; but their preservation is not worthy of attention. For instance, a fine large engraving is laid flat upon tho floor ; smaller prints are piled upon it, and the superincumbent weight cracks the glasses of the lower tier ; but this is of at> consequence. A valuable picture is placed leaning against the sharp corner of a table ; others are made to lean against that, until the pressure of the whole, forces the corner of ths table through the canvass of the first. The frame and glass of a fine print are to be cleaned ; the spirit and oil, used on this occasion, are suffered to leak through and spoil the engraving ; no matter, if the glass is clean, and the frame shine, it lij sufficient : the rest is not worthy of consideration. An able mathematician has made an accurate calculation, founded on long experience, and has discovered that the losses and destruction incident to two whitewashings, are equal to one removal, and three removals equal to one fire. The cleaning frolic over, matters begin to resume theif 112 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. pristine appearance. The storm abates, and all would be well again ; but it is impossible that so great a convulsion, in so small a community, should not produce some farther effects. For two or three weeks after the operation, the family are usually afflicted with sore throats or sore eyes, occasioned by the caustic quality of the lime, or with severe colds from the exhalations of wet floors or damp walls. I knew a gentleman, who was fond of accounting for every thing in a philosophical way. He considered this, which I have called a custom, as a real periodical disease, peculiar to the climate. His train of reasoning was ingenious and whimsical, but I am not at leisure to give you the detail. The result was, that he found the distemper to be incurable ; but, after much study, he conceived he had discovered a method to divert the evil he could not subdue. For this pur- pose, he caused a small building, about twelve feet square, to be erected in his garden, and furnished with some ordi- nary chairs and tables ; and a few prints of the cheapest sort were hung against the walls. His hope was, that, when the whitewashing frenzy seized the females of his family, they might repair to this apartment, and scrub and smear and scour to their hearts' content ; and so spend the violence of the disease in this outpost, while he enjoyed himself in quiet at head-quarters. But the experi- ment did not answer his expectation. It was impossible it should ; since a principal part of the gratification consists in the lady's having an uncontrolled right to torment her hus- band, at least once a year, and to turn him out of doors, and take the reins of government into her own hands. There is a much better contrivance than this of the phi- losopher, which is, to cover the walls of the house with paper : this is generally done ; and, though it cannot abolish, it at least shortens, the period of female dominion. The paper is decorated with flowers of various fancies, and made so ornamental, that the women have admitted the fashion without perceiving the design. There is also another alleviation of the husband's distress ; he generally has the privilege of a small room or closet for his books and papers, the key of which he is allowed to keep. This is considered as a privileged place, and stands like the YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. H3 land of Goshen amid the plagues of Egypt. But then ho must be extremely cautious, and ever on his guard; for, should he inadvertently go abroad, and leave the key in his door, the housemaid, v^^ho is always on the watch for such an opportunity, immediately enters in triumph, with buckets, brooms and brushes ; takes possession of the premises, and forthwith puts all his books and papers to rights — to his utter confusion, and sometimes serious detriment. LESSON XLVIII. Importance of considering both Sides of a Question. — Beaumont. In the days of knight-errantry and paganism, one of the old British princes set up a statue to the goddess of Victory, in a point where four roads met together. In her right hand she held a spear, and her left hand rested upon a shield ; the outside of this shield was of gold, and the inside of silver. On the former was inscribed, in the old British language, " To the goddess ever favorable ;'* and on the other, " For four victories obtained successively over the Picts and other i,ahabitants of the northern islands." It happened, one day, that two knights, completely armed, one in black armor, the other in white, arrived from opposite parts of the country at this statue, just about the same time ; and, as neither of them had seen it before, they stopped to read the inscription, and observe the excellence of its work- manship. After contemplating it for some time, "This golden shield," — says the black knight — " Golden shield !" cried the white knight, who was as strictly observing the opposite side, " why, if I have my eyes, it is silver." — " I know nothing of your eyes," replied the black knight ; " but, if ever I saw a golden shield in my life, this is one." — " Yes," returned the white knight, smiling, " it is very probable, indeed, that they should expose a shield of gold in so public a place as this ! 10 * 1X4 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. For my part, I wonder even a silver one is not too strong a temptation for the devotion of some people who pass this way ; and it appears, by the date, that this has been here above three years." The black knight could not bear the smile with which this was delivered, and grew so warm in the dispute, that it soon ended in a challenge : they both, therefore, turned their horses, and rode back so far as to have sujfficient space for their career ; then, fixing their spears in their rests, they flew at each other with the greatest fury and impetuosity. Their shock was so rude, and the blow on each side so effectual, that they both fell to the ground much wounded and bruised ; and lay there for some time, as in a trance. A good Druid, who was travelling that way, found them in this condition. The Druids were the physicians of those times, as well as the priests. He had a sovereign balsam about him, which he had composed himself; for he was very skilful in all the plants that grew in the fields or in the for- ests : he staunched their blood, applied his balsam to their wounds, and brought them, as it were, from death to life again. As soon as they were sufficiently recovered, he began to inquire into the occasion of their quarrel. "Why, this man," cried the black knight, " will have it that yonder shield is silver." — " And he will have it," replied the white knight, " that it is gold." And then they told him all the particulars of the affair. "Ah !" said the Druid with a sigh, " you are both of you, my brethren, in the right, and both of you in the wrong : had either of you given himself time to look at the opposite side of the shield, as well as that which first presented itself to view, all this passion and bloodshed might have been avoid- ed : however, there is a very good lesson to be learned from the evils, that have befallen you on this occasion. Permit me, therefore, to entreat you never to enter into any dispute, for the future, till you have fairly considered both sides of the question." YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. H5 LESSON XLIX. The Flight of Xerxes. — Maria J. Jewsbury. I SAW him on the battle-eve, When like a king he bore him ; Proud* hosts in glittering helm and greave, And prouder chiefs before him : The warrior, and the warrior's deeds — The morrow, and the morrow's meeds, — No daunting thoughts came o'er him ; He looked around him, and his eye Defiance flashed to earth and sky. He looked on ocean; its broad breast Was covered with his fleet ; — On earth; and saw from east to west, t^j^ His bannered millions meet ; — * While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast, Shook with the war-cry of that host, The thunder of their feet ! He heard the imperial echoes ring, — He heard, and felt himself a king. -'^^ I saw him next alone : — nor camp, Nor chief, his steps attended ; Nor banner blazed, nor courser's tramp With war-cries proudly blended. He stood alone, whom Fortune high So lately seemed to deify; jF/c, who with Heaven contended, Fled like a fugitive and slave ! Behind, — the foe ; — before, — the wave. He stood, — fleet, army, treasure, — gone,— Alone and in despair ! But wave and wind swept ruthless on, For they were monarchs there ; 116 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. And Xerxes, in a single bark, Where late his thousand ships were dark, Must all their fury dare : — What a revenge — a trophy, this — For thee, immortal Salamis ! LESSON L. Pairing Time anticipated. — Cowper. It chanced, upon a winter's day, But warm, and bright and calm as May, The birds, conceiving a design To forestall sweet St. Valentine, In many an orchard, copse and grove, Assembled on affairs of love. And with much twitter and much chatter, Began to agitate the matter. At length, a bulfinch, who could boast More years and wisdom than the most. Entreated, opening wide his beak, A moment's liberty to speak ; And, silence publicly enjoined. Delivered briefly thus his mind : — " My friends, be cautious how ye treat The subject upon which we meet ; I fear we shall have winter yet." A finch, whose tongue knew no control, With golden wing and satin poll, A last gear's bird, who ne'er had tried What marriage means, thus pert replied : — " Methinks the gentleman," quoth she, " Opposite in the apple-tree. By his good will, would keep us single Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle, YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Or (which is likelier to befall) Till death exterminate us all. I marry without more ado : — My dear Dick Redcap, what say you V Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, Turning short round, strutting and sidling, Attested, glad, his approbation Of an immediate conjugation. Their sentiments, so well expressed, Influenced mightily the rest : All paired, and each pair built a nest. But, though the birds were thus in haste. The leaves came on not quite so fast ; And destiny, that sometimes bears An aspect stern on man's affairs. Not altogether smiled on theirs. The wind — ^of late breathed gently forth — Now shifted east, and east by north ; Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know, Could shelter them from rain or snow ; Stepping into their nests, they paddled ; Themselves were chilled, their eggs were addled : Soon, every father bird and mother Grew quarrelsome, and pecked each other, Parted without the least regret, Except that they had ever met. And learned in future to be wiser Than to neglect a good advisef. MORAL. Misses, the tale that I relate This lesson seems to carry ; — Choose not alone a proper mate, But proper time to marry. UT 118 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK LESSON LI. Influence of Christianity in elevating the Character of Females. — J. G. Carter. There is one topic, intimately connected with the intro* Auction and decline of Christianity, and subsequently with Its revival in Europe, which the occasion strongly suggests, and which I cannot forbear briefly to touch upon. I allude to the new and more interesting character assumed by wo» man since those events. In the heathen world, and under the Jewish dispensation, she was the slave of man. Chris* tianity constituted her his companion. But as our religion gradually lost its power, in the dark ages, she sunk down again to her deep moral degradation. The age of chivalry, indeed, exalted her to be an object of adoration. But it was a profane adoration, not founded upon the respect due to a being of immortal hopes and destinies as well as man. This high character has been conceded to her at a later period, as she has slowly attained the rank or» dained for her by Heaven. Although this change, in tho relation of woman to man and to society, is both an evidence and a consequence of an improvement in the human condi* tion, yet now her character is a cause operating to produce a still greater improvement. And if there be any one cause, to which we may look with more confidence than to others, for hastening the approach of a more perfect state of society, that cause is the elevated character of woman, as displayed in the full developement of all her moral and intellectual powers. The influence of the female character, is now felt and acknowledged in all the relations of her life. I speak not now of those distinguished women, who instruct their age through the public press ; nor of those, whose devout strain3 we take upon our lips when we worship ; but of a much larger class ; of those, whose influence is felt in the relation? of neighbor, friend, daughter, wife, mother. Who waits al the couch of the sick, to administer tender charities whil^ life lingers, or to perform the last acts of kindness when death YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. ] jg comes 1 Where shall we look for those examples of friend- ship, that most adorn our nature? those abiding friendships, which trust even when betrayed, and survive all changes of fortune ? Where shall we find the brightest illustrations of filial piety ? Have you ever seen a daughter, herself, perhaps, timid and helpless, watching the decline of an aged parent, and holding out, with heroic fortitude, to anticipate his wishes, to administer to his wants, and to sustain his tottering steps to the very borders of the grave ? But in no relation does woman exercise so deep an influ- ence, both immediately and prospectively, as in that of moth- er. To her is committed the immortal treasure of the infant mind. Upon her devolves the care of the first stages of that course of discipline, which is to form, of a being perhaps the most frail and helpless in the world, the fearless ruler of animated creation, and the devout adorer of its great Creator. Her smiles call into exercise the first affections that spring up in our hearts. She cherishes and expands the earliest germs of our intellects. She breathes over us her deepest devotions. She lifts our little hands, and teaches our little tongues to lisp in prayer. She watches over us, like a guar- dian angel, and protects us through all our helpless years, when we know not of her cares and her anxieties on our account. She follows us into the world of men, and lives in us, and blesses us, when she lives not otherwise upon the earth. What constitutes the centre of every home ? Whither do our thoughts turn, when our feet are weary with wandering, and our hearts sick with disappointment 1 Where shall the truant and forgetful husband go for sympathy, unalloyed and without design, but to the bosom of her, who is ever ready and waiting to share in his adversity or his prosperity ? And if there be a tribunal, where the sins and the follies of a fro- ward child may hope for pardon and forgiveness, this side heaven, that tribunal is the heart of a fond and devoted mother r 120 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. LESSON LII. Letter on Watering-Places, — Mrs. Barbauld. I AM a country gentleman, and enjoy an estate in North- amptonshire, which formerly enabled its possessors to assume some degree of consequence in the country ; but which, for several generations, has been growing less, only because it has not grown bigger. I mean, that, though I have not yet been obliged to mortgage my land, or fell my timber, its rel- ative value is every day diminishing by the prodigious influx of wealth, real and artificial, which, for some time past, has been pouring into this kingdom. Hitherto, however, I have found my income equal to my wants. It has enabled me to inhabit a good house in town, for four months of the year, and to reside amongst my tenants and neighbors, for the remain- ing eight, with credit and hospitality. I am, indeed, myself so fond of the country, and so averse ■n my nature to every thing of hurry and bustle, that, if I x>nsulted only my own taste, I should never feel a wish to tcave the shelter of my own oaks in the dreariest season of the year ; but I looked upon our annual visit to London as ^ proper compliance with the gayer disposition of my wife, and the natural curiosity of the younger part of the family. Be- sides, to say the truth, it had its advantages in avoiding a round of dinners and card-parties, which we must otherwise have engaged in for the winter season, or have been branded with the appellation of unsociable. Our journey gave me an opportunity of furnishing my study with some new books and prints, and my wife of gratifying her neighbors with some ornamental trifles, before their v^alue was sunk by becoming common, or of producing at her table or in her furniture some new-invented refinement of fashionable elegance. Our hall was the first that was lighted by an Argand lamp ; and I still remember how we were grat- ified by the astonishment of our guests, when my wife, with an audible voice, called to the footman for the tongs to help to the asparagus with. We found it pleasant, too, to be en- abled to talk of capital artists and favorite actors; and I YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 121 made the better figure in my political debates from having heard the most popular speakers in the House. Once, too, to recruit my wife's spirits after a tedious con- finement, we passed a season at Bath. In this manner, there- fore, things went on very well in the main, till of late my family have discovered that we lead a very dull kind of life, and that it is impossible to exist with comfort, or, indeed, to en- joy a tolerable share of health, without spending good part of every summer at a watering-place. I held out as long as I could. One may be allowed to resist the plans of dissipation, but the plea of health cannot decently be withstood. It was soon discovered that my eldest daughter wanted bracing, and my wife had a bilious complaint, against which our family physician declared that sea-bathing would be par- ticularly serviceable. Therefore, though it was my own pri- vate opinion, that my daughter's nerves might have been as well braced by morning rides upon the Northamptonshire hills, as by evening dances in the public rooms, and that my wife's bile would have been greatly lessened by compliance with her husband, I acquiesced ; and preparations were made for our journey. These, indeed, were but slight ; for the chief gratification proposed in this scheme was, an entire freedom from care and form. We should find every thing requisite in our lodgings ; it was of no consequence whether the rooms we should oc- cupy for a few months in the summer, were elegant or not ; the simplicity of a country life would be the more enjoyed by the little shifts we should be put to ; and all necessaries would be provided in our lodgings. It was not, therefore, till after we had taken them, that we discovered how far ready-fur- nished lodgings were from affording every article in the cata- logue of necessaries. We dia nOl, lilGcrca, g;^<. tk^ra a uor^ scrupulous examination ; for the place was so full, that, when we arrived, late at night, and tired with our journey, all the beds at the inn were taken up, and an easy-chair and a carpet were all the accommodations we could obtain for our repose. The next morning, therefore, we eagerly engaged the first lodgings we found vacant, and have ever since been disputing about the terms, which, from the hurry, were not sufficiently ascertained ; and it is not even yet settled whether the little 11 122 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. blue garret, which serves us as a powdering room, is ours of right or by favor. The want of all sorts of conveniences is a constant excuse for the want of all order and neatness, which is so visible in our apartment ; and we are continually lamenting that we are obliged to buy things of which we have such plenty at home. It is my misfortune that I can do nothing without all my little conveniences about me ; and, in order to write a com- mon letter, I must have my study-table to lean my elbows on in sedentary luxury : you will judge, therefore, how little I am able to employ my leisure, when I tell you, that the only room they have been able to allot for my use is so filled and crowd- ed with my daughters' hat-boxes, band-boxes, and wig-boxes, that I can scarcely move about in it, and am at this moment writing upon a spare trunk for want of a table, I am, therefore, driven to saunter about with the rest of the party ; but, instead of the fine clumps of trees and waving fields of corn I have been accustomed to have before my eyes, I see nothing but a naked beach, almost without a tree, ex- posed by turns to the cutting eastern blast andSthe glare of a July sun, and covered with a sand equally painful to the eyes and to the feet. The ocean is, indeed, an object of unspeak- able grandeur; but when it has been contemplated in a storm and in a calm, — when we have seen the sun rise out of its bosom, and the moon silver its extended surface, — its variety is exhausted, and the eye begins to require the softer and more interesting scenes of cultivated nature. My family have, indeed, been persuaded several times to en- joy the sea still more, by engaging in a little sailing-party ; but as, unfortunately, Northamptonshire has not afforded them any opportunity of becoming seasoned sailors, these parties of pleasure are always n++or.r^«J ^,-:tK t,i»o. «v»oot aicaami sicK- noss. This, likewise, I am told, is very good for the constitu- tion : it may be so, for aught I know ; but I confess I am apt to imagine that taking an emetic at home would be equally salutary, and I am sure it would be more decent. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. i<23 LESSON LIII. TTie same, — concluded. 1 HAVE endeavored to amuse myself with the company, but without much success. It consists of a very few great people, who make a set by themselves, and think they are ei>- titled, by the freedom of a watering-place, to indulge them- selves in all manner of airs ; and the rest is a motley group of sharpers, merchants' clerks, idle men, and nervous women. I have been accustomed to be nice in my choice of acquaint- ance ; but the greater part of our connexions here are such as we should be ashamed to acknowledge any where else. As to the settled inhabitants of the place, all who do not enrich themselves by us, view us with dislike, because we raise the price of provisions ; and those who do, — which, in one way or other, comprehends all the lower class, — have lost every trace of rural simplicity, and are versed in all arts of low cunning and chicane. The spirit of greediness and rapacity is no where so conspicuous as in lodging-houses. At our seat in the country, our domestic concerns went on as by clock-work ; a quarter of an hour in a week settled the bills, and few tradesmen wished, and none dared, to practise ajiy imposition where all were known; and the consequence of their different behavior must have been their being marked, for life, for encouragement or for distrust. But here the continual fluctuation of company takes away all regard to character ; the most respectable and ancient families have no influence any further than as they scatter their ready cash ; and neither gratitude nor respect is felt where there is no bond of mutual attachment besides the necessities of the present day. I should be happy if we had only to contend with this spirit during our present excursion ; but the effect it has up- on servants is most pernicious. Our family used to be re^ markable for having its domestics grow gray in its service ; but this expedition has already corrupted them : two we have this evening parted with, and the rest have learned so much of the tricks of their station, that we shall be obliged to dis- charge them as soon as we return home. 124 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. In the country, I had been accustomed to do good to the poor : there are charities here too ; — we have joined in a sub- scription for a crazy poetess, and a raffle for the support of a sharper, who passes under the title of a German count. Unfortunately, to balance these various expenses, this place, which happens to be a great resort of smugglers, aifords daily opportunities of making bargains. We drink spoiled teas, under the idea of their being cheap ; and the little room we have is made less by the reception of cargoes of India taffetas, shawl-muslins, and real chintzes. All my authority here would be exerted in vain ; for the buying of a bargain is a temptation which it is not in the nature of any woman to resist. I am in hopes, however, the business may receive some check from an incident which happened a little time since : an acquaintance of ours had his carriage seized by the cus- tom-house officers, on account of a piece of silk which one of his female cousins, without his knowledge, had stowed in it; and it was only released by its being proved, that what she had bought with so much satisfaction as contraband, was in reality the home-bred manufacture of Spitalfields. In this manner has the season passed away. I spend a great deal of money, and make no figure ; I am in the coun- try, and see nothing of country simplicity or country occupa- tions; I am in an obscure village, and yet cannot stir out without more observers than if I were walking in St. James's Park ; I am cooped up in less room than my own dog-kennel, while my spacious halls are injured by standing empty ; and I am paying for tasteless, unripe fruit, while my own choice wall-fruit is rotting by bushels under the trees. In recompense for all this, we have the satisfaction of knowing that we occupy the very rooms which my lord had just quitted; of picking up anecdotes, true or false, of people in high life; and of seizing the ridicule of every character that passes by us in the moving show-glass of the place, — a pastime which often affords us a good deal of mirth ; but which, I confess, I can never join in without re- flecting that what is our amusement is theirs likewise. As to the great ostensible object of our excursion, — health, — I am afraid we cannot boast of much improvement. We have had a wet and cold summer ; and these houses, which YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 125 are either old tenements vamped up, or new ones slightly run up for the accommodation of bathers during the season, have more contrivances for letting in the cooling breezes than for keeping them out, — a circumstance vi^hich I should presume sagacious physicians do not always attend to, when they order patients from their own warm, compact, substantial houses, to take the air in country lodgings ; of which the best apart- ments, during the winter, have only been inhabited by the rats, and where the poverty of the landlord prevents him from laying out more in repairs, than will serve to give them a showy and attractive appearance. Be that as it may ; — the rooms we at present inhabit are so pervious to the breeze, that, in spite of all the ingenious ex- pedients of listing doors, pasting paper on the inside of cup- boards, laying sand-bags, puttying crevices, and condemning closet-doors, it has given me a severe touch of my old rheu- matism ; and all my family are in one way or other affected with it : my eldest daughter, too, has got cold with her bath- ing, though the sea-water never gives any body cold ! In answer to these complaints, I am told by the good com- pany here, that I have staid too long in the same air, and that now I ought to take a trip to the continent, and spend the winter at Nice, which would complete the business. I am entirely of their opinion, that it would complete the business. LESSON LIV. The Tear of Peiiitence ; an Extract from " Paradise and the Peri" — T. Moore. Now, upon Syria's land of roses, Softly the light of eve reposes, And, like a glory, the broad sun Hangs over sainted Lebanon ; Whose head in wintry grandeur towers, And whitens with eternal sleet, While summer, in a vale of flowers, Is sleeping rosy at his feet. 11* 126 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. To one, who looked from upper air O'er all the enchanted regions there, How beauteous must have been the glow, The life, the sparkling from below ! Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks Of golden melons on their banks, — More golden where the sun-light falls ; Gay lizards, glittering on the walls Of ruined shrines, busy and bright As they were all alive with light ; And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks Of pigeons settling on the rocks, With their rich, restless wings, that gleam Variously in the crimson beam Of the warm west, as if inlaid With brilliants from the mine, or made Of tearless rainbows, such as span The unclouded skies of Peristan ! And, then, the mingling sounds that come, Of shepherds' ancient reed, with hum Of the wild bees of Palestine, Banqueting through the flowery vales ; And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine, And woods so full of nightingales ! But nought can charm the luckless Peri; Her soul is sad, her wings are weary — Joyless she sees the Sun look down On that great temple, once his own,* Whose lonely columns stand sublime, Flinging their shadows from on high, Like dials, which the wizard. Time, Had raised to count his ages by ! Yet haply there may lie concealed, Beneath those chambers of the sun, Some amulet of gems, annealed In upper fires, some tablet sealed With the great name of Solomon, * The Temple of the Sun at Balbec. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK- ^ Which, spelled by her illumined eyes, May teach her where, beneath the moon, In earth or ocean, lies the boon, The charm, that can restore, so soon, An erring spirit to the skies ! Cheered by this hope, she bends her thither ; Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven, Nor have the golden bowers of even, In the rich west, begun to wither ; When, o'er the vale of Balbec winging Slowly, she sees a child at play. Among the rosy wild-flowers singing, As rosy and as wild as they ; Chasing, with eager hands and eyes, The beautiful blue damsel flies. That fluttered round the jasmine stems. Like winged flowers or flying gems ; And near the boy, who, tired with play. Now, nestling mid the roses, lay. She saw a wearied man dismount From his hot steed, and, on the brink Of a small imaret's rustic fount. Impatient, fling him down to drink. Then swift his haggard brow he turned To the fair child, who fearless sat. Though never yet hath day-beam burned Upon a brow more fierce than that, — Sullenly fierce — a mixture dire. Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire ! In which the Peri's eye could read Dark tales of many a ruthless deed ; The ruined maid, the shrine profaned. Oaths broken, and the threshold stained With blood of guests ! there written, all. Black as the damning drops that fall From the denouncing angel's pen. Ere Mercy weeps them out again ! 128 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK, Yet tranquil, now, that man of crime — As if the balmy evening time Softened his spirit — looked and lay, Watching the rosy infant's play : Though still, whene'er his eye by chance Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance Met that unclouded, joyous gaze, As torches, that have burned all night, Through some impure and godless rite, Encounter morning's glorious rays. But hark ! the vesper call to prayer. As slow the orb of day-light sets, Is rising sweetly on the air. From Syria's thousand minarets ! The boy has started from the bed Of flowers, where he had laid his head. And down upon the fragrant sod Kneels, with his forehead to the south, Lisping the eternal name of God From Purity's own "cherub mouth ; And looking, while his hands and eyes Are lifted to the glowing skies, Like a stray babe of Paradise, Just lighted on that flowery plain, And seeking for its home again ! Oh ! 'twas a sight — that heaven — that child— A scene, which might have well beguiled Even haughty Eblis of a sigh For glories lost, and peace gone by. And how felt he, the wretched man Reclining there — while memory ran O'er many a year of guilt and strife, Flew o'er the dark flood of his life. Nor found one sunny resting-place, Nor brought him back one branch of grace 1 •* There 2ms a time," he said, in mild. Heart-humbled tones, " thou blessed child. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. |^ When, young, and, haply, pure as thou, I looked and prayed like thee ; but now — " He hung his head ; each nobler aim, And hope, and feeling, which had slept From boyhood's hour, that instant came Fresh o'er him, and he wept — he wept! Blest tears of soul-felt penitence ! In whose benign, redeeming flow Is felt the first, the only sense Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. * * * * ^ * And now behold him kneeling there. By the child's side, in humble prayer. While the same sun-beam shines upon The guilty and the guiltless one. And hymns of joy proclaim through heaven The triumph of a soul forgiven. LESSON LV. Character and Decay of the North American Indians. — Story. There is, in the fate of the unfortunate Indians, much to awaken our sympathy, and much to disturb the sobriety of our judgment; much which may be urged to excuse their own atrocities ; much in their characters, which betrays us into an involuntary admiration. What can be more melan- clioly than their history ? By a law of their nature, they seem destined to a slow, but sure extinction. Every where, at the approach of the white man, they fade away. We hear the rustling of their footsteps, like that of the withered leaves of autumn, and they are gone forever. They pass mournfully by us, and they return no more. Two centuries ago, the smoke of their wigwams and the fires of their councils, rose in every valley, from Hudson's Bay to the farthest Florida, from the ocean to the Mississippi 130 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. and the lakes. The shouts of victory and the war-dance rung through the mountains and the glades. The thick ar- rows and the deadly tomahawk whistled through the forests ; and the hunter's trace, and the dark encampment, startled the wild beasts in their lairs. The warriors stood forth in their glory. The young li*. tened to the songs of other days. The mothers played with their infants, and gazed on the scene with warm hopes of the future. The aged sat down ; but they wept not. They should soon be at rest in fairer regions, where the Great Spirit dwelt, in a home prepared for the brave beyond the western skies. Braver men never lived ; truer men never drew the bow. They had courage, and fortitude, and sa^ gacity, and perseverance, beyond most of the human race. They shrunk from no dangers, and they feared no hardships. If they had the vices of savage life, they had the virtues also. They were true to their country, their friends and their homes. If they forgave not injury, neither did they forget kindness. If their vengeance was terrible, their fidel» ity and generosity were unconquerable also. Their love, like their hate, stopped not on this side of the grave. But where are they? Where are the villages, and warriors, and youth ? the sachems and the tribes ? the hunters and their families ? They have perished. They are consumed. The wasting pestilence has not alone done the mighty work. No, — nor famine, nor war. There has been a mightier pow- er, a moral canker, which hath eaten into their heart-cores j a plague, which the touch of the white man communicated j a poison, which betrayed them into a lingering ruin. The winds of the Atlantic fan not a single region, which they may now call their own. Already the last feeble remnants of the race are preparing for their journey beyond tlie Mississippi. I see them leave their miserable homes, the aged, the helpless, the women and the warriors, " few and faint, yet fearless still." The ashes are cold on their native hearths. The smoke no longer curls round their lowly cabins. They move on with a slow, unsteady step. The white man is upon their heels, for terror or despatch; but they heed him not. They turn to take a last look of their deserted villages. They cast a last glance upon the graves YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 131 of their fathers. They shed no tears ; they utter no cries ; they heave no groans. There is something in their hearts, which passes speech. There is something in their looks, not of vengeance or submis- sion, but of hard necessity, vi^hich stifles both ; which chokes all utterance ; which has no aim nor method. It is courage absorbed in despair. They linger but for a moment. Their look is onward. They have passed the fatal stream. It shall never be repassed by them, — no, never. Yet there lies not between us and them an impassable gulf They know, and feel, that there is for them still one remove farther, not distant, nor unseen. It is to the general burial-ground of their race. Reason as we may, it is impossible not to read, in such a fate, much that we know not how to interpret; much of provocation to cruel deeds and deep resentments ; much of apology for wrong and perfidy ; much of pity mingling with indignation ; much of doubt and misgiving as to the past ; much of painful recollections; much of dark foreboding. Philosophy may tell us, that conquest in other cases has adopted the conquered into its own bosom ; and thus, at no distant period, given them the common privileges of subjects ; but that the red men are incapable of such an assimilation. By their very nature and character, they can neither unite themselves with civil institutions, nor with safety be allowed to remain as distinct communities. Policy may suggest, that their ferocious passions, their independent spirit, and their wandering life, disdain the restraints of society ; that they will submit to superior force only while it chains them to the earth by its pressure. A wilderness is essential to their habits and pursuits. They can neither be tamed nur overawed. They subsist by war or hunting ; and the game of the forest is relinquished only for the nobler game of man. The question, therefore, is neces- sarily reduced to the consideration, whether the country itself shall be abandoned by civilized man, or maintained by his sword as the right of the strongest. It may be so ; perhaps, in the wisdom of Providence, it must be so. I pretend not to comprehend, or solve, such weighty difficulties. But neither philosophy nor policy can 132 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. shut out the feelings of nature. Humanity must continue to sigh at the constant sacrifices of this bold, but wasting race. And Religion, if she may not blush at the deed, must, as she sees the successive victims depart, cling to the altar with a drooping heart, and mourn over a destiny without hope and without example. LESSON LVI. Melancholy Fate of the Indians. — C. Sprague, I VENERATE the pilgrim's cause, Yet for the red man dare to plead: We bow to Heaven's recorded laws, He turned to nature for a creed ; Beneath the pillared dome. We seek our God in prayer ; Through boundless woods he loved to roam, And the Great Spirit worshipped there ; But one, one fellow-throb with us he felt ; To one divinity with us he knelt — Freedom, the self-same freedom we adore. Bade him defend his violated shore. He saw the cloud, ordained to grow, And burst upon his hills in wo ; He saw his people withering by, Beneath the invader's evil eye ; Strange feet were trampling on his fathers' bones ; At midnight hour, he woke to gaze Upon his happy cabin's blaze. And listen to his children's dying groans. He saw, and, maddening at the sight. Gave his bold bosom to the fight ; To tiger rage his soul was driven; Mercy was not — nor sought nor given ; The pale man from his lands must fly ; He would be free— or he would die. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. And was this savage ? Say, Ye ancient few, Who struggled through Young freedom's trial-day, What first your sleeping wrath awoke 1 On your own shores war's larum broke : What turned to gall even kindred blood ? Round your own homes the oppressor stood : This every warm affection chilled, This every heart with vengeance thrilled, And strengthened every hand ; From mound to mound, The word went round — " Death for our native land !" Ye mothers, too, breathe ye no sigh, For them who thus could dare to die ? Are all your own dark hours forgot. Of soul-sick suffering here, — Your pangs, as from yon mountain spot,* Death spoke in every boommg shot, That knelled upon your ear 1 How oft that gloomy, glorious tale ye tell. As round your knees your children's children hang. Of them, the gallant ones, ye loved so well, Who to the conflict for their country sprang In pride, in all the pride of wo, Ye tell of them, the brave, laid low, Who for their birthplace bled ; In pride, the pride of triumph then. Ye tell of them, the matchless men, From whom the invaders fled. And ye, this holy place who throng, The annual theme to hear, And bid the exulting song Sound their great names from year to year ; Ye, who invoke the chisel's breathing grace, In marble majesty their forms to trace ; • Bunker Hill. 12 133 131 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Ye, who the sleeping rocks would raise, To guard their dust and speak their praise ; Ye, who, should some other band With hostile foot defile the land. Feel that ye, like them, would wake, Like them the yoke of bondage break. Nor leave a battle-blade undrawn. Though every hill a sepulchre should yawn — Say, have not ye one line for those. One brother-line to spare, Who rose but as your fathers rose. And dared as ye would dare ? Alas ! for them, — their day is o'er. Their fires are out from hill and shore : No more for them the wild deer bounds ; The plough is on their hunting grounds ; The pale man's axe rings through their woods, The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods. Their pleasant springs are dry ; Their children — look ! by power oppressed. Beyond the mountains of the west, Their children go — to die. O doubly lost ! Oblivion's shadows close Around their triumphs and their woes. On other realms, whose suns have set. Reflected radiance lingers yet ; There, sage and bard have shed a light That never shall go down in night ; There, time-crowned columns stand on high, To tell of them who cannot die ; Even we, who then were nothing, kneel In homage there, and join earth's general peal. But the doomed Indian leaves behind no trace, To save his own, or serve another race : With his frail breath his power has passed away ; His deeds, his thoughts, are buried with his clay. Nor lofty pile, nor glowing page, Shall link him to a future age, YOUNG LADIES* CLASS BOOK. 1^ Or give him with the past a rank : His heraldry is but a broken bow, His history but a tale of wrong and wo, His very name must be a blank. Cold, with the beast he slew, he sleeps ; O'er him no filial spirit weeps ; No crowds throng round, no anthem-notes ascend, " To bless his coming and embalm his end ; Even that he lived, is for his conqueror's tongue, — By foes alone his death-song must be sung ; No chronicles but theirs shall tell His mournful doom to future times ; May these upon his virtues dwell, And in his fate forget his crimes. LESSON LVn. Concluding Lines of the "Fall of the Indian" — McLELUjr. Yet sometimes, in the gay and noisy street Of the great city, which usurps the place Of the small Indian village, one shall see Some miserable relic of that race, Whose sorely-tarnished fortunes we have sung ;— Yet how debased and fallen ! In his eye The flame of noble daring is gone out, And his brave face has lost its martial look. His eye rests on the earth, as if the grave Were his sole hope, his last and only home. A poor, thin garb is wrapped about his frame, Whose sorry plight but mocks his ancient state ; And in the bleak and pitiless storm he walks With melancholy brow, and shivers as he goes. His pride is dead ; his courage is no more ; His name is but a by-word. All the tribes. Who called this mighty continent their own, Are homeless, friendless wanderers on earth ! X36 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. LESSON LVIII. Death-Song of OutaUssi.-—CAMTBEUu, "And I could weep,"— the Oneida chief His descant wildly thus begun, — " But that I may not stain with grief The death-song of my father's son, Or bow this head in wo ; For, by my wrongs and by my wrath, To-morrow, Areouski's breath. That fires yon heaven with storms of death, Shall light us to the foe : And we shall share, my Christian boy, The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy ! " But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heaven Forbid not thee to weep : Nor will the Christian host, Nor will thy father's spirit grieve To see thee, on the battle's eve. Lamenting, take a mournful leave Of her who loved thee most : She was the rainbow to thy sight. Thy sun — ^thy heaven — of lost delight. "To-morrow, let us do or die ! But when the bolt of death is hurled. Ah ! whither then with thee to fly ? Shall Outalissi roam the world ? Seek we thy once-loved home ? The hand is gone that cropped its flowers : Unheard the clock repeats its hours ; Cold is the hearth within those bowers ; And should we thither roam. Its echoes, and its empty tread. Would sound like voices from the dead. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. ^gy " Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed, And by my side, in battle true, A thousand warriors drew the shaft ? Ah ! there, in desolation cold. The desert serpent dwells alone. Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves, to ruin grown, Like me are death-like old. Then seek we not their camp ; for there The silence dwells of my despair. " But hark ! the trump ! — to-morrow, thou In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears : Even from the land of shadows now My father's awful ghost appears. Amidst the clouds that round us roll : He bids my soul for battle thirst, — He bids me dry the last, the first, The only tears, that ever burst From Outalissi's soul ; Because I may not stain with grief The death-sonsf of an Indian chief." LESSON LIX. Portrait of a worldly-minded 'Wo7nan. — Freeman. A WOMAN has spent her youth without the practice of any remarkable virtue, or the commission of any thing which is flagrantly wrong; and she is now united with a man, whose moral endowments are not more distinguished than her own ; but who is industrious, rich and prosperous. Against the connexion she had no objection ; and it is what her friends entirely approved. His standing in life is respec- table ; and they both pass along without scandal, but without much approbation of their own consciences, and without any loud applause from others ; for the love of the world is the 12* 138 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. principle, which predominates in their bosoms ; and the world never highly praises its own votaries. She is not absolutely destitute of the external appearance of religion ; for she constantly attends church in the after- noon, unless she is detained by her guests ; and in the morn- ing, unless she is kept at home by a slight indisposition, or unfavorable weather, which, she supposes, happen more fre- quently on Sundays than other days ; and which, it must be confessed, are several degrees less inconvenient and less un- pleasant, than similar causes, which prevent her from going to a party of pleasure. This, however, is the end of her religion, such as it is ; for when she is at church, she does not think herself under obligations to attend to what is pass- ing there, and to join in the worship of her Maker. She cannot, with propriety, be called a woman professing godliness ; for she makes no public profession of love to her Savior : she does only what is customary ; and she would do still less, if the omission was decorous. Of domestic religion, there is not even a semblance. As her husband does not think proper to pray with his family, so she does not think proper to pray with her children, or to instruct them in the doctrines and duties of Christianity. On the gospel, however, no ridicule nor contempt is cast ; and twice or thrice in a year, thanks are given to God at her table, — that is, when a minister of religion is one of her guests. No time being consumed in devotion, much is left for the care of her house, to which she attends with worldly discre- tion. Her husband is industrious in acquiring wealth ; and she is equally industrious in spending it in such a manner as to keep up a genteel appearance. She is prudent in managing her affiiirs, and suffers nothing to be wasted through thoughtlessness. In a word, she is a reasonable economist; and there is a loud call, though she is affluent, that she should be so, as her expenses are necessarily great. But she is an economist, not for the indigent, but for her- self; not that she may increase her means of doing good, but that she may adorn her person, and the persons of her children, with gold, and pearls, and costly array ; not that she may make a feast for the poor, the maimed, the lame, and the blind, but that she may make a dinner or a supper for YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. I39 her rich neighbors, who will bid her again. Though the preparations for these expensive dining and evening parties, are more irksome than the toils of the common laborer, yet she submits to them with readiness ; for she loves the world, and she loves the approbation, which she hopes the world will bestow on the brilliancy of her decorations, and the ex- quisite taste of her high-seasoned viands and delicious wines. For this reputation,' she foregoes the pleasure which she would feel, ir\ giving bread to the fatherless, and in kindling the cheerful fire on the hearth of the aged widow. Thus, though she has many guests at her board, yet she is not hospitable ; and though she gives much away, yet she is not charitable ; for she gives to those who stand in no need of her gifts. I call not this woman completely selfish ; for she loves her family. She is sedulous in conferring on her daughters a polite education, and in settling them in the world as repu- tably, as she is established herself For her sons she is still more anxious, because the sons of the rich are too much addicted to extravagance ; and she is desirous to pre- serve them from dissipations, which would tarnish the good name, that she would have them enjoy in the world, and which, above all, would impair their fortunes. But here her affection terminates. She loves nothing out of the bosom of her own family : for the poor and the wretched she has no regard. It is not strictly accurate to say, that she bestows nothing on them ; because she sometimes gives in public charities, when it would not be decent to withhold her donations ; and she sometimes gives more privately, when she is warmly so- licited, and when all her friends and neighbors give : but, in both cases, she concedes her alms with a cold and unwilling mind. She considers it in the same light as her husband views the taxes which he pays to the government, as a debt which must be discharged, but from which she would be glad to escape. As a rational woman, however, must not be supposed to conduct herself without reason, she endeavors to find excuses for her omissions. Her first and great apology is, that she has poor relations to provide for. In this apology there is 140 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. truth. Mortifying as she feels it to be, it must be confessed that she is clogged with indigent connexions, who are allow- ed to come to her house, when she lias no apprehension that they will be seen by her wealthy visitants. As it would be a gross violation of decency, and what every one would con- demn as monstrous, for her to permit them to famish, when she is so able to relieve them, she does, indeed, bestow something on them ; but she gives if sparingly, reluctantly and haughtily. She flatters herself, however, that she has now done every thing which can with justice be demanded of her, and that other indigent persons have not a claim on her bounty. Another apology is, that the poor are vitious, and do not deserve her beneficence. By their idleness and intemper- ance they have brought themselves to poverty. They have little regard to truth ; and though it must be allowed that their distress is not altogether imaginary, yet they are ever disposed to exaggerate their sufferings. Whilst they are ready to devour one another, they are envious toward the rich, and the kindness of their benefactors they commonly repay with ingratitude. To justify these charges, she can produce many examples ; and she deems that they are suf- ficient excuses for her want of humanity. But she forgets, in the mean while, that the Christian woman, who sincerely loves God and her neighbor, in imitation of her heavenly Father, is kind to the evil as well as the good, to the un- thankful as well as the grateful. LESSON LX. Portrait of a selfish Woman. — Freeman. A YOUNG WOMAN, in a state of prosperity, is not yet much corrupted by the world, and has not entirely lost the sim- plicity and innocence of her early years. She has passed her childhood diligently and laudably, in the acquisition of those elegant accomplishments, which are so highly ornamen- tal to the daughters of the rich ; and she is now the pride of YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 141 her parents, and the object of general admiration. Of religion she has some appearance, for she not only goes to church, but she attends there frequently and with pleasure. In truth, nothing, except a well-acted play or interesting novel, affords her so much delight, as a discourse, which is elegantly com- posed, and eloquently delivered, and which sparkles with brilliant metaphors and original similes. She is, in particular, charmed with sweet-toned, pathetic Bermons, which fill her eyes with tears, and her bosom with Boft emotions ; but for those plain discourses, which probe the human heart, which point out the danger of prosperity, and inculcate the necessity of self-denial and humility, she has very little relish. Humility, in particular, that grace which is so essential in the character of a true Christian, is a virtue to which she is a stranger. She entertains an exalt- ed idea of her own dignity, and esteems nothing in this world so important, so sublime, so celestial, as a beautiful and accomplished young woman. But though she is not hum- ble, yet she has somewhat of the appearance of humility ; for die is modest in her thoughts, and delicate in her manners. Religion with her is a matter of taste, but not of action. She makes judicious observations on the sermons which she hears, and on the prayers, as far as they are the subjects of criticism ; but she neither prays with her heart, nor does she receive with meekness into her heart the engrafted word. Of godliness she has not yet made a profession ; for this is a business which belongs to the old and the wretched, and not to the young and the cheerful. Her behavior in her family and in society, however, may in general be said to be without reproach. As she receives the homage of every one who approaches her, she is careful to return respect ; and there is no want in her of that condescension, which is consistent with a high degree of self-complacence. Of candor she possesses, if not a liberal, yet not an un- usual portion. She never calumniates any one ; and if she sometimes makes herself merry with the foibles of her ab- sent friends, her wit is without malice, and is designed only to excite the mirth of the present company. In effect she loves, or at least thinks that she loves, her friends with uncommon lirdor ; and her private letters to them are replete with the 14-2 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. warmest expressions of affection, with the most generous and disinterested sentiments. For charity she entertains a fond regard. Charity, that divine nymph, which descends from the skies, with an eye beaming with benignity, a cheek glowing with compassion, a foot light as a zephyr silently stepping near the couch of an- guish, and a soft hand gently opened for the solace of the daughters of wo ; charity, which she cannot figuratively de- scribe, without literally describing the loveliness of her own face, and the graces of her own person ; charity is so charm- ing a form, that no mind, she thinks, can contemplate her without delightful emotions. Her refined taste in benevo- lence, and the books which she has read, teach her highly to value this godlike virtue ; and she impatiently longs for an opportunity of displaying her liberality in such a magnificent style, as to overwhelm with gratitude the object of her bounty. But the sufferer, whom she has imaged in her mind, is as elegant as herself; and though poor, yet without any of the mean concomitants of poverty. For the real poor, who daily pass before her eyes, who are gross and vulgar, rude in their speech, base in their sentiments, and squalid in their gar- ments, she has little sympathy. Farthings would comfort them, but she gives them nothing ; for her ambition is to pour handfuls of guineas into the lap of poor Maria, a lovely and unfortunate girl, who would thank her in pathetic and polished language. Thus she passes her youth, praising and affecting benevolence, but without the actual performance of good works ; and, should not her heart in season be touched with piety and Christian charity, when she enters the conju- gal state, she sinks into the cold and selfish matron. LESSON LXI. Fancy and Philosophy contrasted. — Beattie. I CANNOT blame thy choice, the sage replied, For soft and smooth are fancy's flowery ways ; And yet, even there, if left without a guide, The young adventurer unsafely plays. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 143 Eyes, dazzled long by fiction's gaudy rays, In modest truth no light nor beauty find : And who, my child, would trust the meteor blaze, That soon must fail, and leave the wanderer blind, More dark and helpless far, than if it ne'er had shined ? Fancy enervates, while it soothes the heart, And while it dazzles, wounds the mental sight : To joy each heightening charm it can impart. But wraps the hour of wo in tenfold night : And often, where no real ills affright. Its visionary fiends, an endless train, Assail with equal or superior might, And through the throbbing heart, and dizzy brain. And shivering nerves, shoot stings of more than mortal pain. And yet, alas ! the real ills of life Claim the full vigor of a mind prepared, Prepared for patient, long, laborious strife, Its guide experience, and truth its guard. We fare on earth as other men have fared : Were they successful I Let not us despair. Was disappointment oft their sole reward 1 Yet shall their tale instruct, if it declare How they have borne the load ourselves are doomed to bear. But, now, let other themes our care engage ; For, lo ! with modest, yet majestic grace, To curb imagination's lawless rage, And from within the cherished heart to brace. Philosophy appears. The gloomy race, By indolence and moping fancy bred — Fear, discontent, solicitude — give place. And hope and courage brighten in their stead. While on the kindling soul her vital beams are shed. Then waken from long lethargy to life The seeds of happiness and powers of thought ; Then jarring appetites forego their strife, A strife by ignorance to madness wrought. 144 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Pleasure by savage man is dearly bought With fell revenge, lust that defies control, With gluttony and death. The mind untaught Is a dark waste, where fiends and tempests howl ; As Phoebus to the world, is science to the soul. And reason, now, through number, time and space, Darts the keen lustre of her serious eye. And learns, from facts compared, the laws to trace, Whose long progression leads to Deity. Can mortal strength presume to soar so high? Can mortal sight, so oft bedimmed with tears, Such glory bear? — for, lo! the shadows fly From nature's face ; confusion disappears. And order charms the eye, and harmony the ears. Many a long-lingering year, in lonely isle. Stunned with the eternal turbulence of waves, Lo ! with dim eyes, that never learned to smile, And trembling hands, the famished native craves Of Heaven his wretched fare : shivering in caves, Or scorched on rocks, he pines from day to day ; But science gives the word; and, lo! he braves The surge and tempest, lighted by her ray, And to a happier land wafts merrily away. And even where nature loads the teeming plain With the full pomp of vegetable store. Her bounty, unimproved, is deadly bane : Dark woods and rankling wilds, from shore to shore Stretch their enormous gloom ; which, to explore, Even fancy trembles in her sprightliest mood ; For there each eyeball gleams with lust of gore, Nestles each murderous and each monstrous brood ; Plague lurks in every shade, and steams from every flood. Twas from philosophy man leaftied to tame The soil, by plenty to intemperance fed. Lo ! from the echoing axe and thundering flame, Poison, and plague, and yelling rage are fled. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 145 The waters, bursting from their slimy bed, Bring health and melody to every vale : And from the breezy main and mountain's head, Ceres and Flora, to the sunny dale. To fan their glowing charms, invite the fluttering gale. What dire necessities, on every hand, Our art, our strength, our fortitude, require ! Of foes intestine what a numerous band Against this little throb of life conspire ! Yet science can elude their fatal ire Awhile, and turn aside death's levelled dart. Soothe the sharp pang, allay the fever's fire, And brace the nerves once more, and cheer the heart, And yet a few soft nights and balmy days impart. Nor less to regulate man's moral frame Science exerts her all-composing sway. Flutters thy breast with fear, or pants for fame, Or pines, to indolence and spleen a prey. Or avarice, a fiend more fierce than they ? Flee to the shades of Academus' grove. Where cares molest not ; discord melts away In harmony, and the pure passions prove How sweet the words of truth, breathed from the lips of love. What cannot art and industry perform. When science plans the progress of their toilt They smile at penury, disease and storm. And oceans from their mighty mounds recoil. When tyrants scourge, or demagogues embroil A land, or when the rabble's headlong rage Order transforms to anarchy and spoil, Deep-versed in man, the philosophic sage Prepares, with lenient hand, their phrensy to assuage. 'Tis he alone, whose comprehensive mind, From situation, temper, soil and clime Explored, a nation's various powers can bind. And various orders, in one form sublime 13 146 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Of policy, that, midst the wrecks of time. Secure shall lift its head on high, nor fear The assault of foreign or domestic crime ; While public faith, and public love sincere, And industry and law, maintain their sway severe. LESSON LXII. Extracts from " A Father^ s Legacy to his Daughters.^' — Gregory. There are many circumstances in your situation, that pe- culiarly require the supports of religion, to enable you to act in them with spirit and propriety. Your whole life is often a life of suffering. You cannot plunge into business, or dissi- pate yourselves in pleasure and riot, as men too often do, when under the pressure of misfortunes. You must bear your sorrows in silence, unknown and unpitied. You must often put on a face of serenity and cheerfulness, when your hearts are torn with anguish, or sinking in despair. Then your only resource is in the consolations of religion. Be punctual in the stated performance of your private devo- tions, morning and evening. If you have any sensibility or imagination, this will establish such an intercourse between you and the Supreme Being, as will be of infinite conse- quence to you in life. It will communicate an habitual cheerfulness to your tempers, give a firmness and steadiness to your virtue, and enable you to go through all the vicissi- tudes of human life with propriety and dignity. Cultivate an enlarged charity for all mankind, however they may differ from you in their religious opinions. That difference may probably arise from causes in which you had no share, and from which you can derive no merit. The best effect of your religion will be a diffusive humanity to all in distress. Set apart a certain proportion of your in- come as sacred to charitable purposes. But in this, as well as in the practice of every other duty, carefully avoid osten- tation. Vanity is always defeating her own purposes. Fame YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 147 is one of the natural rewards of virtue. Do not pursue her, and she will follow you. Do not confine your charity to giving money. You may have many opportunities of showing a tender and compas- sionate spirit, where your money is not wanted. There is a false and unnatural refinement in sensibility, which makes some people shun the sight of every object in distress. Never indulge this, especially where your friends or acquaintances are concerned. Let the days of their misfortunes, when the world forgets or avoids them, be the season for you to exer- cise your humanity and friendship. The sight of human misery softens the heart, and makes it better : it checks the pride of health and prosperity ; and the distress it occasions is amply compensated by the consciousness of doing your duty, and by the secret endearment which nature has annexed to all our sympathetic sorrows. One of the chief beauties in a female character, is that modest reserve, that retiring delicacy, which avoids the public eye, and is disconcerted even at the gaze of admiration. I do not wish you to be insensible to applause. If you were, you must become, if not worse, at least less amiable women. But you may be dazzled by that admiration, which yet re- joices your hearts. When a girl ceases to blush, she has lost the most powerful charm of beauty. That extreme sensibility, which it indi- cates, may be a weakness and encumbrance in our sex ; but in yours, it is peculiarly engaging. Pedants, who think themselves philosophers, ask why a woman should blush, when she is conscious of no crime. It is a sufficient answer, that nature has made you to blush when you are guilty of no fault, and has forced us to love you because you do so. Blushing is so far from being necessarily an attendant on guilt, that it is the usual companion of innocence. This modesty, which I think so essential in your sex, will naturally dispose you to be rather silent in company, espe- cially in a large one. People of sense and discernment will never mistake such silence for dulness. One may take a share in conversation without uttering a syllable. The ex- pression in the countenance shows it, and this never escapes an observing eye. 148 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Wit is the most dangerous talent you can possess. It must be guarded with great discretion and good nature, oth- erwise it will create you many enemies. Wit is perfectly consistent with softness and delicacy ; yet they are seldom found united. Wit is so flattering to vanity, that they who possess it, become intoxicated, and lose all self-command. Humor is a different quality. It will make your company much solicited ; but be cautious how you indulge it. It is often a great enemy to delicacy, and a still greater one to dignity of character. It may sometimes gain you applause, but will never procure you respect. LESSON LXIII. The same, — concluded. Beware of detraction, especially where your own sex are concerned. You are generally accused of being particularly addicted to this vice — I think, unjustly. Men are fully as guilty of it, when their interests interfere. As your interests more frequently clash, and as your ffeelings are quicker than ours, your temptations to it are more frequent. For this reason, be particularly tender of the reputation of your own sex, especially when they happen to rival you in our regards. We look on this as the strongest proof of dignity and true greatness of mind. Have a sacred regard to truth. Lying is a mean and des- picable vice. I have known some women of^excellent parts, who were so much addicted to it, that they could not be trusted in the relation of any story, especially if it contained any thing of the marvellous, or if they themselves were the heroines of the tale. This weakness did not proceed from a bad heart, but was merely the effect of vanity, or an unbridled imagination. I do not mean to censure that lively embellish- ment of a humorous story, which is only intended to promote innocent mirth. There is a certain gentleness of spirit and manners ex- tremely engaging in your sex ; not that indiscriminate atten- YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. I49 tion, that unmeaning simper, which smiles on all alike. This arises, either from an affectation of softness, or from perfect insipidity. Let me recommend to your attention, that elegance, which is not so much a quality itself, as the high polish of every other. It is what diffuses an ineffable grace over every look, every motion, every sentence you utter. It gives that charm to beauty, without which it generally fails to please. It is partly a personal quality, in which respect it is the gifl of nature ; but I speak of it, principally, as a quality of the mind. In a word, it is the perfection of taste in life and manners, — every virtue and every excellency in their most graceful and amiable forms. ' You may, perhaps, think that I want to throw every spark of nature out of your composition, and to make you entirely artificial. Far from it. I wish you to possess the most per- fect simplicity of heart and manners. I think you may possess dignity without pride, affability without meanness, and simple elegance without affectation. I would particularly recommend to you those exercises, that oblige you to be much abroad in the open air, such aa walking, and riding on horseback. These will give vigor to your constitutions, and a bloom to your complexions. An attention to your health is a duty you owe to yourselves and to your friends. Bad health seldom fails to have an influ- ence on the spirits and temper. The finest geniuses, the most delicate minds, have very frequently a correspondent delicacy of bodily constitution, which they are too apt to neglect. Their luxury lies in reading and late hours, equal enemies to health and beauty. The domestic economy of a family is entirely a woman's province, and furnishes a variety of subjects for the exertion both of good sense and good taste. If you ever come to have the charge of a family, it ought to engage much of your time and attention ; nor can you be excused from this by any extent of fortune, though, with a narrow one, the ruin that follows the neglect of it may be more immediate. Do not confine your attention to dress to your public ap- pearances. Accustom yourselves to an habitual neatness ; so that, in the most careless undress, in your most unguarded 13* 150 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. hours, you may have no reason to be ashamed of your ap- pearance. You will not easily believe how much we consider your dress as expressive of your characters. Vanity, levity, slovenliness, folly, appear through it. An elegant simplicity is an equal proof of taste and delicacy. In dancing, the principal points you are to attend to, are ease and grace. I would have you dance with spirit : but never allow yourselves to be so far transported with mirth, as to forget the delicacy of your sex. Many a girl, dancing in the gaiety and innocence of her heart, is thought to discover a spirit she little dreams of In the choice of your friends, have your principal regard to goodness of heart and fidelity. If they also possess taste and genius, that will make them still more agreeable and useful companions. You have particular reason to place confidence in those, who have shown affection for you in your early days, when you were incapable of making them any return. This is an obligation for which you cannot be too grateful. If you have the good fortune to meet with any who de- serve the name of friends, unbosom yourself to them with the most unsuspicious confidence. It is one of the world's maxims, never to trust any person with a secret, the discovery of which could give you any pain ; but it is the maxim of a little mind and a cold heart, unless where it is the effect of frequent disappointments and bad usage. An open temper, if restrained but by tolerable prudence, will make you, on the whole, much happier than a reserved, suspicious one, although you may sometimes suffer by it. Coldness and distrust are but the too certain consequences of age and experience ; but they are unpleasant feelings, and need not be anticipated before their time. But, however open you may be in talking of your own af- fairs, never disclose the secrets of one friend to another. These are private deposits, which do not belong to you, nor have you any right to make use of them. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. jgi LESSON LXIV. To a Log of Wood upon the Fire. — New Monthly Magazine. Poor Log ! I cannot hear thee sigh, And groan, and hiss, and see thee die, To warm a poet. Without evincing thy success, And, as thou wanest less and less, Inditing a farewell address. To let thee know it. Peeping from earth, a bud unveiled, Some husky bourn or dingle hailed Thy natal hour. While infant winds around thee blew, And thou wert fed with silver dew, And tender sun-beams, oozing through i^ Thy leafy bower. Earth, water, air, thy growth prepared ; And if perchance some robin, scared From neighboring manor, Perched on thy crest, it rocked in air, Making his ruddy feathers flare In the sun's ray, as if they were A fairy banner. Or if some nightingale impressed Against thy branching top her breast, Heaving with passion, And, in the leafy nights of June, Outpoured her sorrows to the moon. Thy trembling stem thou didst attune To each vibration. 152 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Thou grew'st a goodly tree, with shoots Fanning the sky, and earth-bound roots So grappled under, That thou, whom perching birds could swing, And zephyrs rock with lightest wing, From thy firm trunk, unmoved, didst fling Tempest and thunder. How oft thy lofty summits won Morn's virgin smile, and hailed the sun With rustling motion, — How oft, in silent depths of night, When the moon sailed in cloudless light, Thou hast stood awe-struck at the sight, In hushed devotion, — 'Twere vain to ask ; for, doomed to fall, The day appointed for us all O'er thee impended : The hatchet, with remorseless blow, First laid thee in the forest low, Then cut thee into logs, and so Thy course was ended. i But not thine use ; for moral rules. Worth all the wisdom of the schools, Thou may'st bequeath me ; Bidding me cherish those who live Above me, and, the more I thrive, A wider shade and shelter give To those beneath me. So when, at last. Death lays me low, I may resign, as calm as thou. My hold terrestrial ; Like thine my latter end be found Diffusing light and warmth around. And like thy smoke my spirit bound To realms celestial. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. I53 LESSON LXV. A Family Scene. — Miss Ferrier. The first appearance of the Holm was highly prepossessing. It was a large, handsome-looking house, situated in a well- wooded park, by the side of a broad, placid river ; and an air of seclusion and stillness reigned all around, which impressed the mind with images of peace and repose. The interior of the house was no less promising. There was a spacious hall, and a handsome staircase, with all appliances to boot; but, as the party approached the drawing-room, all the luxurious indolence of thought, inspired by the tranquillity of the scenery, was quickly dispelled by the discordant sounds which issued from thence ; and, when the door was thrown open, the footman in vain attempted to announce the visiters. In the middle of the room all the chairs were collected, to form a coach and horses for the Masters and Misses Fairbairn. One unruly-looking urchin sat in front, cracking a long whip with all his might ; another acted as guard behind, and blew a shrill trumpet with all his strength ; while a third, in a night-cap and flannel lappet, who had somewhat the air of having quarrelled with the rest of the party, paraded up and down, in solitary majesty, beating a drum. On a sofa sat Mrs. Fairbairn, a soft, fair, genteel-looking woman, with a crying child about three years old at her side, tearing paper into shreds, seemingly for the delight of littering the carpet, which was already strowed with headless dolls, tailless horses, and wheelless carts. As she rose to receive her vis- iters, it began to scream. " I'm not going away, Charlotte, love, — don't be frightened," said the fond mother, with a look of ineffable pl^sure. " You shan't get up," screamed Charlotte, seizing her mother's gown fiercely, to detain her. " My darling, you'll surely let me go to speak to uncle — good uncle, who brings you pretty things, you know ;" but, during this colloquy, uncle and the ladies had made their way to the enthralled mother, and the bustle of a meeting and introduction was got over. The footman obtained chairs J54 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. with some difficulty, and placed them as close to the mistress of the house as possible, aware that, otherwise, it would not be easy to carry on even question and answer amid the tu- mult that reigned. " You find us rather noisy, I am afraid," said Mrs. Fair- bairn with a smile, and in a manner which evidently meant the reverse ; " but this is Saturday, and the children are all in such spirits, and they won't stay away from me. Henry, my dear, don't crack your whip quite so loud, there's a good boy — that's a new whip his papa brought him from London ; and he's so proud of it ! William, my darling, don't you think your drum must be tired now 1 If I were you I would give it a rest. Alexander, your trumpet makes rather too much noise : one of these ladies has a headache ; wait till you go out — there's my good boy, — and then you'll blow it at the cows and the sheep, you know, and frighten them— Oh ! how you will frighten them with it !" " No, I'll not blow it at the cows ; I'll blow it at the horses, because then they'll think 'tis the mail-coach." And he was running off, when Henry jumped down from the coach-box. " No, but you shan't frighten them with your trumpet, for I shall frighten them with my whip. Mamma, aren't horses best frightened with a whip ?" — and a struggle ensued. " Well, don't fight, my dears, and you shall both frighten them," cried their mamma. " No, I'm determined he shan't frighten them ; I shall do it," cried both together, as they rushed out of the room, and the drummer was preparing to follow. *' William, my darling, don't you go after these naughty boys ; you know they're always very bad to you. You know they wouldn't let you into their coach with your drum." Here William began to cry. — "Well, never mind, you shall have a coacM' of your own — a much finer coach than theirs; I wouldn't go in to their ugly, dirty coach ; and you shall have — " Here something of a consolatory nature was whis- pered; William was comforted, and even prevailed upon to relinquish his drum for his mamma's ivory work-box, the con- tents of which were soon scattered on the floor. "These boys are gone without their hats," cried Mrs. Fairbairn, in a tone of distress. " Eliza, my dear, pull the YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 155 bell for Sally to get the boys' hats." Sally being despatched with the hats, something like a calm ensued, in the absence of him of the whip and the trumpet ; but as it will be of short duration, it is necessary to take advantage of it in im- proving the introduction into an acquaintance with the Fair- bairn family. Mrs. Fairbairn was one of those ladies, who, from the time she became a mother, ceased to be any thing else. All the duties, pleasures, charities and decencies of life, were hence- forth concentrated in that one grand characteristic; every object in life was henceforth viewed through that single me- dium. Her own mother was no longer her mother ; she was the grandmamma of her dear infants : her brothers and sisters were mere uncles and aunts ; and even her husband ceased to be thought of as her husband, from the time he became a father. He was no longer the being who had claims on her time, her thoughts, her talents, her affections ;> he was simply Mr. Fairbairn, the noun masculine of Mrs. Fairbairn, and the father of her children. Happily for Mr. Fairbairn, he was not a person of very nice feelings, or refined taste ; and al- though, at first, he did feel a little unpleasantly, when he saw how much his children were preferred to himself, yet, in time, he became accustomed to it, — then came to look upon Mrs. Fairbairn as the most exemplary of mothers, — and, finally, resolved himself into the father of a very fine family, of which Mrs. Fairbairn was the mother. In all this there was more of selfish egotism, and animal instinct, than of rational affection, or Christian principle ; but both parents piqued themselves upon their fondness for their offspring, as if it were a feeling peculiar to themselves, and not one they shared in common with the lowest and weakest of their species. Like them, too, it was upon the bodies of their children that they lavished their chief care and tenderness ; for, as to the immortal interests of their souls, or the cultivation of their minds, ox the improvement of their tempers, these were but little attended to, at least in comparison with their health and personal appearance. Alas! if there "be not a gem so precious as the human soul," how often do these gems seem as pearls cast before 156 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. swine ! for how seldom is it that a parent's greatest care is for the immortal happiness of that being, whose precarious and, at best, transient existence engrosses her every thought and desire ! But, perhaps, Mrs. Fairbairn, like many a fool- ish, ignorant mother, did her best ; and had she been satisfied with spoiling her children herself, for her own private amuse- ment, and not have drawn in her visiters and acquaintances to share in it, the evil might have passed uncensured. But, instead of shutting herself up in her nursery, she chose to bring her nursery down to her drawing-room ; and, instead of modestly denying her friends an entrance into her purgatory, she had a foolish pride in showing herself in the midst of her angels. In short, as the best things, when corrupted, always become the worst, so the purest and tenderest of human af- fections, when thus debased by selfishness and egotism, turn to the most tiresome and ridiculous of human weaknesses. LESSON LXVL The same, — concluded. " I HAVE been much to blame," said Mrs. Fairbairn, ad- dressing Miss Bell, in a soft, whining, sick-child sort of voice, " for not having been at Bellevue long ago ; but dear little Charlotte has been so plagued with her teeth, I could not think of leaving her ; for she is so fond of me, she will go to nobody else : she screams when her maid offers to take her, and she won't go even to her papa." "Is that possible?" said the major. " I assure you it's very true ; she's a very naughty girl sometimes" — bestowing a long and rapturous kiss on the-child. " Who was it that beat poor papa for taking her from mamma last night? Well, don't cry : no, no, it wasn't my Charlotte. She knows every word that's said to her, and did from the time she was only a year old." "That is wonderful !" said Miss Bell; " but how is my little favorite, Andrew?" " He is not very stout yet, poor little fellow; and we must YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. I57 be very careful of him." Then, turning to Miss St. Clair, " Our little Andrew has had the measles ; and you know the dregs of the measles are a serious thing — much worse than the measles themselves. Andrew, Andrew Waddell, my love, come here, and speak to the ladies." And thereupon Andrew Waddell, in a night-cap, riding on a stick, drew near. Being the major's namesake. Miss Bell, in the ardor of her attach- ment, thought proper to coax Andrew Waddell on her knee, and even to open her watch for his entertainment. " Ah ! I see who spoils Andrew Waddell," cried the delight- ed mother. The major chuckled ; Miss Bell disclaimed ; and, for the time, Andrew Waddell became the hero of the piece : the Mains of the measles were carefully pointed out, and all his sufferings and sayings duly recapitulated. At length Miss Charlotte, indignant at finding herself eclipsed, began to scream and cry with all her strength. " It's her teeth, darling little thing," said her mother, caress- ing her. " I'm sure it's her teeth, sweet little dear," said Miss JBell. " It undoubtedly must be her teeth, poor little girl," said the major. " If you will feel her gum," said Mrs. Fairbairn, putting her own finger into the child's mouth, " you will feel how hot it is." This was addressed in a sort of general way to the compa- ny, none of whom seemed eager to avail themselves of the privilege, till the major stepped forward, and having, with his fore-finger, made the circuit of Miss Charlotte's mouth, gave it as his decided opinion, that there was a tooth actually cutting the skin. Miss Bell followed the same course, and confirmed the interesting fact, adding, that it appeared to her to be " an uncommon large tooth." At that moment, Mr. Fairbairn entered, bearing in his arms another of the family, — a fat, sour, new-waked-looking creature, sucking its finger. Scarcely was the introduction over, — " There's a pair of legs !" exclaimed he, holding out a pair of thick purple stumps with red worsted shoes at the end of them. " I don't suppose Miss St. Clair ever saw legs 14 158 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. like these in France ; these are porridge and milk legs, are they not, Bobby?" But Bobby continued to chew the cud of his own thumb in solemn silence. '' Will you speak to me, Bobby ?" said Miss Bell, bent upon being amiable and agreeable ; but still Bobby was mute. " We think this little fellow rather long of speaking," said Mr. Fairbairn ; " we allege that his legs have run away with his tongue." " How old is he ?" asked the major. " He is only nineteen months and ten days," answered his mother ; " so he has not lost much time ; but I would rather see a child fat and thriving, than have it very forward." "No comparison!" was here uttered in a breath by thr major and Miss Bell. " There's a great difference in children in their time of speaking," said the mamma. " Alexander didn't speak till he was two and a quarter ; and Henry, again, had a great many little words before he was seventeen months ; and Eliza and Charlotte both said " mamma" as plain as I do, at a year ; but girls always speak sooner than boys : as for William Pitt and Andrew Waddell, the twins, they both suffered so much from their teething, that they were longer of speaking than they would otherwise have been ; indeed, I never saw an infant suffer so much as Andrew Waddell did." A movement was here made by the visiters to depart. " Oh ! you mustn't go without seeing the baby," cried Mrs. Fairbairn. " Mr. Fairbairn, will you pull the bell twice for baby?" The bell was twice rung, but no baby answered the sum- mons, " She must be asleep," said Mrs. Fairbairn ; " but I will take you up to the nursery, and you will see her in her cra- dle." And Mrs. Fairbairn led the way to the nursery, and opened the shutter, and uncovered the cradle, and displayed the baby. " Just five months — uncommon fine child — the image of Mr. Fairbairn — fat little thing — neat little hands — sweet little mouth — pretty little nose — nice little toes," were as usual whispered over it. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK, I59 Miss St. Clair flattered herself the exhibition was now over, and was again taking leave, when, to her dismay, the squires of the whip and the trumpet rushed in, proclaiming that it was pouring of rain. To leave the house was impos- sible ; and, as it was getting late, there was nothing for it but staying dinner. The children of this happy family always dined at table, and their food and manner of eating were the only subjects of conversation. Alexander did not like mashed potatoes — and Andrew Waddell could not eat broth — and Eliza could live upon fish — and William Pitt took too much small beer — and Henry ate as much meat as his papa — and all these peculiarities had descended to them from some one or other of their ancestors. The dinner was simple, on account of the children ; and there was no dessert, as Bobby did not agree with fruit. But to make amends, Eliza's sampler was shown, and Henry and Alexander's copy-books were handed round the table, and Andrew Waddell stood up and repeated " My name is Norval," from beginning to end, and William Pitt was prevailed upon to sing the whole of " God save the King," in a little squeaking, meally voice, and was bravoed and applauded as though he had been Braham himself To paint a scene in itself so tiresome is, doubtless, but a poor amusement to my reader, who must often have endured similar persecution. For who has not suffered from the ob- trusive fondness of parents for their offspring ? and who has not felt what it was to be called upon, in the course of a morning visit, to enter into all the joys and the sorrows of the nursery, and to take a lively interest in all the feats and pe- culiarities of the family ? Shakspeare's anathema against those who hated music, is scarcely too strong to be applied to those who dislike children. There is much enjoyment, sometimes, in making acquaintance with the little beings ; much delight in hearing their artless and unsophisticated prattle, and something not unpleasing even in witnessing their little freaks and wayward humors ; but when a tiresome mother, instead of allowing the company to notice her child, torments every one to death in forcing or coaxing her child to notice the company, the charm is gone, and we experience only disgust. 150 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. LESSON LXVII. Local Associations. — H. G. Otis. There are none, who have paid even a superficial atten- tion to the process of their perceptions, who are not conscious that a prolific source of intellectual pleasures and pains, is found in our faculty of associating the remembrance of char- acters and events, which have most interested our affections and passions, with the spot whereon the former have lived and the latter have occurred. It is to the magic of this local influence, that we are indebted for the charm, which recalls the sports and pastimes of our childhood, the joyous days of youth, when buoyant spirits invested all surrounding objects with the color of the rose. It is this, which brings before us, as we look back through the vista of riper years, past enjoyments and afflictions, as- piring hopes and bitter disappointments, the temptations we have encountered, the snares which have entangled us, the dangers we have escaped, the fidelity or treachery of friends. It is this, which enables us tr surround ourselves with the images of those, who were associates in the scenes we con- template, and to hold sweet converse with the spirits of the departed, whom we have loved or honored in the places which shall know them no more. But the potency of these local associations, is not limited to the sphere of our personal experience. We are qualified by it to derive gratification from what we have heard and read of other times, to bring forth forgotten treasures from the recesses of memory, and recreate fancy in the fields of imagination. The regions, which have been famed in sacred or fabulous history ; the mountains, plains, isles, rivers, cele- brated in the classic page ; the seas, traversed by the discov- erers of new worlds ; the fields, in which empires have been lost and won, — are scenes of enchantment for the visiter, who indulges the trains of perception which either rush unbidden on his mind, or are courted by its voluntary efforts. This faculty it is, which, united with a disposition to use it to ad- vantage, alone gives dignity to the passion for visiting foreign YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. ^^ countries ; and distinguishes the philosopher, who moralizes on the turf that covers the mouldering dust of ambition, val- or, or patriotism, from the fashionable vagabond, who flutters among the flowers, which bloom over their graves. Among all the objects of mental association, ancient build- ings and ruins affect us with the deepest and most vivid emotions. They were the works of beings like ourselves. While a mist, impervious to mortal view, hangs over the future, all our fond imaginings of the things, which "eye hath not seen nor ear heard," in the eternity to come, are inevitably associated with the men, the events and things, which have gone to join the eternity that is past. When imagination has in vain essayed to rise beyond the stars, which " proclaim the story of their birth," inquisitive to know the occupations and condition of the sages and he- roes, whom we hope to join in a higher empyrean, she drops her weary wing, and is compelled to alight among the frag- ments of "gorgeous palaces and cloud-capped towers," which cover their human ruins, and, by aid of these localities, to ruminate upon their virtues and their faults, on their deeds in the cabinet and in the field, and upon the revolutions of the successive ages in which they lived. To this propensity may be traced the sublimated feelings of the man, who, familiar with the stories of Sesostris, the Pharaohs and the Ptolemies, surveys the pyramids, not merely as stupendous fabrics of mechanical skill, but as monuments of the pride and am- bitious folly of kings, and of the debasement and oppression of the wretched myriads, by whose labors they were raised to the skies. To this must be referred the awe and contrition, which solemnize and melt the heart of the Christian, who looks into the holy sepulchre, and believes he sees the place where the Lord was laid. From this originate the musings of the scholar, who, amid the ruins of the Parthenon and the Acropolis, transports his imagination to the age of Pericles and Phidias ; — the reflec- tions of all, not dead to sentiment, who descend to the sub- terranean habitations of Pompeii — handle the utensils that once ministered to the wants, and the ornaments subservient to the luxury, of a polished city — behold the rut of wheels 14* 162 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. upon the pavement hidden for ages from human sight — and realize the awful hour, when the hum of industry and the song of joy, the wailing of the infant, and the garrulity of age, were suddenly and forever silenced by the fiery deluge, which buried the city, until accident and industry, after the lapse of nearly eighteen centuries, revealed its ruins to the curiosity and cupidity of the passing age. LESSON LXVIII. To Seneca Lake, — J. G. Percival. On thy fair bosom, silver lake, The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, And round his breast the ripples break, As down he bears before the gale. On thy fair bosom, waveless stream. The dipping paddle echoes far, ■ And flashes in the moonlight gleam. And bright reflects the polar star. The waves along thy pebbly shore, As blows the north-wind, heave their foam, And curl around the dashing oar. As late the boatman hies him home. How sweet, at set of sun, to view Thy golden mirror spreading wide. And see the mist of mantling blue Float round the distant mountain's side. At midnight hour, as shines the moon, A sheet of silver spreads below. And swift she cuts, at highest noon, Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. IQQ On thy fair bosom, silver lake, Oh ! I could ever sweep the oar, When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o'er. LESSON LXIX. Lake Superior. — S. G. Goodrich. Father op lakes, thy waters bend Beyond the eagle's utmost view, When, throned in heaven, he sees thee send Back to the sky its world of blue. Boundless and deep the forests weave Their twilight shade thy borders o'er, And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave Their rugged forms along thy shore. Pale Silence, mid thy hollow caves. With listening ear in sadness broods, Or startled Echo, o'er thy waves. Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods. Nor can the light canoes, that glide Across thy breast like things of air. Chase from thy lone and level tide. The spell of stillness reigning there. Yet round this waste of wood and wave, Unheard, unseen, a spirit lives. That, breathing o'er each rock and cave, To all a wild, strange aspect gives. The thunder-riven oak, that flings Its grisly arms athwart the sky, A sudden, startling image brings To the lone traveller's kindled eye. 1(54 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. The gnarled and braided boughs, that show Their dim forms in the forest shade, Like wrestling serpents seem, and throw Fantastic horrors through the glade. The very echoes, round this shore, Have caught a strange and gibbering tone ; For they have told the war-whoop o'er, Till the wild chorus is their own. Wave of the wilderness, adieu ; Adieu, ye rocks, ye wilds and woods ; Roll on, thou element of blue. And fill these awful solitudes. Thou hast no tale to tell of man ; — God is thy theme. Ye sounding caves, Whisper of Him, whose mighty plan Deems as a bubble all your waves. LESSON LXX. Influence of the Female Character. — Thacher." The influence of woman on the intellectual character of the community, may not seem so great and obvious, as upon its civilization and manners. One reason is, that hith- erto such influence has seldom been exerted in the most direct way of gaining celebrity — the writing of books. In our own age, indeed, this has almost ceased to be the case ; and, if we should inquire for those persons, whose writings, for the last half century, have produced the most practical and enduring effects, prejudice itself must confess, that the name of more than one illustrious woman would adorn the cata- logue. That the society and influence of woman have often prompted and refined the efforts of genius, may be granted by the most zealous advocate for the superiority of our sex. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Jgg But whatever may be thought of the influence of the sex, in these particulars, there is one point of view in which it is undeniably great and important. The mother of your children is necessarily their first instruc- ter. It is her task to watch over and assist their dawning fac- ulties in their first expansion. And can it be of light impor- tance in what manner this task is performed ? Will it have no influence on the future mental character of the child, wheth- er the first lights, which enter its understanding, are received from wisdom or folly 1 Are there no bad mental habits, no lasting biases, no dangerous associations, no deep-seated pre- judices, which can be communicated from the mother, the fondest object of the affection and veneration of the child ? In fine, do the opinions of the age take no direction and no coloring from the modes of thinking, which prevail among one half of the minds that exist on earth 1 Unless you are willing to say, that an incalculably great amount of mental power is utterly wasted and thrown away ; or else, with a Turkish arrogance and brutality, to deny that womaji shares with you in the possession of a reasoning and immortal mind ; you must acknowledge the vast importance of the influence, which the female sex exerts on the intellectual character of the community. But it is in its moral effects on the mind and the heart of man, that the influence of woman is most powerful and im- portant. In the diversity of tastes, habits, inclinations and pursuits of the two sexes, is found a most beneficent provision for controlling the force and extravagance of human passions. The objects which most strongly seize and stimulate the mind of man, rarely act, at the same time and with equal power, on the mind of woman. While he delights in enterprise and action, and the exer- cise of the stronger energies of the soul, she is led to engage in calmer pursuits, and seek for gentler enjoyments. While he is summoned into the wide and busy theatre of a conten- tious world, where the love of power and the love of gain, in all their innumerable forms, occupy and tyrannize over the soul, she is walking in a more peaceful sphere ; and though I say not that these passions are always unfelt by her, yet they lead her to the pursuit of very different objects. The 1C6 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. current, if it draws its waters in both from the same source, moves with her not only in a narrower stream, and less im- petuous tide, but sets also in a different direction. Hence it is, that the influence of the society of woman, is, almost always, to soften the violence of those impulses, which would other- wise act with so constant and fatal an influence on the soul of man. The domestic fireside is the great guardian of society against the excesses of human passions. When man, after his intercourse with the world, — where, alas ! he finds so much to inflame him with a feverous anxiety for wealth and dis- tinction, — retires, at evening, to the bosom of his family, he finds there a repose for his tormenting cares. He finds something to bring him back to human sympathies. The tenderness of his wife, and the caresses of his children, intro- duce a new train of softer thoughts and gentler feelings. He is reminded of what constitutes the real felicity of man , and, while his heart expands itself to the influence of the simple and intimate delights of the domestic circle, the de- mons of avarice and ambition, if not exorcised from his breast, at least for a time, relax their grasp. How deplorable would be the consequence, if all these were reversed ; and woman, instead of checking the violence of these passions, were to employ her blandishments and charms to add fuel to their rage ! How much wider would become the empire of guilt ! What a portentous and intolerable amount would he added to the sum of the crimes and miseries of the human race ! But the influence of the female character, on the virtue of man, is not seen merely in restraining and softening the vio- lence of human passions. To her is mainly committed the task of pouring into the opening mind of infancy its first im- pressions of duty, and of stamping on its susceptible heart the first image of its God. Who will not confess the influ- ence of a mother in forming the heart of a child ? What man is there, who cannot trace the origin of many of the best maxims of his life to the lips of her who gave him birth ? How wide, how lasting, how sacred is that part of woman's influence ! Who that thinks of it, who that ascribes any moral effect to education, who that believes that any good YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. J67 may be produced, or any evil prevented by it, can need any arguments to prove the importance of the character and capacity of her, who gives its earliest bias to the infant mind? There is yet another mode, by which woman may exert a powerful influence on the virtue of a community. It rests with her, in a preeminent degree, to give tone and elevation to the moral character of the age, by deciding the degree of virtue, that shall be necessary to afford a passport to her so- ciety. The extent of this influence has, perhaps, never been fully tried ; and, if the character of our sex is not better, it is to be confessed that it is, in no trifling degree, to be ascrib- ed to the fault of yours. If all the favor of woman were given only to the good ; if it were known that the charms and attractions of beauty, and wisdom, and wit, were reserved only for the pure ; if, in one word, something of a similar rigor were exerted to exclude the profligate and abandoned of our sex from your society, as is shown to those, who have fallen from virtue in your own, — how much would be done to reenforce the motives to moral purity among us, and im- press, on the minds of all, a reverence for the sanctity and obligations of virtue ! The influence of woman on the moral sentiments of soci- ety, is intimately connected with her influence on its religious character ; for religion and a pure and elevated morality, must ever stand in the relation to each other of effect and cause. The heart of woman is formed for the abode of Christian truth ; and for reasons alike honorable to her character and to that of the gospel. From the nature of Christianity, this must be so. The foundation of evangelical religion is laid in a deep and constant sense of the presence, providence and influence of an invisible Spirit, who claims the adoration, reverence, gratitude and love of his creatures. By man, busied as he is in the cares, and absorbed in the pursuits, of the world, this great truth is, alas ! too often and too easily forgotten and disregarded ; while woman, less engrossed by oc- cupation, more " at leisure to be good," led often by her duties to retirement, at a distance from many temptations, and en- dued with an imagination more easily excited and raised than IQQ YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. man's, is better prepared to admit and cherish, and be af- fected by, this solemn and glorious acknowledgment of a God. Again; the gospel reveals to us a Savior, invested with little of that brilliant and dazzling glory, with which con- quest and success would array him in the eyes of proud and aspiring man ; but rather as a meek and magnanimous suf- ferer, clothed in all the mild and passive graces, all the sympathy with human wo, all the compassion for human frailty, all the benevolent interest in human welfare, which the heart of woman is formed to love ; together with all that solemn and supernatural dignity, which the heart of woman is formed peculiarly to feel and to reverence. To obey the commands, and aspire to imitate the peculiar virtues, of such a being, must always be more natural and easy for her than for man. So, too, it is with that future life which the gospel ,unveils, where all that is dark and doubtful in this shall be explained ; where penitence shall be forgiven, and faith and virtue ac- cepted ; where the tear of sorrow shall be dried, the wounded bosom of bereavement be healed ; where love and joy shall be unclouded and immortal. To these high and holy visions of faith I trust that man is not always insensible ; but the superior sensibility of woman, as it makes her feel, more deeply, the emptiness and wants of human existence here, so it makes her welcome, with more deep and ardent emotions, the glad tidings of salvation, the thought of communion with God, the hope of the purity, happiness and peace of another and a better world. In this peculiar susceptibility of religion in the female character, who does not discern a proof of the benignant care of Heaven of the best interest of man 1 How wise it is, that she, whose instructions and example must have so powerful an influence on the infant mind, should be formed to own and cherish the most sublime and important of truths ! The vestal flame of piety, lighted up by Heaven in the breast of woman, diffuses its light and warmth over the world ; — and dark would be the world, if it should ever be extinguished and lost. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 169 LESSON LXXI. A Scene in a private Mad-House. — M. G. Lewis. Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my wo ! She is not mad who kneels to thee ; For what I'm now, too well I know, And what I was, and what should be. I'll rave no more in proud despair; My language shall be mild, though sad ; But yet I'll firmly, truly swear, I am not mad ; I am not mad. My tyrant husband forged the tale. Which chains me in this dismal cell ; My fate unknown my friends bewail ; Oh ! jailer, haste that fate to tell ; Oh ! haste my father's heart to cheer : His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad To know, though kept- a captive here, I am not mad ; I am not mad. He smiles in scorn, and turns the key ; He quits the grate ; I knelt in vain ; His glimmering lamp, still, still I see — 'Tis gone, and all is gloom again. Cold, bitter cold ! — No warmth ! no light I Life, all thy comforts once I had ; Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night. Although not mad ; no, no, not mad. 'Tis sure some dream, some vision vain; What ! I, — the child of rank and wealth, — Am I the wretch who clanks this chain, Bereft of freedom, friends and health ? Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled. Which never more my heart must glad, How aches my heart, how burns my head ; But 'tis not mad ; no, 'tis not mad. 15 170 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this, A mother's face, a mother's tongue? She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss, Nor round her neck how fast you clung ; Nor how with me you sued to stay ; Nor how that suit your sire forbade ; Nor how — I'll drive such thoughts away ; They'll make me mad ; they'll make me mad. His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled ! His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone ! None ever bore a lovelier child: And art thou now for ever gone 1 And must I never see thee more. My pretty, pretty, pretty lad ? I will be free ! unbar the door ! I am not mad ; I am not mad. Oh ! hark ! what mean those yells and cries ? His chain some furious madman breaks ,* He comes, — I see his glaring eyes ; Now, now my dungeon grate he shakes. Help ! help ! — He's gone ! — Oh ! fearful wo, Such screams to hear, such sights to see ! My brain, my brain, — I know, I know, I am not mad, but soon shall be. Yes, soon ; — for, lo you ! — while I speak — Mark how yon Demon's eye-balls glare ! He sees me ; now, with dreadful shriek, He whirls a serpent high in air. Horror ! — the reptile strikes his tooth Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad ; Ay, laugh, ye fiends ; — I feel the truth ; Your task is done !— J'm mad! Fm mad! YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. i7j LESSON LXXII. On the relative Value of Good Sense and Beauty in the Female Sex. — Literary Gazette. Notwithstanding the lessons of moralists, and the dec- lamations of philosophers, it cannot be denied that all man- kind have a natural love, and even respect, for external beauty. In vain do they represent it as a thing of no value in itself, as a frail and perishable flower ; in vain do they ex- haust all the depths of argument, all the stories of fancy, to prove the worthlessness of this amiable gift of nature. How- ever persuasive their reasonings may appear, and however we may, for a time, fancy ourselves convinced by them, we have in our breasts a certain instinct, which never fails to tell us, that all is not satisfactory ; and though we may not be able to prove that they are wrong, we feel a conviction that it is impossible they should be right. They are certainly right in blaming those, who are ren- dered vain by the possession of beauty, since vanity is, at all times, a fault : but there is a great difference between being vain of a thing, and being happy that we have it ; and that beauty, however little merit a woman can claim to herself for it, is really a quality which she may reasonably rejoice to pos- sess, demands, I think, no very labored proof Every one nat- urally wishes to please. To this end we know how important it is, that the first impression we produce should be favorable. Now, this first impression is commonly produced through the medium of the eye ; and this is frequently so powerful as to resist, for a long time, the opposing evidence of subsequent observation. Let a man of even the soundest judgment be presented to two women, equally strangers to him, but the one extremely handsome, the other without any remarkable ad- vantages of person, and he will, without deliberation, attach himself first to the former. All men seem in this to be actuated by the same principle as Socrates, who used to say, that when he saw a beautiful person, he always expected to see it animated by a beautiful soul. The ladies, however, often fall into the fatal error of im- 172 YOUJNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. agining that a fine person is, in our eyes, superior to every other accomplishment ; and those, who are so happy as to be • endowed with it, rely, with vain confidence, on its irresistible power to retain hearts as well as to subdue them. Hence the lavish care bestowed on the improvement of exterior and perishable charms, and the neglect of solid and durable excellence ; hence the long list of arts that administer to vanity and folly, the countless train of glittering accomplish- ments, and the scanty catalogue of truly valuable acquire- ments, which compose, for the most part, the modern system of fashionable female education. Yet so far is beauty from being, in our eyes, an excuse for the want of a cultivated mind, that the women who are blessed with it, have, in real- ity, a much harder task to perform, than those of their sex who are not so distinguished. Even our self-love here takes part against them ; we feel ashamed of having suffered our- selves to be caught like children, by mere outside, and perhaps even fall into the contrary extreme. Could " the statue that enchants the world," — the Venus de Medicis, — at the prayer of some new Pygmalion, become suddenly animated, how disappointed would he be, if she were not endowed with a soul answerable to the inimitable perfection of her heavenly form? Thus it is with a fine woman, whose only accomplishment is external excellence. She may dazzle for a time ; but when a man has once thought, " What a pity that such a masterpiece should be but a walking statue !" her empire is at an end. On the other hand, when a woman, the plainness of whose features prevented our noticing her at first, is found, upon nearer acquaintance, to be possessed of the more solid and ' valuable perfections of the mind, the pleasure we feel in being so agreeably undeceived, makes her appear to still greater advantage : and as the mind of man, when lefl to itself, is naturally an enemy to all injustice, we, even unknown to ourselves, strive to repair the wrong we have involuntarily done her, by a double portion of attention and regard. If these observations be founded in truth, it will appear that, though a woman with a cultivated mind may justly hope to please, without even any superior advantages of person, the loveliest creature that ever came from the hand of her Crea- YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. I73 tor can hope only for a transitory empire, unless she unite with her beauty the more durable charm of intellectual ex- cellence. The favored child of nature, who combines in herself these united perfections, may be justly considered as the master- piece of the creation ; as the most perfect image of the Divin- ity here below, Man, the proud lord of the creation, bows willingly his haughty neck beneath her gentle rule. Ex- alted, tender, beneficent, is the love that she inspires. Even time himself shall respect the all-powerful magic of her beauty. Her charms may fade, but they shall never wither ; and memory still, in the evening of life, hanging with fond affection over the blanched rose, shall view, through the vale of lapsed years, the tender bud, the downing promise, whose beauties once blushed before the beams of the morning LESSON LXXIII. Maternal Affection. — Mrs. Hemans. Love ! love ! — there are soft smiles and gentle words, And there are faces, skilful to put on The look we trust in, — and 'tis mockery all ! — A faithless mist, a desert-vapor, wearing The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat The thirst that semblance kindled ! There is none, In all this cold and hollow world, no fount Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within A mother's heart. It is but pride, wherewith To his fair son the father's eye doth turn, Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks, The bright, glad creature springing in his path, But as the heir of his great name, the young And stately tree, whose rising strength, ere long, Shall bear his trophies well. And this is love ! This is man's love '.—What marvel ? You ne'er made Your breast the pillow of his infancy, 15* 174 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. While to the fulness of your heart's glad heavings His fair cheek rose and fell, and his bright hair Waved softly to your breath ! You ne'er kept watch Beside him, till the last pale star had set, And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph, broke On your dim, weary eye ; not yours the face Which, early faded through fond care for him, Hung o'er his sleep, and, duly as heaven's light, Was there to greet his wakening ! You ne'er smoothed His couch, ne'er sung him to his rosy rest. Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours Had learned soft utterance 5 pressed your lip to his, When fever parched it ; hushed his wayward cries, With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love ! No ! these are woman's tasks ! — In these her youth, And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart. Steal from her all unmarked. LESSON LXXIV. Napoleon at Rest. — Pierpont. His falchion flashed along the Nile ; His hosts he led through Alpine snows ; O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while, His eagle flag unrolled, — and froze. Here sleeps he now, alone ! Not one. Of all the kings, whose crowns he gave, Bends o'er his dust ; — ^nor wife nor son Has ever seen or sought his grave. Behind this sea-girt rock, the star, That led him on from crown to crown. Has sunk ,• and nations from afar Gazed as it faded and went down. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 175 High is his couch ; — the ocean flood, Far, far below, by storms is curled ; As round him heaved, while high he stood^ A stormy and unstable world. Alone he sleeps ! The mountain cloud, That night hangs round him, and the breath Of morning scatters, is the shroud That wraps the conqueror's clay in death. Pause here ! The far off world, at last, Breathes free ; the hand that shook its thrones, And to the earth its mitres cast. Lies powerless now beneath these stones. Hark ! comes there, from the pyramids. And from Siberian wastes of snow, And Europe's hills, a voice that bids The world he awed to mourn him ? — No : The only, the perpetual dirge That's heard here, is the sea-bird's cry, — The mournful murmur of the surge, — The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh. LESSON LXXV. The Warrior. — Anonymous. A GALLANT form is passing by ; The plume bends o'er his lordly brow ; A thousand tongues have raised on high His song of triumph now : Young knees are bending round his way, And age makes bare his locks of gray. 176 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. -Fair forms have lent their gladdest smile, White hands have M^aved the conqueror on, And flowers have decked his path the while, By gentle fingers strown. Soft tones have cheered him, and the brow Of beauty beams uncovered now. The bard has waked the song for him, And poured his boldest numbers forth ; The wine-cup, sparkling to the brim. Adds phrensy to the mirth ; ' And every tongue, and every eye, Does homage to the passer by. The gallant steed treads proudly on ; His foot falls firmly now, as when, In strife, that iron heel went down. Upon the hearts of men. And, foremost in the ranks of strife, Trod out the last dim spark of life. Dream they of these, the glad and gay, That bend around the conqueror's path ? — The horrors of the conflict day. The gloomy field of death. The ghastly stain, the severed head, The raven stooping o'er the dead ! Dark thoughts, and fearful ! yet they bring No terrors to the triumph hour. Nor stay the reckless worshipping Of blended crime and power. The fair of form, the mild of mood. Do honor to the man of blood. Men, Christians, pause ! The air ye breathe Is poisoned by your idol now ; And will you turn to him, and wreath Your chaplets round his brow ? YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. I77 Nay, call his darkest deeds sublime, And' smile assent to giant crime? Forbid it, Heaven ! — A voice hath gone In mildness and in meekness forth, Hushing, before its silvery tone, The stormy things of earth. And vv^hispering sweetly through the gloom An earnest of the peace to come. LESSON LXXVI. TVar. — PoRTEus. 'TwAS man himself Brought Death into the world ; and man himself Gave keenness to his darts, quickened his pace. And multiplied destruction on mankind. First Envy, eldest born of Hell, imbrued Her hands in blood, and taught the sons of men To make a death, which nature never made, And God abhorred ; with violence rude to break The thread of life, ere half its length was run, And rob a wretched brother of his being. With joy Ambition saw, and soon improved The execrable deed. 'Twas not enough, By subtle fraud, to snatch a single life — Puny impiety ! whole kingdoms fell To sate the lust of power ; more horrid still, The foulest stain and scandal of our nature Became its boast. — One iHurder made a villain, Millions a hero. — Princes were privileged To kill, and numbers sanctified the crime. Ah ! why will kings forget that they are men ? And men that they are brethren ? Why delight In human sacrifice ? Why burst the ties Of nature, that should knit their souls together In one soft bond of amity and love ? Yet still, they breathe destruction, still go on 178 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Inhumanly ingenious to find out New pains for life, new terrors for the grave", Artificers of death ! Still monarchs dream Of universal empire growing up From universal ruin. Blast the design, Great God of hosts, nor let thy creatures fall Unpitied victims at Ambition's shrine ! LESSON LXXVII. The Battle of Blenheim. — Southey. It was a summer evening, — Old Kaspar's work was done, And he, before his cottage door, Was sitting in the sun ; And by him sported, on the green, His little grand-child, Wilhelmine. 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. Old Kaspar 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. " I find them in the garden, for There's many here about ; And often, when I go to plough. The ploughshare turns them out ; For many thousand men," said he, " Were slain in the great victory." YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 179 "Now tell us what 'twas all about — " Young Peterkin he cries, And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes — " Now tell us all about the war, And what they killed each other for." " It was the English," Kaspar cried, " Who put the French to rout ; But what they killed each other for, I could not well make out : But every body said," quoth he, " That 'twas a famous victory. " My father lived at Blenheim then. Yon little stream hard by : They burned his dwelling to the ground,- And he was forced to fly ; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head. " With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide. And many a hapless mother then. And many an infant, died ; But things like these, you know, must be At every famous victory. "They say it was a shocking sight. After the field was won ; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun ; But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. " Great praise the duke of Marlb'ro* won. And our good prince Eugene." " Why, 'twas a very wicked thing !" Said little Wilhelmine. 180 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. " Nay, nay, my little girl/' quoth he, " It was a famous victory. " And every body praised the duke Who such a fight did vt^in." ' " But what good came of it at last V Q,uoth little Peterkin. "Why, that I cannot tell," said he ; " But 'twas a famous victory " LESSON LXXVIII. TTie Study of History ; or a Solid and a Superficial Edit- cation contrasted. — From Ruhnken. Teacher. I hear that you have made great progress in history, and that you have at home a very able instructress in it. Pupil. Yes, that is the case ; our governess knows all history ; and I have profited much from her instruction. T. But what have you learned ? Tell me. P. All history. T. But what is all history 7 P. {Hesitating.) All history 1 Why it is — it is — what i^ in books. T. Well, I have here many books on history, as Herodo- tus, Livy, Tacitus and others; I suppose you know those authors. P. No, I do not; but I know the facts related in history. T. I dare say you do ; I see, however, that, out of your knowledge of all history, we must deduct a knowledge of the authors who have written it. But perhaps that governess of yours has informed you who Homer, Hesiod, Plato and the other poets and philosophers were 1 P. I don't think she has ; for, if she had, I should have remembered it. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. IQl T. Well, we must then make one farther deduction from your knowledge of all history ; and that is, the history of the poets and philosophers. P. Why, I said just now that I did not learn those things ; I learned matters of fact and events. T. But those things, as you call them, were men : howev- er, I now understand you ; the knowledge you acquired was a knowledge of things, but not of men ; as, for instance, you learned that the city of Rome was built, but you did not learn any thing of the men that built it. P. True, true. (^5 if repeating hy rote.) Rome was built by Romulus and Remus, twin brothers, the sons of Rhea Sylvia and Mars; they were exposed, while infants, by king Amulius, and afterwards a shepherd brought them up and educated them — T. Enough, enough, my good little friend; you have shown me now what you understand by the history of men and things. But, pray, tell me what other men and things you were instructed in ; for instance, tell me who and what Sylla was. P. He was a tyrant of Rome. T. Was the term tyrant the name of an officer ? P. Indeed, I do not know ; but Sylla is certainly called, in history, a tyrant. T. But did you not learn that he was dictator ? and what the authority and duties of that officer were ? and the au- thority of the consuls, tribunes of the people, and other magistrates among the Romans 1 P. No, I did not ; for those things are hard, and are not so entertaining as great exploits, and would have taken up too much time. T. As to that, you will perhaps be better able to judge hereafter. Well, then, from your knowledge of all history, we must strike off all knowledge of the offices of the Ro- man magistrates. P. Ah ! but we took more pleasure in reading about wars and exploits. J'. Well, did you ever hear of Carthage and the wars carried on against her ? P. Oh, yes ; there were three Carthaginian wars. 16 152 YOUNG LADIES' CLAt^S BOOK. T. Tell me, then, which party was victorious. P. The Romans. T. But were they victorious at the beginning 1 P. Oh, no ; [as if repeating hy rotel they were beaten, in four battles, by Hannibal ; at Ticinum, Trebia, the Thras- ymene lake, and Cannae. T. Did your governess tell you the causes of these de- feats of the Romans 1 P. No, she did not tell us the causes, but the matters of fact. T. Perhaps you understand yourself the causes why the Romans finally retrieved their affairs ? P. To be sure I do ; the cause was their bravery T. But were they not brave also at the beginning of those wars ? P. Certainly they were. T. Then their bravery was the cause of their being con- quered and being conquerors 1 p. \Yhy — why — I don't know as to that ; but I know I never was asked such hard questions before. T. Well, well ; I will ask you something easier. Is it to be supposed that the Romans would have come off victorious in that war, if the powerfiil sovereigns of that age had united their forces with the Carthaginians ? P. ( With an air of surprise.) What sovereigns do you mean? T. Why, do you not know, that in that age there were in Macedonia, Asia, Syria and Egypt, all those powerful kings who were the successors of Alexander the Great 1 P. Oh, yes, I know that; but we used to take up their history in another chapter. I never thought of their living at the time of the second Punic war. T. Do you not perceive, then, that their mutual rivalry was the cause why they did not unite their forces with the Carthaginians to oppose the Romans, in consequence of which, those same kings were afterwards conquered, one by one, by the Romans 1 P. I perceive it now, since you have told me of it ; and I derive much gratification from your remark. T. It is indeed true, that the perception of the causes of YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 183 things is not only gratifying, but useful. However, we must still go on to make farther deductions from your stock of all history ; we must deduct the knowledge of causes. P. I cannot deny that, to be sure ; but I am positive that, with the exceptions you have now made, we learned every thing else in history. T. Well, tell me about some of the other things that you learned ; tell me what is the beginning of history. P. The creation of the world. T. But I meant to ask you about men, and the affairs of men. P. {As if repeating by rote.) The first human beings were Adam and Eve, whom God created on the sixth day, after his own image, and placed in paradise, from which they were afterwards expelled, and — T. Don't go any farther, I beg of you ; I see you have got some little book well by heart : but telj ,me now, gener- ally, about what men and things, subsequent to those, were you instructed by your governess ? P. About the posterity of Adam, the patriarchs before and after the flood, and all about the Jewish nation, to the time of their overthrow. T. But what makes you think that those things you learned are true ? P. Because they are delivered to us by divine inspiration in the Holy Scriptures. T. But did you find the Roman history, and other things that you have learned, all in the Holy Scriptures? P. Certainly not. T. But yet you believe them 1 P. Believe them ! why not ? They are related in other books that are worthy of credit. T. Pray, what books are those ? P. Our governess had two ; one, a small book, that we learned to recite ; the other, a large work, in several volumes, from which she sometimes read to us. T. But were the authors of those books witnesses of the events which they relate 1 P. Oh, no ; they lived either in our day, or within the memory of our fathers. Ig4 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. T. Where did they get their knowledge of the things mentioned in their books 1 P. From other books that are worthy of credit. T. Do you know those other books ? P. No, I do not. T. How can you venture, then, to assert that those books are worthy of credit, when you do not know them 1 P. I believe what our governess tells us. T. Pray how many years old are you ? P. Fifteen. T. Upon my word ! You are now almost grown up, and your governess still treats you like a little child \ P. How so ? T. Why, because she teaches you history jutet as we tell stories to little children. But do you think the history she teaches you is true ? or is it a matter of indifference to you, whether you are instructed in the truth or in fables ? P. Indeed, it is far from being indifferent to me ; and I am sure that every thing she teaches us is true. T. Well, if you know that to be the case, then you must know the manner in which you distinguish truth from false- hood. P. No, I cannot say that; but I believe what the govern- ess tells us, because she is a woman of truth. T. But see how inconsistent you are ! One while you say you Icnow these things ; then you say you do not know ; and then, again, you say you believe in your governess ! P. I cannot answer you so easily as I can her ; for she, somehow or other, asks me in an easier way. T. Well, I will ask you something easier. What is histo- ry designed to tell us, truth or falsehood ? P. The truth, certainly. T. Can any body, then, either teach or be taught history properly, without knowing how to distinguish truth from falsehood ? P. Why — I don't know — T. You don't know ! Do you know this, then, whether history is studied for the sake of any utility to be derived from it? P. I suppose great utility is to be derived from it. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 185 T. What are the advantages of it ? P. Indeed, I do not know. T. But did not your governess tell you that much of our knowledge is founded upon historical facts ?" and that we are enabled by history to understand better and more readily other parts of human knowledge 1 and that it is particularly useful in furnishing examples for the government of life, both in private and in public? P. No, she did not tell us that ; but I think what you tell me seems reasonable. T. Well, then, answer me one question more : — if any man should go on heaping together money of every sort, and should pay no attention to see if his pieces of coin were good or bad, and should thus become possessed of much counterfeit money, would he not be under a very great dis- advantage, when it should become necessary to make use of his money, and he should find it to be counterfeit 1 P. He certainly would. T. Again ; we have just said that history is the founda- tion of knowledge : now, do you think it is of no consequence to a building, whether its foundations are solid and firn^, or weak and slender? / P. Most certainly, it is of great consequence. T. You see, by this time, my little friend, what sort of a foundation you have in the history that you have learned. You imagined that you understood all history ; you now see how many deductions must be made from your knowledge. You have heard nothing of the historians themselves ; nothing of the philosophers and poets ; nothing of magistrates and other officers ; and, as I perceive, nothing of various other things relating to peace and war, times and places ; nothing of causes ; and, in short, nothing respecting the manner of discerning truth from falsehood : now, when all these things are taken away from your stock of all history^ what is there remaining ? P. I now begin to understand, and I am sorry for the labor I have spent in my history — T. No, take courage ; for now you may promise yourself that you will know something, because you are sensible how much there is that you do not know ; and that you are in 16* X86 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. need of something more substantial and efficacious, which shall qualify you for a more perfect knowledge of things and causes ; enable you to judge of truth and falsehood ; and, in short, make you acquainted with the liistory of history it- self,* that is, that you may know what writers have treated of the subjects of history, and of what credit and authority those writers are. P. Your remarks are very just ; and I beg of you to fur- nish me with some little book, from which I can learn all this in a short time. T. My young friend, I see you think that all these things can be learned from a little book, like that which you used to recite to your governess. Now, I do not mean to say that you ought to be sorry for your own labor, or that of your governess ; because what you have thus acquired and fixed in your memory, though a puerile exercise, will not be with- out use ; but henceforward you must exercise your judgment, and pursue a liberal and exact course of study. This, how- ever, is not to be acquired at once, or by the use of any little book, but by understanding the various books relating to the subject, and by diligently attending on the instruction of thpse, who teach history according to these principles. LESSON LXXIX. Conversation. — Extract from Cowper. Though Nature weigh our talents, and dispense To every man his modicum of sense, And conversation, in its better part. May be esteemed a gift, and not an art, Yet much depends, as in the tiller's toil, On culture and the sowing of the soil. Words learned by rote a parrot may rehearse, But talking is not always to converse ; Not more distinct from harmony divine, The constant creaking of a country sign. Ye powers, who rule the tongue,— if such there are,- And make colloquial happiness your care, YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 187 Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate — A duel in the form of a debate. Vociferated logic kills me quite ; A noisy man is always in the right : I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair, Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare, « And, when I hope his blunders are all out, Reply discreetly — " To be sure — no doubt !" Duhiiis is such a scrupulous, good man — Yes — you may catch him tripping, if you can. He would not, with a peremptory tone. Assert the nose upon his face his own ; With hesitation admirably slow. He humbly hopes — presumes — it may be so. His evidence, if he were called by law To swear to some enormity he saw. For want of prominence and just relief, Would hang an honest man, and save a thief Through constant dread of giving truth offence, He ties up all his hearers in suspense ; Knows what he knows as if he knew it not ; What he remembers seems to have forgot ; His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall, Centring, at last, in having none at all. A story, in which native humor reigns. Is often useful, always entertains : A graver fact, enlisted on your side. May furnish illustration, well applied ; But sedentary weavers of long tales Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails. 'Tis the most asinine employ on earth, To hear them tell of parentage and birth. And echo conversations, dull and dry. Embellished with, " He said," and " So said I." At every interview their route the same. The repetition makes attention lame : We bustle up, with unsuccessful speed. And, in the saddest part, cry, " Droll indeed !" I pity bashful men, who feel the pain Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain, ]8g YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. And bear the marks, upon a blushing face, Of laeedless shame, and self-imposed disgrace. Our sensibilities are so acute, The fear of being silent makes us mute. True modesty is a discerning grace, And only blushes in the proper place ; But counterfeit is blind, and skulks, through fear. Where 'tis a shame to be ashamed t' appear ; Humility the parent of the first, The last by vanity produced and nursed. The circle formed, we sit in silent state. Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate ; " Yes, ma'am," and " No, ma'am," uttered softly, show, Ev'ry five minutes, how the minutes go ; Each individual, suffering a constraint Poetry may, but colors cannot paint, As if in close committee on the sky, Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry ! And finds a changing clime a happy source Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse! We next inquire, but softly, and by stealth. Like conservators of the public health. Of epidemic throats, if such there are. And coughs, and rheums, and phthisics, and catarrh LESSON LXXX. On Discretion. — Addison. I HAVE often thought, if the minds of men were laid open, we should see but little difference between that of the wise man and that of the fool. There are infinite reveries, num- berless extravagances, and a perpetual train of vanities, which pass through both. The great difference is, that the first knows how to pick and cull his thoughts for conversation, by suppressing some and communicating others; whereas the other lets them all indifferently fly out in words. This sort of discretion, however, has no place in private conversa- tion between intimate friends. On such occasions, the YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK, 189 wisest men very often talk like the weakest ; for, indeed, the talking with a friend is nothing else but thinking aloud/ Tully has, therefore, very justly exposed a precept deliver- ed by some ancient writers, that a man should live with his enemy in such a manner, as might leave him room to become his friend ; and with his friend in such a manner, that if he became his enemy, it should not be in his power to* hurt him. The first part of this rule, which regards our behavior towards an enemy, is, indeed, very reasonable, as well as very prudential ; but the latter part of it, which regards our behavior towards a friend, savors more of cunning than of discretion, and would cut a man off from the greatest pleasures of life, which are the freedoms of conversation with a bosom friend. Besides that, when a friend is turned into an enemy, and, as the son of Sirach calls him, " a be- wrayer of secrets," the world is just enough to accuse the perfidiousness of the friend, rather than the indiscretion of the person who confided in him. Discretion does not only show itself in words, but in all the circumstances of action, and is like an under-agent of Providence, to guide and direct us in the ordinary concerns of life. There are many more shining qualities in the mind of man, but there are none more useful than discretion ; it is this, indeed, which gives a value to all the rest, which sets them at work in their proper times and places, and turns them to the advantage of the person who is possessed of them Without it, learning is pedantry, and wit, impertinence ; vir- tue itself looks like weakness ; the best parts only qualify a man to be more sprightly in errors, and active to his own prejudice. Nor does discretion only make a man the master of his own parts, but of other men's. The discreet man finds out the talents of those he converses with, and knows how to apply them to proper uses. Accordingly, if we look into particular communities and divisions of men, we may observe that it is the discreet man, not the witty, nor the learned, nor the brave, who guides the conversation, and gives measures to the society. A man with great talents, but void of discre- tion, is, like Polyphemus in the fable, strong and blind ; endued 190 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. with an irresistible force, which, for want of sight, is of no use to him Though a man has all other perfections, and wants discre- tion, he will be of no great consequence in the world ; but if he has this single talent in perfection, and but a common share of others, he may do what he pleases in his particular station of life. At the same time that I think discretion the most useful talent a man can be master of, I look upon cun- ning to be the accomplishment of little, mean, ungenerous minds. Discretion points out the noblest ends to us, and pursues the most proper and laudable methods of attaining them. Cunning has only private, selfish aims, and sticks at nothing which may make them succeed. Discretion has large and extended views, and, like a well-formed eye, commands a whole horizon. Cunning is a kind of short-sightedness, that discovers the minutest objects which are near at hand, but is not able to discern things at a distance. Discretion, the more it is discovered, gives a greater authority to the person who possesses it. Cunning, when it is once detected, loses its force, and makes a man incapable of bringing about even those events which he might have done, had he passed only for a plain man. Discretion is the perfection of reason, and a guide to us in all the duties of life : cunning is a kind of instinct, that only looks out after our immediate interest and welfare. Discretion is only found in men of strong sense and good understand- ings : cunning is often to be met with in brutes themselves, and in persons who are but the fewest removes from them. In short, cunning is only the mimic of discretion, and may pass upon weak men, in the same manner as vivacity is often mistaken for wit, and gravity for wisdom. The cast of mind, which is natural to a discreet man, makes him look forward into futurity, and consider what will be his condition millions of ages hence, as well as what it is at present. He knows that the misery or happiness, which is reserved for him in another world, loses nothing of its reality by being placed at so great a distance from him. The objects do not appear little to him because they are remote. He considers that those pleasures and pains which lie hid in YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 191 eternity, approach nearer to him every moment, and will be present with him in their full weight and measure, as much as those pains and pleasures which he feels at this very instant. For this reason, he is careful to secure to himself that which is the proper happiness of his nature, and the ultimate design of his being. He carries his thoughts to the end of every action, and considers the most distant as well as the most immediate effects of it. He supersedes every little prospect of gain and advantage which offers itself here, if he does not find it consistent with his views of an hereafter. In a word, his hopes are full of immortality, his schemes are large and glorious ; and his conduct is suitable to one, who knows his true interest, and how to pursue it by proper methods. LESSON LXXXI. Advantages of a well-cultivated Mind. — Bigland. It is not without reason that those, who have tasted the pleasures afforded by philosophy and literature, have lavished upon them the greatest eulogiums. The benefits they pro- duce are too many to enumerate, valuable beyond estimation, and various as the scenes of human life. The man who has a knowledge of the works of God, in the creation of the uni- verse, and his providential government of the immense system of the material and intellectual world, can never be without a copious fund of the most agreeable amusement. He can never be solitary ; for in the most lonely solitude he is not destitute of company and conversation : his own ideas are his companions, and he can always converse with his own mind. How much soever a person may be engaged in pleasures, or encumbered with business, he will certainly have some moments to spare for thought and reflection. No one, who has observed how heavily the vacuities of time hang upon minds unfurnished with images and unaccustomed to think, 192 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. will be at a loss to make a just estimate of the advantages of possessing a copious stock of ideas, of which the combinations may take a multiplicity of forms, and may be varied to in- finity. Mental occupations are a pleasing relief from bodily exer-^ tions, and that perpetual hurry and wearisome attention, which, in most of the employments of life, must be given to objects which are no otherwise interesting than as they are necessary. The mind, in an hour of leisure, obtaining a short vacation from the perplexing cares of the world, finds, in its own contemplations, a source of amusement, of solace and pleasure. The tiresome attention that must be given to an infinite number of things, which, singly and separately taken, are of little moment, but collectively considered, form an important aggregate, requires to be sometimes relaxed by thoughts and reflections of a more general and extensive nature, and directed to objects of which the examination may open a more spacious field of exercise to the mind, give scope to its exertions, expand its ideas, present new combina- tions, and exhibit to the intellectual eye, images new, various, sublime, or beautiful. The time of action will not always continue. The young ought ever to have this consideration present to their mind, that they must grow old, unless prematurely cut off by sick- ness or accident. They ought to contemplate the certain approach of age and decrepitude^ and consider that all temporal happiness is of uncertain acquisition, mixed with a. variety of alloy, and, in whatever degree attained, only of a short and precarious duration. Every day brings some disappointment, some diminution of pleasure, or some frus- tration of hope ; and every moment brings us nearer to that period, when the present scenes shall recede from the view, and future prospects cannot be formed. This consideration displays, in a very interesting point of view, the beneficial effects of furnishing the mind with a stock of ideas that may amuse it in leisure, accompany it in soli- tude, dispel the gloom of melancholy, lighten the pressure of misfortune, dissipate the vexations arising from baffled projects or disappointed hopes, and relieve the tedium of that season of life, when new acquisitions can no more be YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 193 made, and the world can no longer flatter and delude us with its illusory hopes and promises. When life begins, like a distant landscape, gradually to disappear, the mind can receive no solace but from its own ideas and reflections. Philosophy and literature wifl then furnish us with an inexhaustible source of the most agreeable amusements, as religion will afford its substantial consolation. A well-spent youth is the only sure foundation of a happy old age : no axiom of the mathematics is more true, or more easily demonstrated. Old age, like death, comes unexpectedly on the unthinking and unprepared, although its approach be visible, and its arrival certain. Those who have, in the earlier part of life, neglected to furnish their minds with ideas, to fortify them by contemplation, and regulate them by reflection, seeing the season of youth and vigor irrecoverably past, its pleasing scenes annihilated, and its brilliant prospects left far behind, without the possibility of return, and feeling, at the same time, the irresistible encroachments of age, with its disagree- able appendages, are surprised and disconcerted by a change scarcely expected, or for which, at least, they had made no preparations. A person in this predicament, finding himself no longer capable of taking, as formerly, a part in the busy walks of life, of enjoying its active pleasures, and sharing its arduous enterprises, becomes peevish and uneasy, troublesome to others, and burdensome to himself Destitute of the re- sources of philosophy, and a stranger to the amusing pursuits of literature, he is unacquainted with any agreeable method of filling up the vacuity left in his mind by his necessary recess from the active scenes of life. All this is the consequence of squandering away the days of youth and vigor without acquiring the habit of thinking. The period of human life, short as it is, is of sufficient length for the acquisition of a considerable stock of useful and agreeable knowledge ; and the circumstances of the world afford a superabundance of subjects for contemplation and inquiry. The various phenomena of the moral as well as physical world, the investigation of sciences, and the infor- mation communicated by literature, are calculated to attract 17 194 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. attention, exercise thought, excite reflection, and replenish the mind with an infinite variety of ideas. The man of letters, when compared with one that is illit- erate, exhibits nearly the same contrast as that which exists between a blind man and one that can see ; and if we con- sider how much literature enlarges the mind, and how much it multiplies, adjusts, rectifies and arranges the ideas, it may well be reckoned equivalent to an additional sense. It affords pleasures which wealth cannot procure, and which poverty cannot entirely take away. A well cultivated mind places its possessor beyond the reach of those trifling vexations and disquietudes, which continually harass and perplex those, who have no resources within themselves ; and, in some measure, elevates him above the smiles and frowns of fortune. LESSON LXXXII. The Vulture of the Alps. — Anonymous. I've been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through their vales. And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales, As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work was o'er. They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard of more. And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear, A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear : The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous ; But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus : — " It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells, Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells ; But, patient, watching hour on hour upon a lofty rock, He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 195 " One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high, When, from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry, As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain, A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again. "I hurried out to learn the cause ; but, overwhelmed with fright, The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sight I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care ; But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through the air. " Oh ! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye, — His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry ; And know, with agonizing breast, and with a maniac rave. That earthly power could not avail, that innocent to save ! " My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me, And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly, to get free ; At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed ! Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed. " The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew; A mote upon the sun's broad face he seemed unto my view ; But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight, — 'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite. " All search was vain, and years had passed ; that child was ne'er forgot. When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot. From whence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached, He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached ! " I clambered up that rugged clifl", — I could not stay away, — I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay ; A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred ; The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon the head. J96 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. " That dreary spot is pointed out to travellers passing by, Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh." And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way, The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay. LESSON LXXXIII. Song of the Stars. — Bryant. When the radiant morn of creation broke, And the world in the smile of God awoke. And the empty realms of darkness and death, Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath, And orbs of beauty, and spheres of flame, From the void abyss, by myriads came, In the joy of youth, as they darted away. Through the widening wastes of space to play. Their silver voices in chorus rung ; And this was the song the bright ones sung : — " Away, away ! through the wide, wide sky, — The fair blue fields that before us lie, — Each sun, with the worlds that round us roll, Each planet, poised on her turning pole, With her isles of green, and her clouds of white. And her waters that lie like fluid light. " For the Source of glory uncovers his face, And the brightness o'erflows unbounded space ; And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides In our ruddy air and our blooming sides. Lo ! yonder the living splendors play : Away, on our joyous path away ! " Look, look ! through our glittering ranks afar, In the infinite azure, star after star. How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass 1 How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass ' YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. xgy And the path of the gentle winds is seen, Where the small waves dance, and the young woods lean. I " And see, where the brighter day-beams pour. How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower ; And the morn and the eve, with their pomp of hues, Shift o'er the bright planets, and shed their dews ; And, 'twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground. With her shadowy cone, the night goes round. *' Away, away ! — in our blossoming bowers. In the soft air wrapping these spheres of ours, — In the seas and fountains that shine with morn, — See, love is brooding, and life is born. And breathing myriads are breaking from night, To rejoice, like us, in motion and light. " Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres, To weave the dance that measures the years : Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent To the farthest wall of the firmament, — The boundless visible smile of Him, To the veil of whose brow our lamps are dim." LESSON LXXXIV. Domestic Love. — Croly. Domestic Love ! not in proud palace halls Is often seen thy beauty to abide ; Thy dwelling is in lowly cottage walls. That in the thickets of the woodbine hide; With hum of bees around, and from the side Of woody hills some little bubbling spring. Shining along through banks with harebells dyed ; And many a bird, to warble on the wing, When morn her saffron robe o'er heaven and earth doth fling. 17* 198 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. O love of loves ! to thy white hand is given Of earthly happiness the golden key ; Thine are the joyous hours of winter's even, When the babes cling around their father's knee ; And thine the voice that on the midnight sea Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home, Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see. Spirit ! I've built a shrine ; and thou hast come. And on its altar closed — forever closed thy plume ! LESSON LXXXV. Candor, in , estimating the Attainments of others, tecom- mended. — Freeman. There are various causes, which lead us to think unfavor- ably of the abilities of each other. The most obvious is envy. When the knowledge of another man obscures our own, gives him a preeminence above us, or is, in any way, inconsistent with our interest, we are inclined to depreciate it, not only by speaking against it, but even by thinking ot it unworthily. For we have such a command over our minds, that what we passionately wish to be true, we in time come to believe. There are, however, other causes, less hateful than envy, from which the want of candor proceeds. As our knowledge is of different kinds, we are disposed to think uncandidly of the acquisitions of other men. We know the value of the knowledge which is in our own mind ; we can perceive its uses ; we remember the pains which it cost us to obtain it ; but none of these things can we see without us. We suppose that what is performed easily by another, is not in itself difficult, though that ease may be the effect of previous labor. We are apt, therefore, to under- value what we imagine can be done with so little effort ; and we are apt to judge uncandidly, if it is not done in the best manner possible. As our own knowledge is thus conceived to be the most difficult, so it is also imagined to be of the greatest importance. We too often judge that the acquisitions YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. I99 of Other men are useless, and their exertions to obtain them unprofitable. Of what benefit, we inquire, can such things be to them or to the world ? The critic, who spends his time in the study of words, regards the discoveries of the astronomer as of small value. " Of what use," says he, " is it to determine whether the sun is greater or less than the earth ; or whether a planet has four moons or five ?" The astronomer, on the other hand, thinks the labors of the critic equally unprofitable, and that it is the idlest thing imaginable, to employ months and years in ascer- taining the genuine readings of an ancient author. The mathematician is a dull, laborious slave, in the eyes of the poet, whilst the poet appears to the mathematician a rhyming trifler. — These several studies are, however, of benefit to the world ; and the partial ideas, which we entertain respecting them, are forbidden by Christian charity ; for they render us vain, prejudiced and uncandid. Another cause, which leads men to betray a want of can- dor in judging of the knowledge of their neighbors, is this, that their taste is superior to their abilities. It is difficult to attain perfection in any art or science ; but it is comparatively easy to form an idea of it in our minds. We can know when an aspirant falls short of this perfection, though we ourselves cannot rise as high ; we can perceive his defects, though we are unable to mend them. In consequence of this cause, how few are allowed to be eminent in their profession ! Upon how few are we willing to bestow that applause, which is due to their abilities ! Even when a man of splendid genius and the most enlarged attainments, exhibits proofs of his knowledge and talents, we are ready to say, " He does well; but certainly he ought to do better. Such an error ought to be avoided : such a branch of science is absolutely necessary, and ought to be possessed by him : of this point he is partially informed ; and of that point he is totally ignorant." These, and sentiments of the like kind, are instances of a want of candor. In judging in this manner, we are governed by prejudice, and do not make proper allowance for the dead weight, which soon brings to the ground even the wings of an eaaje. Permit me, then, to recommend to you to exercise 200 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. candor, when you think or speak of the knowledge and talents of your fellow men. Avoid, above all things, every species of envy. It is a base passion, which ought not to inhabit the breast of a Christian. The abilities of another man are not mean, merely because they stand in your way ; they are not inferior to yours, merely because you wish them to be so. Study also to obtain an acquaintance with human nature and with yourselves. A man who has a just idea of his own abilities, will not be uncandid. For though he will perceive that he knows a few things, yet he will also be sensible that he is ignorant in many things. Reflecting on the pains that he has taken, to obtain the science of which he is possessed, he will be willing to acknowledge, that others may have ex- erted equal labor. As the knowledge with which he ig endowed appears to him of great importance, he will be ready to confess, that their knowledge may appear to them important ; and that it may, in fact, be full as important. In fine, as he must be conscious of many defects in his own attainments, he will judge with candor of that want of per- fection, which he observes in them. A just idea of human nature destroys your prejudices, and renders you candid. For look at men ; and do you find many very foolish, or many very wise ? What is called common sense deserves the title which is given to it ; for it is, in fact, common. Few men are totally ignorant, and few men have much knowledge. The acquisitions of men are of different kinds ; but their real value may be the same, as they may contribute equally to the benefit of society. Some persons are showy in their knowledge ; they have acquired the art of joining words aptly together ; but this art does not give them a right to judge unfavorably of the knowledge of others. For a man of splendid talents, an eloquent man, may not, after all, be acquainted with more truths than an humble and reserved man, who lives and dies in obscurity. These considerations should teach us candor ; and they should deter us from imputing ignorance and folly to any one, who is not possessed of exactly the same kind of knowledge as ourselves. We are too ready to do this with- out sufficient grounds ; but because a person speaks absurdly YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 201 on a subject, with which he is not acquainted, it does not follow that he is not well informed in other subjects. But what contributes more than any thing to render us candid in our opinions of the abilities of our fellow men, is an enlightened and improved understanding. They, who have only sipped at the fountain of science, are the least disposed to be pleased, the most inclined to be critical and severe, the most ready to find fault, and the most acute in discovering defects. A man of enlarged knowledge is acquainted with the difficulties, which obstruct the path of science. He is sensi- ble, that though he has frequently attempted to excel, yet that he has seldom, perhaps never, been able to attain the end proposed. Convinced that every human mind is limited, and that the best instructed persons soon disclose all that they know, he views with candid eyes those blanks of igno- rance, which occupy such large spaces in the souls of other men. A man of extensive abilities also knows how difficult it is, sometimes, to distinguish wisdom from folly, what is genuine from what is spurious. As he cannot always deter- mine whether his own tongue is uttering good sense or not, he will candidly pardon the speaker whom he hears, and the friend with whom he converses, if he sometimes discovers that they are not wiser than himself. LESSON LXXXVI. The Profession of a Woman. — Miss C. E. Beecher. It is to mothers and to teachers, that the world is to look for the character, which is to be enstamped on each succeed- ing generation ; for it is to them that the great business of education is almost exclusively committed. And will it not appear by examination, that neither mothers iior teachers have ever been properly educated for their profession 1 What is the profession of a woman 1 Is it not to form immortal minds, and to watch, to nurse, and to rear the bodily system, so fearfully and wonderfully made, and upon the order and 202 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. regulation of which, the health and well-being of the mind so greatly depends ? But let most of our sex, upon whom these arduous duties devolve, be asked, — " Have you ever devoted any time and study, in the course of your education, to a preparation for these duties 1 Have you been taught any thing of the struc- ture, the nature and the laws of the body, which you inhabit ? Were you ever taught to understand the operation of diet, air, exercise and modes of dress upon the human frame ? Have the causes which are continually operating to prevent good health, and the modes by which it might be perfected and preserved, ever been made the subject of any instruction V Perhaps almost every voice would respond, — " No ; we have attended to almost every thing more than to this ; we have been taught more concerning the structure of the earth, the laws of the heavenly bodies, the habits and formation of plants, the philosophy of language, than concerning the structure of the human frame, and the laws of health and reason." But is it not the business, the pro^ fession of a woman, to guard the health and form the physi- cal habits of the young 1 And is not the cradle of infancy and the chamber of sickness sacred to woman alone 1 And ought she not to know, at least, some of the general princi- ples of that perfect and wonderful piece of mechanism, committed to her preservation and care ? The restoration of health is the physician's profession, but the preservation of it falls to other hands ; and it is believed that the time will come, when woman will be taught to understand something respecting the construction of the human frame ; the philosophical results which will naturally follow from restricted exercise, unhealthy modes of dress, improper diet, and many other causes, which are continually operating to destroy the health and life of the young. Again, let our sex be asked respecting the instruction they have received, in the course of their education, on that still more arduous and difficult department of their profession, which relates to the intellect and the moral susceptibilities, — " Have you been taught the powers and faculties of the hu- man mind, and the laws by which it is regulated 1 Have YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 203 you studied how to direct its several faculties ; how to restore those that are overgrown, and strengthen and mature those that are deficient ? Have you been taught the best modes of communicating knowledge, as well as of acquiring it ? Have you learned the best mode of correcting bad moral habits, and forming good ones ? Have you made it an object, to find how a selfish disposition may be made generous ; how a reserved temper may be made open and frank ; how pettish- ness and ill-humor may be changed to cheerfulness and kindness ? Has any woman studied her profession in this respect ? It is feared the same answer must be returned, if not from all, at least from most of our sex : — " No ; we have acquired wisdom from the observation and experience of others, on almost all other subjects ; but the philosophy of the direction and control of the human mind, has not been an object of thought or study." And thus it appears, that, though it is woman's express business to rear the body and form the mind, there is scarcely any thing to which her attention has been less directed. LESSON LXXXVn. Curiosity. — C. Sprague. It came from Heaven — its power archangels knew, When this fair globe first rounded to their view ; When the young sun revealed the glorious scene, Where oceans gathered, and where lands grew green ; When the dead dust in joyful myriads swarmed, And man, the clod, with God's own breath was warmed. It reigned in Eden — when that man first woke, Its kindling influence from his eyeballs spoke ; No roving childhood, no exploring youth, Led him along, till wonder chilled to truth ; Full-formed at once, his subject world he trod, And gazed upon the labors of his God ; 204 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. On all, by turns, his chartered glance was cast, While each pleased best, as each appeared the last ; But when She came, in nature's blameless pride, Bone of his bone, his heaven-anointed bride, All meaner objects faded from his sight, And sense turned giddy with the new delight ; Those charmed his eye, but this entranced his soul, Another self, queen-wonder of the whole ! Rapt at the view, in ecstasy he stood. And, like his Maker, saw that all was good. It reigned in Eden — in that heavy hour When the arch-tempter sought our mother's bower, Its thrilling charm her yielding heart assailed. And even o'er dread Jehovah's word prevailed. There the fair tree in fatal beauty grew. And hung its mystic apples to hei; view : " Eat," breathed the fiend, beneath his serpent guise, " Ye shall know all things ; gather, and be wise !" Sweet on her ear the wily falsehood stole, And roused the ruling passion of her soul. *' Ye shall become like God," — transcendent fate ! That God's command forgot, she plucked and ate ; Ate, and her partner lured to share the crime. Whose wo, "the legend saith, must live through time. For this they shrank before the Avenger's face ; For this he drove them from the sacred place ; For this came down the universal lot. To weep, to wander, die, and be forgot. It came from Heaven — it reigned in Eden's shades — It roves on earth — and every walk invades : Childhood and age alike its influence own ; It haunts the beggar's nook, the monarch's throne ; Hangs o'er the cradle, leans above the bier. Gazed on old Babel's tower — and lingers here. To all that's lofty, all that's low, it turns ; With terror curdles, and with rapture burns ; YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 205 Now feels a seraph's throb, now, less than man's, A reptile tortures and a planet scans ; Now idly joins in life's poor, passing jars, Now shakes creation off, and soars beyond the stars. 'Tis Curiosity — who hath not felt Its spirit, and before its altar knelt ? In the pleased infant see its power expand, When first the coral fills his little hand ; Throned in his mother's lap, it dries each tear, As her sweet legend falls upon his ear. Next it assails him in his top's strange hum, Breathes in his whistle, echoes in his drum ; Each gilded toy, that doting love bestows, He longs to break, and every spring expose. Placed by your hearth, with what delight he pores O'er the bright pages of his pictured stores ! How oft he steals upon your graver task, Of this to tell you, and of that to ask ! And, when the waning hour to-bedward bids. Though gentle sleep sit waiting on his lids, How winningly he pleads to gain you o'er, That he may read one little story more ! Nor yet alone to toys and tales confined, It sits, dark brooding, o'er his embryo mind. Take him between your knees, peruse his face, While all you know, or think you know, you trace ; Tell him who spoke creation into birth. Arched the broad heavens, and spread the rolling earth : Who formed a pathway for the obedient sun, And bade the seasons in their circles run ; Who filled the air, the forest and the flood, And gave man all, for comfort or for food ; Tell him they sprang at God's creating nod — He stops you short, with — *' Father, who made God?" Thus, through life's stages, may we mark the power That masters man in every clianging hour 18 205 YOUNG LADIirS' CLASS BOOK. It tempts him, from the blandishments of home, Mountains to climb, and frozen seas to roam ; By air-blown bubbles buoyed, it bids him rise, And hang an atom in the vaulted skies ; Lured by its charm, he sits and learns to trace The midnight wanderings of the orbs of space ; ' Boldly he knocks at wisdom's inmost gate, With nature counsels, and communes with fate ; Below, above, o'er all he dares to rove, In all finds God, and finds that God all love. LESSON LXXXVIIL Tht hove of Country and of Home. — Montgomery. There is a land, of every land the pride. Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside ; Where brighter suns dispense serener light. And milder moons emparadise the night ; A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth. Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth. The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air ; In every clime, the magnet of his soul. Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole : For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace The heritage of nature's noblest race. There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, While, in his softened looks, benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend. ^ YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 207 Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife, Strows with fresh flowers the narrow way of life ; In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fire-side pleasures gambol at her feet. Where shall that land, that spot of earth, be found ? Art thou a man? — a patriot? — look around ; Oh ! thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country^ and that spot thy home. LESSON LXXXIX. Columbus in CJiains. — Miss M. J. Jewsbury. 'TwAS eve : — upon his chariot throne The sun sank lingering in the west ; But sea and sky were there alone. To hail him in this hour of rest : Yet never shone his glorious light More calmly, gloriously bright. Nor clouds above, nor wave below. Nor human sound, nor earthly air. Mingled with that o'erwhelming glow. Marred the deep peace reposing there ; The sea looked of the sky's fair mould, The sky, a sea of burning gold. Anon, a single ship, from far, Came softly gliding o^er the sea : Lovely and quiet as a star. When its fair path is calm and free, Or like a bird with snow-white wing, Came on that glittering, gentle thing. 208 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. She came with buoyant beaUty crowned, And yet disturbed the scene's repose ; . ' For she, of all the objects round, Alone was linked to human woes ; She only, mid the glorious span. Spoke of the world, — the world of man. And yet she bore from conquering feat. The brave, the joyous and the free, And many a nobler heart that beat With hopes as boundless as the sea ; One only felt his course was run, — He gazed upon the sinking sun. His the keen eye and stately form, And reason's majesty of brow ; His the firm soul, that danger's storm, When most it baffled, could not bow, — The soul that taught him now to wear His fetters with a kingly air. Yet was that mighty soul subdued By man's neglect and sorrow's sway. As rocks, that have the storm withstood. May silent waters wear away. But the vexed spirit spurned its yoke ; He looked upon his chains, and spoke : — " Adopted land ! Adopted land ! — And these, then, are thy gifts for me, Who dared, where unknown seas expand, Seek realms and riches vast for thee ! Who made, without thy fostering power, An undivided world thy dower ! " O'er Spain yon glorious sun may set. And leave her native realm awhile ; May rise o'er other lands, — and yet — Even there— on her dominions smile ; YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 209 Be, when his daily course is run, To Spain a never-setting sun. " I served thee as a son would serve ; I loved thee with a father's love ; It ruled my thought, and strung my nerve, To raise thee other lands above, And, from a queen of earth, to be The single empress of the sea. " For thee my form is bowed and worn With midnight watches on the main ; For thee my soul hath calmly borne Ills worse than sorrow, more than pain ; Through life, whate'er my lot may be, I lived, dared, suffered, but for thee. " My guerdon ? — 'Tis a furrowed brow, Hair gray with grief, eyes dim with tears. And blighted hope, and broken vow. And poverty for coming years. And hate, with malice in her train : — What other guerdon 1 — View my chain ! " Yet say not that I weep for gold ; No, let it be the robber's spoil ; Nor yet, that hate and malice bold , Decry my triumph and my toil : — I weep but for my country's shame ; I weep but for her blackened fame. " No more. — The sun-light leaves the sea ; Farewell, thou never-dying king ! Earth's clouds and changes change not thee ; And thou, — and thou, — grim, giant thing. Cause of my glory and my pain, — Farewell, unfathomable main !" 18* 210 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. LESSON XC. On Respect for Ancestors. — Quincy. Of all the affections of man, those which connect him with ancestry are among the most natural and generous. They enlarge the sphere of his interests, multiply his mo- tives to virtue, and give intensity to his sense of duty to generations to come, by the perception of obligation to those which are past. In whatever mode of existence man finds himself, be it savage or civilized, he perceives that he is indebted for the far greater part of his possessions and en- joyments, to events over which he had no control ; to indi-. viduals, whose names, perhaps, never reached his ear; to sacrifices, in which he never shared; and to sufferings, awakening in his bosom few and very transient sympathies. Cities and empires, not less than individuals, are chiefly indebted for their fortunes to circumstances and influences independent of the labors and wisdom of the passing genera- tion. Is our lot cast in a happy soil, beneath a favored sky, and under the shelter of free institutions 1 How few of all these blessings do we owe to our own power, or our own prudence ! How few, on which we cannot discern the im- press of long past generations! It is natural, that reflections of this kind should awaken curiosity concerning the men of past ages. It is suitable, and characteristic of noble natures, to love to trace in vener- ated institutions the evidences of ancestral worth . and wisdom ; and to cherish that iningled sentiment of awe and admiration, which takes possession of the soul, in the pres- ence of ancient, deep-laid, and massy monuments of intel- lectual and moral power. LESSON XCI. Character of the Puritans. — Story. It is not in the power of the scoffer, or the skeptic, of the 'parasite, who fawns on courts, or the proselyte, who dotes on YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 211 the infallibility of his own sect, to obscure the real dignity of the character of the Puritans. We may lament their errors ; we may regret their prejudices ; we may pity their infirmities ; we may smile at the stress laid by them on petty observances and trifling forms. We may believe that their piety was mixed up with too much gloom and severity ; that it was sometimes darkened by superstition, and sometimes degraded by fanaticism ; that it shut out too much the innocent pleas- ures of life, and enforced too strictly a discipline, irksome, cheerless and oppressive ; that it was sometimes over rigid, when it might have been indulgent; stern, when it might have been affectionate ; pertinacious, when concession would have been just, as well as graceful ; and flashing with fiery zeal, when charity demanded moderation, and ensured peace. All this, and much more, may be admitted, — for they were but men, frail, fallible men, — and yet leave behind solid claims upon the reverence and admiration of mankind. Of them it may be said, with as much truth as of any men, that have ever lived, that they acted up to their principles, and followed them out with an unfaltering firmness. They dis- played, at all times, a downright honesty of heart and purpose. In simplicity of life, in godly sincerity, in temperance, in humility and in patience, as well as in zeal, they seemed to belong to the apostolical age. Their wisdom, while it looked on this world, reached far beyond it in its aim and objects. They valued earthly pur- suits no farther than they were consistent with religion. Amidst the temptations of human grandeur, they stood un- moved, unshaken, unseduced. Their scruples of conscience, if they sometimes betrayed them into difficulty, never betray- ed them into voluntary sin. They possessed a moral courage, which looked present dangers in the face, as though they were distant or doubtful, seeking no escape, and indulging no terror. When, in defence of their faith, of what they deemed pure and undefiled religion, we see them resign their property, their preferments, their friends and their homes ; when we see them submitting to banishment, and ignominy, and even to death ; when we see them in foreign lands, on inhospitable shores, in the midst of sickness and famine, in desolation 2X2 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. and disaster, still true to themselves, still confident in God's providence, still submissive to his chastisements, still thankful for his blessings, still ready to exclaim, in the language of Scripture, *'We are troubled on every side, yet not dis- tressed ; we are perplexed, but not in despair ; persecuted, but not forsaken ; cast down, but not destroyed ;" when we see such things, where is the man, whose soul does not melt within him at the sight 1 Where shall examples be sought or found more full, to point out what Christianity is, and what it ought to accomplish 1 What better origin could we desire, than from men of characters like these 1 Men, to whom conscience was every thing, and worldly prosperity nothing. Men, whose thoughts belonged to eternity rather than to time. Men, who, in the near prospect of their sacrifices, could say, as our forefathers did say, *' When we are in our graves, it will be all one, whether we have lived in plenty or in penury ; whether we have died in a bed of down, or locks of straw. Only this is the advantage of the mean condition, that it is a more FREEDOM TO DIE. And the less comfort any have in the things of this world, the more liberty they have to lay up treasure in heaven." Men, who, in answer to the objection, urged by the anxiety of friendship, that they might perish by the way, or by hunger or the sword, could answer, as our forefathers did, *' We may trust God's providence for these things. Either he will keep these evils from us, or will dispose them for our good, and enable us to bear them." Men, who, in still later days, in their appeal for protection to the throne, could say, with pathetic truth and simplicity, as our forefathers did, " That we might enjoy divine worship without human mixtures, without offence to God, man, our own consciences, with leave, but not witJwut tears, we departed ' from our country, kindred, and fathers' houses into this Pat- mos ; in relation whereunto we do not say. Our garments are become old, by reason of the very long journey, but that ourselves, who came away in our strength, are, by reason of long absence, many of us become gray-headed, and some of us stooping for age." If these be not the sentiments of lofty virtue ; if they breathe not the genuine spirit of Christianity ; if they speak YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 213 not high approaches towards moral perfection ; if they possess not an enduring sublimity ; then, indeed, have I ill read the human heart ; then, indeed, have I strangely mistaken the inspirations of religion. If men like these can be passed by with indifference, because they wore not the princely robes, or the sacred lawn, because they shone not in courts, nor feasted in fashionable circles ; then, indeed, is Christian glory a vain shadow, and human virtue a dream, about which we disquiet ourselves in vain. But it is not so — it is not so. There are those around me, whose hearts beat high, and whose lips grow eloquent, when the remembrance of such ancestors comes over their thoughts ; when they read in their deeds, not the empty forms, but the essence of holy living and holy dying. Time was, when the exploits of war, the heroes of many battles, the conquerors of millions, the men who waded through slaughter to thrones, the kings whose footsteps were darkened with blood, and the sceptred oppressors of the earth, were alone deemed worthy themes for the poet and the orator, for the song of the minstrel, and the hosannas of the multitude. Time was, when feats of arms, and tournaments, and crusades, and the high array of chivalry, and the pride of royal banners waving for victory, engrossed all minds. Time was, when the ministers of the altar sat down by the side of the tyrant, and numbered his victims, and stimulated his persecutions, and screened the instruments of his crimes ; and there was praise, and glory, and revelry, for these things. Murder and rapine, burning cities and desolated plains, if they were at the bidding of royal or baronial feuds, led on by the courtier or the clan, were matters of public boast, the delight of courts, and the treasured pleasure of the fireside tales. But these times have passed away. Christianity has resumed her meek and holy reign. The Puritans have not lived in vain. The simple piety of the pilgrims of New England casts into shade this false glitter, which dazzled and betrayed men into the worship of their destroyers. 214 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. LESSON XCII. The Coming of the Pilgrims* — W. Sullivan. Here begins that vast wilderness, which no civilized man has beheld. Whither does it extend, and what is contained within its unmeasured limits 1 Through what thousands of years has it undergone no change, but in the silent move- ments of renovation and decay? To how many vernal seasons has it unfolded its leaves ; — to how many autumnal frosts has it yielded its verdure ? This unvaried solitude ! What has disturbed its tranquillity, through uncounted ages, but the rising of the winds, or the rending of the storms 1 What sounds have echoed through its deep recesses, but those of craving and of rage from the beasts which it shelters, or the war-song and the war-whoop of its sullen, smileless mas- ters ? Man, social, inventive, improving man, — his footstep, his handiwork, are nowhere discerned. The beings, who wear his form, have added nothing to knowledge, through all their generations. Like the game which they pursue, they are the same now, which their progenitors were when their race began. These distant and widely separated columns of smoke, that throw their graceful forms towards the sky, indicate no social, no domestic abodes. The snows have descended to cover the fallen foliage of the departed year ; the winds pass, with a mournful sound, through the leafless branches ; the Indian has retired to his dark dwelling ; and the tenants of the forest have hidden themselves in the earth, to escape the search of winter. This ocean, that spreads out before us ! — how many of its mountain waves rise up between us and the abodes of civil- ized men ! Its surges break and echo on this lonely shore, as they did when the storms first waked them from their * Extracted from a Discourse delivered at Plymouth, Dec. 22, 1829. — In the reflections quoted above, the author goes back, in imagination, to the time when New England was first settled, and " stands upon the shore which the pil grims were approacliing." YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 215 sleep, without having brought, or carried, any work of human hands, unless it be the frail canoe, urged on by hunger or revenge. How appalling is this solitude of the wilderness ! how cheerless this wide waste of waters, on which nothing moves ! A new object rises to our view ! It is that proud result of human genius, which finds its way where it leaves no trace of itself, yet connects the severed continents of the globe. It is full of human beings of a complexion unknown in this far distant clime. They come from a world skilled in the social arts. Are they adventurers, thirsting for gain, or seeking, in these unexplored regions, new gifts for the treasury of science ? Their boats are filled ; they touch the land. They are followed by tender females, and more tender offspring ; such beings as a wild desert never before received. They commence the making of habitations. They disem- bark their goods. Have they abandoned their returning ship ? Are they to encounter, in their frail tenements, the winter's tempest and the accumulating snows ? Do they know, that these dark forests, through which even the winds come not without dismal and terrifying sound, is the home of the savage, whose first prompting is to destroy that he may rob ? Do they know that disease must be the inmate of their dwellings in their untried exposure? If the savage, if disease, selects no victims, will famine stay its merciless hand? Do they know how slowly the forest yields to human industry ? Do they realize how long, how lonesome, how perilous it will be to their little group, before want can be supplied and security obtained? Can they have come, voluntarily, to encounter all these unavoidable evils ? Have they given up their native land, their precious homes, their kind friends, their kindred, the comfort and the fellowship of civilized and polished life? Is this the evidence of affectionate solicitude of husbands, of anxious tenderness of parents, or the sad measure of distem- pered minds ? Wherefore are they come ? What did they suffer, what did they fear, what do they expect, or hope, that they have chosen exile here, and to become the watchful neighbor of the treacherous Indian ? 216 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. They gather themselves together, and assume the posture of humble devotion. They pour forth the sentiments of praise, of hope, of unshaken confidence. They cast them- selves, their wives, their children, into the arms of that beneficent Parent, vs^ho is present in the wilderness no less than the crowded city. It is to Him that they look for support amidst the wants of nature, for shelter against the storm, for protection against the savage, for relief in disease. LESSON XCIII. Lady Arabella Johnson. — Story. The lady Arabella Johnson, a daughter of the earl of Lincoln, accompanied her husband in the embarkation under Winthrop ; and, in honor of her, the admiral ship, on that occasion, was called by her name. She died in a very short time after her arrival, and lies buried near the neighboring shore. No stone, or other memorial, indicates the exact place ; but tradition has preserved it with a holy reverence. The remembrance of her excellence is yet fresh in all our thoughts ; and many a heart still kindles with admiration of her virtues ; and many a bosom heaves with sighs at her untimely end. What, indeed, could be more touching than the fate of such a woman ? What example more striking than hers, of uncompromising affection and piety? Born in the lap of ease, and surrounded by affluence ; with every prospect which could make hope gay, and fortune desirable ; accustomed to the splendors of a court, and the scarcely less splendid hos- pitalities of her ancestral home; she was yet content to quit, what has, not inaptly, been termed " this paradise of plenty and pleasure," for " a wilderness of wants," and, with a fortitude superior to the delicacies of her rank and sex, to trust herself to an unknown ocean and a distant climate. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 217 that she might partake, with her husband, the pure and spiritual worship of God. To the honor, to the eternal honor of her sex, be it said, that, in the path of duty, no sacrifice is with them too high or too dear. Nothing is with them impossible, but to shrink from what love, honor, innocence, religion, requires. The voice of pleasure or of power may pass by unheeded ; but the voice of affliction never. The chamber of the sick, the pillow of the dying, the vigils of the dead, the altars of re- ligion, never missed the presence or the sympathies of woman. Timid though she be, and so delicate that the winds of heaven may not too roughly visit her, on such occasions she loses all sense of danger, and assumes a preternatural cour- age, which knows not, and fears not consequences. Then she displays that undaunted spirit, which neither courts difficulties, nor evades them ; that resignation, which utters neither murmur nor regret ; and that patience in suffering, which seems victorious even over death itself. The lady Arabella perished in this noble undertaking, of which she seemed the ministering angel ; and her death spread universal gloom throughout the colony. Her husband was overwhelmed with grief at the unexpected event, and survived her but a single month. Governor Winthrop has pronounced his eulogy in one short sentence :— " He was a holy man, and wise, and died in sweet peace." He was truly the idol of the people ; and the spot selected by himself for his own sepulture became consecrated in their eyes ; so that many left it as a dying request, that they might be buried by his side. Their request prevailed ; and the Chapel burying-ground in Boston, which contains his re- mains, became, from that time, appropriated to the repose of the dead. Perhaps the best tribute to this excellent pair is, that time, which, with so unsparing a hand, consigns states- men, and heroes, and even sages, to oblivion, has embalmed the memory of their worth, and preserved it among the choicest of New England relics. It can scarcely be forgot- ten, but with the annals of our country. 19 218 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. LESSON XCIV. The Pilgrim Fathers. — C. Sprague. Behold ! they come — those sainted forms, Unshaken through the strife of storms ; Heaven's winter cloud hangs coldly down, And earth puts on its rudest frown ; But colder, ruder was the hand. That drove them from their own fair land,— Their own fair land, refinement's chosen seat. Art's trophied dwelling, learning's green retreat; By valor guarded, and by victory crowned, For all, but gentle charity, renowned. With streaming eye, yet steadfast heart. Even from that land they dared to part, And burst each tender tie ; Haunts, where their sunny youth was passed, Homes, where they fondly hoped at last. In peaceful age, to die ; Friends, kindred, comfort, all they spurned — Their fathers' hallowed graves. And to a world of darkness turned. Beyond a world of waves. ****** But not alone, not all unblessed, The exile sought a place of rest ; One dared with him to burst the knot, That bound her to her native spot ; Her low, sweet voice in comfort spoke. As round their bark the billows broke ; She, through the midnight watch, was there, With him to bend her knees in prayer ; She trod the shore with girded heart. Through good and ill to claim her part ; In life, in death, with him to seal Her kindred love, her kindred zeal. r YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 3^9 They come — that coming who shall tell 1 The eye may weep, the heart may swell, But the poor tongue in vain essays A fitting note for them to raise. We hear the after-shout, that rings For them who smote the power of kings — The swelling triumph all would share ; But who the dark defeat would dare, And boldly meet the wrath and wo, That wait the unsuccessful blow ? It were an envied fate, we deem, To live a land's recorded theme. When we are in the tomb : We, too, might yield the joys of home. And waves of winter darkness roam, And tread a shore of gloom, — Knew we, those waves, through coming time, Should roll our names to every clime ; Felt we, that millions on that shore Should stand, our memory to adore : But no glad vision burst in light Upon the pilgrims' aching sight ; Their hearts no proud hereafter swelled ; Deep shadows vailed the way they held ; The yell of vengeance was their trump of fame, Their monument, a grave without a name. Yet, strong in weakness, there they stand, On yonder ice-bound rock, Stern and resolved, that faithful band. To meet fate's rudest shock. Though anguish rends the father's breast, For them, his dearest and his best. With him the waste who trod — Though tears, that freeze, the mother sheds Upon her children's houseless heads — The Christian turns to God ! 220 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. In grateful adoration now, Upon the barren sands they bow. What tongue of joy e'er woke such prayer, As bursts in desolation there 1 What arm of strength e'er wrought such power, As waits to crown that feeble hour? There into life an infant empire springs ! There falls the iron from the soul ; There liberty's young accents roll Up to the King of kings ! To fair creation's farthest bound, That thrilling summons yet shall sound ; The dreaming nations shall awake And to their centre earth's old kingdoms shake. Pontiff and prince, your sway Must crumble from that day ; Before the loftier throne of Heaven, The hand is raised, the pledge is given — One monarch to obey, one creed to own, — That monarch, God, — that creed, his word alone. Spread out earth's holiest records here, Of days and deeds to reverence dear ; A zeal like this what pious legends tell? On kingdoms built In blood and guilt. The worshippers of vulgar triumph dwell ; But what exploit with theirs shall page, Who rose to bless their kind, — Who left their nation and their age, Man's spirit to unbind ? Who boundless seas passed o'er. And boldly met, in every path, Famine, and frost, and heathen wrath, To dedicate a shore, Where piety's meek train might breathe their vow. And seek their Maker with an unshamed brow ; Where liberty's glad race might proudly come, And set up there an everlasting home ? YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 223 LESSON XCV. Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. — Mrs. Hemans. The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods, against a stormy sky. Their giant branches tost ; And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came, — Not with the roll of the stirring drums. And the trumpet that sings of fame ; Not as the flying come. In silence and in fear; They shook the depths of the desert's gloom, With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang. And the stars heard and the sea ; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free. The ocean-eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared— This was their welcome home ! There were men with hoary hair, Amidst that pilgrim-band : Why had they come to wither there Away from their childhood's lana 19* 222 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth ; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar ? — Bright jewels of the mine 1 The wealth of seas ? the spoils of war ? — They sought a faith's pure shrine. Ay, call it holy gjound, The soil where first they trod : They have left unstained what there they found- Freedom to worship God ! LESSON XCVL Hymn for the second Centeimial Celebration of the Settlement of Charlestown, Mass. — Pierpont. Two HUNDRED YEARS ! — two hundred years ! — How much of human power and pride. What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears, Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide ! — The red man, at his horrid rite. Seen by the stars at night's cold noon. His bark canoe, its track of light Left on the wave beneath the moon, — His dance, his yell, his council-fire, - The altar where his victim lay. His death-song, and his funeral pyre, — That still, strong tide hath borne away. And that pale pilgrim band is gone. That, on this shore, with trembling trod Ready to faint, yet bearing on The ark of freedom and of God YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 223 And war — that, since, o'er ocean came. And thundered loud from yonder hill, And wrapped its foot in sheets of flame, To blast that ark — its storm is still. Chief, sachem, sage, bards, heroes, seers, That live in story and in song. Time, for the last two hundred years, Has raised, and shown, and swept along. 'Tis like a dream when one awakes — This vision of the scenes of old : 'Tis like the moon when morning breaks, 'Tis like a tale round watch-fires told. Then what are .we ! — then what are we ! Yes, when two hundred years have rolled O'er our green graves, our names shall be A morning dream, a tale that's told. God of our fathers, — in whose sight The thousand years, that sweep away Man, and the traces of his might, Are but the break and close of day, — Grant us that love of truth sublime, That love of goodness and of thee. Which makes thy children, in all time, To share thine own eternity. LESSON XCVII. The Western World. — Bryant. Late, from this western shore, that morning chased The deep and ancient night, that threw its shrouj O'er the green land of groves, the beautiful waste. Nurse of full streams, and lifter up of proud, 224 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Sky-mingling mountains, that o'erlook the cloud. Erewhile, where yon gay spires their brightness rear, Trees waved, and the brown hunter's shouts were loud Amid the forest ; and the bounding deer Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf yelled near. And where his willing waves yon bright blue bay Sends up, to kiss his decorated brim, And cradles, in his soft embrace, the gay Young group of grassy islands born of him, And, crowding nigh, or in the distance dim, Lifts the white throng of sails, that bear or bring The commerce of the world ; — with tawny limb, And belt and beads in sunlight glistening. The savage urged his skiff like wild bird on the wing. Then, all this joyful paradise around. And all the broad and boundless mainland, lay Cooled by the interminable wood, that frowned O'er mound and vale, where never summer ray Glanced, till the strong tornado broke his way Through the gray giants of the sylvan wild ; Yet many a sheltered glade, with blossoms gay, Beneath the showery sky and sunshine mild, Within the shaggy arms of that dark forest smiled. There stood the Indian hamlet, there the lake Spread its blue sheet, that flashed with many an oar. Where the brown otter plunged him from the brake. And the deer drank : as the light gale flew o'er. The twinkling maize-field rustled on the shore ; And while that spot, so wild, and lone, and fair, A look of glad and innocent beauty wore, And peace was on the earth and in the air. The warrior lit the pile, and bound his captive there — Not unavenged : the foeman, from the wood. Beheld the deed, and, when the midnight shade Was stillest, gorged his battle-axe with blood : All died — the wailing babe — the shrieking maid — YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 035 And in t}\e flood of fire, that scathed the glade, The roofs went down ; but deep the silence grew, When on the dewy woods the day-beam played : No more the cabin smokes rose wreathed and blue, And ever, by their lake, lay moored the light canoe. Look now abroad : another race has filled These populous borders ; wide the wood recedes, And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are tilled ; The land is full of harvests and green meads ; Streams numberless, that many a fountain feeds. Shine, disembowered, and give to sun and breeze Their virgin waters ; the full region leads New colonies forth, that toward the western seas Spread, like a rapid flame, among the autumnal trees. Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, Throws its last fetters off"; and who shall place A limit to the giant's unchained strength, Or curb his swiftness in the forward race. Far, like the comet's way through infinite space, Stretches the long untravelled path of light Into the depths of ages : we may trace, Afar, the brightening glory of its flight, Till the receding rays are lost to human sight. Europe is given a prey to sterner fates. And writhes in shackles ; strong the arms that chain To earth her struggling multitude of states. She, too, is strong, and might not chafe in vain Against them, but shake off the vampyre train That batten on her blood, and break their net. Yes, she shall look on brighter days, and gain The meed of worthier deeds ; the moment set To rescue, and raise up, draws near — but is not yet. But thou, my country, thou shalt never fall. But with thy children : thy maternal care, Thy lavish love, thy blessings showered on all These are thy fetters : seas and stormy air 226 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Are the wide barrier of thy borders, where, Among thy gallant sons, that guard thee well. Thou laugh'st at enemies : who shall then declare The date of thy deep-founded strength, or tell How happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall dwell ? LESSON XCVIII. Effects of the Institutions and Example of the first Settlers of New England. — CIuincy. If we cast our eyes on the cities and great towns of New England, with what wonder should we behold, did not fa- miliarity render the phenomenon almost unnoticed, men, combined in great multitudes, possessing freedom and the consciousness of strength, — the comparative physical power of the ruler less than that of a cobweb across a lion's path, — yet orderly, obedient, and respectful to authority ; a people, but no populace; every class in reality existing, which the general law of society acknowledges, except one, — and this exception characterizing the whole country ! The soil of New England is trodden by no slave. In our streets, in our assemblies, in the halls of election and legislation, men of every rank and condition meet, and unite or divide on other principles, and are actuated by other motives, than those growing out of such distinctions. The fears and jealousies, which, in other countries, separate classes of men, and make them hostile to each other, have here no influence, or a very limited one. Each individual, of whatever condition, has the conscious- ness of living under known laws, which secure equal rights, and guaranty to each whatever portion of the goods of life, be it great or small, chance, or talent, or industry may have bestowed. All perceive that the honors and rewards of so- ciety, are open equally to the fair competition of all ; that the distinctions of wealth, or of power, are not fixed in families ; that whatever of this nature exists to-day, may be changed to-morrow, or, in a coming generation, be absolutely reversed. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 227 Common principles, interests, hopes and affections, are the result of universal education. Such are the consequences of the equality of rights, and of the provisions for the general diffusion of knowledge and the distribution of intestate estates, established by the laws framed by the earliest emi- grants to New England. If, from our cities, we turn to survey the vvide expanse of the interior, how do the effects of the institutions and exam- ple of our early ancestors appear, in all the local comfort and accommodation, which mark the general condition of the whole country ; — unobtrusive, indeed, but substantial ; in nothing splendid, but in every thing sufficient and satisfacto- ry. Indications of active talent and practical energy, exist every where. With a soil comparatively little luxuriant, and in great proportion either rock, or hill, or sand, the skill and industry of man are seen triumphing over the obstacles of nature ; making the rock the guardian of the field ; moulding the granite, as though it were clay ; leading cultivation to the hill-top, and spreading over the arid plain hitherto un- known and unanticipated harvests. The lofty mansion of the prosperous adjoins the lowly dwelling of the husbandman ; their respective inmates are in the daily interchange of civility, sympathy and respect. Enterprise and skill, which once held chief affinity with the ocean or the sea-board, now begin to delight the interior, haunting our rivers, w^ere the music of the waterfall, with powers more attractive than those of the fabled harp of Or- pheus, collects around it intellectual man and material nature. Towns and cities, civilized and happy communities, rise, like exhalations, on rficks and in forests, till the deep and far-re- sounding voice of the neighboring torrent is itself lost and unheard, amid the predominating noise of successful and rejoicing labor. What lessons has New England, in every period of her history, given to the world ! What lessons do her condition and example still give ! How unprecedented, yet how prac- tical ! How simple, yet how powerful! She has proved, that all the variety of Christian sects may live together in harmony, under a government, which allows equal privileges to all, — exclusive preeminence to none. She has proved, 228 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. that ignorance among the muhitude is not necessary to order, but that the surest basis of perfect order is the information of the people. She has proved the old maxim, that *' No gov- ernment, except a despotism, vi^ith a standing army, can sub- sist where the people have arms," is false. * * * * Such are the true glories of the institutions of our fathers ; such the natural fruits of that patience in toil, that frugality of disposition, that temperance of habit, that general diffusion of knowledge, and that sense of religious responsibility, in- culcated by the precepts, and exhibited in the example, of every generation of our ancestors. LESSON XCIX. Neio England. — Mrs. Child. I NEVER view the thriving villages of Nev/ England, which speak so forcibly to the heart, of happiness and prosperity, without feeling a glow of national pride, as I say, "This is my own, my native land." A long train of associations is connected with her picturesque rivers, as they repose in their peaceful loveliness, — the broad and sparkling mirror of the heavens, — and with the cultivated environs of her busy cities, which seem every where blushing into a perfect Eden of fruit and flowers. The remembrance of what we have been, comes rushing on the heart in powerful and happy contrast. In most nations, the path of antiquity is shrouded in dark- ness, rendered more visible by the wild, ^"antastic light of fable ; but with us, the vista of time is luminous to its re- motest point. Each succeeding year has left its footsteps distinct upon the soil, and the cold dew of our chilling dawn is still visible beneath the mid-day sun. Two centuries, only, have elapsed, since our most beautiful villages reposed in the undisturbed grandeur of nature ; when the scenes now ren- dered classic by literary associations, or resounding with the din of commerce, echoed nought but the sound of the hunter, or the fleet tread of the wild deer. God was here in his holy temple, and the whole earth kept silence before him ! YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 229 But the voice of prayer was soon to be heard in the desert. The sun, which, for ages beyond the memory of man, had gazed on the strange, fearful worship of the Great Spirit of the wilderness, was soon to shed its splendor upon the altars of the living God. That light, which had arisen amid the darkness of Europe, stretched its long luminous track across the Atlantic, till the summits of the western world became tinged with its brightness. During many long, long ages of gloom and corruption, it seemed as if the pure flame of religion was every where quenched in blood ; — but the watch- ful vestal had kept the sacred flame still burning deeply and fervently. Men, stern and unyielding, brought it hither in their own bosom, and, amid desolation and poverty, they kin- dled it on the shrine of Jehovah. In this enlightened and liberal age, it is perhaps too fash- ionable to look back upon those early sufferers in the cause of the reformation, as a band of dark, discontented bigots. Without doubt, there were many broad, deep shadows in their characters ; but there was, likewise, bold and powerful light. The peculiarities of their situation occasioned most of their faults, and atoned for them. They were struck off from a learned, opulent and powerful nation, under circum- stances which goaded and lacerated them almost to ferocity ; — and no wonder that men, who fled from oppression in their own country, to all the hardships of a remote and dreary province, should have exhibited a deep mixture of exclusive, bitter and morose passions. LESSON C. Conclusion of a Discourse, delivered Sept. 18th, 1828, in Commemoration of the first Settlement of Salem, Mass. — Story, When we reflect on what has been, and is, how is it pos- sible not to feel a profound sense of the responsibleness of this republic to all future ages ! What vast motives press 20 230 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. upon us for lofty efforts! What brilliant prospects invite our enthusiasm ! What solemn warnings at once demand our vigilance, and moderate our confidence ! The old world has already revealed to us, in its unsealed I books, the beginning and end of all its own marvellous struggles in the cause of liberty. Greece, lovely Greece, " the land of scholars and the nurse of arms," where sister republics in fair processions chanted the praises of liberty and the gods, — where and what is she 1 For two thousand years, the oppressor has bound her to the earth. Her arts are no more. The last sad relics of her temples are but the barracks of a ruthless soldiery ; the fragments of her columns and her palaces are in the dust, yet beautiful in ruin. She fell not when the mighty were upon her. Her sons were united at Thermopylae and Marathon ; and the tide of her triumph rolled back upon the Hellespont. She was con- quered by her own factions. She fell by the hands of her own people. The man of Macedonia did not the work of destruction. It was already done by her own corruptions, banishments and dissensions. Rome, republican Rome, whose eagles glanced in the rising and setting sun,— where and what is she ? The eternal city yet remains, proud even in her desolation, noble in her de- cline, venerable in the majesty of religion, and calm as in the composure of death. The' malaria has but travelled in the paths worn by her destroyers. More than eighteen cen- turies have mourned over the loss of her empire. A mortal disease was upon her vitals, before CsBsar had crossed the Rubicon. The Goths, and Vandals, and Huns, the swarms of the North, completed only what was already begun at home. Romans betrayed Rome. The legions were bought and sold, but the people offered the tribute money. And where are the republics of modern times, which clus- tered round immortal Italy 1 Venice and Genoa exist but in name. The Alps, indeed, look down upon the brave and peaceful Swiss in their native fastnesses ; but the guarantee of their freedom is in their weakness, and not in their strength. The mountains are not easily crossed, and the valleys are not easily retained. When the invader comes, he moves like an" avalanche, carrying destruction in his path. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 281 The peasantry sinks before him. The country is too poor for plunder, and too rough for valuable conquest. Nature pre- sents her eternal barriers, on every side, to check the wanton- ness of ambition ; and Switzerland remains with her simple institutions, a military road to fairer climates, scarcely worth a permanent possession, and protected by the jealousy of her neighbors. We stand the latest, and, if we fail, probably the last, experiment of self-government by the people. We have begun it under circumstances of the most auspicious nature. We are in the vigor of youth. Our growth has never been checked by the oppressions of tyranny. Our constitutions have never been enfeebled by the vices or luxuries of the old world. Such as we are, we have been from the beginning, simple, hardy, intelligent, accustomed to self-government and self-respect. The Atlantic rolls between us and any formi- dable foe. Within our own territory, stretching through many degrees of latitude and longitude, we have the choice of many prod- ucts, and many means of independence. The government is mild. The press is free. Religion is free. Knowledge reaches, or may reach, every home. What fairer prospect of success could be presented 1 What means more adequate to accomplish the sublime end ? What more is necessary, than for the people to preserve what they themselves have created 1 Already has the age caught the spirit of our institutions. It has already ascended the Andes, and snuffed the breezes of both oceans. It has infused itself into the life-blood of Europe, and warmed the sunny plains of France, and the low lands of Holland. It has touched the philosophy of Germany and the North, and, moving onward to the South, has opened to Greece the lei^ons of her better days. Can it be that America, under such circumstances, can betray herself! that she is to be added to the catalogue of republics, the inscription upon whose ruins is, *' They were, but they are not !" Forbid it, my countrymen ; forbid it. Heaven. I call upon you, fathers, by the shades of your ancestors. 232 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. by the dear ashes which repose in this precious soil, by all you are, and all you hope to be ; resist every project of dis- union, resist every encroachment upon your liberties, resist every attempt to fetter your consciences, or smother your public schools, or extinguish your system of public in- struction. I call upon you, mothers, by that which never fails in woman, the love of your offspring ; teach them, as they climb your knees, or lean on your bosoms, the blessings of liberty. Swear them at the altar, as with their baptismal vows, to be true to their country, and never to forget or for- sake her. \ I call upon you, young men, to remember whose sons you are, whose inheritance you possess. Life can never be too short, which brings nothing but disgrace and oppression. Death never comes too soon, if necessary in defence of the liberties of your country. I call upon you, old men, for your counsels, and your prayers, and your benedictions. May not your gray hairs go down in sorrow to the grave, with the recollection, that you have lived in vain. May not your last sun sink in the west upon a nation of slaves. No — I read in the destiny of my country far better hopes, far brighter visions. We,'Who are now assembled here, must soon be gathered to the congregation of other days. The time of our departure is at hand, to make way for our children upon the theatre of life. May God speed them and theirs. May he, who, at the distance of another century, shall stand here, to celebrate this day, still look round upon a free, happy and virtuous people. May he have reason to exult as we do. May he, with all the enthusiasm of truth, as well as of poetry, exclaim that here is still his country, " Zealous, yet modest ; innocent, though free j Patient of toil j serene amidst alarms j Inflexible in faith ; invincible in arms." YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 333 LESSON CI. The Death of Moses. — John S. Taylor. On Nebo's hill the patriarch stood, Who led the pilgrim bands Of Israel through the foaming waves, And o'er the desert sands. How beauteous is the scene that spreads Before him far and wide, Beyond the fair and fated bourn Of Jordan's glorious tide ! Stretched forth in varied loveliness. The land of promise smiled, Like Eden in its wondrous bloom, Magnificent and wild. He looked o'er Gilead's pleasant land, A land of fruit and flowers, And verdure of the softest green, That drinks the summer showers. He saw fair Ephraim's fertile fields Laugh with their golden store, And, far beyond, the deep blue wave Bathed Judah's lovely shore. The southern landscape led his glance O'er plains and valleys wide, And hills with spreading cedars crowned. And cities in their pride. There Zoar's walls are dimly seen, And Jericho's far towers Gleam through the morning's purple mist, Among their palmy bowers. 20 * 234 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Is it the sun, the morning sun, That shines so full and bright, - Pouring on Nebo's lonely hill A flood of living light ? No — dim and earthly is the glow Of morning's loveliest ray, , And dull the cloudless beams of noon, To that celestial day. Is it an angel's voice that breathes Divme enchantment there. As floating on his viewless wings He charms the balmy air 1 No — 'tis a greater, holier power. That makes the scene rejoice ; Thy glory, God, is in that light, — Thy spirit, in that voice ! The patriarch hears, and lowly bends, Adoring his high will. Who spoke in lightnings from the clouds Of Sinai's awful hill. Now flash his eyes with brighter fires E'er yet their light depart ; And thus the voice of prophecy Speaks to his trembling heart : — " The land, which I have sworn to bless To Abraham's chosen race. Thine eyes behold ; but not for thee That earthly resting-place." With soul of faith the patriarch heard The awful words, and lay A time entranced, until that voice In music died away j— YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 335 Then raised his head, — one look he gave Towards Jordan's palmy shore ; Fixed was that look, and glazed that eye, Which turned to earth no more. A beauteous glow was on his face — Death flung not there its gloom ; On Nebo's hill the patriarch found His glory and his doom. He sleeps in Moab's silent vale, Beneath the dewy sod, Without a stone to mark his grave, Who led the hosts of God. Let marble o'er earth's conquerors rise, And mock the mouldering grave ; His monument is that blest Book, Which opens but to save. LESSON CII. Sonnet on the Entrance of the American Woods. — Galt. What solemn spirit doth inhabit here ! What sacred oracle hath here a home ! What dread unknown thrills through the heart in fear, And moves to worship in this forest-dome! Ye storied fanes, in whose recesses dim The mitred priesthood hath their altars built. Aisles old and awful, where the choral hymn Bears the rapt soul beyond the sphere of guilt, Stoop your proud arches, and your columns bend, Your tombs and monumental trophies hide ; The high, umbrageous vaults, that here extend, Mock the brief limits of your sculptured pride. Stranger forlorn, by fortune hither cast, Dar'st thou the genius brave, — the ancient and the vast? 236 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. LESSON cm. Marco Bozzaris.* — Halleck. At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour, When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power. In dreams, through camp and court, he bore The trophies of a conqueror ; In dreams, his song of triumph heard ; Then wore his monarch's signet ring; Then pressed that monarch's throne, — a king ; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird. At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band. True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood, ^ There had the glad earth drunk their blood On old Platsea's day ; And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires, who conquered there, With arm to strike, and soul to dare, As quick, as far as they. An hour passed on — the Turk awoke — That bright dream was his last ; He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, '* To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek !'* He woke — to die midst flame and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke. And death-shots falling thick and fast * Bozzaris was the Epaminondas of Modern Greece. He fell in an attack upon the Turkish camp, at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platsea, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were — " To die for liberty, is a pleasure, and not a pain." YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 337 As lightnings from the mountain cloud ; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band : " Strike ! till the last armed foe expires ; Strike ! for your altars and your fires ; Strike ! for the green graves of your sires j God — and your native land !" They fought, like brave men, long and well ; They piled that ground with Moslem slain; They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile, when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won ; Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose. Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal chamber, Death 1 Come to the mother when she feels. For the first time, her first bom's breath ; Come when the blessed seals, That close the pestilence, are broke. And crowded cities wail its stroke ; Come in Consumption's ghastly form. The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; Come when the heart beats high and warm. With banquet-song, and dance, and wine — And thou art terrible : the tear. The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier. And all we know, or dream, or fear, Of agony, are thine. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free. Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word ; And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. 238 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Bozzaris, with the storied brave, Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. We tell thy doom without a sigh ; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die. LESSON CIV. Reflections of a Belle.-^N. E. Weekly Review. I'm weary of the crowded ball ; I'm weary of the mirth. Which never lifts itself above the grosser things of earth ; I'm weary of the flatterer's tone : its music is no more. And eye and lip may answer not its meaning as before ; I'm weary of the heartless throng — of being deemed as one. Whose spirit kindles only in the blaze of fashion's sun. I speak in very bitterness, for I have deeply felt The mockery of the hollow shrine at which my spirit knelt ; Mine is the requiem of years, in reckless folly passed. The wail above departed hopes, on a frail venture cast, The vain regret, that steals above the wreck of squandered hours. Like the sighing of the autumn wind above the faded flowers. Oh ! it is worse than mockery to list the flatterer's tone. To lend a ready ear to thoughts the cheek must blush to own, — To hear the red lip whispered of, and the flowing curl and eye Made constant themes of eulogy, extravagant and high, — And the charm of person worshipped, in a homage offered not To the perfect charm of virtue, and the majesty of thought. Away ! I will not fetter thus the spirit God hath given. Nor stoop the pinion back to earth that beareth up to heaven ; YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 239 I will not bow a tameless heart to fashion's iron rule, Nor welcome, with a smile, alike the gifted and the fool : No — let the throng pass coldly on ; a treasured few may find The charm of person doubly dear beneath the light of mind LESSON CV. Childhood. — N. M. Magazine. He must be incorrigibly unamiable, who is not a little im- proved by becoming a father. Some there are, however, who know not how to appreciate the blessings with which Providence has filled their quiver ; who receive with coldness a son's greeting or a daughter's kiss ; who have principle enough properly to feed, and clothe, and educate their chil- dren, to labor for their support and provision, but possess not the affection which turns duty into delight ; who are sur- rounded with blossoms, but know not the art of extracting their exquisite sweets. How different is the effect of true parental love, where nature, duty, habit and feeling combine to constitute an aflTection the purest, the deepest and the strongest, the most enduring, the least exacting of any of which the human heart is capable ! The selfish bachelor may shudder, when he thinks of the consequences of a family ; he may picture to himself littered rooms and injured furniture, imagine the noise and confusion, the expense and the cares, from which he is luckily free; hug himself in his solitude, and pity his unfortunate neighbor, who has half a dozen squalling children to torment and im- poverish him. The unfortunate neighbor, however, returns the compli- ment with interest, sighs over the loneliness of the wealthy bachelor, and can never see, without feelings of regret, rooms where no stray plaything tells of the occasional presence of a child, gardens where no tiny foot-mark reminds him of his treasures at home. He has listened to his heart, and learned from it a precious secret ; he knows how to convert noise into harmony, expense into self-gratification. 240 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. and trouble into amusement; and he reaps, in one day's in- tercourse with his family, a harvest of love and enjoyment rich enough to repay years of toil and care. He listens eagerly on his threshold for the boisterous greeting he is sure to receive, feels refreshed by the mere pattering sound of the darlings' feet, as they hurry to receive his kiss, and cures, by a noisy game at romps, the weariness and head-ache which he gained in his intercourse with men. But it is not only to their parents and near connexions, that children are interesting and delightful ; they are general fa- vorites, and their caresses are slighted by none but the strange, the affected, or the morose. I have, indeed, heard a fine lady declare that she preferred a puppy or a kitten to a child ; and I wondered she had not sense enough to conceal her want of womanly feeling : and I know another fair sim- pleton, who considers it beneath her to notice those from whom no intellectual improvement can be derived, forgetting that we have hearts to cultivate as well as heads. But these are extraordinary exceptions to general rules, as uncommon and disgusting as a beard on a lady's chin, or a pipe in her mouth. Even men may condescend to sport with children with- out fear of contempt; and for those who like to shelter themselves under authority, and cannot venture to be wise and happy their own way, we have plenty of splendid exam- ples, ancient and modern, living and dead, to adduce, which may sanction a love for these pigmy playthings. Statesmen have romped with them, orators told them stories, conquerors submitted to their blows, judges, divines and philosophers listened to their prattle, and joined in their sports. Spoiled children are, however, excepted from this partiali- ty ; every one joins in visiting the faults of others upon their heads, and hating these unfortunate victims of their parents' folly. They must be bribed to good behavior, fike many of their elders; they insist upon fingering your watch, and spoiling what they do not understand, like numbers of the patrons of literature and the arts ; they will sometimes cry for the moon, as absurdly as Alexander for more worlds ; and when they are angry, they have no mercy for cups and saucers. They are as unreasonable, impatient, selfish, ex- YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 241 acting and whimsical, as grown-up men and women, and only want the varnish of politeness and mask of hypocrisy to complete the likeness. Another description of children, deservedly unpopular, is the over-educated and super-excellent, who despise dolls and drums, and, ready only for instruction, have no wish for a holi- day, no fancy for a fairy tale. They appear to have a natural taste for pedantry and precision ; their wisdom never indulges in a nap, at least before company ; they have learned the Pestalozzi system, and weary you with questions ; they re- quire you to prove every thing you assert, and are always on the watch to detect you in a verbal inaccuracy, or a slight mistake in a date. But, notwithstanding the infinite pains taken to spoil na- ture's lovely works, there is a principle of resistance, which allows of only partial success; and numbers of sweet children exist, to delight, and soothe, and divert us, when we are wearied or fretted by grown-up people, and to justify all that has been said or written of the charms of childhood. Per- haps only women, their natural nurses and faithful protec- tresses, can thoroughly appreciate the attractions of the first few months of human existence. The recumbent position, the fragile limbs, the lethargic tastes, and ungrateful indif- ference to notice, of a very young infant, render it uninterest- ing to most gentlemen, except its father ; and he is generally afraid to touch it, for fear of breaking its neck. But even in this state, mothers, grandmothers, aunts and nurses assure you, that strong indications of sense and genius may be dis- cerned in the little animal ; and I have known a clatter of surprise and joy excited through a whole family, and matter afforded for twenty long letters and innumerable animated conversations, by some marvellous demonstration of intellect in a creature in long clothes, who could not hold its head straight. But as soon as the baby has acquired firmness and liveliness ; as" soon as it smiles at a familiar face, and stares at a strange one ; as soon as it employs its hands and eyes in constant ex- peditions of discovery, and crows, and leaps, from the excess of animal contentment, — it becomes an object of indefinable and powerful interest, to which all the sympathies of our na- 21 242 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. ture attach us, — an object at once of curiosity and tender- ness, interesting as it is in its helplessness and innocence, doubly interesting from its prospects and destiny ; interesting to a philosopher, doubly interesting to a Christian. Who has not occasionally, when fondling an infant, felt oppressed by the weight of mystery which hangs over its fate f Perhaps we hold in our arms an angel, kept but for a few months from the heaven in which it is to spend the rest of an immortal existence ; perhaps we see the germ of all that is hideous and hateful in our nature. Thus looked and thus sported, thus calmly slumbered and sweetly smiled, the monsters of our race in their days of infancy. Where are the marks to distinguish a Nero from a Trajan, an Abel from a Cain ? But it is not in this spirit that it is either wise or happy to contemplate any thing. Better is it — when we behold the energy and animation of young children, their warm affections, their ready, unsuspicious confidence, their wild, unwearied glee, their mirth so easily excited, their love so easily won — to enjoy, unrestrained, the pleasantness of life's morning ; that morning so bright and joyous, which seems to "justify the ways of God to men," and to teach us that Nature intended us to be happy, and usually gains her end till we are old enough to discover how we may defeat it. LESSON CVI. . The same, — concluded. Little girls are my favorites. Boys, though sufficiently in- teresting and amusing, are apt to be infected, as soon as they assume the manly garb, with a little of that masculine vio- lence and obstinacy, which, when they grow up, they will call spirit and firmness ; and they lose, earlier in life, that docility, tenderness, and ignorance of evil, which are their sisters' pe- culiar charms. In all the range of visible creation, there is no object to me so attractive and delightful, as a lovely, in- telligent, gentle little girl of eight or nine years old. This is the point at which may be witnessed the greatest improve- YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 243 ment of intellect compatible with that lily-like purity of mind, to which taint is incomprehensible, danger unsus- pected, and which wants not only the vocabulary, but the very idea of sin. Even the best and purest of women would shrink from displaying her heart to our gaze, while lovely childhood al- lows us to read its very thought and fancy. Its sincerity, indeed, is occasionally very inconvenient ; and let that person be quite surq that he has nothing remarkably odd, ugly or disagreeable about his appearance, who ventures to ask a child what it thinks of him. Amidst the frowns and blushes of the family, amidst a thousand efforts to prevent or to drown the answer, truth, in all the horrors of nakedness, will gen- erally appear in the su«-prised assembly; and he who has hitherto thought, in spite of his mirror, that his eyes had merely a slight and not unpleasing cast, will now learn, for the first time, that " every body says he has a terrible squint." I cannot approve of the modern practice of dressing little girls in exact accordance with the prevailing fashion, with scrupulous imitation of their elders. When I look at a child, I do not wish to feel doubtful whether it is not an unfor- tunate dwarf, who is standing before me, attired in a costume suited to its age. Extreme simplicity of attire, and a dress sacred to themselves only, are most fitted to these " fresh fe- male buds f and it vexes me to see them disguised in the fashions of the day, or practising the graces and courtesies of maturer life. Will there not be years enough, from thir- teen to seventy, for ornamenting or disfiguring the person at the fiat of French milliners ; for checking laughter and forc- ing smiles ; for reducing all varieties of intellect, all grada- tions of feeling, to one uniform tint 1 Is there not already a sufficient sameness in the aspect and tone of polished life ? Oh, leave children as they are, to relieve, by their " wild freshness," our elegant insipidity ; leave their " hair loosely flowing, robes as free," to refresh the eyes that love sim- plicity ; and leave their eagerness, their warmth, their unre- flecting sincerity, their unschooled expressions of joy or regret, to amuse and delight us, when we are a little tired by the politeness, the caution, the wisdom and the coldness of the grown-up world. 244 YOUNG LADIES CLASS BOOK. Children may teach us one blessed, one enviable art, — the art of being easily happy. Kind nature has given to them that useful power of accommodation to circumstances, which compensates for so many external disadvantages ; and it is only by injudicious management that it is lost. Give him but a moderate portion of food and kindness, and the peas- ant's child is happier than the duke's ; free from artificial wants, unsated by indulgence, all nature ministers to his pleasures ; he can carve out felicity from a bit of hazel twig, or fish for it successfully in a puddle. He must have been singularly unfortunate in childhood, or singularly the reverse in after-life, who does not look back upon its scenes, its sports and pleasures, with fond regret. The wisest and happiest of us may occasionally detect this feeling in our bosoms. There is something unreasonably dear to the man in the recollection of the follies, the whims, the petty cares and exaggerated delights of his childhood. Perhaps he is engaged in schemes of soaring ambition ; but he fancies, sometimes, that there was once a greater charm in flying a kite. Perhaps, after many a hard lesson, he has acquired a power of discernment and spirit of caution, which defies deception ; but he now and then wishes for the boyish con- fidence, which venerated every old beggar, and wept at every tale of wo. He who feels thus, cannot contemplate, unmoved, the joys and sports of childhood ; and he gazes, perhaps, on the care- free brow and rapture-beaming countenance, with the melan- choly and awe which the lovely victims of consumption in- spire, when, unconscious of danger, they talk cheerfully of the future. He feels that he is in possession of a mysterious secret, of which happy children have no suspicion. He knows what the life is, on which they are about to enter ; and he is sure that, whether it smiles or frowns upon them, its brightest glances will be cold and dull, compared with those under which they are now basking. yOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 245 LESSON CVIL Dialogue : Mr. and Mrs. Bolinghrohe. — Miss Edgeworth. Mrs. Bolinghroke. I wish I knew what was the matter with me this morning. Why do you keep the newspaper all to yourself, my dear ? Mr. Bolinghrohe. Here it is for you, my dear : I have finished it. Mrs. B. I humbly thank you for giving it to me when you have done with it — I hate stale news. Is there any thing in the paper 1 for I cannot be at the trouble of hunt- ing it. Mr. B. Yes, my dear ; there are the marriages of two of our friends. Mrs.B. Who? Who? Mr. B. Your friend, the widow Nettleby, to her cousin John Nettleby. Mrs. B. Mrs. Nettleby ! Lord ! But why did you tell me ? Mr. B. Because you asked me, my dear. Mrs. B. Oh, but it is a hundred times pleasanter to read the paragraph one's self. One loses all the pleasure of the surprise by being told. Well, whose was the other marriage 1 Mr. B. Oh, my dear, I will not tell you ; I will leave you the pleasure of the surprise. Mrs. B. But you see I cannot find it. How provoking you are, my dear ! Do pray tell it me. Mr. B. Our friend, Mr. Granby. Mrs. B. Mr. Granby ! Dear ! Why did not you make me guess ? I should have guessed him directly. But why do you*call him our friend ? I am sure he is no friend of mine, nor ever was. I took an aversion to him, as you may remember, the very first day I saw him. I am sure he is no friend of mine. Mr. B. I am sorry for it, my dear ; but I hope you will go and see Mrs. Granby. Mrs. B. Not I, indeed, my dear. Who was she ? Mr. B. Miss Cooke. * 21* 246 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Mrs. B. Cooke ! But there are so many Cookes — Can't you distinguish her any way ? Has she no Christian name ? Mr. B. Emma, I think — Yes, Emma. Mrs. B. Emma Cooke ! — No ; — it cannot be my friend Emma Cooke ; for I am sure she was cut out for an old maid. Mr. B. This lady seems to me to be cut out for a good wife. Mrs. B. May be so — I am sure I'll never go to see her. Pray, my dear, how came you to see so much of her? Mr. B. I have seen very little of her, my dear. I only saw her two or three times before she was married. . Mrs. B. Then, my dear, how could you decide that she was cut out for a good wife ? I am sure you could not judge of her by seeing her only two or three times, and before she was married. Mr. B. Indeed, my love, that is a very just observation. Mrs. B. I understand that compliment perfectly, and thank you for it, my dear. I must own I can bear any thing better than irony. Mr. B. Irony ! my dear, I was perfectly in earnest. Mrs. B, Yes, yes ; in earnest — so I perceive — I may^ naturally be dull of apprehension, but my feelings are quick enough ; I comprehend you too well. Yes — it is impossible to judge of a woman before marriage, or to guess what sort of a wife she will make. I presume you speak from experi- ence ; you have been disappointed yourself, and repent your choice. Mr. B. My dear, what did I say that was like this 1 Upon my word, I meant no such thing. I really was not thinking of you in the least. Mrs. B. No — you never think of me now. I can easily believe that you were not thinking of me in the least. BIr. B. But I said that, only to prove to you that I could not be thinking ill of you, my dear. Mrs. B. But I would rather that you thought ill of me, than that you did not think of me at all. Mr. B. Well, my dear, I will even think ill of you, if that will please you. Mrs. B. Do you laugh at me ? When it comes to this, I am wretched indeed. Never man laughed at the woman he loved. As long as you had the slightest remains of love for 1^ YOUING LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 347 me, you could not make me an object of derision : ridicule and love are incompatible ; absolutely incompatible. Well, I have done my best, my very best, to make you happy, but in vain. I see I am not cut out to be a good wife. Happy, happy Mrs. Granby ! Mr. B. Happy, I hope sincerely, that she will be with my friend ; but my happiness must depend on you, my love ; so, for my sake, if not for your own, be composed, and do not torment yourself with such fancies. Mrs. B. I do wonder whether this Mrs. Granby is l:eally that Miss Emma Cooke. I'll go and see her directly; see her I must. Mr. B. I am heartily glad of it, my dear ; for I am sure a visit to his wife will give my friend Granby real pleasure. Mrs. B. I promise you, my dear, I do not go to give hira pleasure or you either ; but to satisfy my own — curiosity. LESSON cvni. The Burning of Moscow. — Labaume. On the fifteenth of September, 1812, ouj corps left the village where it had encamped, at an early hour, and marched to Moscow. As we approached the city, we saw that it had no walls, and that a simple parapet of earth was the only work, which constituted the outer enclosure. Nothing indi- cated that the town was inhabited ; and the road by which we arrived was so deserted, that we saw neither Russian nor French soldiers. No cry, no noise was heard in the midst of this awful solitude. We pursued our march, a prey to the utmost anxiety ; and that anxiety was redoubled, when we perceived a thick smoke, which arose, in the form of a col- umn, from the centre of the town. On the following morning, the most heart-rending scene, which my imagination had ever conceived, far surpassing the saddest story in ancient or modern history, presented itself to my eyes. A great part of the population of Moscow, terrified at our arrival, had concealed themselves in cellars or 248 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. secret recesses of their houses. As the fire spread around, we saw them rushing in despair fi-om their various asylums. They uttered no imprecation ; they breathed no complaint : fear had rendered them dumb: and hastily snatching up their most precious effects, they fled before the flames. Others, of greater sensibility, and actuated by the genuine feelings of nature, saved only their parents, or their infants, who were closely clasped in their arms. They were followed by their other children, running as fast as their little strength would permit, and, with all the wildness of childish terror, vociferating the beloved name of mother. The old people, borne down by grief more than by age, had not sufficient power to follow their families, and expired near the houses in which they were born. The streets, the public places, and particularly the churches, were filled with these unhappy people, who, lying on the remains of their property, suffered even without a murmur. No cry, no complaint was heard. Both the conqueror and the conquered were equally harden- ed ; the one by excess of fortune, the other by excess of misery. The fire, whose ravages could not be restrained, soon reached the finest parts of the city. Those palaces, which we had admired for the beauty of their architecture, and the elegance of their furniture, were enveloped in the flames. Their magnificent fronts, ornamented with bass-reliefs and statues, fell, with a dreadful crash, on the fragments of the pil- lars which had supported them. The churches, though covered with iron and lead, were likewise destroyed, and with them those beautiful steeples, which we had seen, the night before, resplendent with gold and silver. The hospitals, too, which contained more than twelve thousand wounded, soon began to burn. This offered a dreadful and harrowing spectacle. Almost all these poor wretches perished. A few, who still lingered, were seen crawling, half burnt, amongst the smoking ruins ; and others, groaning under heaps of dead bodies, endeavored, in vain, to extricate themselves from the horrible destruction which surrounded them. How shall I describe the confusion and tumult, when per- mission was granted to pillage this immense city ! Soldiers sutlers and galljey-slaves eagerly ran through the streets r YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 249 penetrating into the deserted palaces, and carrying away every thing which could gratify their avarice. Some covered themselves with stuffs richly worked with gold and silks • some were enveloped in beautiful and costly furs ; and even the galley-slaves concealed their rags under the most splen- did habits of the court. The rest crowded into the cellars, and, forcing open the doors, drank to excess the most luscious wines, and carried off an immense booty. This horrible pillage was not confined to the deserted houses alone, but extended to those which were inhabited ; and soon the eagerness and wantonness of the plunderers caused devastations, which almost equalled those occasioned by the conflagration. Every asylum was violated by the licentious troops. They who had officers in their houses flattered themselves that they should escape the general ca- lamity. Vain illusion ! The advancing fire soon destroyed all their hopes. Towards evening, when Napoleon no longer thought him- self safe in the city, the ruin of which seemed inevitable, he left the Kremlin, and established himself with his suite in the castle of Peterskoe. When I saw him pass by, I could not behold without abhorrence the chief of a barbarous ex- pedition, who evidently endeavored to escape the decided testimony of public indignation, by seeking the darkest road. He sought it, however, in vain. On every side, the flames seemed to pursue him ; and their horrible and mournful glare, flashing on his guilty head, reminded me of the torches of Eumenides pursuing the destined victims of the Furies. The generals, likewise, received orders to quit Moscow. Licentiousness then became unbounded. The soldiers, no longer restrained by the presence of their chiefs, committed every kind of excess. No retreat was safe, no place suf- ficiently sacred to afford protection against their rapacity. Nothing more fully excited their avarice than the church of St. Michael, the sepulchre of the Russian emperors. An erroneous tradition had propagated the belief that it contain- ed immense riches. Some grenadiers presently entered it, and descended with torches into the vast subterranean vaults, to disturb the peace and silence of the tombs. But instead of treasures, they found only stone coffins, covered with pink 250 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. velvet, and bearing thin silver plates, on which were en- graved the names of the czars, and the dates of their birth and decease. With all the excesses of plunder, they mingled the most degrading and horrible debauchery. Neither nobility of blood, nor the innocence of youth, nor the tears of beauty, were respected. The licentiousness was cruel and boundless ; but it was inevitable in a savage war, in which sixteen differ- ent nations, opposite in their manners and their language, thought themselves at liberty to commit every crime. LESSON CIX. The same, — concluded. Penetrated by so many calamities, I hoped that the shades of night would cast a veil over the dreadful scene ; but they contributed, on the contrary, to render the confla- gration more terrible. The violence of the flames, which extended from north to south, and were strangely agitated by the wind, produced the most awful appearance on a sky which was darkened by the thickest smoke. Frequently was seen the glare of the burning torches, which the incendiaries were hurling, from the tops of the highest towers, on those parts of the city which had yet escaped destruction, and which resembled, at a distance, so many passing meteors. Nothing could equal the anguish which absorbed every feeling heart, and which was increased, in the dead of the night, by the cries of the miserable victims who were savage- ly murdered, or by the screams of the young females, who fled for protection to their weeping mothers. To these dreadful groans and heart-rending cries, which every mo- ment broke upon the ear, were added the bowlings of the dogs, which, chained to the doors of the palaces, according to the custom at Moscow, could not escape from the fire which surrounded them. Overpowered with regret and with terror, I flattered my- self th?* sleep would for a while release me from these YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 251 revolting scenes ; but the most frightful recollections crowded upon me, and all the horrors of the day again passed in re- view. My wearied senses seemed, at las-t, sinking into repose, when the light of a near and dreadful conflagration, piercing into my room, suddenly awoke me. I thought that my chamber was a prey to the flames. It was no idle dream ; for, when I approached the window, I saw that our quarters were on fire, and that the house in which I lodged was iii the utmost danger. Sparks were thickly falling in our yard and on the wooden roofs of our stables. I ran quickly to my landlord and his family. Perceiving their danger, they had already quitted their habitation, and had retired to a subterranean vault, which afforded them more security. I found them, with their servants, all assem- bled there ; nor could I prevail on them to leave it, for they dreaded our soldiers more than the fire. The father was sitting on the threshold of the vault, and appeared desirous of first exposing himself to the calamities which threatened his family. Two of his daughters, pale, with dishevelled hair, and whose tears added to their beauty, disputed with him the honor of the sacrifice. It was not without violence that I could snatch them from the building, under which they would otherwise soon have been buried. When these un- happy creatures again saw the light, they contemplated with indifference the loss of all their property, and were only astonished that they were still alive. Desirous of terminating the recital of this horrible catas- trophe, for which history wants expressions, and poetry has no colors, I shall pass over in silence many circumstances revolting to humanity, and merely describe the dreadful con- fusion, which arose in our army when the fire had reached every part of Moscow, and the whole city was become one immense flame. Tbe different streets could no longer be distinguished, and the places, on which the houses had stood, were marked only by confused piles of stones, calcined and black. The wind, blowing with violence, howled mournfully, and over- whelmed us with ashes, with burning fragments, and even with the iron plates which covered the palace. On whatever side we turned, we saw only ruins and flames. The fire 252 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. raged as if it were fanned by some invisible power. The most extensive ranges of buildings seemed to kindle, to burn, and to disappear in an instant. As we again traversed the streets of Moscow, we experi- enced the most heart-rending sensations, at perceiving that no vestige remained of those noble hotels, at which we had formerly been established. They were entirely demolished, and their ruins, still smoking, exhaled a vapor which, filling the whole atmosphere, and forming the densest clouds, either totally obscured the sun, or gave to his disk a red and bloody appearance. The outline of the streets was no longer to be distinguished. The stone palaces were the only buildings which preserved any traces of their former magnificence. Standing alone amidst piles of ruins, and blackened with smoke, these wrecks of a city, so newly built, resembled some of the venerable remains of antiquity. Each one endeavored to find quarters for himself; but rarely could we meet with houses which joined together; and, to shelter a few companies, we were obliged to occupy a vast tract of land, which only offered a few habitations, scat- tered here and there. Some of the churches, composed of less combustible materials than the other buildings, had their roofs entire, and were transformed into barracks and stables. The hymns and holy melodies, which had once resounded within these sacred walls, now gave place to the neighing of horses, and the horrible blasphemies of the soldiers. Although the population of Moscow had almost disappear- ed, there still remained some of those unfortunate beings, whom misery had accustomed to look on all occurrences with indifference. Most of them had become the menial servants of their spoilers, and thought themselves most happy if they were permitted to share any loathsome food which the soldiers rejected. Many of the Moscovites, who had been concealed in the neighboring forests, perceiving that the conflagration had ceased, and believing that they had nothing more to fear, had reentered the city. Some of them sought in vain for their houses, the very sites of which could scarcely be discov- ered ; others would fain have taken refuge in the sanctuary of their God ; but it had been profaned. The public walks YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 2o3 presented a revolting spectacle. The ground was thickly strowed with dead bodies ; and from many of the half-burnt trees were suspended the carcasses of incendiaries. In the midst of these horrors were seen many of the un- fortunate inhabitants, who, destitute of every asylum, were collecting the charred planks, to construct a cabin in some unfrequented place, or ravaged garden. Having nothing to eat, they eagerly dug the earth, to find the roots of those veg- etables which the soldiers had gathered ; or, wandering among the ruins, they diligently searched among the cinders for any food which the fire had not entirely consumed. Pale, ema- ciated, and almost naked, the very slowness of their walk announced the excess of their sufferings. LESSON ex. View of Mont Blanc at Sunset. — Griscom. We arrived, before sundown, at the village of St. Martin, where we were to stay for the night. The evening being remarkably fine, we crossed the Arve on a beautiful bridge, and walked over to Salenche, a very considerable village, op- posite to St. Martin, and ascended a hill to view the effect of the sun's declining light upon Mont Blanc. The scene was truly grand. The broad range of the mountain was fully before us, of a pure and almost glowing white, apparently to its very base ; and which, contrasted with the brown tints of the adjoining mountains, greatly heightened the novelty of the scene. We could scarcely avoid the conclusion, that this vast pile of snow was very near us ; and yet its base was not less than fifteen, and its summit, probably, more than twenty miles from the place where we stood. The varying rays of light, produced by reflection from the snow, passing, as the sun's rays declined, from a brilliant white through purple and pink, and ending in the gentle light, which the snow gives after the sun has set, afforded an exhibition in optics upon a scale of grandeur, which no other 254 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. region in the world could probably excel. Never, in my life, have my feelings been so powerfully affected by mere scenery as they were in this day's excursion. The excitement, though attended by sensations awfully impressive, is, nevertheless, so finely attempered by the glow of novelty, incessantly mingled with astonishment and admiration, as to produce, on the whole, a feast of delight. A few years ago, I stood upon Table Rock, and placed my cane in the descending flood of Niagara. Its tremendous roar almost entirely precluded conversation with the friend at my side ; while its whirlwind of mist and foam filled the air to a great distance around me. The rainbow sported in its bosom ; the gulf below exhibited the wild fury of an im- mense boiling caldron ; while the rapids above, for the space of nearly a mile, appeared like a mountain of billows chafing and dashing against each other with thundering impetuosity, in their eager strife to gain the precipice, and take the awful leap. In contemplating this scene, my imagination and my heart were filled with sublime and tender emotions. The soul seemed to be brought a step nearer to the presence of that incomprehensible Being, whose spirit dwelt in every feature of the cataract, and directed all its amazing energies. Yet, in the scenery of this day, there was more of a pervading sense of awful and unlimited grandeur; mountain piled upon mountain, in endless continuity, throughout the whole extent, and crowned by the brightest effulgence of an evening sun, upon the everlasting snows of the highest pinnacle of Europe. LESSON CXI. To the Stars. — Croly. Ye stars, bright legions, that, before all time, Camped on yon plains of sapphire, — what shall tell Your burning myriads, but the eye of Him Who bade through heaven your golden chariots wheel ? YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 255 Yet who, earthborn, can see your hosts, nor feel Immortal impulses — Eternity ? What wonder if the o'erwrought soul should reel With its own weight of thought, and the wild eye See fate within your tracks of sleepless glory lie ? For ye behold the Mightiest. — From that steep, What ages have ye worshipped round your King ! Ye heard his trumpet sounding o'er the sleep Of earth ; ye heard the morning angels sing. Upon that orb, now o'er me quivering, The gaze of Adam fixed from Paradise; The wanderers of the deluge saw it spring Above the mountain surge, and hailed its rise, Lighting their lonely track with Hope's celestial dyes. On Calvary shot down that purple eye, When, but the soldier and the sacrifice, All were departed — Mount of Agony ! But Time's broad pinion, ere the giant dies, Shall cloud your dome : — ye fruitage of the skies. Your vineyard shall be shaken. From your urn. Censers of heaven, no more shall glory rise, ^ Your incense to the throne. The heavens shall burn ! For all your pomps are dust, and shall to dust return .' LESSON CXIL Sabbath Morning. — Grahame. How still the morning of the hallowed day ! Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers. That yester-morn bloomed, waving in the breeze. Sounds, the most faint, attract the ear, — the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew. 256 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. The distant bleating, midway up the hill. Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud. To him who wanders o'er the upland leas, The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale ; And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles with heaven-tuned song ; the lulling brook Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen ; While, from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals. The voice of psalms, — the simple song of praise. With dove-like wings. Peace o'er yon village broods The dizzying mill-wheel rests ; the anvil's din Hath ceased ; all, all around is quietness. Legs fearful, on this day, the limping hare Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large ; And as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls. His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray. But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the ^oor man's day. On other days, the man of toil is doomed To eat his joyless bread lonely, — the ground Both seat and board, screened from the winter's cold And summer's heat, by neighboring hedge or tree ; But on this day, embosomed in his home. He shares the frugal meal with those he loves ; With those he loves, he shares the heart-felt joy Of giving thanks to God, — not thanks of form, A word and a grimace ; but reverently, With covered face, and upward, earnest eye. Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man's day : The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air, pure from the city's smoke ; While, wandering slowly up the river's side. He meditates on Him, whose power he marks In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough, YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 357 As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom Around its roots ; and while he thus surveys, With elevated joy, each rural charm, He hopes, — yet fears presumption in the hope, — That heaven may be one Sabbath without end. LESSON CXIII. The. Evening Cloud : a Sonnet. — Wilson. A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun — A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow ; Long had I watched the glory moving on. O'er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow ; E'en in its very motion there was rest. While every breath of eve, that chanced to blow. Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west — Emblem, methought, of the departed soul, To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onward to the golden gates of heaven ; Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies. And tells to man his glorious destinies. LESSON CXIV. Twilight, — Hope. — Halleck. There is an evening twilight of the heart. When its wild passion waves are lulled to rest, And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart, As fades the day-beam in the rosy west. 22* 258 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 'Tis with a nameless feeling of regret We gaze upon them as they melt away, And fondly would we bid them linger yet ; But Hope is round us, with her angel lay, Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour ; Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power. In youth, the cheek was crimsoned with her glow; Her smile was loveliest then ; her matin song Was heaven's own music, and the note of wo Was all unheard her sunny bowers among. Life's little world of bliss was newly born ; We knew not, cared not, it was born to die. Flushed with the cool breeze and the dews of morn, With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky, And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its blue, Like our own sorrows then — as fleeting and as few. And manhood felt her sway, too ; on the eye, Half realized, her early dreams burst bright ; Her promised bower of happiness seemed nigh, — Its days of joy, its vigils of delight ; And though, at times, might lower the thunder-storm, And the red lightnings threaten, still the air Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form, The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there. 'Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen. Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer green. But though less dazzling in her twilight dress. There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now; That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness. Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow — That smile shall brighten the dim evening star, That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart Till the faint light of life is fled afar. And hushed the last deep beating of the heart, — The meteor-bearer of our parting breath, A moon-beam in the midnight cloud of death. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. » 259 LESSON CXV. Perpetual Adoration. — Moore. The turf shall be my fragrant shrine ; My temple, Lord, that arch of thine j My censer's breath the mountain airs, And silent thoughts my only prayers. My choir shall be the moonlight waves. When murmuring homeward to their caves; Or, when the stillness of the sea. Even more than music, breathes of thee. I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown, All light and silence, like thy throne ; And the pale stars shall be, at night, The only eyes that watch my rite. Thy heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look, Shall be my pure and shining book. Where I shall read, in words of flame, The glories of thy wondrous name. I'll read thy anger in the rack, That clouds awhile the day-beam's track ; Thy mercy, in the azure hue Of sunny brightness, breaking through. There's nothing bright, above, below. From flowers that bloom, to stars that glow, But in its light my soul can see Some feature of thy Deity ! There's nothing dark, below, above, But in its gloom I trace thy love ; And meekly wait that moment, when Thy touch shall turn all bright again. 260 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. LESSON CXVI. Music of Nature. — Pierpont. In what rich harmony, what polished lays, Should man address thy throne, when Nature pays Her wild, her tuneful tribute to the sky ! Yes, Lord, she sings thee, but she knows not why. The fountain's gush, the long-resOunding shore, The zephyr's whisper, and the tempest's roar, The rustling leaf, in autumn's fading woods, The wintry storm, the rush of vernal floods. The summer bower, by cooling breezes fanned. The torrent's fall, by dancing rainbows spanned. The streamlet, gurgling through its rocky glen. The long grass, sighing o'er the graves of men. The bird that crests yon dew-bespangled tree. Shakes his bright plumes, and trills his descant free, The scorching bolt, that, from thine armory hurled, Burns its red path, and cleaves a shrinking world ; All these are music to Religion's ear : — Music, thy hand awakes, for man to hear. LESSON CXVIL Comparison of Watches. — Miss Edgeworth. When Griselda thought that her husband had long enough enjoyed his new existence, and that there was danger of his forgetting the taste of sorrow, she changed her tone. — One day, when he had not returned home exactly at the appointed minute, she received him with a frown ; such as would have made even Mars himself recoil, if Mars could have beheld such a frown upon the brow of his Venus. " Dinner has been kept waiting for you this hour, my dear." " I am very sorry for it; but why did you wait, my dear? I am really very sorry I am so late, but" (looking at his watch) " it is only half past six by me." YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 261 " It is seven by me." They presented their watches to each other ; he in an apologetical, she in a reproachful, attitude. " I rather think you are too fast, my dear," said the gen- tleman. " I am very sure you are too slow, my dear," said the lady. " My watch never loses a minute in the four-and-twenty hours," said he. " Nor mine a second," said she. " I have reason to believe I am right, my love," said the husband, mildly. " Reason !" exclaimed the wife, astonished. " What rea- son can you possibly have to believe you are right, when I tell you I am morally certain you are wrong, my love." " My only reason for doubting it is, that I set my watch by the sun to-day." " The sun must be wrong then," cried the lady, hastily. — " You need not laugh ; for I know what I am saying ; the J^ variation, the declination, must be allowed for, in computing it with the clock. Now you know perfectly well what I mean, though you will not explain it for me, because you are conscious I am in the right." " Well, my dear, if you are conscious of it, that is suf- ficient. We will not dispute any more about such a trifle. Are they bringing up dinner ?" "If they know that you are come in ; but I am sure I can- not tell whether they do or not. — Pray, my dear Mrs. Nettle- by," cried the lady, turning to a female friend, and still holding her watch in hand, " what o'clock is it by you ? There is nobody in the world hates disputing about trifles so much as I do ; but I own I do love to convince people that I am in the right." Mrs. Nettleby's watch had stopped. How provoking ! Vex ed at having no immediate means of convincing people that she was in the right, our heroine consoled herself by pro- ceeding to criminate her husband, not in this particular instance, where he pleaded guilty, but upon the general charge of being always late for dinner, which he strenuously denied. There is something in the species of reproach, which 262 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. advances thus triumphantly from particulars to generals, peculiarly offensive to every reasonable and susceptible mind ; and there is something in the general charge of being always late for dinner, which the punctuality of man's nature cannot easily endure, especially if he be hungry. We should hum- bly advise our female friends to forbear exposing a husband's patience to this trial, or, at least, to temper it with much fondness, else mischief will infallibly ensue. LESSON CXVIII. Female Economy. — Hannah More. Ladies, whose natural vanity has been aggravated by a false education, may look down on economy as a vulgar at- tainment, unworthy of the attention of a highly cultivated intellect ; but this is the false estimate of a shallow mind. Econoftiy, such as a woman of fortune is called on to prac- tise, is not merely the petty detail of small daily expenses, the shabby curtailments and stinted parsimony of a little mind, operating on little concerns ; but it is the exercise of a sound judgment, exerted in the comprehensive outline of order, of arrangement, of distribution, of regulations, by which, alone, well governed societies, great and small, subsist. She, who has the best regulated mind, will, other things being equal, have the best regulated family. As, in the superintendence of the universe, wisdom is seen in its effects ; and as, in the visible works of Providence, that, which goes on with such beautiful regularity, is the result, not of chance, but of design ; so that management, which seems the most easy, is commonly the consequence of the best concerted plan ; and a well concerted plan is seldom the offspring of an ordinary mind. A sound economy is a sound understanding brought into action; it is calculation realized ; it is the doctrine of proportion reduced to practice ; it is foreseeing consequences, and guarding against them ; it is expecting contingencies, and being prepared for them. The difference is, that, to a narrow-minded, vulgar econo- YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 263 mist, the details are continually present ; she is overwnelmed by their weight, and is perpetually bespeaking your pity for her labors, and your praise for her exertions ; she is afraid you will not see how much she is harassed. She is not sat- isfied, that the machine moves harmoniously, unless she is perpetually exposing every secret spring to observation. Lit- tle events and trivial operations engross her whole soul ; while a woman of sense, having provided for their probable recurrence, guards against the inconveniences, without being disconcerted by the casual obstructions, which they offer to her general scheme. Subordinate expenses, and inconsider- able retrenchments, should not swallow up that attention, which is better bestowed on regulating the general scale of expense, correcting and reducing an overgrown establish- ment, and reforming radical and growing excesses. LESSON CXIX. ♦ Maternal Influence. — Mrs. Sigourney. Domestic education has great power in the establishment of those habits, which ultimately stamp the character for good or evil. Under its jurisdiction, the Protean forms of selfishness are best detected and eradicated. It is insepara- ble from the well-being of woman, that she be disinterested. In the height of youth and beauty, she may inhale incense as a goddess ; but a time will come for nectar and ambrosia to yield to the food of mortals. Then the essence of her happiness, will be found to consist in imparting it. If she seek to intrench herself in solitary indifference, her native dependence comes over her, from sources where it is least expected, convincing her that the true excellence of her nature, is to confer rather than to monopolize felicity. When we recollect that her prescribed sphere mingles, with its purest brightness, seasons of deep endurance, anxieties which no other heart can participate, and sorrows for which earth has no remedy, we would earnestly incite those, who gird her 264 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. for the warfare of life, to confirm habits of fortitude, self- renunciation, and calm reliance on an Invisible Supporter. We are not willing to dismiss this subject, without indulg- ing a few thoughts on maternal influence. Its agency, in the culture of the affections, those springs which put in motion the human machine, has been long conceded. That it might also bear directly upon the development of intellect, and the growth of the sterner virtues of manhood, is proved by the obligations of the great Bacon to his studious mother, and the acknowledged indebtedness of Washington to the decis- ion, to the almost Lacedemonian culture, of his maternal guide. The immense force of first impressions is on the side of the mother. An engine of uncomputed power is committed to her hand. If she fix her lever judiciously, though she may not, like Archimedes,* aspire to move the earth, she may hope to raise one of the habitants of earth to heaven. Her danger will arise from delay in the commencement of her operations, as well as from doing too little, or too much, after she hat engaged in the work. In early education, the inert- ness which undertakes nothing, and the impatience which attempts all things at once, may be equally indiscreet and fatal. The mental fountain is unsealed to the eye of a mother, ere it has chosen a channel, or breathed a murmur. She may tinge with sweetness or bitterness the whole stream of future life. Other teachers have to contend with unhappy combinations of ideas ; she rules the simple and plastic ele- ments. Of her, we may say, she hath " entered into the magazines of snow, and seen the treasures of the hail." In the moral field, she is a privileged laborer. Ere the dews of morning begin to exhale, she is there. She breaks up a soil, which the root of error and the thorns of preju- dice have not preoccupied. She plants germs whose fruit is for eternity. While she feels that she is required to educate, not merely a virtuous member of society, but a Christian, an angel, a servant of the Most High, how does so holy a charge quicken piety, by teaching the heart its own insufficiency ! The soul of her infant is uncovered before her. Sh« * Pronounced Ar-ki-me'-dis. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 265 knows that the images, which she enshrines in that unpollut- ed sanctuary, mjust rise before her at the bar of doom. Trembling at such tremendous responsibility, she teaches the little being, whose life is her dearest care, of the God who made him ; and who can measure the extent of a mother's lessons of piety, unless his hand might remove the veil, which divides terrestrial from celestial things ? *' When I was a little child," said a good man, "my mother used to bid me kneel beside her, and place her hand upon my head, while she prayed. Ere I was old enough to know her worth, she died, and I was left too much to my own guidance. Like others, I was inclined to evil passions, but often felt myself checked, and, as it were, drawn back, by a soft hand upon my head. *' When a young man, I travelled in foreign lands, and was exposed to many temptations. But when I would have yield- ed, that same hand was upon my liead^ and I was saved. I seemed to feel its pressure, as in the days of my happy infan- cy ; and sometimes there came with it a voice, in my heart, — a voice that must be obeyed — * Oh ! do not this wickedness, my son, nor sin against thy God.' " LESSON CXX. Diedrich Knickerbocker's Description of Tea-Parties in New York. — W. Irving. The company commonly assembled at three o'clock, and went away about six ; unless it was in winter time, when the fashionable hours were a little earlier, that the ladies might get home before dark. The tea-table was crowned with a huge earthen dish, well stored with slices of fat pork, fried brown, cut up into morsels, and swimming in gravy. The company, being seated around the genial board, and each furnished with a fork, evinced their dexterity in lanching at the fattest pieces in this mighty dish ; — in much the same manner as sailors harpoon porpoises at sea, or our Indians spear salmon in the lakes. Sometimes the table was graced with immense 23 266 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. apple-pies, or saucers full of preserved peaches and pears ; but it was always sure to boast an enormous dish of balls of sweetened dough, fried in hog's fat, and called dough-nuts, — a delicious kind of cake, at present scarce known in the city, excepting in genuine Dutch families. The tea was served out of a majestic delft teapot, orna- mented with paintings of fat little Dutch shepherds and shepherdesses tending pigs — with boats sailing in the air, and houses built in the clouds, and sundry other ingenious Dutch fantasies. The beaux distinguished themselves by their adroitness in replenishing this pot, from a huge copper tea- kettle, which would have made the pigmy macaronies of these degenerate days sweat merely to look at it. T** sweeten the beverage, a lump of sugar was laid beside each cup ; and the company alternately nibbled and sipped with great decorum, until an improvement was introduced by a shrewd and economic old lady, — which was, to suspend a large lump directly over the tea-table, by a string from the ceiling, so that it could be swung from mouth to mouth. At these primitive tea-parties, the utmost propriety and dignity of deportment prevailed. No flirting nor coquetting no gambling of old ladies, nor hoyden chattering and romping of young ones — no self-satisfied struttings of wealthy gentle- men, with their brains in their pockets, nor amusing conceits, and monkey divertisements, of smart, young gentlemen, with no brains at all. On the contrary, the young ladies seated themselves demurely in their rush-bottomed chairs, and knit their own woollen stockings ; nor ever opened their lips, ex- cepting to say, "Yes, sir," or " Yes, madam," to any question that was asked them ; behaving, in all things, like decent, well educated damsels. As to the gentlemen, each of them tranquilly smoked his pipe, and seemed lost in contempla- tion of the blue and white tiles, with which the fire-places were decorated. The parties broke up without noise and without confusion. They were carried home by their own carriages, that is to say, by the vehicles nature had provided them, excepting such of the wealthy as could afford to keep a wagon. The gentlemen gallantly attended their fair ones to their respec- tive abodes, and took leave of them at the door. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 267 LESSON CXXI. The Recluse. — Beattie. The gusts of appetite, the clouds of care, And storms of disappointment all o'erpast, Henceforth no earthly hope with heaven ^hall share This heart, where peace serenely shines at last. And if for me no treasure be amassed. And if no future age shall hear my name, I lurk the more secure from Fortune's blast. And with more leisure feed this pious flame. Whose rapture far transcends the fairest hopes of fame. The end and the reward of toil is rest. Be all my prayer for virtue and for peace. Of wealth and fame, of pomp and power possessed, Who ever felt his weight of wo decrease 1 Ah ! what avails the lore of Rome and Greece, The lay, heaven-prompted, and harmonious string, The dust of Ophir, or the Tyrian fleece. All that art, fortune, enterprise, can bring. If envy, scorn, remorse, or pride, the bosom wring ? Let vanity adorn the marble tomb With trophies, rhymes and scutcheons of renown, In the deep dungeon of some Gothic dome, Where night and desolation ever frown ; Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down, Where a green, grassy turf is all I crave. With here and there a violet bestrown. Fast by a brook, or fountain's murmuring wave ; And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave. And thither let the village swain repair. And, light of heart, the village maiden gay, To deck with flowers her half-dishevelled hair, And celebrate the merry morn of May. ZG8 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. There let the shepherd's pipe, the live-long day Fill all the grove with love's bewitching wo ; And when mild evening comes in mantle gray, Let not the blooming band make haste to go ; No ghost nor spell my long and last abode shall know. For though I fly to escape from Fortune's rage. And bear the scars of envy, spite and scorn, Yet with mankind no horrid war I wage, Yet with no impious spleen my breast is torn : For virtue lost, and ruined man, I mourn. O man, creation's pride, Heaven's darling child. Whom Nature's best, divinest gifts adorn. Why from thy home are truth and joy exiled, And all thy favorite haunts with blood and tears defiled ? Along yon glittering sky what glory streams ! What majesty attends night's lovely queen ' Fair laugh our valleys in the vernal beams ; And mountains rise, and oceans roll between, And all conspire to beautify the scene. But, in the mental world, what chaos drear ! What forms of mournful, loathsome, furious mien ! Oh ! when shall that eternal morn appear, These dreadful forms to chase, this chaos dark to clear T O thou, at whose creative smile, yon heaven, In all the pomp of beauty, life and light, Rose from the abyss ; when dark Confusion, driven Down, down the bottomless profound of night, Fled, where he ever flies thy piercing sight ! Oh ! glance on these sad shades one pitying ray To blast the fury of oppressive might, — Melt the hard heart to love and mercy's sway, And cheer the wandering soul, and light him on the way. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 269 LESSON CXXII. Farewell to the Dead. — Mrs. Hemans Come near ! — ere yet the dust Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow, Look on your brother, and embrace him now, In still and solemn trust : Come near ! — once more let kindred lips be pressed On his cold cheek ; then bear him to his rest. Look yet on this young face ! What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone, Leave of its image, even where most it shone. Gladdening its hearth and race ? Dim grows the semblance on man's heart impressed— Come near ! and bear the beautiful to rest. Ye weep, and it is well ; For tears befit earth's partings. — Yesterday Song was upon the lips of this pale clay. And sunshine seemed to dwell Where'er he moved — the welcome and the blessed— Now gaze ! and bear the silent unto rest. Look yet on him, whose eye Meets yours no more in sadness or in mirth 1 Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth. The beings born to die ? But not where death has power may love be blessed — Come near ! and bear ye the beloved to rest. How may the mother's heart Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again 1 The spring's rich promise hath been given in vain. The lovely must depart! Is he not gone, our brightest and our best ? — Come near ! and bear the early-called to rest. 23* 270 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Look on him ! is he laid To slumber from the harvest or the chase? Too still and sad the smile upon his face ; Yet that, even that, must fade ! Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest — Come near ! and bear the mortal to his rest. His voice of mirth hath ceased Amidst the vineyards ! there is left no place For him whose dust receives your vain embrace, At the gay bridal feast ! Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast — Come near ! vi^eep o'er him 1 bear him to his rest. Yet mourn ye not as they Whose spirit's light is quenched 1 — for him the past Is sealed. He may not fall, he may not cast His birthright's hope away ! All is not here of our beloved and blessed — Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest. LESSON CXXHL Baneful Effects of Intemperance upon Domestic Life, — C. Sprague. The common calamities of life may be endured. Poverty, sickness, and even death, may be metj but there is that which, while it brings all these with it, is worse than all these together. When the husband and father forgets the duties he once delighted to fulfil, and, by slow degrees, be- comes the creature of intemperance, there enters into his house the sorrow that rends the spirit, that cannot be allevi- ated, that will not be comforted. It is here, above all, where she, who has ventured every thing, feels that every thing is lost. Woman, silent-suffering, devoted woman, here bends to her direst affliction. The measure of her wo is, in truth, full, whose husband is a YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 271 drunkard. Who shall protect her, when he is her insulter, her oppressor? What shall delight her, when she shrinks from the sight of his face, and trembles at the sound of his voice? The hearth is indeed dark, that he has made deso- late. There, through the dull midnight hour, her griefs are whispered to herself; her bruised heart bleeds in secret. There, while the cruel author of her distress is drowned in distant revelry, she holds her solitary vigil, waiting, yet dreading his return, that will only wring from her, by his unkindness, tears even more scalding than those she sheds over his transgression. To fling a deeper gloom across the present, memory turns back, and broods upon the past. Like the recollection to the sun-stricken pilgrim, of the cool spring that he drank at in the morning, the joys of other days come over her, as if only to mock her parched and weary spirit. She recalls the ardent lover, whose graces won her from the home of her infancy ; the enraptured father, who bent with such delight over his new-born children ; and she asks if this can really be he ; this sunken being, who has now nothing for her but the sot's disgusting brutality — nothing for those abashed and trembling children, but the sot's disgusting example ! Can we wonder, that, amid these agonizing moments, the tender cords of violated affection should snap asunder? that the scorned and deserted wife should confess, " there is no killing like that which kills the heart ?" that, though it would have been hard for her to kiss, for the last time, the cold lips of her dead husband, and lay his body forever in the dust, it is harder to behold him so debasing life, that even his death would be greeted in mercy ? Had he died in the light of his goodness, bequeathing to his family the inherit- ance of an untarnished name, the example of virtues that should blossom for his sons and daughters from the tomb — though she would have wept bitterly indeed, the tears of grief would not have been also the tears of shame. But to behold him fallen away from the station he once adorned, degraded from eminence to ignominy — at home, turning his dwelling to darkness, and its holy endearments to mockery — abroad, thrust from the companionship of the worthy, a self- 272 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. branded outlaw — this is the wo that the wife feels is more dreadful than death, — that she mourns over as worse than widowhood. There is yet another picture behind, from the exhibition of which I would willingly be spared. I have ventured to point to those, who daily force themselves before the world ; but there is one whom the world does not know of— who hides herself from prying eyes, even in the innermost sanctu- ary of the domestic temple. Shall I dare to rend the veil that hangs between, and draw her forth? — the priestess dying amid her unholy rites — the sacrificer and the sacrifice t We compass sea and land, we brave danger and death, to snatch the poor victim of heathen superstition from the burning pile — and it is well ; but shall we not also save the lovely ones of our own household, from immolating on this foul altar, not alone the perishing body, but all the worshipped graces of her sex — the glorious attributes of hallowed wo- manhood ! Imagination's gloomiest reverie never conceived of a more revolting object, than that of a wife and mother defiling, in her own person, the fairest work of her God, and setting at nought the holy engagements for which he created her. Her -husband — who shall heighten his joys, and dissipate his cares, and alleviate his sorrows 1 She, who has robbed him of all joy, who is the source of his deepest care, who lives his sharpest sorrow 1 These are, indeed, the wife's delights ; but they are not hers. Her children — who shall watch over their budding virtues, and pluck up the young weeds of pas- sion and vice 1 She, in whose own bosom every thing beau- tiful has withered, every thing vile grows rank ? Who shall teach them to bend their little knees in devotion, and repeat their Savior's prayer against " temptation ?" She, who is herself temptation's fettered slave? These are truly the mother's labors ; but they are not hers. Connubial love and maternal tenderness bloom no longer for her. A worm has gnawed into her heart, that dies only with its prey — the worm intemperance. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 373 LESSON CXXIV. Nighty — a Field of Battle. — Shelley. How beautiful this night ! The balmiest sigh, Which vernal zephyrs breathe in Evening's ear, Were discord to the speaking quietude, That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault. Studded with stars unutterably bright, Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, Seems like a canopy, which love had spread To curtain the sleeping world. Yon gentle hills. Robed in a garment of untrodden snow ; Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend. So stainless, that their white and glittering spires Tinge not the moon's pure beam; yon castled steep. Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower So idly, that rapt Fancy deemeth it A metaphor of peace ; — all form a scene. Where musing Solitude might love to lift Her soul above this sphere of earthliness ; Where Silence, undisturbed, might watch alone, So cold, so bright, so still ! The orb of day. In southern climes, o'er ocean's waveless field. Sinks sweetly smiling : not the faintest breath Steals o'er the unruffled deep ; the clouds of eve Reflect unmoved the lingering beam of day ; And Vesper's image on the western main Is beautifully still. To-morrow comes : Cloud upon cloud, in dark and deepening mass, Roll o'er the blackened waters ; the deep roar Of distant thunder mutters awfully ; Tempest unfolds its pinions o'er the gloom That shrouds the boiling surge ; the pitiless fiend, With all his winds and lightnings, tracks his prey ; The torn deep yawns — the vessel finds a grave Beneath its jagged gulf. 274 YdUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Ah ! whence yon glare That fires the arch of heaven ? — that dark red smoke Blotting the silver moon ? The stars are quenched In darkness, and the pure and spangling snow Gleams faintly through the gloom that gathers round! Hark to that roar, whose swift and deafening peals, In countless echoes, through the mountains ring, Startling pale Midnight on her starry throne! Now swells the intermingling din ; the jar. Frequent and frightful, of the bursting bomb ; The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shout, The ceaseless clangor, and the rush of men Inebriate with rage ! Loud, and more loud. The discord grows, till pale Death shuts the scene, And o'er the conqueror and the conquered draws His cold and bloody shroud. Of all the men, Whom day's departing beam saw blooming there, In proud and vigorous health — of all the hearts, That beat with anxious life at sunset there — How few survive ! how few are beating now ! All is deep silence, like the fearful calm That slumbers in the storm's portentous pause ; Save when the frantic wail of widowed love Comes shuddering on the blast, or the faint moan y With which some soul bursts from the frame of clay Wrapt round its struggling powers. The gray morn Dawns on the mournful scene ; the sulphurous smoke Before the icy wind slow rolls away, And the bright beams of frosty morning dance Along the spangling snow. There tracks of blood, Even to the forest's depth, and scattered arms, And lifeless warriors, whose hard lineaments Death's self could change not, mark the dreadful path Of the outsallying victors :' far behind, Black ashes note where their proud city stood. Within yon forest is a gloomy glen — Each tree which guards its darkness from the day. Waves o'er a warrior's tomb. YOUNG L4DIES' CLASS BOOK. 275 LESSON CXXV. The Uncalled Avenger. — London Museum. The return of the victorious Russian army, which had conquered Finland, was attended with a circumstance which, it is true, has at all times been usual in the train of large armies, but which naturally took place to a much greater extent, in these high northern latitudes, where the hand of man has so imperfectly subdued the original savageness of the soil. Whole droves of famished bears and wolves follow- ed the troops, on their return to the south, to feed on the chance prey afforded by the carcasses of the artillery and baggage horses that dropped on the road. In consequence of this, the province of Esthonia, to which several regiments directed their march, was so overrun with these animals, as greatly to endanger the safety of travellers. In a single circle of the government, no less than forty per- sons, of different ages, were enumerated, who had been devour- ed during the winter by these ravenous beasts. It became hazardous to venture alone and unarmed into the uninhabited parts of the country ; nevertheless, an Esthonian country- woman boldly undertook a journey to a distant relation, not only without any male companion, but with three children, the youngest of which was still an infant. A light sledge, drawn by one horse, received the little party ; the way was narrow, but well beaten ; the snow, on each side, deep and impassable ; and to turn back, without danger of sticking fast, not to be thought of The first half of the journey was passed without accident. The road now ran along the skirts of a pine forest, when the traveller suddenly perceived a suspicious noise behind her. Casting back a look of alarm, she saw a troop of wolves trotting along the road, the number of which her fears hin- dered her from estimating. To escape by flight is her first thought ; and, with unsparing whip, she urges into a gallop the horse, which itself snuffs the danger. Soon a couple of the strongest and most hungry of the beasts appear at her side, and seem disposed to stop the way. Though their in- 276 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. tention seems to be only to attack the horse, yet the safety both of the mother and of the children, depends on the pres- ervation of the animal. The danger raises its value; it seems entitled to claim for its preservation an extraordinary sacrifice. As the mariner throws overboard his richest treasures to appease the raging waves, so here has necessity reached a height, at which the emotions of the heart are dumb before the dark commands of instinct; the latter alone suffers the unhappy woman to act in this distress. She seizes her second child, whose bodily infirmities have often made it an object of anxious care, whose cry even now offends her ear, and threatens to whet the appetite of the blood-thirsty monsters — she seizes it with an involuntary motion, and, before the mother is conscious of what she is doing, it is cast out, — and — enough of the horrid tale ! The last cry of the victim still sounded in her ear, when she discovered that the troop, which had remained some minutes behind, again closely pressed on the sfedge. The anguish of her soul increases, for again the murder-breathing forms are at her side. Pressing the infant to her heaving bosom, she casts a look on her boy, four years old, who crowds closer and closer to her knee : — " But, dear mother, I am good, am not I ? You will not throw me into the snow, like the bawler ?" — *' And yet 1 and yet !" cried the wretched woman, in the wild tumult of despair — " thou art good, but God is merciful ! — Away !" — The dreadful deed was done. To escape the furies that raged within her, the woman ex- erted herself, with powerless lash, to accelerate the gallop of the exhausted horse. With the thick and gloomy forest before and behind her, and the nearer and nearer tramping of her ravenous pursu- ers, she almost sinks under her anguish ; only the recollection of the infant that she holds in her arms — only the desire to save it, occupies her heart, and with difficulty enables it to bear up. She did not venture to look behind her. All at once, two rough paws are laid on her shoulders, and the wide-open, bloody jaws of an enormous wolf, hung over her head. It is the most ravenous beast of the troop, which, having partly missed its leap at the sledge, is dragged along YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 277 with it, in vain seeking with its hinder legs for a resting place, to enable it to get wholly on to the frail vehicle. The weight of the body of the monster draws the woman backwards — her arms rise with the child : half torn from her, half abandoned, it becomes the prey of the ravening beast, which hastily carries it off into the forest. Exhausted, stun- ned, senseless, she drops the reins, and continues her journey, ignorant whether she is delivered from her pursuers. Meantime the forest grows thinner, and an insulated farm- house, to which a side roads leads, appears at a moderate distance. The horse, left to itself, follows this new path : it enters through an open gate ; panting and foaming, it stands still ; and amidst a circle of persons, who crowd round with good-natured surprise, the unhappy woman recovers from her stupefaction, to throw herself, with a loud scream of anguish and horror, into the arms of the nearest human being, who appears to her as a guardian angel. All leave their work — the mistress of the house the kitchen, the thresher the barn, the eldest son of the family, with his axe in his hand, the wood which he has just cleft — to assist the unfortunate woman ; and, with a mixture of curiosity and pity, to learn, by a hundred inquiries, the circumstances of her singular appearance. Refreshed by whatever can be procured at the moment, the stranger gradually recovers the power of speech, and ability to give an intelligible account of the dreadful trial which she has undergone. The insensibility, with which fear and distress had steeled her heart, begins to disappear ; but new terrors seize her ; the dry eye seeks in vain a tear ; she is on the brink of boundless misery. But her narrative had also excited con- flicting feelings in the bosoms of her auditors ; though pity, commiseration, dismay and abhorrence, imposed alike on all the same involuntary silence. One, only, unable to com- mand the overpowering emotions of his heart, advanced before the rest ; it was the young man with the axe : his cheeks were pale with affright ; his wildly-rolling eyes flashed ill-omened fire. " What !" he exclaimed ; " three children — thy own children ! the sickly innocent, the imploring boy, the infant suckling, all cast out by the mother to be devoured by the wolves ! — Woman, thou art unworthy to live !" And, 24 278 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. at the same instant, the uplifted steel descends, with resistless force, on the skull of the wretched woman, who falls dead at his feet. The perpetrator then calmly wipes the blood off the murderous axe, and returns to his work. The dreadful tale speedily came to the knowledge of the magistrates, who caused the uncalled avenger to be arrested and brought to trial. He was, of course, sentenced to the punishment ordained by the laws; but the sentence still wanted the sanction of the emperor. Alexander caused all the circumstances of this crime, so extraordinary in the mo- tives in which it originated, to be reported to him, in the most careful and detailed manner. Here, or nowhere, he thought himself called on to exercise the godlike privilege of mercy, by commuting the sentence, passed on the criminal, into a condemnation to labor not very severe. LESSON CXXVI. Hymn before Sun-rise, in the Vale of Chamouny. — Coleridob. Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course 1 — so long he seems to pause On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc ! The Arve and Arveiron, at thy base. Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form, Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently ! Around thee and above, Deep is the air, and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge ! But, when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine. Thy habitation from eternity. dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer,* 1 worshipped the Invisible alone. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 279 Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, — Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy, — Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused. Into the mighty vision passing — there. As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven 1 Awake, my soul ! Not only passive praise Thou owest ; not alone these swelling tears. Mute thanks and secret ecstasy. Awake, Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. Thou, first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale ! O struggling with the darkness all the night. And visited all night by troops of stars. Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink, — Companion of the morning star at dawn. Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald, wake! O wake! and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light 1 Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad ! Who called you forth from night and utter death. From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, Forever shattered, and the same forever ? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam ? And who commanded — and the silence came — *' Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?" Ye ice-falls ! ye, that, from the mountain's brow, Adown enormous ravines slope amain — Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, • 280 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? — " God !" let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer ; and let the ice-plains echo, *' God !" " God !" sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice ! Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, And, in their perilous fall, shall thunder, " God 1" Ye living flowers, that skirt the eternal frost ! Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle's nest ! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! Utter forth " God !" and fill the hills with praise ! Thou, too, hoar mount ! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast — Thou, too, again, stupendo.us mountain ! thou That, — as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, — Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me, — rise, O ever rise ! Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth. Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great hierarch, tell thou the silent sky. And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, " Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God." YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 281 LESSON CXXVII. The Soldier's Widow. — Willis. Wol for my vine-clad home ! That it should ever be so dark to me, With its bright threshold, and its whispering tree I That I should ever come, Fearing the lonely echo of a tread. Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead ! Lead on, my orphan boy; Thy home is not so desolate to thee. And the low shiver in the linden tree May bring to thee a joy ; But, oh ! how dark is the bright home before thee, To her who with a joyous spirit bore thee ! Lead on ; for thou art now My sole remaining helper. God hath spoken, And the strong heart I leaned upon is broken ; And I have seen his brow, The forehead of my upright one and just, Trod by the hoof of battle to the dust. He will not meet thee there. Who blessed thee at the eventide, my son ; And when the shadows of the night steal on, He will not call to prayer. The lips that melted, giving thee to God, Are in the icy keeping of the sod ! Ay, my own boy, thy sire Is with the sleepers of the valley cast. And the proud glory of my life hath past, With his high glance of fire. Wo ! that the linden and the vine should bloom, And a just man be gathered to the tomb ! 24* 232 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Why, bear them proudly, boy, — It is the sword he girded to his thigh, It is the helm he wore in victory ; And shall we have no joy ? For thy green vales, O Switzerland, he died ; I will forget my sorrow — in my pride ! LESSON CXXVIII. Extract from " Suggestions on Education." — Miss C. E. Beecher. Woman has been but little aware of the high incitements, that should stimulate to the cultivation of her noblest powers. The world is no longer to be governed by physical force, but by the influence which mind exerts over mind. How are the great springs of action, in the political world, put in mo- tion 1 Often by the secret workings of a single mind, that in retirement plans its schemes, and comes forth to execute them only by presenting motives of prejudice, passion, self- interest or pride, to operate on other minds. Now, the world is chiefly governed by motives that men are ashamed to own. When do we find mankind acknowl- edging, that their efforts m political life are the offspring of pride, and the desire of self-aggrandizement ? And yet who hesitates to believe that this is true 1 But there is a class of motives, that men are not only will- ing, but proud to own. Man does not willingly yield to force ; he is ashamed to own he can yield to fear ; he will not acknowledge his motives of pride, prejudice, or passion. But none are unwilling to own they can be governed by reason ; even the worst will boast of being regulated by con- science ; and where is the person who is ashamed to own the influence of the kind and generous emotions of the heart. Here, then, is the only lawful field for the ambition of our sex. Woman, in all her relations, is bound to " honor and obey" those, on whom she depends for protection and support; YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 283 nor does the truly feminine mind desire to exceed this limita- tion of Heaven. But where the dictates of authority may never control, the voice of reason and affection may ever convince and persuade ; and while others govern by motives, that mankind are ashamed to own, the dominion of woman may be based on influence, that the heart is proud to ac- knowledge. And if it is indeed the truth, that reason and conscience guide to the only path of happiness, and if affection will gain a hold on these powerful principles, which can be attained no other way, what high and holy motives are presented to woman for cultivating her noblest powers ! The develop- ment of the reasoning faculties, the fascinations of a purified imagination, the charms of a cultivated taste, the quick per- ceptions of an active mind, the power of exhibiting truth and reason, by perspicuous and animated conversation and writing, — all these can be employed by woman as much as by man. And with these attainable facilities for gaining influ- ence, woman has already received, from the hand of her Maker, those warm affections and quick susceptibilities, which can most surely gain the empire of the heart. Woman has never wakened to her highest destinies and holiest hopes. She has yet to learn the purifying and blessed influence, she may gain and maintain over the intellect and affections of the human mind. Though she may not teach from the portico, nor thunder from the forum, in her secret retirements she may form and send forth the sages that shall govern and renovate the world. Though she may not gird herself for bloody conflict, nor sound the trumpet of war, she may inwrap herself in the panoply of Heaven, and send the thrill of benevolence through a thousand youthful hearts. Though she may not enter the lists in legal collision, nor sharpen her intellect amid the passions and conflicts of men, she may teach the law of kindness, and hush up the discords and conflicts of life. Though she may not be clothed as the ambassador of Heaven, nor minister at the altar of God, as a secret angel of mercy, she may teach its will, and cause to ascend the humble, but most accepted sacrifice. It is believed that the time is coming, when educated 284 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. females will not be satisfied with the present objects of their low ambition. When a woman now leaves the immediate business of her own education, how often, how generally, do we find her sinking down into almost useless inactivity ! To enjoy the social circle, to accomplish a little sewing, a little reading, a little domestic duty, to while away her hours in self-indulgence, or to enjoy the pleasures of domestic life, — these are the highest objects at which many a woman of ele- vated mind and accomplished education aims. And what does she find of sufficient interest or importance to call forth her cultivated energies and warm affections ? But when the cultivation and development of the immor- tal mind shall be presented to woman as her especial and delightful duty, and that, too, whatever be her relations in life ; when, by example, and by experience, she shall have learned her power over the intellect and the affections ; when the enthusiasm, that wakens energy and interest in all other professions, shall animate in this ; then we shall not find wo- man returning from the precincts of learning and wisdom, merely to pass lightly away the bright hours of her maturing youth. We shall not so often find her seeking the light device, to embroider on muslin and lace ; but we shall see her, with the delighted glow of benevolence, seeking for immortal minds, whereon she may fasten durable and holy impressions, that shall never be eff'aced nor wear away. LESSON CXXIX. Female Accomplishments. — Hannah More. A YOUNG lady may excel in speaking French and Italian ; may repeat a few passages from a volume of extracts ; play like a professor, and sing like a siren ; have her dressing-room decorated with her own drawing, tables, stands, flower-pots, screens and cabinets ; nay, she may dance like Sempronia herself, and yet we shall insist, that she may have been very YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 285 badly educated. I am far from meaning to set no value whatever on any or all of these qualifications ; they are all of them elegant, and many of them properly tend to the perfecting of a polite education. These things, in their measure and degree, may be done ; but there are others, which should not be left undone. Many things are becoming, but "one thing is needful." Besides, as the world seems to be fully apprized of the value of whatever tends to embellish life, there is less occasion here to insist on its importance. But, though a well-bred young lady may lawfully learn most of the fashionable arts ; yet, let me ask, does it seem to be the true end of education, to make women of fashion dancers, singers, players, painters, actresses, sculptors, gild- ers, varnishers, engravers and embroiderers? Most men are commonly destined to some profession, and their minds are consequently turned each to its respective object. Would it not be strange, if they were called out to exercise their profession, or to set up their trade, with only a little general knowledge of the trades and professions of all other men, and without any previous definite application to their own peculiar calling ? The profession of ladies, to which the bent of their in- struction should be turned, is that of daughters, wives, moth- ers, and mistresses of families. They should be, therefore, trained with a view to these several conditions, and be fur- nished with a stock of ideas, and principles, and qualifications, and habits, ready to be applied and appropriated, as occasion may demand, to each of these respective situations. For though the arts, which merely embellish life, must claim ad- miration ; yet, when a man of sense comes to marry, it is a companion whom he wants, and not an artist. It is not merely a creature who can paint, and play, and sing, and draw, and dress, and dance ; it is a being who can comfort and counsel him ; one who can reason, and reflect, and feel, and judge, and discourse, and discriminate ; one who can assist him in his affairs, lighten his cares, soothe his sorrows, purify his joys, strengthen his principles, and educate his children. 286 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. LESSON CXXX. To the Evening Wind. — Bryant. Spirit, that breathest through my lattice, thou That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day, Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow ; Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now. Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea ! Nor I alone — a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound. Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. Go forth into the gathering shade ; go forth, God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest. Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest. Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast; Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the grass. The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep ; And they, who stand about the sick man's bed, Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK, 287 Go — but the circle of eternal change, That is the life of nature, shall restore. With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more; Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange. Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore ; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem x He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. LESSON CXXXI. To the Ursa Major. — H. Ware, Jr. With what a stately and majestic step That glorious constellation of the north Treads its eternal circle ! going forth Its princely way amongst the stars in slow And silent brightness. Mighty one, all hail ! I joy to see thee, on thy glowing path. Walk, like some stout and girded giant — stern, Unwearied, resolute, whose toiling foot Disdains to loiter on its destined way. The other tribes forsake their midnight track, And rest their weary orbs beneath the wave ; But thou dost never close thy burning eye. Nor stay thy steadfast step. But on, still on. While systems change, and suns retire, and worlds Slumber and wake, thy ceaseless march proceeds. The near horizon tempts to rest in vain. Thou, faithful sentinel, dost never quit Thy long-appointed watch ; but, sleepless still, Dost guard the fixed light of the universe, And bid the north forever know its place. Ages have witnessed thy devoted trust, * Unchanged, unchanging. When the sons of God Sent forth that shout of joy which rang through heaten, 288 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. And echoed from the outer spheres that bound The illimitable universe, thy voice Joined the high chorus ; from thy radiant orbs The glad cry sounded, swelling to His praise, Who thus had cast another sparkling gem, Little, but beautiful, amid the crowd Of splendors that enrich his firmament. As thou art now, so wast thou then the same. Ages have rolled their course, and time grown grayj The earth has gathered to her womb again. And yet again, the myriads, that were born Of her, uncounted, unremembered tribes. The seas have changed their beds ; the eternal hills Have stooped with age ; the solid continents Have left their banks ; and man's imperial works — The toil, pride, strength of kingdoms, which had flung Their haughty honors in the face of heaven, As if immortal — have been swept away — Shattered and mouldering, buried and forgot. But time has shed no dimness on thy front. Nor touched the firmness of thy tread ; youth, strength And beauty still are thine — as clear, as bright, As when the almighty Former sent thee forth. Beautiful offspring of his curious skill, To watch earth's northern beacon, and proclaim The eternal chorus of eternal Love. I wonder as I gaze. That stream of light, Undimmed, unquenched, — ^just as I see it now, — Has issued from those dazzling points, through years That go back far into eternity. Exhaustless flood ! forever spent, renewed Forever ! Yea, and those refulgent drops, Which now descend upon my lifted eye. Left their far fountain twice three years ago. While those winged particles, whose speed outstrips The flight of thought, were on their way, the earth Compassed its tedious circuit round and round, And, in the extremes of annual change, beheld YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 28J) Six autumns fade, six springs renew their bloom. So far from earth those mighty orbs revolve ! So vast the void through which their beams descend ! Yea, glorious lamps of God, He may have quenched Your ancient flames, and bid eternal night Rest on your spheres ; and yet no tidings reach This distant planet. Messengers still come Laden with your far fire, and we may seem To see your lights still burning ; while their blaze But hides the black wreck of extinguished realms, Where anarchy and darkness long have reigned. Yet what is this, which to the astonished mind - Seems measureless, and which the baffled thought Confounds ? A span, a point, in those domains Which the keen eye can traverse. Seven stars Dwell in that brilliant cluster, and the sight ,^; Embraces all at once ; yet each from each Recedes as far as each of them from earth. And every star from every other burns No less remote. From the profound of heaven, Untravelled even in thought, keen, piercing rays Dart through the void, revealing to the sense Systems and worlds unnumbered. Take the glass And search the skies. The opening skies pour down Upon your gaze thick showers of sparkling fire — Stars, crowded, thronged, in regions so remote, That their swift beams — the swiftest things that be — Have travelled centuries on their flight to earth. Earth, sun, and nearer constellations, what Are ye, amid this infinite extent And multitude of God's most infinite works ! And these are suns ! — vast, central, living fires. Lords of dependent systems, kings of worlds That wait as satellites upon their power, And flourish in their smile. Awake, my soul. And meditate the wonder ! Countless suns Blaze round thee, leading forth their countless worlds ! 25 290 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Worlds, in whose bosoms living things rejoice, And drink the bliss of being from the fount Of all-pervading Love. What mind can know, What tongue can utter, all their multitudes ! Thus numberless in numberless abodes ! Known but to thee, blessed Father ! Thine they are, Thy children and thy care ; and none o'erlooked Of thee ! — .no, not the humblest soul that dwells Upon the humblest globe, which wheels its course Amid the giant glories of the sky, Like the mean mote that dances in the beam Amongst the mirrored lamps, which fling Their wasteful splendor from the palace wall. None, none escape the kindness of thy care ; All compassed underneath thy spacious wing. Each fed and guided by thy powerful hand. Tell me, ye splendid orbs, as, from your throne, Ye mark the rolling provinces that own Your sway — what beings fill those bright abodes 1 How formed, how gifted 1 what their powers, their state, Their happiness, their wisdom ? Do they bear The stamp of human nature ? Or has God Peopled those purer realms with lovelier forms And more celestial minds ? Does Innocence Still wear her native and untainted bloom ? Or has Sin breathed his deadly blight abroad, And sowed corruption in those fairy bowers ? Has War trod o'er them with his foot of fire ? And Slavery forged his chains? and Wrath and Hate, And sordid Selfishness, and cruel Lust, Leagued their base bands to tread out light and truth. And scattered wo where Heaven had planted joy? Or are they yet all paradise, unfallen And uncorrupt 1 existence one long joy. Without disease upon the frame, or sin Upon the heart, or weariness of life — Hope never quenched, and age unknown, And death unfeared ; while fresh and fadeless youth Glows in the light from God's near throne of love ? r YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 29] Open your lips, ye wonderful and fair ! Speak, speak ! the mysteries of those living worlds Unfold ! — No language ? Everlasting light, And everlasting silence ?— Yet the eye May read and understand. The hand of God Has written legibly what man may know — The glory of the Maker. There it shines, Ineffable, unchangeable ; and man, Bound to the surface of this pigmy globe. May know and ask no more. In other days, When death shall give the encumbered spirit wings, Its range shall be extended; it shall roam, Perchance, amongst those vast, mysterious spheres, Shall pass from orb to orb, and dwell in each Familiar with its children — learn their laws. And share their state, and study and adore > The infinite varieties of bliss And beauty, by the Hand of Power divine Lavished on all its works. Eternity Shall thus roll on with ever fresh delight ; No pause of pleasure or improvement ; world On world still opening to the instructed mind An unexhausted universe, and time But adding to its glories ; while the soul, Advancing ever to the Source of light And all perfection, lives, adores and reigns In cloudless knowledge, purity and bliss. LESSON CXXXII. Conclusion of a Discourse in Commemoration of the Lives and Services of John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, deliv- ered in Faneuil Hall, Boston, Aug. 2, 1826. — Webster. This lovely land, this glorious liberty, these benign insti- tutions, the dear purchase of our fathers, are ours ; ours to enjoy, ours to preserve, ours to transmit. Generations past, and generations to come, hold us responsible for this sacred 292 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. trust. Our fathers, from behind, admonish us, with their anxious, paternal voices; posterity calls out to us from the bosom of the future ; the world turns hither its solicitous eyes ; — all, all conjure us to act wisely and faithfully in the relation which we sustain. We can never, indeed, pay the debt which is upon us ; but by virtue, by morality, by re- ligion, by the cultivation of every good principle and every good habit, we may hope to enjoy the blessing, through our day, and to leave it unimpaired to our children. Let us feel deeply how much, of what we are and of what we possess, we owe to this liberty, and these institutions of government. Nature has, indeed, given us a soil which yields bounteously to the hands of industry ; the mighty and fruitful ocean is before us, and the skies over our heads shed health and vigor. But what are lands, and seas, and skies, to civilized man, without society, without knowledge, without morals, without religious culture? and how can these be enjoyed, in all their extent, and all their excellence, but under the protection of wise institutions and a free govern • ment? ' There is not one of us, there is not one of us here present, who does not, at this moment, and at every moment, expe rience, in his own condition, and in the condition of those most near and dear to him, the influence and the benefits of this liberty, and these institutions. Let us, then, ac- knowledge the blessing ; let us feel it deeply and powerfully ; let us cherish a strong affection for it, and resolve to maintain and perpetuate it. The blood of our fathers,— let it not have been shed in vain ; the great hope of posterity, — let it not be blasted. The striking attitude, too, in which we stand to the world around us, cannot be altogether omitted here. Neither indi- viduals nor nations can perform their part well, until they understand and feel its importance, and comprehend and justly appreciate all the duties belonging to it. It is not to inflate national vanity, nor to swell a light and empty feeling of self-importance ; but it is that we may judge justly of our situation, and of our own duties, that I earnestly urge this consideration of our position, and our character^ among the nations of the earth. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 293 It cannot be denied, but by those who would dispute against the sun, that with America, and in America, a new era commences in human affairs. This era is distinguished by free representative governments, by entire religious liberty, by improved systems of national intercourse, by a newly awakened and ai; unconquerable spirit of free inquiry, and by a diffusion of knowledge through the community, such as has been before altogether unknown and unheard of. America, America, our country, our own dear and native land, is inseparably connected, fast bound up, in fortune and by fate, with these great interests. If they fall, we fall with them ; if they stand, it will be because we have upholden them. Let us contemplate, then, this connexion, which binds the prosperity of others to our own ; and let us manfully dis- charge all the duties which it imposes. If we cherish the vir- tues and the principles of our fathers, Heaven will assist us to carry on the work of human liberty and human hap- piness. Auspicious omens cheer us. Great examples are before us. Our own firmament now shines brightly upon our path. Washington is in the clear upper sky. These other stars have now joined the American constellation ; they circle round their centre, and the heavens beam with new light. Beneath this illumination, let us walk the course of life, and, at its close, devoutly commend our beloved country, the common parent of us all, to the Divine Benignity. LESSON CXXXIII. Education a Life-Business. — Francis. When young men, and especially young ladies, have com- pleted their course of instruction at the schools, how often do we hear it said, that they have finished their education 1 And it would really seem, as if this expression were under- stood to be literally and exactly true. But it is a great error. The whole process, if it has been well and wisely conducted, has only served to enable the young to go on with 25* 294 Young ladies' class book. ' the work of educating themselves, when they are released from the restraints of pupilage, — to put into their possession the means of purifying their taste, of correcting and settling their views, of cultivating the powers of reasoning and imag- ination, of strengthening and enlarging their habits of thought, — in short, of elevating and refining their whole mental and moral nature. The education, which is gradually gathered amidst the realities of life, in the discharge of daily duties, and in the application of knowledge and principles to the obligations and wants of our situation, is one of an exalted kind, for which all the training of early days is but preparatory. Such an education, it is manifest, must be a life- business ; it can never come to a close, while opportunities and means are possessed. I believe, we are not aware of the mischief, that may be and has been done to the young, by giving them the impression, that when the period of school discipline ceases, they have completed the cultivation of their minds, and their preparation for the engagements of life. What must be the effect of such an impression, at a time when the passions are usually growing into full strength, and the reason is unpractised to separate good from evil, — when temptations, the most numerous and alluring, are crowding around the opening path of mature life, — when the dreams of hope have just taken a definite form, sufficient to be cher- ished with even more than the fondness of childhood, — and when the world beckons on the youthful adventurer, with all the solicitations of pleasure and ambition ! Then, if ever, is the time not to stop the work of guarding and improving the mind and the principles, but to carry it on with more vig- or and a keener sense of its importance. Education finished ! Why, we might as well talk of good- ness, or wisdom, or religion being finished. Especially will this appear to be true, when we extend our views farther, and consider that the whole of life is but an education for eternity ; that our existence here is but a state of pupilage, in which we are to acquire characters and habits that will rise with us from the grave, and be our joy or our shame hereafter. The mighty mind of a Newton was but in its childhood here on earth ; for the successive stages of man's existence, are YOUNa LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 095 designed to be so many successive stages of advancement and improvement. The education of the moral and intellec- tual agent begins in infancy, and goes on through subsequent degrees, till it is carried out and perfected in the upper world. At each portion of the grand progress, some error, or vice, or folly, may be dropped ; and the soul may grow wiser, and stronger, and purer, as she travels on, till she becomes meet to receive the stainless spirit of light and truth, and acquires a full affinity for the heavenly wisdom of the better world. LESSON CXXXIV. Parrhasius. — Willis. " Parrhasius, a painter of Athens, amongst those Olynthian captives Phih'p of Macedon brought home to sell, bought one very old man ; and, when he had him at his house, put him to death with extreme torture cuid torment, the bet- ter, by his example, to express the pains and passions of his Prometheus, whom he was then about to paint." — Burton's Anat. of Mel. The golden light into the painter's room Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole From the dark pictures radiantly forth, ■ And, in the soft and dewy atmosphere, Like forms and landscapes magical, they lay. The walls were hung with armor, and about. In the dim corners, stood the sculptured forms Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove, And from the casement soberly away Fell the grotesque, long shadows, full and true, And, like a veil of filmy mellowness. The lint-specks floated in the twilight air. Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully Upon his canvass. There Prometheus lay, Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus, The vulture at his vitals, and the links Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh ; And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim. Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows wild 296 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Forth with its reaching fancy, and with form And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip. Were like the winged god's, breathing from his flight. " Bring me the captive now ! My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift From my waked spirit airily and swift ; And I could paint the bow Upon the bended heavens, around me play Colors of such divinity to-day. " Ha ! bind him on his back ! Look ! as Prometheus in my picture here — Quick — or he faints ! — stand with the cordial near ! Now bend him to the rack ! Press down the poisoned links into his flesh ! And tear agape that healing wound afresh ! " So — let him writhe ! How long Will he live thus ? Quick, my good pencil, now ! What a fine agony works upon his brow ! Ha ! gray-haired, and so strong ! How fearfully he stifles that short moan ! Gods ! if I could but paint a dying groan ! " ' Pity' thee ! So I do ! I pity the dumb victim at the altar ; But does the robed priest for his pity falter ? I'd rack thee, though I knew A thousand lives were perishing in thine : What were ten thousand to a fame like mine ? " * Hereafter !' Ay, hereafter ! A whip to keep a coward to his track ! What gave Death ever from his kingdom back To check the skeptic's laughter ? Come from the grave to-morrow, with that story, And I may take some softer path to glory. ■^OUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 297 " No, no, old man ; we die E'en as the flowers, and we shall breathe away Our life upon the chance wind, e'en as they Strain well thy fainting eye ; For, when that bloodshot quivering is o'er. The light of heaven will never reach thee more. ^' Yet there's a deathless name, — A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn, And, like a steadfast planet, mount and burn ; And though its crown of flame Consumed my brain to ashes as it won me, By all the fiery stars ! I'd pluck it on ihe. " Ay, though it bid me rifle My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst ; Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first ; Though it should bid me stifle The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, And taunt its mother till my brain went wild ; — " All, I would do it all. Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot ; Thrust foully in the earth to be forgot. O heavens ! but I appal Your heart, old man ! forgive — Ha ! on your lives, Let him not faint ! — rack him till he revives ! " Vain, vain ; give o'er ! His eye Glazes apace. He does not feel you now — Stand back ! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow. Gods ! if he do not die But for one moment — one — till I eclipse Conception with the scorn of those calm lips I " Shivering ! Hark ! he mutters Brokenly now — that was a difficult breath — Another 1 Wilt thou never come, O Death 1 Look ! how his temple flutters ! Is his heart still ? Aha ! lift up his head ! He shudders — gasps — Jove help him — so-^he's dead " 298 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. LESSON CXXXV. The SouVs Defiance* — Anonymous. I SAID to Sorrow's awful storm, That beat against my breast, " Rage on ! thou may'st destroy this form, And lay it low at rest ; But still the spirit, that now brooks Thy tempest, raging high, Undaunted, on its fury looks With steadfast eye." I said to Penury's meagre train, " Come on ! your threats I brave ; My last, poor life-drop you may drain, And crush me to the grave ; Yet still the spirit, that endures, Shall mock your force the while. And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours With bitter smile." I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, " Pass on ! I heed you not ; . Ye may pursue me till my form And being are forgot ; Yet still the spirit, which you see Undaunted by your wiles, Draws from its own nobility Its high-born smiles." I said to Friendship's menaced blow, " Strike deep ! my heart shall bear ; Thou canst but add one bitter wo To those already there ; *This poem was written many years ago, by a lady, and wTitten from ex- perience and feeling. There is a very remarkable grandeur and power in the sentiments, sustamod, as they are, by an energy of expression well suited to the spirit's uudauntcd defiance of misfortune. — Ed. Common-place Book of Poetry. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 399 Yet still the spirit, that sustains This last severe distress, Shall smile upon its keenest pains, And scorn redress." I said to Death's uplifted dart, " Aim sure ! oh, why delay ? ^ Thou wilt not find a fearful heart — A weak, reluctant prey ; For still the spirit, firm and free, Triumphant in the last dismay, Wrapt in its own eternity. Shall smiling pass away." LESSON CXXXVI. Sonnet to the South Wind. — Bryant. Ay, thou art welcome — heaven's delicious breath — When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf. And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, And the year smiles as it draws near its death. Wind of the sunny South, oh, long delay In the gay woods and in the golden air, — Like to a good old age, released from care. Journeying, in long serenity, away. In such a bright, late quiet, would that I Might wear out life, like thee, mid bowers and brooks, And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks. And music of kind voices ever nigh ; ' And, when my last sand twinkled in the glass. Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass. LESSON CXXXVII. Lilias Grieve. — ^Wilson. There were fear and melancholy in all the glens and val- leys that lay stretching around, or down upon St. Mary's 300 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Loch ; for it was the time of religious persecution. Many a sweet cottage stood untenanted on the hill-side and in the , hollow : some had felt the fire, and been consumed ; and vio- lent hands had torn off the turf roof from the green shealing of the shepherd. In the wide and deep silence and solitari- ness of the mountains, it seemed as if human life were nearly extinct. Caverns and clefts, in which the fox had kennelled, were now the shelter of Christian souls ; and when a lonely figure crept stealingly from one hiding-place to another, on a visit of love to some hunted brother in faith, the crows would hover over him, and the hawk shriek at human steps, now rare in the desert. When the babe was born, there might be none near to bap- tize it ; or the minister, driven from his kirk, perhaps, poured the sacramental water upon its face, from some pool in the glen, whose rocks guarded the persecuted family from the oppres- sor. Bridals now were unfrequent, and in the solemn sadness of love. Many died before their time, of minds sunken, and of broken hearts. White hair was on heads long before they were old ; and the silver locks of ancient men were often ruefully soiled in the dust, and stained with their martyred blood. But this is the dark side of the picture ; for, even in their caves, were these people happy. Their children were with them, even like the wild flowers that blossomed all about the entrances of their dens. And when the voice of psalms rose up from the profound silence of the solitary place of rocks, the ear of God was open, and they knew that their prayers and praises were heard in heaven. If a child was born, it belonged unto the faithful ; if an old man died, it was in the religion of his forefathers. The hidden powers of their souls were brought forth into the light, and they knew the strength that was in them for these days of trial. The thoughtless became sedate ; the wild were tamed ; the unfeeling made compassionate ; hard hearts were softened, and the wicked saw the error of their ways. All deep passion purifies and strengthens the soul ; and so was it now. Now was shown and put to the proof, the stern, austere, impenetrable strength of men, that would neither bend nor break ; the calm, serene determination of matrons, who, with meek eyes and unblanched cheeks, met the scow^ YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 304 of the murderer, — the silent beauty of maidens, who with smiles received their death, — and the mysterious courage of children, who, in the inspiration of innocent and spotless nature, kneeled down among the dew drops on the green sward, and died fearlessly by their parents' sides. Arrested were they at their work, or in their play ; and, with no other bandage over their eyes, but haply some clustering ringlet of their sunny hair, did many a sweet creature of twelve sum- mers, ask just to be allowed to say her prayers, and then go, unappalled, from her cottage door to the breast of her Re- deemer. In those days had old Samuel Grieve and his spouse suf- fered sorely for their faith. But they left not their own house — willing to die there, or to be slaughtered, whenever God should so appoint. They were now childless; but a little granddaughter, about ten years old, lived with them, and she was an orphan. The thought of death was so familiar to her, that, although sometimes it gave a slight quaking throb to her heart in its glee, yet it scarcely impaired the natural joyfulness of her girlhood ; and often, unconsciously, after the gravest or the saddest talk with her old parents, would she glide off, with a lightsome step, a blithe face, and a voice humming sweetly some cheerful tune. The old people looked often upon her in her happiness, till their dim eyes filled with tears ; while the grandmother said, " If this nest were to be destroyed, at last, and our heads in the mould, who would feed this young bird in the wild, and where would she find shelter in which to fauld her bonnie wings 1" Lilias Grieve was the shepherdess of a small flock, among the green pasturage at the head of St. Mary's Loch, and up the hill-side, and over into some of the little neighboring glens. Sometimes she" sat in that beautiful church-yard, with her sheep lying scattered around her upon the quiet graves, where, on still, sunny days, she could see their shadows in the water in the loch, and herself sitting close to the low walls of the house of God. She had no one to speak to, but her Bible to read ; and, day after day, the rising sun beheld her in growing beauty, and innocence that could not fade, happy and silent as a fairy upon the knowe, with the blue heavens over her head, and the blue lake smiling at her feet 26 302 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. " My fairy" was the name she bore by the cottage fire, where the old people were gladdened by her glee, and turned away from all melancholy thoughts. And it was a name that suited sweet Lilias well ; for she was clothed in a garb of green, and often, in her joy, the green, graceful plants that grow among the hills, were wreathed round her hair. So was she dressed one Sabbath day, watching her flock at a considerable distance from home, and singing to herself a psalm in the solitary moor ; when, in a moment, a party of soldiers were upon a mount on the opposite side of a narrow dell. Lilias was invisible as a green linnet upon the grass ; but her sweet voice had betrayed her, and then one of the sol- diers caught the wild gleam of her eyes ; and, as she sprung frightened to her feet, he called out, " A roe ! a roe ! See how she bounds along the bent !" and the ruffian took aim at the child with his musket, half in sport, half in ferocity. Lilias kept appearing and disappearing, while she flew, as on wings, across a piece of black heathery moss, full of pits and hollows; — and still the soldier kept his musket at its aim. His com- rades called to him to hold his hand, and not shoot a poor little innocent child ; but he at length fired, and the bullet was heard to whiz past her fern-crowned head, and to strike a bank which she was about to ascend. . The child paused for a moment, and looked back, and then bounded away over the smooth turf; till, like a cushat, she dropped into a little birchen glen, and disappeared. Not a sound of her feet was heard ; she seemed to have sunk into the ground ; and the soldier stood, without any effort to follow her, gazing through the smoke towards the spot where she had vanished. A sudden superstition assailed the hearts of the party, as they sat down together upon a hedge of stone. " Saw you her face. Riddle, as my ball went whizzing past her ear? If she be not one of those hill fairies, she had been dead as a herring ; but I believe the bullet glanced off her yellow hair as against a buckler." *' It was the act of a gallows- rogue to fire upon the creature, fairy or not fairy ; and yon deserve the weight of this hand — the hand of an Englishman — you brute, for your cruelty." And up rose the speaker to put his threat into execution, when the other retreated some YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 303 distance, and began to load his musket ; but the Englishman ran upon him, and, with a Cumberland gripe and trip, laid him upon the hard ground with a force that drove the breath out of his body, and left him stunned, and almost insensible. * * * * The fallen ruffian now rose somewhat humbled, and sul- lenly sat down among the rest. *' Why," quoth Allan Sleigh, " I wager you a week's pay, you don't venture fifty yards, without your musket, down yonder shingle, where the fairy disappeared ;" and, the wager being accepted, the half- drunken fellow rushed on towards the head of the glen, and was heard crashing away through the shrubs. In a few min- utes he returned, declaring, with an oath, that he had seen her at the mouth of a cave, where no human foot could reach, stand- ing with her hair all on fire, and an angry countenance ; and that he had tumbled backwards into the burn, and been nearly drowned. " Drowned !" cried Allan Sleigh. " Ay, drowned ; why not ? A hundred yards down that bit glen, the pools are as black as pitch, and the water roars like thunder : drowned ! why not, you English son of a deer-stealer ?" ** Why not ? because, who was ever drowned, that was born to be hanged?" And that jest caused universal laughter, as it is always sure to do, often as it may be repeated, iii a company of ruf- fians ; such is felt to be its perfect truth and unanswerable simplicity LESSON CXXXVIII. The same, — concluded. After an hour's quarrelling, and gibing, and mutiny, this disorderly band of soldiers proceeded on their way down into the head of Yarrow, and there saw, in the solitude, the house of Samuel Grieve. Thither they proceeded to get some refreshment, and ripe for any outrage that any occasion might suggest. The old man and his wife, hearing a tumult of many voices and many feet, came out, and were immedi- ately saluted with many opprobrious epithets. The hut was 304 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. soon rifled of any small articles of wearing apparel ; and Samuel, without emotion, set before them whatever provisions he had — butter, cheese, bread and milk — and hoped they would not be too hard upon old people, who were desirous of dying, as they had lived, in peace. Thankful were they both, in their parental hearts, that their little Lilias was among the hills ; and the old man trusted, that if she returned before the soldiers were gone, she would see, from some dis- tance, their muskets on the green before the door, and hide herself among the brakens. The soldiers devoured their repast with many oaths, and much hideous and obscene language, which it was sore against the old man's soul to hear in his own hut ; but he said nothing, for that would have been wilfully to sacrifice his life. At last, one of the party ordered him to return thanks, in words impious and full of blasphemy ; which Sam- uel calmly refused to do, beseeching them, at the same time, for the sake of their own souls, not so to offend their great and bountiful Preserver. " Confound the old canting Cove- nanter ; I will prick him with my bayonet, if he won't say grace 1" and the blood trickled down the old man's cheek, from a slight wound on his forehead. The sight of it seemed to awaken the dormant blood- thirstiness in the tiger heart of the soldier, who now swore, if the old man did not instantly repeat the words after him, he would shoot him dead. And, as if cruelty were conta- gious, almost the whole party agreed that the demand was hut reasonable, and that the old hypocritical knave must preach or perish. *' Here is a great musty Bible," cried one of them. " If he won't speak, I will gag him, with a ven- geance. Here, old Mr. Peden the prophet, let me cram a few chapters of St. Luke down your maw. St. Luke was a physician, I believe. Well, here is a dose of him. Open your jaws." And, with these words, he tore a handful of leaves out of the Bible, and advanced towards the old man, from whose face his terrified wife was now wiping off the blood. Samuel Grieve was nearly fourscore ; but his sinews were not yet relaxed, and, in his younger days, he had been a man of great strength. When, therefore, the soldier grasped him YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. by the neck, the sense of receiving an indignity from such a slave made his blood boil, and, as if his youth had been re- newed, the gray-headed man, with one blow, felled the ruffian to the floor. That blow sealed his doom. There was a fierce tumult and yelling of wrathful voices, and Samuel Grieve was led out to die. He had witnessed such butchery of others, and felt that the hour of his martyrdom was come. " As thou didst reprove Simon Peter in the garden, when he smote the high priest's servant, and saidst, ' The cup which my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it?' so now, O my Redeemer, do thou pardon me, thy frail and erring follower, and enable me to drink this cup !" With these words, the old man knelt down unbidden, and, after one solemn look to heaven, closed his eyes, and folded his hands across his breast. His wife now came forward, and knelt down beside the old man. "Let us die togetner, Samuel; but, oh! what will become of our dear Lilias?" '' God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb," said her husband, opening not his eyes, but taking her hand into his : " Sarah, be not afraid." " O Samuel, I remember, at this moment, these words of Jesus, which you this morning read — ' Forgive them. Father ; they know not what they do?' " " We are all sinners together," said Samuel, with a loud voice ; " we two old gray-headed people, on our knees, and about to die, both forgive you all, as we hope ourselves to be forgiven. We are ready : be merciful, and do not mangle us. Sarah, be not afraid." It seemed that an angel was sent down from heaven to save the lives of these two old gray-headed folk. With hair floating in sunny light, and seemingly wreathed with flowers of heavenly azure ; with eyes beaming lustre, and yet stream- ing tears ; with white arms extended in their beauty, and motion gentle and gliding as the sunshine when a cloud is rolled away — came on, over the meadow before the hut, the same green-robed creature, that had startled the soldiers with her singing in the moor ; and, crying loudly, but still sweetly, "God sent me hither to save their lives," she fell down beside them as they knelt together ; and then, lifting up her head from the turf, fixed her beautiful face, instinct with 26* 306 tOUNG LADIES' CLASS fiOOK. fear, love, hope, and the spirit of prayer, upon the eyes of the men about to shed that innocent blood. They all stood heart-stricken ; and the executioners flung down their muskets upon the green sward. " God bless you, kind, good soldiers, for this!" exclaimed the child, now weeping and sobbing with joy. " Ay, ay, you will be happy to-night, when you lie down to sleep. If you have any little daughters or sisters like me, God will love them for your mercy to us, and nothing, till you return home, will hurt a hair of their heads. Oh ! I see now that soldiers are not so cruel as we say!" " Lilias, your grandfather speaks unto you; his last words are — Leave us, leave us ; for they are going to put us to death. Soldiers, kill not this little child, or the waters of the loch will rise up and drown the sons of per- dition. Lilias, give us each a kiss, and then go into the house." The soldiers conversed together for a few minutes, and seemed now like men themselves condemned to die. Shame and remorse, for their coward cruelty, smote them to the core ; and they bade them that were still kneeling, to rise up and go their ways : then, forming themselves into regular order, one gave the word of command, and, marching off, ttiey soon disappeared. The old man, his wife, and little Lilias, continued for some tim on their knees in prayer, and then all three went into the hut ; the child between them, and a withered hand of each laid upon its beautiful and its fearless head. LESSON CXXXIX. Mopes and Fears of Parents. — Francis The hopes and fears, that cluster around the relation in which we stand to the young, are among the strongest and most intense feelings of the heart. By a spontaneous move- ment of the mind, we connect these objects of affection with Uie future. We pass rapidly onward, in thought, from what YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 307 they are to what they may become. And the progress, which thus stretches out before the imagination, is, in truth, a won- derful scene. Mark the series of changes from early infancy to established maturity, — from the simple feelings, the cheap pleasures, the artless plans and purposes, the little joys and little disappointments of childhood, to the time when each one goes forth, as an individual agent, on his own path, and with his own responsibleness, — and you will see how wide and indefinite may be the range of conjecture on this subject. From the feeble beginnings of these early days, may come the man of strong frame, who bends himself to his daily task with untired endurance ; or the enterprising devotee to busi- ness, who plunges into the midst of the crowded cares of the world, and does his part to keep in ceaseless motion the vast machinery of active life ; or the enlightened scholar, who traverses the fields of knowledge, to bring thence his contri- butions to the general treasury of improvement ; or the hardy navigator, who rides upon the ocean waves, as it were in the chariot of his glory, and fearlessly throws himself into com<- bat with the storm ; or the statesman, who bears up, with an unwearied arm, the weight of a nation's welfare and a nation's rights. Amidst the success and defeat, the honor and the shame, the strengthening of virtue, and the growing ascendency of vice, which may find a place between the first and last points of feuch a progress, how many combinations may imagination make, in attempting to cast the destiny of a child ! The hopes and promises of coming time, are interwoven with all the serious and thoughtful affections of parents ; and some of the most precious interests of life, are involved in the calculation. And, generally, the vision, which thus floats before the mind, is a pleasant one. The propensity is to see good in the prospect, to gather around these young germs of immortality, fair and bright anticipations. The everlasting principle, which is implanted in every little breast, and which shall live when systems of worlds shall have been hushed in silence, and when " the host of heaven " shall have faded away, we are prone to believe, will be an^ ever-increasing principle of beauty and improvement. We hope, at least, that the dark lines of guilt will never be traced on the spirit, 308 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. that now blooms in innocence and loveliness ; that the thirst for knowledge, which now animates the youthful bosom, will never be displaced by the corrupting and leaden influence of ignorance and sensuality. Yet how often do these fair promises fail of their accom- plishment ! how often are these pleasant expectations turned to shame and bitterness ! how often does the man prove faithless to the pledge given by the child ! The visions we cherish with regard to our offspring, may prove as deceitful as the summer clouds, which stretch along the horizon, and which, we are told, the mariner not unfrequently mistakes, in the distance, for firm and pleasant land. The hopes, that flourished in all their freshness in the school, or at the fire- side, may be crushed or blasted amidst the struggles and conflicts of manhood. Where expectation was looking for a bright development of honorable and useful talent, we sometimes find nothing but the dull level of ordinary attaii>- raents. The promise of purity and improvement, which the opening of life gave, is falsified amidst the toils and strivings of later years, reminding us of the fanciful, but beautiful notion entertained by some of the ancient nations, that the light of the dawn was an uncreated being, which gleamed from the throne of God, and returned thither when the ter- restrial sun arose. LESSON CXL. Scene from IIadad.—H.iLLUOvsii. ■' An apartment in Absalom's house. Nathan and Tamar. Nathan. Thou'rt left; to-day, (would thou wert ever left Of some that haunt thee !) therefore am I come To give thee counsel. — Child of sainted Miriam, Fear not to look upon me ; thou wilt hear The gentle voice of love, not stern monition. Commune with me as with a tender parent. Who cares for all thy wishes, hopes and fears. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 309 Though prizing thy immortal gem above The transitory. Tamar. Have I not thus, ever 1 Nath. But I would probe the tenderest of thy heart, Touch its disease, and give it strength again, And yet inflict no pain. Tarn. What means my lord 1 Nath. I know thee pure, and guileless as the dove, — The easier prey ; and thou art fair, to tempt The spoiler — nay, be not alarmed, but speak Openly to me. I would ask thee, princess, If not displeasing, somewhat of the stranger. The Syrian, who aspires to David's line. Tam. {Averting her eyes.) If I can answer — Nath. Maiden, need I ask, — I fear I need not, — is he dear to thee 1 — • 'Tis well. But tell me, hast thou ever noted. Amidst his many shining qualities. Aught strange or singular? — unlike to others? — That caused thy wonder 1 — even to thyself. Moved thee to say, '* How ! Wherefore's this ?" Tam. Never. Nath. Nothing that marked him from the rest of men?— Hereafter you shall know why thus I question. Tam. O yes, unlike he seems in many things ; In knowledge, eloquence, high thoughts. Nath. Proud thoughts Thou mean'st. Tam. I'm but a young and simple maid ; But, father, he, of all my ears have judged. Is master of the loftiest, richest mind. Nath. How have I wronged him ! deeming him more apt For intricate designs, and daring deeds. Than contemplation's solitary flights. Tam. Seer, his far-soaring thoughts ascend the stars, Pierce the unseen abyss, pervade, like light. The universe, and wing the infinite. Nath. [Fixing his eyes upon her.) What stores of love, and praise, and gratitude, 810 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. He thence must bring to Him, whose mighty hand Fashioned their glories, hung yon golden orbs Amidst his wondrous firmament; who bids The day-spring know his place, and sheds from all Sweet influences ; who bars the haughty sea, Binds fast his dreadful hail, but drops the dew Nightly upon his people 1 How his soul, Returning from its quest through earth and heaven, Must glow with holy fervor 1 — Doth it, maiden? Tarn. Ah, father, father, were it so indeed, I were too happy. Nath. How ! — Expound thy words. Tarn. Though he has trod the confines of the world. Knows all its wonders, and almost has pierced The secrets of eternity, his heart Is melancholy, lone, discordant, save When love attunes it into happiness. He hath not found, alas! the peace which dwells But with our fathers' God. Nath. And canst thou love One who loves not Jehovah 1 v Tam. Oh ! ask not. Nath. {Fervently.) My child, thou wouldst not wed an infidel 1 Tam. (In tears.) O no! O no! Nath. Why, then, this embassage 1 Why doth your sire Still urge the king ? Why hast thou hearkened it ? Tam. There was a time when I had hopes, — when truth Seemed dawning in his mind, — and sometimes, still, Such heavenly glimpses shine, that my fond heart Refuses to forego the hope, at last. To number him with Israel. Nath. Beware ! Or thou'lt delude thy soul to ruin. Say, Doth he attend our holy ordinances ? Tam. He promises observance. Nath. Two full years Hath he abode in Jewry. Tam. Prophet, think How he was nurtured — in the faith of idols. — YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 311 That impious worship long since he abjured By his own native strength ; and now he looks Abroad through nature's works, and yet must rise — Natli. Speaks he of Moses 1 Tarn. Familiar as thyself. Nath. I think thou said'st he had surveyed the world 1 Tarn. From Ethiopia to the farthest East, — Cities, and tribes, and nations. He can speak Of hundred-gated Thebes, towered Babylon, And mightier Nineveh, vast Palibothra, Serendib, anchored by the gates of morning, Renowned Benares, where the sages teach The mystery of the soul, and that famed seat Where fleets and warriors from Elishah's Isles Besieged the Beauty, where great Memnon fell ; — Of temples, groves, and superstitious caves. Filled with strange symbols of the Deity ; Of wondrous mountains, desert-circled seas. Isles of the ocean, lovely Paradises, Set, like unfading emeralds, in the deep. Nath. Yet manhood scarce confirms his cheek. Tarn. All this His thirst of knowledge has achieved — the wish To gather from the wise eternal truth. Naih. Not found, where he has sought it, and has led Thy wandering fancy. Tam. Oh ! might I relate — But I bethink me, father, of a thing Like that you asked. Sometimes, when I'm alone, Just ere his coming, I have heard a sound — A strange, mysterious, melancholy sound — Like music in the air. Anon he enters. Nath. Ha! is this oft? Tam. 'Tis not unfrequent. Naih. Only When thou'rt alone? Tam. I have not heard it else. Naih. A sound like what? Tam. Like wild, sad music, father ; More moving than the lute or viol touched 312 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. By skilful fingers. Wailing in the air, It seems around me, and withdraws as when One looks and lingers for a last adieu. Nath. Just ere he enters 1 Tam. At his step it dies. Nath. Mark me. Thou know'st 'tis held by righteous men, That Heaven intrusts us all to watching spirits, Who ward us from the tempter. — This I deem Some intimation of an unseen danger. Tam. But whence ? Nath. Time may reveal : meanwhile, I warn thee, Trust not thyself alone with Hadad. Tam. Father, — Nath. I lay not to his charge ; I know, in sooth. Little of him, (though I have supplicated,) And would not wound thee with a dark suspicion ; But shun the peril thou art warned of; shun What looks like danger, though we haply err : Be not alone with him, I charge thee. Tam. Seer, I will avoid it. Nath. All is ominous : The oracles are mute ; dreams warn no more ; Urim and Thummim keep their glory hid ; My days are dark, my nights are visionless ; Jehovah hath forsaken, or, in wrath, Resigned us for a season. Times like these Are jubilee in hell. Fiends walk the earth, Misleading princes, tempting poor men's pillows. Supplying moody Hatred with the dagger, Lust with occasions. Treason with excuses, Lifting man's heart, like the rebellious waves, Against his Maker. Watch, and pray, and tremble ; So may the Highest overshadow thee ! [Exit Nath.] Tam. His awful accents freeze my blood. — Alas ! How desolate, how dark my prospect lowers ! — O Hadad, is it thus those sunny days. Those sweet, deceptive hopes, must terminate. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 3I3 When, mixing in thy gentle looks, I saw Love blend with reverence, as my lips described The power, the patience, purity and faith Of our Almighty Father ? Then, I thought Thy spirit, softened by its earthly passion, Meeuy refined, and tempered, to receive The impression of a love which never dies. How art thou changed ! All tenderness you seemed, Oentle and social as a playful child ; But now, in lofty meditation wrapped. As on an icy mountain top thou sit'st, Lonely and unapproachable, or tossest Upon the surge of passion, like the wreck Of some proud Tyrian in the stormy sea. LESSON CXLI. Immortality. — Dana. Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then. Love ? And doth Death cancel the great bond, that holds Commingling spirits 1 Are thoughts, that know no bounds, But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out The Eternal Mind — the Father of all thought — Are they become mere tenants of a tomb ? — Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms Of uncreated light have visited, and lived 1 — Lived in ihe dreadful splendor of that throne, Which One, with gentle hand, the vail of flesh Lifting, that hung 'twixt man and it, revealed In glory ? — throne, before which, even now, Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down, Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed 1 Souls, that Thee know by a mysterious sense, Thou awful, unseen Presence, are they quenched. Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes By that bright day which ends not ; as the sun His robe of light flings round the glittering stars 1 27 314 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. And with our frames do perish all our loves ? Do those that took their root, and put forth buds, And their soft leaves unfolded, in the warmth Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty, Then fade and fall, like fair unconscious flowers 1 Are thoughts and passions, that to the tongue give speech. And make it send forth winning harmonies, — That to the cheek do give its living glow. And vision in the eye the soul intense With that for which there is no utterance,— Are these the body's accidents ? — no more ? — To live in it, and, when that dies, go out Like the burnt taper's flame 1 O listen, man ! A voice within us speaks that startling word, " Man, thou shalt never die !" Celestial voices Hymn it unto our souls : according harps, By angel fingers touched, when the mild stars Of morning sang together, sound forth still The song of our great immortality : Thick-clustering orbs, and this our fair domain. The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas, Join in this solemn, universal song. O listen, ye, our spirits ; drink it in From all the air. 'Tis in the gentle moonlight ; 'Tis floating midst Day's setting glories ; Night, Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears : Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse. As one vast mystic instrument, are touched By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. The dying hear it ; and, as sounds of earth- Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls To mingle in this heavenly harmony. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 315 LESSON CXLII. Western Emigration. — E. Everett. The march of our population westward, has been attended with consequences, in some degree, novel, in the history of the human mind. It is a fact, somewhat difficult of expla- nation, that the refinement of the ancient nations seemed almost wholly devoid of an elastic and expansive principle. The arts of Greece were enchained to her islands and her coasts ; they did not penetrate the interior. The language and literature of Athens were as unknown to the north of Pindus, at a distance of two hundred miles from the capital of Grecian refinement, as they were in Scythia. Thrace, whose mountain tops may almost be seen from the porch of the temple of Minerva at Sunium, was the proverbial abode of barbarism. Though the colonies of Greece were scatter- ed on the coasts of Italy, of France, of Spain, and of Africa, no extension of their population toward the interior took place ; and the arts did not penetrate beyond the walls of the cities where they were cultivated. How different is the picture of the diffusion of the arts and improvements of civilization, from the coast to the interior of America ! Population advances westward with a rapidity, which numbers may describe indeed, but cannot represent, with any vivacity, to the mind. The wilderness, which one year is impassable, is traversed the next by the caravans of the industrious emigrants, who go to follow the setting sun, with the language, the institutions and the arts of civilized life. It is not the irruption of wild barbarians, come to visit the wrath of God on a degenerate empire ; it is not the in- road of disciplined banditti, marshalled by the intrigues of ministers and kings. It is the human family, led out to pos- sess its broad patrimony. The states and nations, which are springing up in the val- ley of the Missouri, are bound to us by the dearest ties of a common language, a common government, and a common descent. Before New England can look with coldness on their rising myriads, she must forget that some of the best of her own blood is beating in their veins ; that her hardy chil- 316 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. dren, with their axes on their shoulders, have been literally among the pioneers in this march of humanity ; that, young as she is, she has become the mother of populous states. What generous mind would sacrifice, to a selfish preserva- tion of local preponderance, the delight of beholding civil- ized nations rising up in the desert ; and the language, the manners, the institutions, to which he has been reared, car- ried with his household gods to the foot of the Rocky Mountains ! Who can forget that this extension of our ter- ritorial limits, is the extension of the empire of all we hold dear ; of our laws, of our character, of the memory of our ancestors, of the great achievements in our history ! Whith- ersoever the sons of the thirteen states shall wander, to southern or western climes, they will send back their hearts to the rocky shores, the battle fields, and the intrepid coun- cils of the Atlantic coast. These are placed beyond the reach of vicissitude. They have become, already, matter of history, of poetry, of eloquence. The love where death has set his seal. Nor ag-e can chill, nor rival steal, Nor falsehood disavow. Divisions may spring up, ill blood arise, parties be formed, and interests may seem to clash ; but the great bonds of the nation are linked to what is passed. The deeds of the great men, to whom this country owes its origin and growth, are a patrimony, I know, of which its children will never deprive themselves As long as the Mississippi and the Missouri shall flow, those men and those deeds will be remembered on their banks. The sceptre of government may go where it will; but that of patriotic feeling can never depart from Judah. LESSON CXLIII. The God of Universal Nature. — Chalmers. To an eye which could spread itself over the whole uni- verse, the mansion which accommodates our species might rOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 317 be so very small, as to lie wrapped in microscopical conceal- ment ; and, in reference to the only Being who possesses this universal eye, well might we say, " What is man, that thou art mindful of him, or the son of man, that thou shouldest deign to visit him ?" And, after all, though it be a mighty and difficult concep- tion, yet who can question it ? What is seen may be nothing to what is unseen ; for what is seen is limited by the range of our instruments, — what is unseen has no limit. Though all which the eye of man can take in, or his fancy can grasp at, were swept away, there might still remain as ample -a field, over which the Divinity may expatiate, and which he may have peopled with innumerable worlds. If the whole visible creation were to disappear, it would leave a solitude behind it ; but to the infinite Mind, that can take in the whole system of nature, this solitude might be nothing, — a small, unoccupied point in that immensity which sur- rounds it, and which he may have filled with the wonders of his omnipotence. Though this earth were to be burned up, though the trum- pet of its dissolution were sounded, though yon sky were to pass away as a scroll, and every visible glory, which the finger of Divinity has inscribed on it, were to be put out for- ever, — an event so awful, to us and to every world in our vicinity ; by which so many suns would be extinguished, and so many varied scenes of life and of population, would rush into forgetfulness, — what is it in the high scale of the Al- mighty's workmanship? A mere shred, which, though scat- tered into nothing, would leave the universe of God one entire scene of greatness and of majesty. Though this earth, and these heavens, were to disappear, there are other worlds which roll afar ; the light of other suns shines upon them ; and the sky which mantles them, is garnished with other stars. Is it presumption to say, that the moral world extends to those distant and unknown regions ? that they are occupied with people ? that the charities of home and of neighborhood flourish there ? that the praises of God are there lifted up, and his goodness rejoiced in 1 that piety has its temples and' its offerings ? and the richness of the divine attributes, is 27* 318 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. there felt and admired by intelligent worshippers? Am! what is this world, in the immensity which teems with them 1 and what are they who occupy it ? The universe at large would suffer as little, in its splendor and variety, by the destruction of our planet, as the verdure and sublime magnitude of a forest, would suffer by the fall of a single leaf. The leaf quivers on the branch which sup- ports it. It lies at the mercy of the slightest accident. A breath of wind tears it from its stem, and it lights on the stream of water which passes underneath. In a moment, the life, which, we know by the microscope, it teems with, is extinguished ; and an occurrence so insignificant in the eye of man, and on the scale of his observation, carries in it, to the myriads which people this little leaf, an event as terrible and as decisive as the destruction of a world. Now, on the grand scale of the universe, we, the occupi- ers of this ball — which performs its little round, among the suns and the systems that astronomy has unfolded — we may feel the same littleness and the same insecurity. We dif- fer from the leaf only in this circumstance, that it would require the operation of greater elements to destroy us. But these elements exist ; and, if let loose upon us by the hand of the Almighty, they would spread solitude, and silence, and death, over the dominions of the world. Now, it is this littleness, and this insecurity, which make the protection of the Almighty so dear to us, and bring, with such emphasis, to every pious bosom, the holy lessons of humility and gratitude. The God who sits above, and presides in high authority over all worlds, is mindful of man ; and, though at this moment his energy is felt in the re- motest provinces of creation, we may feel the same security in his providence, as if we were the objects of his undivided care. It is not for us to bring our minds up to this mysterious agency. But such is the incomprehensible fact, that the same Being, whose eye is abroad over the whole universe, gives vegetation to every blade of grass, and motion to every particle of blood which circulates through the veins of the minutest animal ; that, though his mind takes into its com- prehensive grasp, immensity and all its wonders, T am as YOUNG LADIES CLASS BOOK. 3I9 much known to him as if I were the single object of his at- tention ; that he marks all my thoughts ; that he gives birth to every feeling and every movement within me ; and that, with an exercise of power which I can neither describe nor comprehend, the same God, who sits in the highest heaven, and reigns over the glories of the firmament, is at my right hand, to give me every breath which I draw, and every com- fort which I enjoy. LESSON CXLIV. Rome. — Byron. O Rome ! my country ! city of the soul I The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires, and control In their shut breasts their petty misery. What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples ; ye. Whose agonies are evils of a day — A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. The Niobe of nations ! there she stands, •• Childless and crownless, in her voiceless wo ; An empty urn within her withered hands. Whose holy dust was scattered long ago ; The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now j The very sepulchres lie tenantless Of their heroic dwellers. Dost thou flow. Old Tiber, through a marble wilderness? Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress ! The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood!;iand Fire, Have dealt upon the seven-hilled city's pride ; She saw her glories, star by star, expire. And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride. 320 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Where the car climbed the capitol ; far and wide, Temple and tower went down, nor left a site : — Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void, O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, And say, " Here was, or is " where all is doubly night? Alas ! the lofty city ! and alas ! The trebly hundred triumphs ! and the day When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away ! Alas ! for Tully's voice and Virgil's lay. And Livy's pictured page ! but these shall be Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. Alas ! for earth, for never shall we see That brightness in her eye, she bore when Rome was free ! LESSON CXLV. Dialogue : — Rienzi and Angela. — Miss Mitford. Rienzi. Friends, I come not here to talk. Ye know too well The story of our thraldom. We are slaves ! The bright sun rises to his course, and lights A race of slaves ! He sets, and his last beam Falls on a slave; — not such as, swept along By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads To crimson glory and undying fame ; But base, ignoble slaves — slaves to a horde Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords. Rich in some dozen paltry villages — Strong in some hundred spearmen — only great In that strange spell, a name. Each hour, dark fraud, Or open rapine, or protected murder, Cries out against them. But this very day, An honest man, my neighbor, — there he stands, — Was struck — struck like a dog — by one who wore YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK/ 321 The badge of Ursini ; because, forsooth, He tossed not high his ready cap in air, Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts. At sight of that great ruffian. Be we men, And suffer such dishonor? men, and wash not The stain away in blood ] Such shames are common. I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to you, I had a brother once, a gracious boy. Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope. Of sweet and quiet joy ; there was the look Of heaven upon his face, which limners give To the beloved disciple. How I loved That gracious boy ! Younger by fifteen years, Brother at once and son ! He left my side, A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, a smile Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour. The pretty, harmless boy was slain ! I saw The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried For vengeance. — Rouse, ye Romans ! Rouse, ye slaves I Have ye brave sons ? Look, in the next fierce brawl, To see them die. Have ye fair daughters ? Look To see them live, torn from your arms, distained, Dishonored ; and, if ye dare call for justice, Be answered by the lash. Yet this is Rome, That sat on her seven hills, and, from her throne Of beauty, ruled the world ! Yet we are Romans. Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman Was greater than a king ! And once, again. Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread Of either Brutus ! once again, I swear. The eternal city shall be free ; her sons Shall walk with princes. ( Angela. (Entering.) What be ye. That thus, in stern and watchful mystery. Cluster beneath the vail of night, and start To hear a stranger's foot ? Rie. Romans. Ang. And wherefore Meet ye, my countrymen 1 Rie. For freedom. 322 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Ang. Surely Thou art Cola di Rienzi ? Rie. Ay, the voice — The traitor voice. Ang. I knovi^ thee by the words. Who, save thyself, in this bad age, when man Lies prostrate like yon temple, dared conjoin The sounds of Rome and freedom ? Rie. 1 shall teach The world to blend those words, as in the days Before the Csesars. Thou shalt be the first To hail the union. I have seen thee hang On tales of the world's mistress, till thine eyes, Flooded with strong emotion, have let fall Big tear-drops on thy cheeks, and thy young hand Hath clenched thy maiden sword. Unsheath it now — Now, at thy country's call ! What, dost thou pause ? Is the flame quenched ? Dost falter ? Hence with thee ! Pass on ! pass whilst thou may ! Ang. Hear me, Rienzi. Even now my spirit leaps up at the thought Of those brave storied days — a treasury Of matchless visions, bright and glorified, Paling the dim lights of this darkling world With the golden blaze of heaven, but past and gone, As clouds of yesterday, as last night's dream. Rie. A dream ! Dost see yon phalanx, still and stern 1 A hundred leaders, each with such a band, So armed, so resolute, so fixed in will, Wait with suppressed impatience till they hear The great bell of the capitol, to spring At once on their proud foes. Join them. Ang. My father ! Rie. Already he hath quitted Rome. Ang. My kinsmen ! Rie. We are too strong for contest. Thou shalt see No other change, within our peaceful streets, Than that of slaves to freemen ; such a change As is the silent step from night to day, From darkness into light. We talk too long. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 323 Ang. Yet reason with them — warn them. Rie. And their answer Will be the jail, the gibbet, or the axe — The keen retort of power. Why, •! have reasoned ; And, but that I am held, amongst your great ones, Half madman and half fool, these bones of mine Had whitened on yon wall. Warn them! They met, At every step, dark warnings. The pure air, Where'er they passed, was heavy with the weight Of sullen silence ; friend met friend, nor smiled, Till the last footfall of the tyrant's steed Had died upon the ear ; and, low and hoarse, Hatred came murmuring like the deep voice Of the wind before the tempest. Ang. I'll join ye ; l^Gives Ms hand to Rienzi.'\ How shall I swear 1 Rie. (To the people.) Friends, comrades, countrymen, I bring unhoped-for aid. Young Angelo, The immediate heir of the Colonna, craves To join your band. Ang. Hear me 13 wear By Home, by freedom, by Rienzi ! Comrades, How have ye titled your deliverer ? Consul, Dictator, emperor 1 Rie. No ; Those names have been so often steeped in blood, So shamed by folly, so profaned by sin. The sound seems ominous. — I'll none of them. Call me the tribune of the people ; there My honoring duty lies. Hark — the bell, the bell ! The knell of tyranny ! the mighty voice. That to the city and the plain, to earth, And listening heaven, proclaims the glorious tale Of Rome reborn, and freedom ! See, the clouds Are swept away, and the moon's boat of light Sails in the clear blue sky, and million stars Look out on us, and smile. 324 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. LESSON CXLVI. Dignity and Excellence of the Poetical Art. — Channing. Poetry seems to us the divinest of all arts ; for it is the breathing or expression of that principle or sentiment, which is deepest and sublimest in human nature ; we mean, of that thirst or aspiration, to which no mind is wholly a stranger, for something purer and lovelier, something more powerful, lofty and thrilling, than ordinary and real life affords. No doctrine is more common among Christians than that of man's immortality ; but it is not so generally understood, that the germs or principles of his whole future being are now wrapped up in his soul, as the rudiments of the future plant in the seed. As a necessary result of this constitution, the soul, possessed and moved by these mighty though infant en- ergies, is perpetually stretching beyond what is present and visible, struggling against the bounds of its earthly prison- house, and seeking relief and joy in imaginings of unseen and ideal being. This view of our nature, which has never been fully de- veloped, and which goes farther towards explaining the con- tradictions of human life than all others, carries us to the very foundation and sources of poetry. He who cannot in- terpret, by his own consciousness, what we now have said, wants the true key to works of genius. He has not penetrat- ed those sacred recesses of the soul, where poetry is born and nourished, and inhales immortal vigor, and wings herself for her heaven-ward flight. In an intellectual nature, framed for progress and for higher modes of being, there must be creative energies, powers of original and ever-growing thought ; and poetry is the form in which these energies are chiefly manifested. It is the glorious prerogative of this art, that it " makes all things new" for the gratification of a divine instinct. It indeed finds its elements in what it actually sees and experi- ences, in the worlds of matter and mind ; but it combines and blends these into new forms, and according to new aflin- ities ; breaks down, if we may so say, the distinctions and YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 325 bounds of nature ; imparts to material objects life, and senti- ment, and emotion, and invests the mind with the powers and splendors of the outward creation ; describes the sur- rounding universe in the colors which the passions throw over it, and depicts the soul in those modes of repose or agi- tation, of tenderness or sublime emotion, which manifest its thirst for a more powerful and joyful existence. To a man of a literal and prosaic character, the mind may seem law- less in these workings ; but it observes higher laws than it transgresses — the laws of the immortal intellect; it is trying and developing its best faculties ; and in the objects which it describes, or in the emotions which it awakens, anticipates those states of progressive power, splendor, beauty and hap- piness, for which it was created. We accordingly believe that poetry, far from injuring soci- ety, is one of the great instruments of its refinement and exaltation. It lifts the mind above ordinary life, gives it a respite from depressing cares, and awakens the consciousness of its affinity with what is pure and noble. In its legitimate and highest efforts, it has the same tendency and aim with Christianity ; that is, to spiritualize our nature. True, poe- try has been made the instrument of vice, the pander of bad passions ; but when genius thus stoops, it dims its fires, and parts with much of its power ; and even when poetry is en- slaved to licentiousness or misanthropy, she cannot wholly forget her true vocation. Strains of pure feeling, touches of tenderness, images of innocent happiness, sympathies with suffering virtue, bursts of scorn or indignation at the hollow- ness of the world, passages true to our moral nature, often escape in an immoral work, and show us how hard it is for a gifted spirit to divorce itself wholly from what is good. Poetry has a natural alliance with our best affections. It delights in the beauty and sublimity of the outward creation and of the soul. It indeed portrays, with terrible energy, the excesses of the passions ; but they are passions which show a mighty nature, which are full of power, which com- mand awe, and excite a deep, though shuddering sympathy. Its great tendency and purpose is, to carry the mind beyond and above the beaten, dusty, weary walks of ordinary life ; to lifl it into a purer element ; and to breathe into it more 28 326 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. profound and generous emotion. Tt reveals to us the loveli- ness of nature ; brings back the freshness of early feeling ; revives the relish of simple pleasures ; keeps unquenched the enthusiasm which warmed the spring-time of our being ; re- fines youthful love ; strengthens our interest in human nature by vivid delineations of its tenderest and loftiest feelings ; spreads our sympathies over all classes of society ; knits us by new ties with universal being ; and, through the brightness of its prophetic visions, helps faith to lay hold on the future life. We are aware, that it is objected to poetry, that it gives wrong views and excites false expectations of life, peoples the mind with shadows and illusions, and builds up imagina- tion on the ruins of wisdom. That there is a wisdom against which poetry wars, — the wisdom of the senses, which makes physical comfort and gratification the supreme good, and wealth the chief interest of life, — we do not deny ; nor do we deem it the least service which poetry renders to mankind, that it redeems them from the thraldom of this earthborn prudence. But, passing over this topic, we would observe, that the complaint against poetry, as abounding in illusion and decep- tion, is, in the main, groundless. In many poems there is more of truth, than in many histories and philosophic theories. The fictions of genius are often the vehicles of the sublimest verities ; and its flashes often open new regions of thought, and throw new light on the mysteries of our being. In poetry, when the letter is falsehood, the spirit is often pro- foundest wisdom. And if truth thus dwells in the boldest fictions of the poet, much more may it be expected in his de- lineations of life ; for the present life, which is the first stage of the immortal mind, abounds in the materials of poetry ; and it is the high office of the bard, to detect this divine element among the grosser labors and pleasures of our earthly being. The present life is not wholly prosaic, precise, tame and finite. To the gifted eye, it abounds in the poetic. The affections which spread beyond ourselves, and stretch far into futurity ; the workings of mighty passions, which seem to arm the soul with an almost superhuman energy ; the inno- cent and irrepressible joy of infancy ; the bloom, and buoy- YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 327 ancy, and dazzling hopes of youth , the throbbings of the heart, when it first wakes to love, and dreams of a happiness too vast for earth ; woman, with her beauty, and grace, and gentleness, and fulness of feeling, and depth of affection, and blushes of purity, and the tones and looks which only a mother's heart can inspire ; — these are all poetical. It is not true, that the poet paints a life which does not exist. He only extracts and concentrates, as it were, life's ethereal es- sence ; arrests and condenses its volatile fragrance ; brings together its scattered beauties, and prolongs its more refined but evanescent joys. And in this he does well ; for it is good to feel that life is not wholly usurped by cares for sub- sistence, and physical gratifications, but admits, in measures which may be indefinitely enlarged, sentiments and delights worthy of a higher being. This power of poetry to refine our views of life and hap- piness, is more and more needed as society advances. It is needed to withstand the encroachments of heartless and ar- tificial manners, which make civilization so tame and unin- teresting. It is needed to counteract the tendency of physi- cal science, which being now sought, not, as formerly, for intellectual gratification, but for multiplying bodily comforts, requires a new development of imagination, taste and poetry, to preserve men from sinking into an earthly, material. Epi- curean life. LESSON CXLVII. Popular Institutions favorable to intellectual Improvement. — E. Everett. Mental energy has been equally diffused by sterner level- ers than ever marched in the van of a revolution — the nature of man and the providence of God. Native character, strength, and quickness of mind, are not of the number of distinctions and accomplishments, that human institutions can monopolize within a city's walls. In quiet times, they remain and perish in the obscurity, to which a false organiza- tion of society consigns them. In dangerous, convulsed, and 328 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. trying times, they spring up in the fields, in the village ham- lets, and on the mountain tops, and teach the surprised favor- ites of human law, that bright eyes, skilful hands, quick per- ceptions, firm purpose, and brave hearts, are not the exclu- sive appanage of courts. Our popular institutions are favorable to intellectual im- provement, because their foundation is in dear nature. They do not consign the greater part of the social frame to torpidi- ty and mortification. They send out a vital nerve to every member of the community, by which its talent and power, great or small, are brought into living conjunction and strong sympathy with the kindred intellect of the nation ; and every impression on every part vibrates, with electric rapidity, through the whole. They encourage nature to perfect her work; they make education, the soul's nutriment, cheap; they bring up remote and shrinking talent into the cheerful field of competition ; in a thousand ways, they provide an au- dience for lips, which nature has touched with persuasion ; they put a lyre into the hands of genius ; they bestow on all who deserve it, or seek it, the only patronage worth having, the only patronage that ever struck out a spark of " celestial fire," — the patronage of fair opportunity. This is a day of improved education ; new systems of teaching are devised ; modes of instruction, choice of studies, adaptation of text-books, the whole machinery of means, have been brought in our day under severe revision. But were I to attempt to point out the most efficacious and com- prehensive improvement in education, the engine, by which the greatest portion of mind could be brought and kept under cultivation, the discipline which would reach farthest, sink deepest, and cause the word of instruction not to spread over the surface, like an artificial hue, carefully laid on, but to penetrate to the heart and soul of its objects, — it would be popular institutions. Give the people an object in promoting education, and the best methods will infallibly be suggested by that instinctive ingenuity of our nature, which provides means for great and precious ends. Give the people an object in promoting education, and the worn hand of la- bor will be opened to the last farthing, that its children may enjoy means denied to itself. r YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. ^^ LESSON CXLVIII. After a Tempest. — Bryant. The day had been a day of wind and storm ; — The wind was laid, the storm was overpassed, And, stooping from the zenith, bright and warm, Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last. I stood upon the upland slope, and cast My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene. Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast, And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green. With pleasant vales scooped out, and villages between The rain-drops glistened on the trees around, Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred, Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground, Was shaken by the flight of startled bird ; For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard About the flowers ; the cheerful rivulet sung And gossiped, as he hastened ocean-ward ; To the gray oak, the squirrel, chiding, clung. And, chirping, from the ground the grasshopper upsprung. And from beneath the leaves, that kept them dry, Flew many a glittering insect here and there. And darted up and down the butterfly, That seemed a living blossom of the air. The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where The violent rain had pent them ; in the way Strolled groups of damsels frolicsome and fair ; The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay. And 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at play. It was a scene of peace ; and, like a spell, Did that serene and golden sunlight fall Upon the motionless wood that clothed the dell, And precipice upspringing like a wall, 28* 330 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. And glassy river, and white waterfall, And happy living things that trod the bright And beauteous scene ; while, far beyond them all, On many a lovely valley, out of sight, Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft, golden light I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene An emblem of the peace that yet shall be, When o'er earth's continents, and isles between, The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea. And married nations dwell in harmony ; When millions, crouching in the dust to one. No more shall beg their lives on bended knee, Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun The o'erlabored captive toil, and wish his life were done. Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers. And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast — The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers And ruddy fruits : but not for aye can last The storm ; and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past. Lo ! the clouds roll away — they break — they fly ; And, like the glorious light of summer, cast O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky. On all the peaceful world the smile of Heaven shall lie. LESSON CXLIX. The Rejected.^T. H. Bayley. Not have me 1 Not love me ! Oh, what have I said 1 Sure never was lover so strangely misled. Rejected ! and just when I hoped to be blessed ! You can't be in earnest ! It must be a jest. Remember — remember how often I've knelt. Explicitly telling you all that I felt. And talked about poison in accents so wild, So very like torture, you started — and smiled. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 331 Not have me ! Not love me ! Oh, what have I done 1 All natural nourishment did I not shun 1 My figure is wasted ; my spirits are lost ; And my eyes are deep sunk, like the eyes of a ghost. Remember, remember — ay, madam, you must — I once was exceedingly stout and robust ; I rode by your palfrey, I came at your call. And nightly went with you to banquet and ball. Not have me ! Not love me ! Rejected ! Refused ! Sure never was lover so strangely ill used ! Consider my presents — I don't mean to boast — But, madam, consider the money they cost ! Remember you've worn them ; and just can it be To take all my trinkets, and not to take me ? Nay, don't throw them at me ! — You'll break — do not start — I don't mean my gifts — but you will break my heart ! Not have me J Not love me ! Not go to the church ! Sure never was lover so left in the lurch ! My brain is distracted, my feelings are hurt ; Oh, madam, don't tempt me to call you a flirt. Remember my letters ; my passion they told ; Yes, all sorts of letters, save letters of gold ; The amount of my notes, too — the notes that I penned, Not bank notes — no, truly, I had none to send I Not have me ! Not love me ! And is it, then, true That opulent Age is the lover for you? 'Gainst rivalry's bloom I would strive — 'tis too much To yield to the terrors of rivalry's crutch. Remember — remember I might call him out ; But, madam, you are not worth fighting about ; My sword shall be stainless in blade and in hilt ; I thought you a jewel — I find you a jilt. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. LESSON CL. Rhine Song of the German Soldiers after Victory* — Mrs. Hemans. " At the first gleam of the river, they all burst forth into the national chant * Am Rhein! Am Rhein." They were two days passing over, and the rocks and the castle were ringing to the song the whole time ; for each band re- newed it while crossing ; and the Cossacks, with the clash, and the clang, ana the roll of their stormy war-music, catching the enthusiasm of the scene, swell- ed forth the chorus, ' Am Rhein ! Am Rhein ." " Single Voice. It is the Rhine ! our mountain vineyards laving ; I see the bright flood shine ; Sing on the march, with every banner waving, Sing, brothers ! 'tis the Rhine ! Chorus. The Rhine, the Rhine ! our own imperial river ! Be glory on thy track ! We left thy shores, to die or to deliver ; We bear thee freedom back. Single Voice. Hail ! Hail ! My childhood knew thy rush of water, Even as my mother's song ; That sound went past me on the field of slaughter. And heart and arm grew strong. Chorus. Roll proudly on ! Brave blood is with thee sweeping, Poured out by sons of thine. When sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping. Like thee, victorious Rhine ! tellng. *'''°"'' ""^ ^^'' '°"^ ""^^ "^""^ ^ ^ ^°^ exercise for simultaneous YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 333 Single Voice. Home ! Home I — thy glad wave hath a tone of greeting, — Thy path is by my home : Even now my children count the hours, till meeting. O ransomed ones, I come ! Chojnis. Go, tell the seas that chain shall bind thee never ; Sound on, by hearth and shrine ; Sing through the hills that thou art free for ever ; Lift up thy voice, O Rhine ! LESSON CLI. The Isles of Greece. — Byron. The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece ! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, — Where grew the arts of war and peace, — Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung ! Eternal summer gilds them yet ; But all, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse. The hero's harp, the lover's lute. Have found the fame your shores refuse j Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds, which echo farther west Than your sires' " Islands of the Blessed." The mountains look on Marathon, And Marathon looks on the sea ; And, musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free ; For, standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. % 334 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. A king sat on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations ; — all were his I He counted them at break of day — And when the sun set, where were they ? And where are they ? and where art thou, My country ? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now ; The heroic bosom beats no more ; And must thy lyre, so long divine. Degenerate into hands like mine ? 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame. Though linked among a fettered race, To feel, at least, a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; For what is left the poet here ? For Greeks, a blush — for Greece, a tear. Must we but weep o'er days more blessed? Must we but blush ?— Our fathers bled. Earth, render back, from out thy breast, A remnant of our Spartan dead ; Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae. What, silent still ? and silent all ? Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, " Let one living head, But one, arise, — we come ! we come !" 'Tis but the living who" are dumb. In vain, in vain : strike other chords ; Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. And shed the blood of Scio's vine ; YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 335' Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — How answers each bold bacchanal ! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet — Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone 1 ^ Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one ? You have the letters Cadmus gave — Think ye he meant them for a slave ? * # * «= 4» « * Trust not for freedom to the Franks — They have a king, who buys and sells. In native swords, and native ranks, The only hope of courage dwells ; But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad. Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; There, swan-like, let me sing and die : A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! LESSON CLIL Liberty to Athens. — J. G. Percival. The flag of freedom floats once more Around the lofty Parthenon ; It waves, as waved the palm of yore, In days departed long and gone ; As bright a glory, from the skies. Pours down its light around those towers, And once again the Greeks arise, As in their country's noblest hours ; 336 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Their swords are girt in virtue's cause, Minerva's sacred hill is free — Oh ! may she keep her equal lavi^s, While man shall live, and time shall be. The pride of all her shrines went down ; The Goth, the Frank, the Turk had reft The laurel from her civic crown ; Her helm by many a sword was cleft : She lay among her ruins low — Where grew the palm, the cypress rose, And, crushed and bruised by many a blow, She cowered beneath her savage foes ; But now, again she springs from earth. Her loud, awakening trumpet speaks ; She rises in a brighter birth, And sounds redemption to the Greeks. It is the classic jubilee — Their servile years have rolled away j The clouds that hovered o'er them flee. They hail the dawn of freedom's day ; From Heaven the golden light descends. The times of old are on the wing, And glory there her pinion bends. And beauty wakes a fairer spring ; The hills of Greece, her rocks, her waves, Are all in triumph's pomp arrayed ; A light that points their tyrants' graves, Plays round each bold Athenian's blade. . LESSON CLHI. The moral Principles of the Bible of universal Application. — Wayland. We possess taste, which is gratified by our progress in the knowledge of the qualities and relations of things, which delights in the beautiful, and glories in the vast ; and, also, a yOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 337 conscience, which is susceptible of affections peculiar to itself, upon the doing of right, or the commission of wrong ; and these affections, so far as his history has been traced, have more to do than any other with the happiness or misery of man. Taking these facts for granted, it is not difficult to foretell what sort of intellectual and moral exhibitions will be most widely disseminated, transforming the human char- acter and directing the human will. It is upon the suppo- sition, that we may thus judge what will, in a particular manner, affect the human mind, that the whole science both of criticism and rhetoric is founded, I have said that taste is gratified by progress in knowledge of the qualities and relations of things, or by striking exhibi- tions of what is commonly called relative beauty. Hence the pleasure with which we contemplate a theorem of widely extended application in the sciences, or an invention of im- portant utility in the arts. Now, it is found that the material universe has been so created, as admirably to harmonize with this principle of our nature. The laws of matter are few, and comparatively simple ; but their relations are multiplied even to infinity. The law of gravitation may be easily explained to an ordinary man, or even to an intelligent child. But who can trace one half of its relations to things solid and fluid, things animate and inanimate ? to the very form of so- ciety itself? to this system, other systems? in fine, to the mighty masses of this material universe ? The mind delights to carry out such a principle to its ramified illustrations ; and hence it cherishes, as its peculiar treasure, a knowledge of these principles themselves. Thus was it, that the discovery of such a law gave the name of Newton to immortality ; re- duced to harmony the once apparently discordant movements of our planetary system ; taught us to predict the events of coming ages, and to explain what was before hidden, from the creation of the world. Now he, who will take the trouble to examine, will perceive^ in the gospel of Jesus Christ, a system of ultimate truths in morals, in a very striking manner analogous to these elemen- tary laws of physics. In themselves, they are few, simple, and easily to be understood. Their relations, however, as in 29 338 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. the other case, are infinite. The moral principle, by which you can easily teach your little child to regulate her conduct in the nursery, will furnish matter for the contemplation of statesmen and sages. It is the only principle on which the decisions of cabinets and courts can be founded, and is, of itself, sufficient to guide the diplomatist through all the mazes of the most intricate negotiation. Let any one who pleases make the experiment for himselfl Let him take one of the rules of human conduct, which the gospel prescribes ; and, having obtained a clear conception of it, just as it is revealed, let him carry it out in its unshrinking application to the doings and dealings of men. At first, if he be not accustomed to generalizations of this sort, he will find much that will stagger him ; and he, perhaps, will be ready hastily to decide that the ethics of the Bible were never intended for practice. But let him look a little longer, and meditate a little more intensely, and expand his views a little more widely, or become, either by experience or by years, a little older, and he will more and more wonder at the profoundness of wisdom, and the universality of applica- tion, of the principles of the gospel. With the most expanded views of society, he can go nowhere, where the Bible has not been before him. With the most penetrating sagacity, he can make no discovery, which the Bible had not long ago promulgated. He will find neither application which inspira- tion did not foresee, nor exception against which it has not guarded. Now, with these universal moral principles the Bible is filled. At one time, you find them explicitly stated; at another, merely alluded to ; here, standing out in a precept ; there, retiring behind a reflection ; now, enwrapped in the drapery of a parable ; then, giving tinge and coloring to a graphically drawn character. Its lessons of wisdom are thus adapted to readers of every age, and to every variety of in- tellectual culture. Hence, no book is adapted to be so uni- versally read as the Bible. No other precepts are of so extensive application, or are capable of guiding under so difficult circumstances. None other imbue the mind with a spirit of so deep forethought, and so expansive generalization. Hence, there is no book which expands the intellect like the YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 339 Bible. It is the only book which offers a reasonable solution of the moral phenomena which arc transpiring around us. Hence, there is the same sort of reason to believe that the precepts of the Bible will be read, and studied, and obeyed, as there is to believe that the system of Newton will finally prevail, and eventually banish from the languages of man the astronomical dreams of Vishnu or of Gaudama. There are, however, other exhibitions of taste, which present no less interesting illustrations of the adaptedness of the Bible to the nature of man. It is in the exercise of this faculty, that he delights in the beautiful, glories in the vast, and becomes susceptible of the tenderness of the pa- thetic. I need not mention that these are among the most pleasing of our intellectual operations, nor that we eagerly search, in every direction, for the objects of their appro- priate gratification. To illustrate the sublimity and beauty of the Holy Scrip- tures, would, however, den^and limits far more extensive than the present discussion will allow. I will, therefore, merely direct your attention to two considerations, which I select, not as the most striking, but as somewhat the most suscepti- ble of brevity of illustration. The first is the scriptural conceptions of character; the second, the scriptural views of futurity. It is to be remembered, that the Bible contains by far the oldest memorials of our race. Much of it was written by men, who had scarcely emerged from the pastoral state, and who had acquired but little of the knowledge, even then pos- sessed, either in the arts or the sciences. There was nothing in the circumstances in which they were placed, to give ele- vation to character, or beauty, or sublimity, to their concep- tions of it. And yet these conceptions are most strikingly diverse from every thing which we elsewhere behold in all the records of antiquity. The heroes of the pagan classics are, for the most part, either sycophants or ruffians, as they are swayed, alternately, by cunning or by passion. The objects of their enterprises are trifling and insignificant. Their narrative is valuable neither for moral instruction, nor yet for elevated views of human nature, in the individual or in society ; but for bursts 340 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. of eloquent feeling, and delineations of nature, every where the same, and always speaking the s-ame language into the ear of genius. , The world, in its moral progress, has long since left behind it the ancient conceptions of distinguished character. Who would now take for his model Achilles, or Hector, or Ulysses, or Agamemnon ? What mother would now relate their deeds to her children? How different a yiew is presented by the holy company of patriarchs ; Abra- ham, that beauteous model of an Eastern prince ; Moses, that wise legislator; David, the warrior poet; Daniel, the far- sighted premier ; and Nehemiah, the inflexible patriot. The world still looks up with reverence to these moral examples ; they are still as profitable models for contemplation as they were at the beginning. But if we would consider this subject in its strongest light, bring together scriptural and classical characters of the same age. Contrast the history of Eneas by Virgil, the most gifted and the most humane of the Roman poets, with that of St. Paul, as found in the Acts and the Epistles. Contrast the faithless, vindictive, gross, cowardly and superstitious free- booter, with the upright, meek, benevolent, sympathizing, and yet fearless and indomitable apostle. Or, if the thought be not profane, compare the most splendid conceptions, either of ancient or modern times, with the character of Jesus of Nazareth, as it is delineated in the Gospels. We say, then, that if we would gratify our taste with true conceptions of elevated character, if we would satisfy that innate longing within us after something better and more exalted than our eyes rest upon on earth, it is to the Bible that we shall be, by the principles of our nature, irresistibly attracted. LESSON CLIV. The Dead Mother : — a Dialogue. — Anonymous. Father. Touch not thy mother, boy. Thou canst not wake her. Child. Why, father ? She still wakens at this hour. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 34X F. Your mother's dead, my child. C. And what is dead ? If she be dead, why, then, 'tis only sleeping ; For I am sure she sleeps. Come, mother, — rise : — Her hand is very cold ! F. Her heart is cold. Her limbs are bloodless ; would that mine were so ! C. If she would waken, she would soon be warm Why is she wrapped in this thin sheet? If I, This winter morning, were not covered better, I should be cold like her. F. No, not like her : The fire might warm you, or thick clothes ; but her — Nothing can warm again ! C. If I could wake her. She would smile on me, as she always does, And kiss me. — Mother, you have slept too long. — Her face is pale ; and it would frighten me, But that I know she loves me. F. Come, my child. C. Once, when I sat upon her lap, I felt A beating at her side ; and then she said It was her heart that beat, and bade me feel For my own heart, and they both beat alike. Only mine was the quickest. And I feel My own heart yet ; but hers I cannot feel. F. Child, child, you drive me mad. Come hence, I say. C. Nay, father, be not angry ; let me stay here Till my mother wakens. F. I have told you. Your mother cannot wake — not in this world ; But in another she will wake for us. When we have slept like her, then we shall see her. C. Would it were night then. F. No, unhappy child ; Full many a night shall pass, ere thou canst sleep That last, long sleep. Thy father soon shall sleep it; Then wilt thou be deserted upon earth : None will regard thee ; thou wilt soon forget That thou hadst natural ties, — an orphan, loqp, 39* 342 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Abandoned to the wiles of wicked men, And women still more wicked. C Father, father, Why do you look so terribly upon me 1 You will not hurt me ? F. Hurt thee, darling ? no ! Has sorrow's violence so much of anger, That it should fright my boy ? Come, dearest, come. C. You are not angry, then ? F. Too well I love you. C. All you have said I cannot now remember, Nor what it meant, you terrified me so ; But this, I know, you told me, — I must sleep Before my mother wakens ; so, to-morrow — Oh ! father, that to-morrow were but come ! LESSON CLV. Burial of the Young. — Mrs. Sigourney. There was an open grave, and many an eye Looked down upon it. Slow the sable hearse Moved on, as if reluctantly it bare The young, unwearied form to that cold couch. Which age and sorrow render sweet to man. There seemed a sadness in the humid air, Lifting the long grass from those verdant mounds Where slumber multitudes. There was a train Of young, fair females, with their brows of bloom. And shining tresses. Arm in arm they came. And stood upon the brink of that dark pit. In pensive beauty, waiting the approach Of their companion. She was wont to fly, And meet them, as the gay bird meets the spring. Brushing the dew-drop from the morning flowers. And breathing mirth and gladness. Now she came With movements fashioned to the deep-toned bell : — YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 343 She came with mourning sire, and sorrowing friend, And tears of those, who at her side were nursed By the same mother. Ah ! and one was there, Who, ere the fading of the summer rose. Had hoped to greet her as his bride. But Death Arose between them. The pale lover watched So close her journey through the shadowy vale. That almost to his heart the ice of death Entered from hers. There was a brilliant flush Of youth about her, and her kindling eye Poured such unearthly light, that hope would hang Even on the archer's arrow, while it dropped Deep poison. Many a Restless night she toiled For that slight breath which held her from the tomb. Still wasting like a snow-wreath, which the sun Marks for his own, on some cool mountain's breast. Yet spares, and tinges long with rosy light. Oft, o'er the musings of her silent couch, Came visions of that matron form, which bent With nursing tenderness, to soothe and bless Her cradle dream : and her emaciate hand In trembling prayer she raised, that He, who saved The sainted mother, would redeem the child. Was the orison lost? Whence, then, that peace So dove-like, settling o'er a soul that loved Earth and its pleasures ? Whence that angel smile. With which the allurements of a world so dear Were counted and resigned 1 that eloquence. So fondly urging those, whose hearts were full Of sublunary happiness, to seek A better portion ? Whence that voice of joy, Which from the marble lip, in life's last strife. Burst forth, to hail her everlasting home ?-— Cold reasoners, be convinced. And when ye stand Where that fair brow and those unfrosted locks Return to dust, — where the young sleeper waits The resurrection morn, — oh ! lift the heart In praise to Him who gave the victory. 344 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. LESSON CLVI. On the Loss of Professor Fisher in the Albion. — Brainard. The breath of air, that stirs the harp's soft string, Floats on to join the whirlwind and the storm ; The drops of dew, exhaled from flowers of spring, Rise and assume the tempest's threatening form ; The first mild beam of morning's glorious sun, Ere night, is sporting in the lightning's flash; And the smooth stream, that flows in quiet on, Moves but to aid the overwhelming dash That wave and wind can muster, when the might jOf earth, and air, and sea, and sky, unite. So science whispered in thy charmed ear. And radiant learning beckoned thee away. The breeze was music to thee, and the clear Beam of thy morning promised a bright day. And they have wrecked thee ! — But there is a shore Where storms are hushed ; where tempests never rage ; Where angry skies, and blackening seas, no more, With gusty strength, their roaring warfare wage. By thee its peaceful margent shall be trod — Thy home is heaven, and thy friend is God. - LESSON CLVII. The Sunday School — Mrs. Sigourney. Group after group are gathering ; — such as pressed Once to their Savior's arms, and gently laid Their cherub heads upon his shielding breast, Though sterner souls the fond approach forbade j- Group after group glide on with noiseless tread, And round Jehovah's sacred altar meet, Where holy thoughts in infant hearts are bred, And holy words their ruby lips repeat, Oft with a chastened glance, in modulation sweet. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 345 Yet some there are, upon whose childish brows Wan Poverty hath done the work of Care : Look up, ye sad ones ! — 'tis your Father's house^ Beneath whose consecrated dome you are ; More gorgeous robes ye see, and trappings rare, And watch the gaudier forms that gaily move. And deem, perchance, mistaken as you are, The " coat of many colors " proves His love. Whose sign is in the heart, and whose reward above. And ye, blessed laborers in this humble sphere, To deeds of saintlike charity inclined, Who, from your cells of meditation dear. Come forth to gird the weak, untutored mind, \ Yet ask no payment, save one smile refined Of grateful love, — one tear of contrite pain, — Meekly ye forfeit to your mission kind The rest of earthly Sabbaths. Be your gain A Sabbath without end, mid yon celestial plain. LESSON CLVm. BridgenortJi' s Account of an Incident in the early History of America.^ — Sir Walter Scott. Amongst my wanderings, the transatlantic settlements have not escaped me ; more especially the country of New England, into which our native land has shaken from her lap, as a drunkard flings from him his treasures, so much that is precious in the eyes of God and of his children. There, thousands of our best and most godly men — such whose righteousness might come between the Almighty and his wrath, and prevent the ruin of cities — are content to be * This narrative is found in " Peveril of the Peak." The incident occurred at Hadley, Mass., — a village on the Connecticut river, about ninety miles from Boston, — September 1st, 1G75. The mysterious straug-er, who appeared so opportunely as a deliverer, was GofTe, the regicide. Whalley, another of the judges that condemned Charles I, was cilso concealed in the town of Had ley at the time. 346 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. the inhabitants of the desert, rather encountering the unen- lightened savages, than stooping to extinguish, under the oppression practised in Britain, the light that is within their own minds. There I remained for a time, during the wars which the colony maintained with Philip, a great Indian chief, or sst- chem, as he was called, who seemed a messenger sent from Satan to buffet them. His cruelty was great ; his dis- simulation profound ; and the skill and promptitude with which he maintained a destructive and desultory warfare, in- flicted many dreadful calamities on the settlement. I was, by chance, at a small village in the woods, more than thirty miles from Boston, and in its situation exceedingly lonely, and surrounded with thickets. Nevertheless, there was no idea of any danger from the Indians at that time ; for men trusted to the protection of a considerable body of troops, who had taken the field for protection of the frontiers, and who lay, or were supposed to lie, betwixt the hamlet and the enemy's country. But they had to do with a foe, whom the devil himself had inspired at once with cunning and cruelty. It was on a Sabbath morning, when we had assembled to take sweet counsel together in the Lord's house. Our tem- ple was but constructed of unhewn logs ; but when shall the chant of trained hirelings., or the sounding of tin and brass ~ tubes amid the aisles of a minster, arise so sweetly to Heaven, as did the psalm in which we united at once our hearts and our voices! An excellent worthy, who now sleeps in the Lord, Nehemiah Solsgrace, long the companion of my pil- grimage, had just begun to wrestle in prayer, when a woman, with disordered looks and dishevelled hair, entered our. chap- el in a distracted manner, screaming incessantly, '* The Indians ! The Indians !" .^ In that land, no man dares separate himself from his /^«- fences ; and whether in the city or in the field, in the plough- ed land or the forest, men keep beside them theiiPiWeapons, as did the Jews at the rebuilding of the tempBB£|||v^yire sallied forth, with our guns and pikes, and heari* "the* "whoop of these incarnate devils, already in possession of a part of the town, and exercising their cruelty on the few whom weighty causes or indisposition had withheld from public wor- YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 347 ship ; and it was remarked as a judgment, that, upon that bloody Sabbath, Adrian Hanson, a Dutchman, a man well enough towards man, but whose mind was altogether given to worldly gain, was shot and scalped, as he was summing his weekly gains in his warehouse. In fine, there was much damage done ; and although our arrival and entrance into combat did in some sort put them back, yet, being surprised and confused, and having no ap- pointed leader of our band, the enemy shot hard at us, and had some advantage. It was pitiful to hear the screams of women and children, amid the report of guns and the whis- tling of bullets, mixed with the ferocious yells of these savages, which they term their war-whoop. Several houses in the upper part of the village were soon on fire; and the roaring of the flames, and crackling of the great beams as they blazed, added to the horrible confusion; while the smoke, which the wind drove against us, gave farther advan- tage to the enemy, who fought, as it were, invisible, and under cover, whilst we fell fast by their unerring fire. In this state of confusion, and while we were about to adopt the desperate project of evacuating the village, and, placing the women and children in the centre, of attempting a retreat to the nearest settlement, it pleased Heaven to send us unexpected assistance. A tall man, of a reverend ap- pearance, whom no one of us had ever seen before, suddenly was in the midst of us, as we hastily agitated the resolution of retreating. His garments were of the skin of the elk, and he wore sword, and carried gun. I never saw any thing more august than his features, overshadowed by locks of gray hair, which mingled with a long beard of the same color. " Men and brethren," he said, in a voice like that which turns back the flight, '' why sink your hearts ? and why are ye thus disquieted? Fear ye that the God we serve will give you up to yonder heathen dogs ? Follow me, and you shall see, this day, that there is a captain in Israel!" He uttered^Jt few brief but distinct orders, in the tone of one who was accustomed to command ; and such was the influ- ence of his appearance, his mien, his language, and his presence of mind, that he was implicitly obeyed by men who had never seen him until that moment. We were 348 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. hastily divided, at his order, into two bodies ; one of which maintained the defence of the village with more courage than ever, convinced that the unknown was sent by God to our rescue. At his command, they assumed the best and most sheltered positions for exchanging their deadly fire with the Indians ; while, under cover of the smoke, the stranger sallied from the town, at the head of the other division of the New Eng- land men, and, fetching a circuit, attacked the red warriors in the rear. The surprise, as is usual amongst savages, had complete effect ; for they doubted not that they were assailed in their turn, and placed betwixt two hostile parties by the return of a detachment from the provincial army. The heathens fled in confusion, abandoning the half-won village, and leaving behind them such a number of their warriors, that the tribe hath never recovered its loss. Never shall I forget the figure of our venerable leader, when our men, and not they only, but the women and chil- dren of the village, rescued from the tomahawk and scalp- ing-knife, stood crowded around him, yet scarce venturing to approach his person, and more minded, perhaps, to wor- ship him as a descended angel, than to thank him as a fellow-mortal. ''Not unto me be the glory," he said; "I am but an implement, frail as yourselves, in the hand of Him who is strong to deliverl Bring me a cup of water, that I may allay my parched throat, ere I assay the task of offering thanks where they are most due." I was nearest to him as he spoke, and I gave into his hand the water he requested. At that moment, we exchanged glances, and it seemed to me that I recognised a noble friend, whom I had long since deemed in glory ; but he gave me no time to speak, had speech been prudent. Sinking on his knees, and signing us to obey him, he poured forth a strong and energetic thanksgiving for the turning back of the battle, which, pronounced with a voice loud and clear as a war-trumpet, thrilled through the joints and marrow of the hearers. I have heard many an act of devotion in my life, had Heaven vouchsafed me grace to profit by them ; but such a prayer as this, uttered amidst the dead and the dying, with a rich tone of mingled triumph and YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 349 adoration was beyond them all ; it was like the song of the inspired prophetess, who dwelt beneath the palm-tree between Ramah and Bethel. He was silent; and, for a brief space, we remained with our faces bent to the earth, no man dar- ing to lift his head. At length, we looked up ; but our deliv- erer was no longer amongst us ; nor was he ever again seen in the land which he had rescued. " LESSON CLIX. Trust in God. — Wordsworth. How beautiful this dome of sky ! And the vast hills, in fluctuation fixed At thy command, how awful ! Shall the soul, Human and rational, report of Thee Even less than these ? — Be mute who will, who can, Yet I will praise Thee with impassioned voice : My lips, that may forget Thee in the crowd. Cannot forget Thee here ; where Thou hast built, For thy own glory, in the wilderness Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine, In such a temple as we now behold Reared for thy presence : therefore am I bound To worsfiip, here, — and everywhere, — as one Not doomed to ignorance, though forced to tread, From childhood up, the ways of poverty; From unreflecting ignorance preserved. And from debasement rescued. — By thy grace The particle divine remained unquenched ; And, mid the wild weeds of a rugged soil. Thy bounty caused to flourish deathless flowers, From Paradise transplanted. Wintry age Impends ; the frost will gather round my heart ; And, if they wither, I am worse than dead ! 30 350 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Come labor, when the worn-out frame requires Perpetual sabbath ; come disease and want, And sad exclusion through decay of sense j But leave me unabated trust in Thee ; And let thy favor, to the end of life, Inspire me with ability to seek Repose and hope among eternal things, Father of heaven and earth, and I am rich. And will possess my portion in content. And what are jthings eternal 1 — Powers depart, Possessions vanish, and opinions change, And passions hold a fluctuating seat : But, by the storms of circumstance unshaken, And subject neither to eclipse nor wan6. Duty exists ; — immutably survive. For our support, the measures and the forms. Which an abstract Intelligence supplies ; Whose kingdom is where time and space are not: Of other converse, which mind, soul and heart. Do, with united urgency, require. What more, that may not perish ? Thou, dread Source, Pirime, self-existing Cause and End of all, That, in the scale of being, fill their place. Above our human region, or below, Set and sustained ; — Thou, — who didst virap the cloud Of infancy around us, that Thyself, Therein, with our simplicity awhile Might' St hold, on earth, communion undisturbed, — Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep, Or from its death-like void, with punctual care. And touch as gentle as the morning light, Restor'st us, daily, to the powers of sense. And reason's steadfast rule, — Thou, Thou alone, Art everlasting. This universe shall pass away — a frame Glorious ! because the shadow of thy might, A step, or link, for intercourse with Thee. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 35X Ah ! if the time must come, in which my feet No more shall stray where meditation leads, By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy wild, Loved haunts like these, the unimprisoned mind May yet have scope to range among her own, Her thoughts, her images, her high desires. If the dear faculty of sight should fail. Still it may be allowed me to remember What visionary powers of eye and soul In youth were mine ; when, stationed on the top Of some huge hill, expectant, I beheld The sun rise up, from distant climes returned, Darkness to chase, and sleep, and bring the day, His bounteous gift ! or saw him, tow'rds the deep Sink, with a retinue of flaming clouds Attended! Then my spirit was entranced With joy exalted to beatitude ; The measure of my soul was filled with bliss. And holiest love ; as earth, sea, air, with light With pomp, with glory, with magnificence ! LESSON CLX. The Patriot's Wish. — C. Sprague. _ ! Ye dwellers of this spot. Be yours a noiseless and a guiltless lot. I plead not that ye bask In the rank beams of vulgar fame ; To light your steps I ask A purer and a holier flame. No bloated growth I supplicate for you. No pining multitude, no pampered few ; 'Tis not alone to coffer gold. Nor spreading borders to behold ; 'Tis not fast-swelling crowds to win. The refuse ranks of want and sin — 352 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. This be the kind decree : Be ye by goodness crowned, Revered, though not renowned ; Poor, if Heaven will, but free ; Free from the tyrants of the hour, The clans of wealth, the clans of power, The coarse, cold scorners of their God ; Free from the taint of sin. The leprosy that feeds within. And free, in mercy, from the bigot's rod. The sceptre's might, the crosier's pride. Ye do not fear ; No conquest blade, in life-blood dyed, Drops terror here : Let there not lurk a subtler snare. For wisdom's footsteps to beware ; The shackle and the stake Our fathers fled ; Ne'er may their children wake A fouler wrath, a deeper dread; Ne'er may the craft, that fears the flesh to bind, Lock its hard fetters on the mind ; duenched be the fiercer flame That kindles with a name ; The pilgrim's faith, the pilgrim's zeal, • Let more than pilgrim kindness seal ; Be purity of life the test ; Leave to the heart, to Heaven, the rest. So, when our children turn the page. To ask what triumphs marked our age. What we achieved to challenge praise. Through the long line of future days. This let them read, and hence instruction draw : " Here were the many blessed, Here found the virtues rest. Faith linked with love, and liberty with law ; Here industry to comfort led ; Her book of light here learning spread ; ' rOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 35^ Here the warm heart of youth Was wooed to temperance and to truth ; Here hoary age was found, By wisdom and by reverence crowned. No great, but guilty fame Here kindled pride, that should have kindled shame. These chose the better, happier part, That poured its sunlight o'er the heart. That crowned their homes with peace and health, And weighed Heaven's smile beyond earth's wealth ; Far from the thorny paths of strife They stood, a living lesson to their race, Rich in the charities of life, Man in his strength, and woman in her grace ; In purity and love their pilgrim road they trod. And, when they served their neighbor, felt they served their God." LESSON CLXI. Summer Noon. — Wilcox. A. SULTRY noon, not in the summer's prime, When all is fresh with life, and youth, and bloom, But near its close, when vegetation stops, And fruits mature stand ripening in the sun, Soothes and enervates, with its thousand charms. Its images of silence and of rest. The melancholy mind. The fields are still ; " The husbandman has gone to his repast, And, that partaken, on the coolest side Of his abode, reclines in sweet repose. Deep in the shaded stream the cattle stand. The flocks beside the fence, with heads all prone, And panting quick. The fields, for harvest ripe. No breezes bend in smooth and graceful waves, While with their motion, dim and bright by turns, 30* 354 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. The sunshine seems to move ; nor e'en a breath Brushes along the surface with a shade Fleeting and thin, like that of flying smoke. The slender stalks their heavy, bended heads Support, as motionless as oaks their tops. O'er all the woods the topmost leaves are still ; E'en the wild poplar leaves, that, pendent hung By stems elastic, quiver at a breath, Rest in the general calm. The thistle down, Seen high and thick, by gazing up beside Some shading object, in a silver shower Plumb down, and slower than the slowest snow, Through all the sleepy atmosphere descends ; And where it lights, though on the steepest roof, Or smallest spire of grass, remains unmoved. White as a fleece, as dense, and as distinct From the resplendent sky, a single cloud On the soft bosom of the air becalmed, Drops a lone shadow, as distinct and still. On the bare plain, or sunny mountain's side ; Or in the polished mirror of the lake, In which the deep reflected sky appears A calm, sublime immensity below. LESSON CLXII. Summer Wind, — Bryant. It is a sultry day ; the sun has drank The dew that lay upon the morning grass ; There is no rustling in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee. Settling on the sick flowers, and then again Instantly on the wing. The plants around Feel the too potent fervors : the tall maize YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 355 Rolls up its long green leaves ; the clover drops Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. But far, in the fierce sunshine, tower the hills, With all their growth of woods, silent and stern, As if the scorching heat and dazzling light Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds. Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven, — Their bases on the mountains — their white tops Shining in the far ether, — fire the air With a reflected radiance, and make turn The gazer's eye away. For rhe, I lie Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf. Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun, Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind That still delays its coming. Why so slow. Gentle and voluble spirit of the air ? O come, and breathe upon the fainting earth Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves He hears me ? See, on yonder woody ridge. The pine is bending his proud top, and now. Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes ! Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves ! The deep, distressful silence of the scene Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds And universal motion. He is come. Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs. And bearing on their fragrance ; and he brings Music of birds and rustling of young boughs, And sound of swaying branches, and the voice Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs Are stirring in his breath ; a thousand flowers, By the road-side and the borders of the brook. Nod gayly to each other ; glossy leaves Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew Were on them yet ; and silver waters break Into small waves, and sparkle as he comes. 356 YOVHiG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. LESSON CLXIIL Fashionable Follies. — Flint's Western Review. There are in the United States one hundred thousand young ladies, as Sir Ralph Abercrombie said of those of Scotland, " the prettiest lassies in a' the ivorld," who know neither to toil nor spin)^;Who are yet clothed like the lilies of the valley, — who thrum the piano, and, a few of the more dainty, the harp, — who walk, as the Bible says, softly, — who have read romances, and some of them seen the interior of theatres, — who have been admired at the examination of their high school, — who have wrought algebraic solutions on the black board, — who are, in short, the very roses of the gar- den, the attar of life, — who yet, — horresco referens, — can never expect to be married, or, if married, to live without — shall I speak, or forbear 1 — putting their own lily hands to domestic drudgery. We go into the interior villages of our recent wooden country. The fair one sits down to clink the wires of the piano. We see the fingers displayed on the keys, which, we are sure, never prepared a dinner, nor made a garment for her robustious brothers. We traverse the streets of our own city, and the wires of the piano are thrummed in our ears from every considerable house. In cities and villages, from one extremity of the Union to the other, wherever there is a good house, and the doors and windows betoken the presence of the mild months, the ringing of the piano wires is almost as universal a sound, as the domestic hum of life within. We need not enter in person. Imagination sees the fair one, erect on her music stool, laced, and pinioned, and re- duced to a questionable class of entomology, dinging at the wires, as though she could, in some way, hammer out of them music, amusement and a husband. Look at her taper and cream-colored fingers. Is she a utilitarian ? Ask the fair one, when she has beaten all the music out of the keys, " Pretty fair one, canst talk to thy old and sick father, so as to beguile him out of the headache and rheumatism ? Canst YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 357 write a good and straight forward letter of business ? Thou art a chemist, I remember, at the examination ; canst com- pound, prepare, and afterwards boil, or bake, a good pudding ? Canst make one of the hundred subordinate ornaments of thy fair person? In short, tell us thy use in existence, ex- cept to be contemplated, as a pretty picture 1 And how long will any one be amused with the view of a picture, after having surveyed it a dozen times, unless it have a mind, a heart, and, we may emphatically add, the perennial value of utility 1" It is a sad and lamentable truth, after all the incessant din we have heard of the march of mind, and the intermi- nable theories, inculcations and eulogies of education, that the present is an age of unbounded desire of display and no- toriety, of exhaustless and unquenchably burning ambition ; and not an age of calm, contented, ripe and useful knowl- edge, for the sacred privacy of the parlor. Display, notoriety, surface and splendor, — these are the first aims of the mothers ; and can we expect that the daughters will drink into a better spirit 1 To play, sing, dress, glide down the dance, and get a husband, is the lesson ; not to be qualified to render his home quiet, well-ordered and happy. It is notorious, that there will soon be no intermediate class between those who toil and spin, and those whose claim to be ladies is founded on their being incapable of any value of utility. At present, we know of none, except the little army of martyrs, yclept school-mistresses, and the still smaller corps of editorial and active blue-stockings. If it should be my lot to transmigrate back to earth, in the form of a young man, my first homages in search of a wife would be paid to the thoughtful and pale-faced fair one, surrounded by her little, noisy, refractory subjects, drilling her soul to patience, and learning to drink of the cup of earthly disci- pline, and, more impressively than by a thousand sermons, tasting the bitterness of our probationary course, in teaching the young idea how to shoot. Except, as aforesaid, school- mistresses and blues, we believe, that all other damsels, clearly within the purview of the term ladi/, estimate the clearness of their title precisely in the ratio of their useless- ness. 358 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Allow a young lady to have any hand in the adjustment of all the components of her dress, each of which has a contour, which only the fleeting fashion of the moment can settle ; allow her time to receive morning visitants, and prepare for afternoon appointments and evening parties, and what time has the dear one to spare, to be useful and do good? To labor ! Heaven forefend the use of the horrid term ! The simple state of the case is this. There is somewhere, in all this, an enormous miscalculation, an infinite mischief — an evil, as we shall attempt to show, not of transitory or minor importance, but fraught with misery and ruin, not only to the fair ones themselves, but to society and the age. We have not, we admit, the elements on which to base the calculation ; but we may assume, as we have, that there are in the United States a hundred thousand young ladies brought up to do nothing, except dress, and pursue amuse- ment. Another hundred thousand learn music, dancing, and what are called the fashionable accomplishments. It has been said that " revolutions never move backwards." It is equally true of emulation of the fashion. The few opu- lent, who can afford to be good for nothing, precede. Another class presses as closely as they can upon their steps ; and the contagious mischief spreads downward, till the fond father, who lays every thing under contribution, to furnish the means for purchasing a piano, and hiring a music-master for his daughters, instead of being served, when he comes in from the plough, by the ruined favorites for whom he has sacrificed so much, finds that a servant must be hired for the young ladies. Here is not the end of the mischief. Every one knows that mothers and daughters give the tone, and laws — more unalterable than those of the Medes and Persians — to so- ciety. Here is the root of the matter, the spring of bitter waters. Here is the origin of the complaint of hard times, bankruptcies, greediness, avarice, and the horse-leech cry, " Give, give !" Here is the reason why every man lives up to his income, and so many beyond it. Here is the reason why the young trader, starting on credit, and calling himself a merchant, hires and furnishes such a house as if he really was one, fails, and gives to his creditors a beggarly account YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 350 of empty boxes and misapplied sales. He has married a wife whose janity and extravagance are fathomless, and his ruin is explained. Hence the general and prevalent evil of the present times, extravagance — conscious shame of the thought of being industrious and useful. Hence the con- cealment, by so many thousand young ladies, (who have not yet been touched by the extreme of modern degeneracy, and who still occasionally apply their hands to domestic employ- ment,) of these, their good deeds, with as much care as if they were crimes. Every body is ashamed not to be expen- sive and fashionable ; and every one seems equally ashamed of honest industry. * * # * I cannot conceive, that mere idlers, male or female, can have respect enough for themselves to be comfortable. I cannot imagine, that they should not carry about with them such a consciousness of being a blank in existence, as would be written on their forehead, in the shrinking humiliation of perceiving, that the public eye had weighed them in the balance, and found them wanting. Novels and romances may say this or that about their ethereal beauties, their fine ladies tricked out to slaughter my lord A., and play Cupid's archery upon dandy B., and despatch Amarylis C. to his sonnets. I have no conception of a beautiful woman, or a fine man, in whose eye, in whose port, in whose whole ex- pression, this sentiment does not stand imbodied : — " I am called by my Creator to duties ; I have employment on the earth ; my sterner, but more enduring pleasures are in dis- charging my duties." Compare the sedate expression of this sentiment in the countenance of man or woman, when it is known to stand, as the index of character and the fact, with the superficial gaudiness of a simple, good for nothing belle, who disdains usefulness and employment, whose empire is a ball-room, and whose subjects dandies, as silly and as useless as herself. Who, of the two, has most attractions for a ^an of sense 1 The one a help-mate, a fortune in herself, who can aid to procure one, if the husband has it not ; who can soothe him under the loss of it, and, what is more, aid him to regain it ; and the other a painted butterfly, for orna^ ment only during the vernal and sunny months of prosperity ; 360 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. and then not becoming a chrysalis, an inert moth in adversity, but a croaking, repining, ill-tempered termagant, who can only recur to the days of her short-lived triumph, to imbitter the misery, and poverty, and hopelessness of a husband, who, like herself, knows not to dig, and is ashamed to beg. We are obliged to avail of severe language in application to a deep-rooted malady. We want words of power. We need energetic and stern applications. No country ever verged more rapidly towards extravagance and expense. In a young republic, like ours, it is ominous of any thing but good. Men of thought, and virtue, and example, are called upon to look to this evil. Ye patrician families, that croak, and complain, and forebode the downfall of the republic, here is the origin of your evils. Instead of training your son to waste his time, as an idle young gentleman at large, — instead of inculcating on your daughter, that the incessant tinkling of a harpsichord, or a scornful and lady-like toss of the head, or dexterity in waltzing, are the chief requisites to make her way in life, — if you can find po better employment for them, teach him the use of the grubbing hoe, and her to make up garments for your servants. Train your son and daughter' to an employment, to frugality, to hold the high front, and to walk the fearless step of independence, and sufficiency to themselves in any fortunes, any country, or any state of things. By arts like these, the early Romans thrived. When your children have these possessions, you may go down to the grave in peace, as regards their temporal fortunes. LESSON CLXIV. LochieVs Warning. — Campbell. Wizard. LocHiEL ! Lochiel, beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight : YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 361 T^Jiey rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ; Wo, wo to the riders that trample them down ! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 'Tis thine, O Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning ; no rider is there ; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ! Oh, weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead ; For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, Culloden ! that reeks with the blood of the brave. Lochiel Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer ! Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear. Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. Wizard. Ha ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn. Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth. From his home, in the dark-rolling clouds of the north? Lo ! the death-shot of foeman outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad : But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! Ah ! home let him speed, for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firi?iament cast? 'Tis the fire-shower of ruin all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel, the peerless in might. Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood. And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. Lochiel. False wizard, avaunt ! I have marshalled my claH . Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, A^nd, like reapers, descend to the harvest of death. 31 ' 3^2 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock I But wo to his kindred, and wo to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud ; All pi aided and plumed in their tartan array — Wizard. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day ! For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal : 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore. And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo ! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight : Rise ! rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! 'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors ; Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the iron-bound prisoner ? Where ? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn, Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ? Ah no ! for a darker departure is near ; The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; His death-bell is tolling. Oh ! mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs. And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accursed be the fagots, that blaze at his feet. Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale — Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale : Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains. Shall, victor, exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foQ. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 363 And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame. Joan of Arc, in Rlieims. — Mrs. Hemans. That was a joyous day in Rheims of old, When peal on peal of mighty music rolled Forth from her thronged cathedral ; while around, A multitude, whose billows made no sound, Chained to a hush of wonder, though elate With victory, listened at their temple's gate. And what was done within 1 — Within, the light Through the rich gloom of pictured windows flowing, Tinged with soft awfulness a stately sight, — The chivalry of France, their proud heads bowing In martial vassalage ! — while, midst that ring, And shadowed by ancestral tombs, a king Received his birthright's crown. For this, the hymn Swelled out like rushing waters, and the day, With the sweet censer's misty breath, grew dim. As through long aisles it floated o'er the array Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone And unapproached, beside the altar-stone, With the white banner, forth, like sunshine, streammg. And the gold helm, through clouds of fragrance gleaming. Silent and radiant stood ? — The helm was raised. And the fair face revealed, that upward gazed. Intensely worshipping, — a still, clear face, Youthful, but brightly solemn ! Woman's cheek And brow were there, in deep devotion meek. Yet glorified with inspiration's trace On its pure paleness ; while, enthroned above, The pictured Virgin, with her smile of love. Seemed bending o'er her votaress. That slight form I Was that the leader through the battle storm ? 364 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Had the soft light, in that adoring eye, Guided the warrior where the swords flashed high 1 'Twas so, even so ! — and thou, the shepherd's child, Joanne, the lowly dreamer of the wild ! Never before, and never since that hour. Hath woman, mantled with victorious power Stood forth as thou, beside the shrine, didst stand — Holy amidst the knighthood of the land ! And, beautiful with joy and with renown, Lift thy white banner o'er the olden crown, Ransomed for France by thee ! The rites are done. Now let the dome with trumpet notes be shaken, And bid the echoes of the tombs awaken. And come thou forth, that Heaven's rejoicing sun May give thee welcome from thine own blue skies, Daughter of victory ! A triumphant strain, A proud, rich stream of warlike melodies. Gushed through the portals of the antique fane, And forth she came. Then rose a nation's sound. Oh ! what a power to bid the quick heart bound, The wind bears onward with the stormy cheer, Man gives to Glory on her high career ! Is there indeed such power ? — far deeper dwells In one kind household voice, to reach the cells Whence happiness flows forth ! The shouts, that filled The hollow heaven tempestuously, were stilled One moment ; and, in that brief pause, the tone. As of a breeze that o'er her home had blown. Sank on the bright maid's heart. — " Joanne !" — Who spoke Like those whose childhood with Jier childhood grew Under one roof? — " Joanne !" — That murmur broke With sounds of weeping forth ! — She turned — she knew Beside her, marked from all the thousands there, In the calm beauty of his silver hair, The stately shepherd ; and the youth, whose joy From his dark eye flashed proudly ; and the boy. The youngest born, that ever loved her best : — "Father ! and ye, my brothers !" On the breast YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 3^ Of that gray sire she sank, and swiftly back, Even in an instant, to their native track Her free thoughts flowed. She saw the pomp no more-~ The plumes, the banners : to her cabin-door, And to the fairy's fountain in the glade, Where her young sisters by her side had played, And to her hamlet's chapel, where it rose Hallowing the forest unto deep repose. Her spirit turned. The very wood-note, sung In early spring-time, by the bird, which dwelt Where o'er her father's roof the beech-leaves hung, Was in her heart — a music heard and felt. Winning her back to nature. She unbound The helm of many battles from her head. And, with her bright locks bowed to sweep the ground. Lifting her voice up, wept for joy, and said, — " Bless me, my father, bless me ! and with thee, To the still cabin and the beechen-tree. Let me return !" Oh ! never did thine eye Through the green haunts of happy infancy Wander again, Joanne ! Too much of fame Had shed its radiance on thy peasant-name ; And, bought alone by gifts beyond all price, — The trusting heart's repose, the paradise Of home, with all its loves, — doth fate allow The crown of glory unto woman's brow. LESSON CLXVI. RaphaeVs Account of the Creation. — Milton. Heaven opened wide Her ever-during gates — harmonious sound — On golden hinges moving, to let forth The King of Glory, in his powerful Word And Spirit, coming to create new worlds. 31 * QQQ YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. On heavenly ground they stood ; and, from the shore,j They viewed the vast, immeasurable abyss, Outrageous as a sea, dark, wasteful, wild, Up from the bottom turned by furious winds And surging waves, as mountains to assault Heaven's height, and with the centre mix the pole. " Silence, ye troubled waves, and thou deep, peace !" Said then the omnific Word ; " your discord cndl" Nor stayed, but, on the wings of cherubim Uplifted, in paternal glory rode Far into Chaos, and the world unborn ; » For Chaos heard his voice : him all his train Followed in bright procession, to behold Creation, and the wonders of his might. Then stayed the fervid wheels, and in his hand He took the golden compasses, prepared In God's eternal store, to circumscribe This universe, and all created things : One foot he centred, and the other turned Round through the vast profundity obscure. And said, " Thus far extend, thus far thy bounds, This be thy just circumference, O world !" Thus God the heaven created, thus the earth. Matter unformed and void ; darkness profound Covered the abyss ; but on the watery calm His brooding wings the Spirit of God outspread. And vital virtue infused, and vital warmth Throughout the fluid mass : • then founded, then conglobed Like things to like, the rest to several place Disparted, and between spun out the air ; And earth, self-balanced, on her centre hung. " Let there be light," said God ; and forthwith light Ethereal, first of things, quintessence pure. Sprung from the deep, and, from her native east, To journey through the airy gloom began. Sphered in a radiant cloud ; for yet the sun YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 367 Was not : she in a cloudy tabernacle Sojourned the while. God saw the light was good And light from darkness, by the hemisphere, Divided : light the day, and darkness night, He named. Thus was the first day even and morn : Nor passed uncelebrated, nor unsung By the celestial choirs, when orient light Exhaling first from darkness they beheld ; Birthday of heaven and earth : with joy and shout The hollow universal orb they filled. And touched their golden harps, and, hymning, praised God and his works ; Creator him they sung. Both when first evening was, and when first morn. LESSON CLXVII. Elegy written in a Country Church-yard. — Gtray. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day ; The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea ; The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. NoW fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. And all the air a solemn stillness holds. Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Ajid drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. Molest her ancient, solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 368 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; No children run to lisp their sire's return. Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ; Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : How jocund did they drive their team afield ! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave. Await, alike, the inevitable hour ; — The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault. If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. Where, through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault. The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. • Can storied urn, or animated bust. Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed. Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. ; But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll j Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; — Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame ; Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray : Along the cool, sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet, even these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial, still erected nigh. With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. t %. 370 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Their name, their years, spelled by the unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply ; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey. This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, — Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, — Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? On some fond breast the parting soul relies ; Some pious drops the closing eye requires : Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries. Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead. Dost in these lines their artless tale relate. If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led. Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say, " Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn. Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. " There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech. That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high. His listless length at noontide would he stretch. And pore upon the brook that babbles by. " Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn. Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove ; Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn. Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. " One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill. Along the heath, and near his favorite tree : Another came ; nor yet beside the rill. Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he : YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 371 " The next, with dirges due, in sad array. Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." ^ 2%e Epitaph. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown : Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere : Heaven did a recompense as largely send : — He gave to misery all he had — a tear ; He gained from Heaven — 'twas all he wished — a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose. Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, — (There they, alike, in trembling hope, repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. LESSON CLXVin. Dialogue : — Gesler and Tell — Knowles. Gesler. Why speak' st thou not? Tell For wonder. Ges. Wonder ? Tell Yes. That thou shouldst seem a man. Ges. What should I seem ? Tell A mooster ! Ges. Ha ! Beware — Think on thy chains. Tell. Though they were doubled, and did weigh me down. Prostrate to earth, methinks I could rise up Erect, with nothing but the honest pride 372 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Of telling thee, usurper, to the teeth, Thou art a monster ! Think upon my chains ! Show me the link of them, which, could it speak, Would give its evidence against my word. Think on my chains ! Think on my chains ! How came they on me ? Ges. Barest thou question me 1 Tell. Barest thou not answer 1 Ges. Bo I hear 1 Tell. Thou dost. Ges. Beware my vengeance. Tell. Can it more than kill ? Ges. Enough — it can do that. Tell. No — not enough : It cannot take away the grace of life, Its comeliness of look that virtue gives, Its port erect with consciousness of truth, Its rich attire of honorable deeds. Its fair report, that's rife on good men's tongues i It cannot lay its hands on these, no more Than it can pluck his brightness from the sun, Or, with polluted finger, tarnish it. Ges. But it can make thee writhe Tell. It may. Ges. And groan. Tell. It may ; and I may cry, Go on, though it should make me groan again. Ges. Whence comest thou 1 Tell. From the mountains. Wouldst thou learn What news from them 1 Ges. Canst tell me any ? Tell Ay : They watch no more the avalanche. Ges. Why so? Tell. Because they look for thee. The hurricane Comes unawares upon them; from its bed The torrent breaks, and finds them in its track. Ges. What do they then 1 Tell. Thank Heaven it is not thou ! Thou hast perverted nature in them. The earth YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 37^ Presents her fruits to them, and is not thanked ; The harvest sun is constant, and they scarce Return his smile ; their flocks and herds increase, And they look on as men who count a loss ; They hear of thriving children born to them. And never shake the teller by the hand ; While those they have, they see grow up and flourish. And think as little of caressing them. As they were things a deadly plague had smit. There's not a blessing Heaven vouchsafes them, but The thought of thee doth wither to a curse. As something they must lose, and richer were To lack. Ges. That's right ! I'd have them like their hills, That never smile, though wanton summer tempt Them e'er so much. Tell. But they do sometimes smile. Ges. Ay 1 — when is that ? Tell. When they do talk of vengeance. Ges. Vengeance ? Dare They talk of that? Tell. Ay, and expect it, too. Ges. From whence ? Tell. From Heaven ! Ges. From Heaven ? Tell. And the true hands Are lifted up to it, on every hill. For justice on thee. LESSON CLXIX. Chrandeur of Astronomical Science. — N. A. Review. Astronomy is certainly the boldest and most comprehen- sive of all our speculations. It is the science of the material universe considered as a whole. Though employed upon objects apparently withdrawn from the sphere of human action and pursuit, it teaches us, nevertheless, that thew 32 374 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. objects materially affect, nay, constitute our physical condition. The wide-spreading firmament, while it lifts itself above all mortal things, exhibits to us that luminary, which is the light, and life, and glory of our world ; and, when this retires from our view, it is lighted up with a thousand lesser fires, that never cease to burn, that never fail to take their accustomed places, and never rest from their slow, solemn, and noiseless march. Among the objects more immediately about us, all is vicis- situde and change. It is the destiny of terrestrial things to pwpetuate themselves by succession. Plants arise out of the earth, flourish awhile, and decay, and their place is filled by others. Animals, also, have their periods of growth and decline. Even man is not exempt from the general law. His exquisite frame, with all its fine organs, is soon reduced to its original elements, to be moulded again into new and humbler forms. Nations are, like individuals, privileged only with a more protracted existence. The firm earth itself, the theatre of all this change, partakes, in a degree, of the com- mon lot of its inhabitants; and the sea once heaved its waves, where now rolls a tide of wealth and population. Situated, as we are, in this fleeting, fluctuating state, it is consoling to be able to dwell upon an enduring scene ; to contemplate laws that are immutable, an order that has never been interrupted ; to fix, not the thoughts only, but the eye, upon objects that, after the lapse of so many ages, and the fall of so many states, cities, human institutions, and monu- ments of art, continue to occupy the same places, to move with the same regularity, and to shine with the same pure, fresh, undiminished lustre. As the heavens are the most striking spectacle, that pre- sents itself to our contemplation, so there is no subject of philosophical inquiry, which has more engaged the attention' of mankind. The history of astronomy carries us back to the earliest times, and introduces us to the languages and customs, the religion and poetry, the sciences and arts, the tastes, talents and peculiar genius, of the different nations of the earth. The ancient Atlantides and Ethiopians, the Egyptian priests, the magi of Persia, the shepherds of Chal- dea, the Bramins of India, the mandarins of China, the f hcenician navigators, the philosophers of Greece, and the YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 375 wandering Arabs, have contributed to the general mass of knowledge and speculation upon this subject ; have added more or less to this vast structure, the common monument of the industry, invention, and intellectual resources of mankind. They, whose imaginations have wandered up to the sphere of the stars, like those who have visited unfrequented regions on th« earth, have left there, as in a sort of album, some me- morial of themselves, and of the times in which they lived. The constellations are a faithful picture of the ruder stages of civilization. They ascend to times of which no other record exists, and are destined to remain when all others are lost. Fragments of history, curious dates and documents relating to chronology, geography and languages, are here preserved in imperishable characters. The adventures of the gods and the inventions of men, the exploits of heroes and the fancies of poets, are here perpetually celebrated be- fore all nations. The seven stars and Orion present them- selves to us, as they appeared to Amos and Homer, Here are consecrated the lyre of Orpheus and the ship of the Argo- nauts, and, in the same firmament, the mariner's compass and the telescope of Herschel. We remark, farther, that astronomy is the most improved of all the branches of human knowledge, and that which does the greatest credit to the human understanding. We have in this obtained the object of our researches. We have solved the great problem proposed to us in the celestial mo- tions; and our solution is as simple and as grand as the spectacle itself, and is in every respect worthy of so exalted a subject. It is not the astron^er only, who is thus satisfied ; but the proof is of a nature to carry conviction to the most illiterate and skeptical. Our knowledge, extending to the principles and laws which the Author of nature has chosen to impress upon his work, comprehends the future ; it resem- bles that which has been regarded as the exclusive attribute of supreme intelligence. We are thus enabled, not only to explain those unusual appearances in the heavens, which were formerly the occasion of such unworthy fears, but to forewarn men of their occurrence ; and, by predicting the time, place and circumstances of the phenomenon, to disarm it of its terror. 376 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. There is, however, nothing, perhaps, so surprising in this science, as that it makes us acquainted with methods, by which we can survey those bright fields on which it is em- ployed, and apply our own familiar measures to the paths which are there traced, and to the bodies that trace them ; that we can estimate the form, and dimensions, and inequali- ties, of objects so immense, and so far removed from the little scene of our labors. What would be the astonishment of an inhabitant of one of those bodies, of Jupiter, for instance, to find that, by means of instruments of a few feet in length, and certain figures and characters, still smaller, all of our own invention, we had succeeded in determining the magnitude and weight of this great planet, the length of its days and nights, and the variety of its seasons, — that we had watched the motions of its moons, calculated their eclipses, and applied them to im- portant domestic purposes 1 What would be our astonish- ment to learn that an insect, one of those, for instance, which serve sometimes to illuminate the waters of the ocean, though confined by the exercise of its proper organs, and locomotive powers, to the sphere of a few inches, had, by artificial aids of its own contriving, been able to extend its sphere of observation to the huge monsters that move about it ; that it had even attempted, not altogether without success, to fathom the depth of the abyss, in which it occupies so insignificant a place, and to number the beings it contains ? LESSON CLXX. Escape from a Panther. — Cooper. Elizabeth Temple and Louisa had gained the summit of the mcfuntain, where they left the highway, and pur- sued their course, under the shade of the stately trees that crowned the eminence. The day was becoming warm ; and the girls plunged more deeply into the forest, as they found its invigorating coolness agreeably contrasted to the excessive heat they had experienced in their ascent. The conversation. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 377 as if by mutual consent, was entirely changed to the little incidents and scenes of their walk ; and every tall pine, and every shrub or flower, called forth some simple expression of admiration. In this manner they proceeded along the margin of the precipice, catching occasional glimpses of the placid Otsego, or pausing to listen to the rattling of wheels and the sounds of hammers, that rose from the valley, to mingle the signs of men with the scenes of nature, when Elizabeth suddenly startled, and exclaimed — " Listen ! there are the cries of a child on this mountain ! Is there a clearing near us ? or can some little one have strayed from its parents 1" *' Such things frequently happen," returned Louisa. ** Let us follow the sounds ; it may be a wanderer, starving on the hill." Urged by this consideration, the females pursued the low, mournful sounds, that proceeded from the forest, with quick and impatient steps. More than once the ardent Elizabeth was on the point of announcing that she saw the sufferer, when Louisa caught her by the arm, and, pointing behind them, cried — " Look at the dog !" The advanced age of Brave had long before deprived him of his activity ; and when his companions stopped to view the scenery, or to add to their bouquets, the mastiff would lay his huge frame on the ground, and await their movements, with his eyes closed, and a listlessness in his air that ill ac- corded with the character of a protector. But when, aroused by this cry from Louisa, Miss Temple turned, she saw the dog with his eyes keenly set on some distant object, his head bent near the ground, and his hair actually rising on his body, either through fright or anger. It was most probably the latter ; for he was growling in a low key, and occasionally showing his teeth, in a manner that would have terrified his mistress, had she not so well known his good qualities. " Brave !" she said, " be quiet, Brave ! what do you see, fellow?" At the sounds of her voice, the rage of the mastiff, instead of being at all diminished, was very sensibly increased. He stalked in front of the ladies, and seated himself at the feet of his mistress, growling louder than before, and occasionally 32* g-yg YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. giving vent to his ire by a short, surly barking. " What doe he see?" said Elizabeth; "there must be some animal ii sight." Hearing no answer from her companion, Miss Temph turned her head, and beheld Louisa, standing with her fact whitened to the color of death, and her finger pointing up ward, with a sort of flickering, convulsed motion. Th< quick eye of Elizabeth glanced in the direction indicated b] her friend, where she saw the fierce front and glaring eyes oi a female panther, fixed on them in horrid malignity, am threatening instant destruction. " Let us fly !" exclaimed Elizabeth, grasping the arm o Louisa, whose form yielded like melting snow, and sunl lifeless to the earth. There was not a single feeling in the temperament oi Elizabeth Temple, that could prompt her to desert a compan ion in such an extremity ; and she fell on her knees, by th< side of the inanimate Louisa, tearing from the person of he: friend, with an instinctive readiness, such parts of her dresi as might obstruct her respiration, and encouraging their onlj safeguard, the dog, at the same time, by the sounds of hei voice. " Courage, Brave !" she cried — her own tones beginning t( tremble — ** courage, courage, good Brave !" A quarter-grown cub, that had hitherto been unseen, now appeared, dropping from the branches of a sapling, thai grew under the shade of the beech which held its dam This ignorant but vicious creature approached near to the dog imitating the actions and sounds of its parent, but exhibiting a strange mixture of the playfulness of a kitten with the fe- rocity of its race. Standing on its hind legs, it would rend the bark of a tree with its fore paws, and play all the antics of a cat, for a moment ; and then, by lashing itself with its tail, growling, and scratching the earth, it would attempt the manifestations of anger that rendered its parent so terrific. All this time, Brave stood firm and undaunted, his short tail erect, his body drawn backward on its haunches, and his eyes following the movements of both dam and cub. At every gambol played by the latter, it approached nigher to the dog, the growling of the three becoming more horrid at YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 379 each moment, until the younger beast, overleaping its intend- ed bound, fell directly before the mastiff. There was a moment of fearful cries and struggles ; but they ended almost as soon as commenced, by the cub appearing in the air, hurled from the jaws of Brave, with a violence that sent jt against a tree so forcibly as to render it completely senseless. Elizabeth witnessed the short struggle, and her blood was warming with the triumph- of the dog, when she saw the form of the old panther in the air, springing twenty feet from the branch of the beech to the back of the mastiff. No words of ours can describe the fury of the conflict that fol- lowed. It was a confused struggle on the dried leaves, accompanied by loud and terrible cries, barks and growls. Miss Temple continued, on her knees, bending over the form of Louisa, her eyes fixed on the animals, with an interest so horrid, and yet so intense, that she almost forgot her own stake in the result. So rapid and vigorous were the bounds of the inhabitant of the forest, that its active frame seemed constantly in the air, while the dog nobly faced his foe, at each successive leap. When the panther lighted on the shoulders of the mastiff, which was its constant aim, old Brave, though torn with her talons, and stained with his own blood, that already flowed from a dozen wounds, would shake off his furious foe, like a feather, and, rearing on his hind legs, rush to the fray again, with his jaws distended, and a dauntless eye. But age, and his pampered life, greatly disqualified the noble mastiff for such a struggle. In every thing but cour- age, he was only the vestige of what he had once been. A higher bound than ever raised the wary and furious beast far beyond the reach of the dog — who was making a des- perate, but fruitless dash at her — from which she alighted, in a favorable position, on the back of her aged foe. For a single moment, only, could the panther remain there, the great strength of the dog returning with a convulsive effort. But Elizabeth saw, as Brave fastened his teeth in the side of his enemy, that the collar of brass around his neck, which had been glittering throughout the fray, was of the color of blood, and, directly, that his frame was sinking to the earth, where it soon lay prostrate and helpless. Several mighty 380 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. efforts of the wild-cat to extricate herself from the jaws of the dog, followed ; but they were fruitless, until the mastiff turned on his back, his lips collapsed, and his teeth loosened ; when the short convulsions and stillness that succeeded, announced the death of poor Brave. Elizabeth now lay wholly at the mercy of the beast. There is said to be something in the front of the image of the Maker, that daunts the hearts of the inferior beings of his creation ; and it would seem that some such power, in the present instance, suspended the threatened blow. The eyes of the monster and the kneeling maiden met, for an instant, when the former stooped to examine her fallen foe ; next to scent her luckless cub. From the latter examination it turned, however, with its eyes apparently emitting flashes of fire, its tail lashing its sides furiously, and its claws pro- jecting for inches from its broad feet. Miss Temple did not, or could not, move. Her hands were clasped in the attitude of prayer ; but her eyes were still drawn to her terrible enemy ; her cheeks were blanched to the whiteness of marble, and her lips were slightly sepa- rated with horror. The moment seemed now to have arrived for the fatal termination ; and the beautiful figure of Elizabeth was bowing meekly to the stroke, when a rustling of leaves from behind seemed rather to mock the organs, than to meet her ears. "Hist! hist!" said a low voice ; " stoop lower, gall ; your bunnet hides the creator's head." It was rather the yielding of nature, than a compliance with this unexpected order, that caused the head of our her-^ oine to sink on her bosom ; when she heard the report of the rifle, the whizzing of the bullet, and the enraged cries of the beast, who was rolling over on the earth, biting its own flesh, and tearing the twigs and branches within its reaeh. At the next instant, the form of the Leather-stocking rushed by her ; and he called aloud — " Come in, Hector ; come in, you old fool ; 'tis a hard-lived animal, and may jump ag'in." Natty maintained his position in front of the maidens,, most fearlessly, notwithstanding the violent bounds and threatening aspect of the wounded panther, which gave sev- eral indications of returning strength and ferocity, until his YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 381 rifle was again loaded ; when he stepped up to the enraged animal, and, placing the muzzle close to its head, every spark of life was extinguished by the discharge. LESSON CLXXI. Order of Nature. — Pope. See, through this air, this ocean, and this earth, All matter quick, and bursting into birth. Above, how high progressive life may go ! Around, how wide ! how deep extend below ! Vast chain of being, which from God began, Natures ethereal, human, angel, man. Beast, bird, fish, insect — what no eye can see, No glass can reach — from infinite to thee. From thee to nothing ! On superior powers Were we to press, inferior might on ours ; Or in the full creation leave a void. Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroyed ; From nature's chain whatever link you strike. Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. And if each system in gradation roll, Alike essential to the amazing whole. The least confusion but in one, not all That system only, but the whole, must fall Let earth, unbalanced, from her orbit fly. Planets and suns rush lawless through the sky ; Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurled, Being on being wrecked, and world on world, Heaven's whole foundations to their centre nod. And nature tremble to the throne of God ! All this dread order break 1 For whom ? For thee Vile worm ! — O madness ! pride ! impiety ! What if the foot, ordained the dust to tread, Or hand to toil, aspire to be the head ? gg2 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. What if the head, the eye, or ear, repined To serve mere engines to the ruling mind Just as absurd for any part to claim To be another in this general frame ; Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains, The great directing Mind of all ordains. All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body nature is, and God the soul ; That changed through all, and yet in all the same Great in the earth as in the ethereal frame ; Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees. Lives through all life, extends through all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent. Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part > As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart : ~~' AS luir, as perfect, iii Vile man that niGurns, As the rapt seraph that adores and burns : To him, no high, no low, no great, no small ; He fills, he bounds, connects and equals all. Cease, then, nor Order Imperfection name : Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point : this kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee Submit ! — in this, or any other sphere, Secure to be as blessed as thou canst bear ; Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. All nature is but art unknown to thee ; All chance, direction, which thou canst not see ; All discord, harmony not understood ; All partial evil, universal good : And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, One truth is clear — " Whatever is, is right." YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. LESSON CLXXII. A Siiter pleading for the Life of a condemned Br other.- Shakspeare. Isabella. I am a woful suitor to your honor ; Please but your honor hear me. Angelo. Well ; what's your suit 1 Isab. There^ a vice that most I do abhor, And most desire should meet the blow of justice, For which I would not plead, but that I must. Ang. Well ; the matter ? Isab. I have a brother is condemned to die ; I do beseech you, let it be his fault, And not my brother. Ang. Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it ? Why, every fault's condemned ere it be done ; Mine were the very cipher of a function, To find the faults, whose fine stands in record, And let go by the actor. Isab. O just but severe law ! I had a brother, then ; — must he needs die 1 Ang. Maiden, no remedy. Isab. Yes ; I do think that you might pardon him, And neither Heaven nor man grieve at the mercy. Ang. I will not do't. Isab. But can you, if you would 1 Ang. Look ; what I will not, that I cannot do. Isab. But might you do't, and do the world no wrong. If so your heart were touched with that remorse. As mine is to him ? Ang. He's sentenced ; 'tis too late. Isab. Too late 1 Why, no ; I, that do speak a word, May call it back again : well believe this, No ceremony that to the great belongs. Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword. The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe. Becomes them with one half so good a grace. As mercy does. If he had been as you, 384 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. And you as he, you would have slipt like him; But he, like you, would not have been so stern. Ang. Pray you, begone. Isab. I would to Heaven I had your potency, And you were Isabel ; should it then be thus 1 No ; .1 would tell what 'twere to be a judge, And what a prisoner. Ang. Your brother is a forfeit of the law. And you but waste your words Isab. Alas ! alas ! Why, all the souls that are, were forfeit oncW And He, that might the 'vantage best have took, Found out the remedy. How would you be, If He, which is the top of judgment, should But judge you as you are 1 Oh, think on that ; And mercy then will breathe within your lips, lAke man new made. Ang. Be you content, fair maid ; It is the law, not I, condemns your brother. Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son, It should be thus with him ; he dies to-morrow. Isab. To-morrow ? oh ! that's sudden. Spare him, spare him. Good, good my lord, bethink you : Who is it that hath died for this offence ? There's many hath committed it. Ang. The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept j Those many had not dared to do that evil, If the first man that did the edict infringe, Had answered for his deed. Now, 'tis awake Takes note of what is done ; and, like a prophet. Looks in a glass, that shows what future evils. Or new, or by remissness new-conceived, And so in progress to be hatched and born. Are now to have no successive degrees ; But ere they live, to end. Isab. Yet show some pity. Ang. I show it most of all, when I show justice ; For then I pity those I do not know, Which a dismissed offence would after gall ; YOUNG LADIES* CLASS BOOK. 385 And do him right, that^ answering one foul wrong, Lives not to act another. Be satisfied ; Your brother dies to-morrow ; be content. Isah. So you must be the first that gives this sentence ; And he, that suffers : oh ! 'tis excellent To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant. Mercifiil Heaven ! Thou rather with thy sharp and sulph'rous bolt Splittest the unwedgeable and gnarled oak, Than the soft myrtle : Oh, but man, proud man, Dressed in a little brief authority. Most ignorant of what he's most assured. Plays such fantastic tricks before high Heaven, As make the angels weep. We cannot weigh our brother with yourself: Great men may jest with saints,- — 'tis wit in them ; But, in the less, foul profanation. That in the captain's but a choleric word. Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy. Ang. Why do you put these sayings upon me ? Isab. Because authority, though it err like others, Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself. That skins the vice o' the top : go to your bosom ; Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know That's like my brother's fault ; if it confess A natural guiltiness, such as is his Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue Against my brother's life. Ang. She speaks, 'tis such sense. That my sense bleeds with it. Fare you well. Isah. Gentle my lord, turn back. Ang. I will bethink me ; come again to-morrow. Isab. Hark, how I'll bribe you : good my lord, turn back. Ang. How ! bribe me 1 Isab. Ay, with such gifts, that Heaven shall share with you. Not with fond shekels of the tested gold, Or stones, whose rate is either rich or poor, , As fancy values them ; bat with true prayers, 33 386 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. That shall be up at Heaven, and enter there, Ere sun-rise ; prayers from preserved souls, From fasting maids, whose minds are dedicate To nothing temporal. Ang. Well, come to-morrow. Xsab. Heaven keep your honor safe. LESSON CLXXni. The Passions. — An Ode. — Collins. When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung. The passions oft, to hear her shell. Thronged around her magic cell. Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting. Possessed beyond the Muse's painting ; By turns, they felt the glowmg mind Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined : Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round. They snatched her instruments of sound ; And, as they oft had heard, apart. Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each — for madness ruled the hour — Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewildered laid ; And back recoiled, he knew not why. E'en at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rushed : his eyes, on fire, In lightning owned his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strmgs YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 387 With woful measures, wan Despair Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled — A solemn, strange, and mingled air — 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. But thou, O Hope ! with eyes so fair^ What was thy delighted measure ? Still it whispered promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail. Still would her touch the strain prolong ; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She called on Echo still through all her song : And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft, responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair. And longer had she sung ; but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose. He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down, And, with a withering look. The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread. Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo ; And, ever and anon, he beat The doubling drum with furious heat : And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between. Dejected Pity, at his side. Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. Thy numbers. Jealousy, to nought were fixed — Sad proof of thy distressful state : Of differing themes the veering song was mixed : And now it courted Love ; now, raving, called on Hate. With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired j :i^i 388 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. And, from her wild, sequestered seat. In notes by distance made more sweet, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul ; And, dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels joined the sound : Through glades and glooms, the mingled measures stole, Or, o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, (Round a holy calm diffusing. Love of peace, and lonely musing,) In hollow murmurs died away. But, oh ! how altered was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness — a nymph of healthiest hue— Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew. Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung ! — The hunter's call, to faun and dryad known. The oak-crowned sisters and their chaste-eyed queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen. Peeping from forth their alleys green : Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear. And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial :- He, with viny crown advancing. First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ; But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol. Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought who heard the strain. They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, Amidst the festal-sounding shades. To some unwearied minstrel dancing : While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings. Love framed with Mirth a gay, fantastic round, (Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,) And he, amidst his frolic play. As if he would the charming air repay. Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 389 LESSON CLXXIV. Indolence and Intellectual Dissipation. — Wirt. Wherever I see the native bloom of health and the gen- uine smile of content, I mark down the character as indus- trious and virtuous ; and I never yet failed to have the prepossession confirmed on inquiry. So, on the other hand, wherever I see pale, repining and languid discontent, and hear complaints uttered against the hard lot of humanity, my first impression is, that the character from whom they proceed is indolent, or vicious, or both \ and I have not often had occasion to retract the opinion. There is, indeed, a class of characters, rather indolent than vicious, who are really to be pitied ; whose innocent and captivating amusements, becoming at length their sole pursuits, tend only to whet their sensibility to misfortunes, which they contribute to bring on ; and to form pictures of life so highly aggravated, as to render life itself stale and flat. In this class of victims to a busy indolence, next to those who devote their whole lives to the unprofitable business of writing works of imagination, are those who spend the whole of theirs in reading them. There are several men and women of this description, in the circle of my acquaint- ance ; persons, whose misfortune it is to be released from the salutary necessity of supporting themselves by their own exertions, and who vainly seek for happiness in intellectual dissipation. Bianoa is one of the finest girls in the whole round of my acquaintance, and is now one of the happiest. But when I first became acquainted with her, which was about three years ago, she was an object of pity : pale, emaciated, ner- vous and hysterical, at the early age of seventeen, the days had already come, when she could truly say, she had no pleasure in them. She confessed to me, that she had lain on her bed, day afi;er day, for months together, reading, or rather devouring, with a kind of morbid appetite, every novel that she could lay her hands on — without any pause between them, without any rumination, so that the incidents were all 33* 390 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. conglomerated and confounded in her memory. She had not drawn from them all a single useful maxim for the conduct of life ; but, calculating on the fairy world, which her authors had depicted to her, she was reserving all her address and all her powers for incidents that would never occur, and characters that would never appear. I advised her immediately to change her plan of life ; to take the whole charge of her mother's household upon herself; to adopt a system in the management of it, and adhere to it rigidly ; to regard it as her business exclusively, and make herself responsible for it ; and then, if she had time for it, to read authentic history, which would show her the world as it really was ; and not to read rapidly and superficially, with a view merely to feast on the novelty and variety of events, but deliberately and studiously, with her pen in her hand, and her note-book by her side, extracting, as she went along, not only every prominent event, with its date and cir- cumstances, but every elegant and judicious reflection of the author, so as to form a little book of practical wisdom for herself She followed my advice, and, when I went to see her again, six months afterwards, Bianca had regained all the symmetry and beauty of her form ; the vernal rose t)loomed again on her cheeks, the starry radiance shot from her eyes ; and, with a smile which came directly from her heart, and spoke her gratitude more exquisitely than words, she gave me her hand, and bade me welcome. In short, the divine denunciation, that in the sweat of his brow man should earn his food, is guarantied so effectually, that labor is indispensable to his peace. It is the part of wisdom, to adapt ourselves to the state of being in which we are placed ; and, since here we find that business and indus- try are as certainly the pledges of peace and virtue, as Tacancy and indolence are of vice and sorrow, let every one do, what is easily in his power — create a business, even where fortune may hate made it unnecessary, and pursue that business with all the ardor and perseverance of the direst necessity : so shall we see our country as far excelling others in health, contentment and virtue, as it now surpasses them in liberty and tranquillity. YOUNG LADIES CLASS BOOK. 391 LESSON CLXXV. Darkness. — Byron. I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air ; Morn came, and went — and came, and brought no day ; And men forgot their passions in the dread Of this their desolation ; and all hearts Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light : And they did live by watch-fires ; and the thrones, The palaces of crowned kings, the huts. The habitations of all things which dwell, — Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed. And men were gathered round their blazing homes To look once more into each other's face : Happy were those who dwelt within the eye Of the volcanoes and their mountain torch. A fearful hope was all the world contained : Forests were set on fire ; but, hour by hour, They fell and faded, and the crackling trunks Extinguished with a crash, and all was black. The brows of men, by the despairing light, Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits The flashes fell upon them. Some lay down. And hid their eyes, and wept ; and some did rest Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled ; And others hurried to and fro, and fed Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up With mad disquietude on the dull sky. The pall of a past world ; and then again. With curses, cast them down upon the dust, And gnashed their teeth and howled. The wild birds shrieked, And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, And flap their useless wings : the wildest brutes 392 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. ■ Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawled And twined themselves among the multitude, Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food. And War, which for a moment was no more, Did glut himself again — a meal was bought With blood, and each sat sullenly apart, Gorging himself in gloom : no love was left ; All earth was but one thought — and that was death, Immediate and inglorious ; and men Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh : The meagre by the meagre were devoured ; Even dogs assailed their masters — all, save one And he was faithful to a corse, and kept The birds, and beasts, and famished men, at bay. Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought out no food, But, with a piteous and perpetual moan, And a quick, desolate cry, licking the hand Which answered not with a caress — he died. The crowd was famished by degrees ; but two Of an enormous city did survive, And they were enemies ; they met beside The dying embers of an altar-place. Where had been heaped a mass of holy things For an unholy usage ; they raked up. And, shivering, scraped, with their cold, skeleton hands, The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath Blew for a little life, and made a flame. Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld Each other's aspects— saw, and shrieked, and died — Even of their mutual hideousness they died, Unknowing who he was upon whose brow Famine had written /encZ. The world was void; The populous and the powerful was a lump — Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless— A lump of death— a chaos of hard clay. The rivers, lakes and ocean, all stood still. YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 393 And nothing stirred within their silent depths ; Ships, sailorless, lay rotting on the sea, And their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they dropped, They slept on the abyss without a surge : The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave ; The moon, their mistress, had expired before ; The winds were withered in the stagnant air. And the clouds perished ; Darkness had no need Of aid from them ; she was the universe. S LESSON CLXXVI The Tiger's Cave : — An Adventure among the Mountains of Quito. — Edinburgh Literary Journal. [Translated from the Danish of Elmquest, and the German of Doring.] On leaving the Indian village, we continued to wind round Chimborazo's wide base; but its snow-crowned head no longer shone above us in clear brilliancy, for a dense fog was gathering gradually around it. Our guides looked anxiously towards it, and announced their apprehensions of a violent storm. We soon found that their fears were well founded. The thunder began to roll, and resounded through the moun- tainous passes with the most terrific grandeur. Then came the vivid lightning ; flash following flash — above, around, be- neath, — every where a sea of fire. We sought a momentary shelter in a cleft of the rocks, whilst one of our guides hastened forward to seek a more secure asylum. In a short time, he returned, and informed us that he had discovered a spacious cavern, which would afford us sufficient protection from the elements. We proceeded thither immediately, and, with great difficulty, and not a little danger, at last got into it. When the storm had somewhat abated, our guides ventured out in order to ascertain if it were possible to continue our journey. The cave in which we had taken refuge, was so extremely dark, that, if we moved a few paces from the en- trance, we could not see an inch before us j and we were \:^- 394 >;OUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. debating as to the propriety of leaving it, even before the Indians came back, when we suddenly heard a singular groaning or growling in the farther end of the cavern, which instantly fixed all our attention. Wharton and myself listen- ed anxiously ; but our daring and inconsiderate young friend Lincoln, together with my huntsman, crept about upon their hands and knees, and endeavored to discover, by groping, from whence the sound proceeded. They had not advanced far into the cavern, before we heard them utter an exclamation of surprise ; and they returned to ^ us, each carrying in his arms an animal singularly marked, and about the size of a cat, seemingly of great strength and power, and furnished with immense fangs. The eyes were of a green color ; strong claws were upon their feet ; and a blood-red tongue hung out of their mouths. Wharton had scarcely glanced at them, when he exclaimed in consternation, " We have come into the den of a — " He was interrupted by a fearful cry of dismay from our guides, who came rushing precipitately towards us, calling out, " A tiger ! a tiger !" and, at the same time, with extraordinary rapidity, they climbed up a cedar tree, which stood at the entrance of the cave, and hid themselves among the branches. After the first sensation of horror and surprise, which ren- dered me motionless for a moment, had subsided, I grasped my fire-arms. Wharton had already regained his composure and self-possession ; and he called to us to assist him instant- ly in blocking up the mouth of the cave with an immense stone, which fortunately lay near it. The sense of approach- ing danger augmented our strength ; for we now distinctly heard the growl of the ferocious animal, and we were lost beyond redemption if he reached the entrance before we could get it closed. Ere this was done, we could distinctly see the tiger bounding towards the spot, and stooping in order to creep into his den by the narrow opening. At this fearful moment, our exertions were successful, and the great Btone kept the wild beast at bay. There was a small open space, however, left between the top of the entrance and the stone, through which we could see the head of the animal, illuminated by his glowing eyes, which he rolled glaring with fury upon us. His frightful roar- YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 395 ing, too, penetrated to the depths of the cavern, and was answered by the hoarse growling of the cubs. Our ferocious enemy attempted first to remove the stone with his powerful claws, and then to push it with his head from its place ; and these eiforts, proving abortive, served only to increase his wrath. He uttered a tremendous, heart-piercing howl, and his flaming eyes darted light into the darkness of our retreat. " Now is the time to fire at him," said Wharton, with his usual calmness ; " aim at his eyes ; the ball will go through his brain, and we shall then have a chance to get rid of him." Frank seized his double-barrelled gun, and Lincoln his pistols. The former placed the muzzle within a few inches of the tiger, and Lincoln did the same. At Wharton's com- mand, they both drew the triggers at the same moment ; but no shot followed. The tiger, who seemed aware that the flash indicated an attack upon him, sprang growling from the entrance, but, feeling himself unhurt, immediately turned back again, and stationed himself in his former place. The powder in both pieces was wet. " All is now over," said Wharton ; " we have only now to choose whether we shall die of hunger, together with these animals who are shut up along with us, or open the entrance to the blood-thirsty monster without, and so make a quicker end of the matter." So saying, he placed himself close beside the stone, which, for the moment, defended us, and looked undauntedly upon the lightning eyes of the tiger. Lincoln raved, and Frank took a piece of strong cord from his pocket, and hast- ened to the farther end of the cave ; I knew not with what design. We soon, however, heard a low, stifled groaning ; and the tiger, which had heard it also, became more restless and disturbed than ever. He went backwards and forwards before the entrance of the cave, in the most wild and impetu- ous manner ; then stood still, and, stretching out his neck in the direction of the forest, broke forth into a deafening howl. Our two Indian guides took advantage of this opportunity, to discharge several arrows from the tree. He was struck more than once ; but the light weapons bounded back harm- less from his thick skin. At length, however, one of them struck him near the eye, and the arrow remained sticking in 396 V YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. the wound. He now broke anew into the wildest fury, sprang at the tree, and tore it with his claws, as if he would have dragged it to the ground. But having, at length, succeeded in getting rid of the arrow, he became more calm,^nd laid himself down, as before, in front of the cave. Frank now returned from the lower end of the den, and a glance showed us what he had been doing. In each hand, and dangling from the end of a string, were the two cubs. He had strangled them ; and, before we were aware what he intended, he threw them' through the opening to the tiger. No sooner did the animal perceive them, than he gazed ear- nestly upon them, and began to examine them closely, turning them cautiously from side to side. As soon as he became aware that they were dead, he uttered so piercing a howl of sorrow, that we were obliged to put our hands to our ears. LESSON CLXXVII. The same, — concluded. The thunder had now ceased, and the storm had sunk to a gentle gale ; the songs of birds were again heard in the neighboring forest, and the sunbeams sparkled in the drops that hung from the leaves. We saw, through the aperture, how all nature was reviving, after the wild war of elements, which had so recently taken place ; but the contrast only made our situation the more horrible. We were in a grave, from which there was no deliverance ; and a monster, worse than the fabled Cerberus, kept watch over us. The tiger had laid himself down beside his whelps. He was a beauti- ful animal, of great size and strength ; and his limbs, being stretched out at their full length, displayed his immense power of muscle. A double row of great teeth stood far enough apart to show his large red tongue, from which the white foam fell in large drops. All at once, another roar was heard at a distance, and the tiger immediately rose and an- swered it with a mournful howl. At the same instant, our Indians uttered a shriek, which announced that some new YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. * 397 danger threatened us. A few moments confirmed our worst fears; for another tiger, not "quite so large as the former, came rapidly towards the spot where we were. The howls which the tigress gave, when she had examined the bodies of her cubs, surpassed every thing of horrible that we had yet heard ; and the tiger mingled his mournful cries with hers. Suddenly her roaring was lowered to a hoarse growling, and we saw her anxiously stretch out her head, extend her wide and smoking nostrils, and look as if she were determined to discover immediately the murderers of her young. Her eyes quickly fell upon us, and she made a spring forward, with the intention of penetrating to our place of refuge. Perhaps she might have been enabled, by her immense strength, to push away the stone, had we not, with all our united power, held it against her. When she found that all her efforts were fruitless, she approached the tiger, who lay stretched out beside his cubs, and he rose and joined in her hollow roarings. They stood together for a few mo- ments, as if in consultation, and then suddenly went off at a rapid pace, and disappeared from our sight. T!heir howling died away in the distance, and then entirely ceased. Our Indians descended from their tree, and called upon us to sgize the only possibility of our yet saving ourselves, by in- stant flight ; for that the tigers had only gone round the height to seek another inlet to the cave, with which they were, no doubt, acquainted. In the greatest haste the stone was push- ed aside, and we stepped forth from what we had considered a living grave. We now heard once more the roaring of the tigers, though at a distance ; and, following the example of our guides, we precipitately struck into a side path. From the number of roots and branches of trees, with which the storm had strewed our way, and the slipperiness of the road, our flight was slow and difficult. We had proceeded thus for about a quarter of an hour, when we found that our way led along the edge of a rocky cliff, with innumerable fissures. We had just entered upon it, when suddenly the Indians, who were before us, uttered one of their piercing shrieks, and we immediately became aware that the tigers were in pursuit of us. Urged by despair, we rushed towards one of the breaks, or gulfs, in our 34' 398 V YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. way, over which was thrown a bridge of reeds, that sprang up and down at every step, and could be trod with safety by the light foot of the Indians alone. Deep in the hollow be- low rushed an impetuous stream, and a thousand pointed and jagged rocks threatened destruction on every side. Lincoln, my huntsman, and myself, passed over the chasm in safety ; but Wharton was still in the middle of the waving bridge, and endeavoring to steady himself, when both 'the tigers were seen to issue from the adjoining forest ; and the moment they descried us, they bounded towards us with dreadful roarings. Meanwhile, Wharton had nearly gained the safe side of the gulf, and we were all clambering up the rocky cliff except Lincoln, who remained at the reedy bridge to assist his friend to step upon firm ground. Wharton, though the ferocious animals were close upon him, never lost his courage or presence of mind. As soon as he had gained- the edge of the cliff, he knelt down, and with his sword di- vided the fastenings by which the bridge was attached to the rock. He expected that an effectual barrier would thus be put to the farther progress of our pursuers ; but he was mistaken ; for he had scarcely accomplished his task, when the tigress, without a moment's pause, rushed towards the chasm, and attempted to bound over it. It was a fearful sight to see the mighty animal suspended, for a moment, in the air, above the abyss ; but the scene passed like a flash of lightning. Her strength was not equal to the distance : she fell into the gulf, and, before she reached the bottom, she was torn into a thousand pieces by the jagged points of the rocks. Her fate did not in the least dismay her companion; he followed her with an immense spring, and reached the opposite side, but only with his fore claws ; and thus he clung to the edge of the precipice, endeavoring to gain a footing. The Indians again uttered a wild shriek, as if all hope had been lost. But Wharton, who was nearest the edge of the rock, advanced courageously towards the tiger, and struck his sword into the animal's breast. Enraged beyond all measure, the wild beast collected all his strength, and, with a violent effort, fixing one of his hind legs upon the edge of the cliff, he seized Wharton by the thigh. That heroic man still pre- YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 399 served his fortitude ; he grasped the trunk of a tree with his left hand, to steady and support himself, while, with his right, he wrenched and violently turned the sword, that was still in the breast of the tiger. All this was the work of an instant. The Indians, Frank and myself, hastened to his assistance ; but Lincoln, wha was already at his side, had seized Whar- ton's gun, which lay near upon the ground, and struck so powerful a blow with the butt end upon the head of the tiger, that the animal, stunned and overpowered, let go his hold^ and fell back into the abyss. LESSON CLXXVIIL Tlie Sword. — Miss Landon. 'TwAS the battle field ; and the cold, pale moon Looked down on the dead and dying ; And the wind passed o'er, with a dirge and a wail, Where the young and the brave were lying. With his father's sword in his red right hand, And the hostile dead around him. Lay a youthful chief; but his bed was the ground, And the grave's icy sleep had bound him. A reckless rover, mid death and doom, Passed a soldier, his plunder seeking ; Careless he stepped where friend and foe Lay alike in their life-blood reeking. Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword, The soldier paused beside iit ; He wrenched the hand with a giant's strength. But the grasp of the dead defied it. He loosed his hold, and his noble heart Took part with the dead before him ; And he honored the brave who died sword in hand, As with softened brow he leaned o'er him. 400 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. " A soldier's deaih thou hast boldly died, A soldier's grave won by it ; Before I would take that sword from thine hand^ My own life's blood should dye it. " Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow^ Or the wolf to batten o'er thee ; Or the coward insult the gallant dead, Who in life had trembled before thee." Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth, Where his warrior foe was sleeping ; And he laid him there, in honor and rest, With his sword in his own brave keeping. LESSON CLXXIX. Address to the Deity. — Mrs. Barbauld. God of my life, and Author of my days Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise. And, trembling, take upon a mortal tongue That hallowed name, to harps of seraphs sung : Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more Than vail their faces, tremble, and adore. Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere. Are equal all ; for all are nothing here. All nature faints beneath the mighty name. Which nature's works, through all their parts, proclaim. I feel that name my inmost thoughts control. And breathe an awful stillness through my soul : As by a charm, the waves of grief subside • Impetuous passion stops her headlong tide. At thy felt presence, all emotions cease. And my hushed spirit finds a sudden peace; Till every worldly thought within me dies. And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes ; I YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 40| Till all my sense is lost in infinite, And one vast object fills my aching sight. But soon, alas ! this holy calm is broke ; My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke ; With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain, And mingles with the dross of earth again. But he, our gracious Master, kind as just. Knowing our fi-ame, remembers man is dust. His spirit, ever brooding o'er our mind. Sees the first wish to better hopes inclined ; Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim, And fans the smoking flax into a flame. His ears are open to the softest cry. His grace descends to meet the lifted eye ; He reads the language of a silent tear. And sighs are incense from a heart sincere. Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give ; Accept the vow, and bid the suppliant live ; From each terrestrial bondage set me free ; Still every wish that centres not in thee ; Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease, And point my path to everlasting peace. . If the soft hand of winning Pleasure leads By living waters, and through flowery meads. When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene. And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene, — Oh ! teach me to elude each latent snare. And whisper to my slicj^ng heart, " Beware !" With caution let me hear the Siren's voice. And, doubtful, with a trembling heart rejoice. If, friendless, in a vale of tears I stray, Where briers wound, and thorns perplex my way, — Still let my steady soul thy goodness see. And with strong confidence lay hold on thee ; With equal eye, my various lot receive, Resigned to die, or resolute to live ; Prepared to kiss the sceptre or the rod, While God is seen in all, and all in God. 34* L. 402 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS fiOOK. I read his awful name, emblazoned high, With golden letters, on the illumined sky ; Nor less the mystic characters I see Wrought in each flower, inscribed on every tree ! In every leaf, that trembles to the breeze, I hear the voice of God among the trees. With thee in shady solitudes I walk, With thee in busy, crowded cities talk ; In every creature own thy forming power. In each event thy providence adore : Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul, Thy precepts guide me, and thy fear control. Thus shall I rest unmoved by all alarms, Secure within the temple of thine arms. From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free, And feel myself omnipotent in thee. Then, when the last, the closing hour draws nigh. And earth recedes before my. swimming eye ; When, trembling, on the doubtful edge of fate I stand, and stretch my view to either state ; — Teach me to quit this transitory scene With decent triumph, and a look serene ; Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high. And, having lived to thee, in thee to die. ^ LESSON CLXXX. God. BOWRING. [Translated from the Russian '^f Derzhavik.] O Thou Eternal One ! whose presence bright All space doth occupy, all motion guide ; Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight j Thou only God ! There is no God beside 1 Being above all beings ! Mighty One ! Whom none can comprehend and none explore ; Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone : Embracing all,— supporting,— ruling o'er, — Being, whom we call God!— and know no more. YOUl>rG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 403 In its sublime research, philosophy May measure out the ocean-deep ; may count The sands, or the sun's rays ; but, God ! for thee There is no weight nor measure : — none can mount Up to thy mysteries. Reason's brightest spark, Though kindled by thy light, in vain would try To trace thy counsels, infinite and dark ; And thought is lost, ere thought can soar so high, Even like past moments in eternity. Thou from primeval nothingness didst call First chaos, then existence. Lord, on thee Eternity had its foundation : all Sprung forth from thee — of light, joy, harmony, Sole origin ; — all life, all beauty thine. Thy word created all, and doth create ; Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine. Thou art, and wert, and shalt be, glorious! great ' Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate ! Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround ; Upheld by thee, by thee inspired with breath. Thou the beginning with the end hast bound. And beautifully mingled life and death. As sparks mount upwards from the fiery blaze. So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from thee And, as the spangles in the sunny rays Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry Of heaven's bright army glitters in thy praise. A million torches, lighted by thy hand. Wander unwearied through the blue abyss : They own thy power, accomplish thy command, All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. What shall we call them 1 Piles of crystal light 1 A glorious company of golden streams ? Lamps of celestial ether burning bright ? Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams ? But thou to these art as the noon to night. 404 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. Yes ; as a drop of water in the sea, All this magnificence in thee is lost : What are ten thousand wo;-lds compared to thee? And what am /, then } Heaven's unnumbered hoat,- Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed In all the glory of sublimest thought, — Is but an atom in the balance, weighed Against thy greatness ; is a cipher brought Against infinity ! Oh ! what am I then ? — Nought ! Nought ! But the effluence of thy light divine. Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too; Yes ; in my spirit doth thy spirit shine. As shines the sun-beam in a drop of dew. Nought ! But I live, and on hope's pinions fly, Eager, towards thy presence ; for in thee I live, and breathe, and dwell ; aspiring high, Even to the throne of thy divinity. I am, O God ; and surely thou must be ! Thou art ! directing, guiding all, thou art ! Direct my understanding, then, to thee ; Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart : Though but an atom midst immensity. Still I am something, fashioned by thy hand ! I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth, On the last verge of mortal being stand, Close to the realms where angels have their birth, Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land ! The chain of being is complete in me ; In me is matter's last gradation lost] And the next step is spirit — Deity ! I can command the lightning, and am dust ! A monarch, and a slave ; a worm, a god ! Whence came I here, and how ? so marvellously Constructed and conceived ? unknown ! This clod Lives surely through some higher energy ; *or, from itself alone, it could not be» YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 405 Creator, yes; thy wisdom and thy word Created me ! Thou Source of life and good 1 Thou Spirit of my spirit, and my Lord ! Thy light, thy love, in their bright plenitude. Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear The garments of eternal day, and 'wing Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere, Even to its Source — to thee — its Author, there. O thoughts ineffable ! O visions blessed ! Though worthless our conceptions all of thee, Yet shall thy shadowed image fill our breast, And waft its homage to thy Deity. God, thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar ; Thus seek thy presence, Being wise and good ; Midst thy vast works admire, obey, adore ; And, when the tongue is eloquent no more. The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. LESSON CLXXXL Scene from *^The Vespers of Palermo ;" — Erihert and Con- stance. — Mrs. Hemans. Constance. Will you not hear me 1 — Oh ! that they who need Hourly forgiveness, they who do but live, -» While Mercy's voice, beyond the eternal stars, Wins the great Judge to listen, should be thus, In their vain exercise of pageant power. Hard and relentless ! — Gentle brother, yet 'Tis in your choice to imitate that Heaven, Whose noblest joy is pardon. Erihert. 'Tis too late. You have a soft and moving voice, which pleads With eloquent melody ; — but they must die. Constance. What, die! — for words? — for breath, which leaves no trace 406 YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. To sully the pure air, wherewith it blends, And is, being uttered, gone ?— Why, 'twere enough, For such a venial fault, to be deprived One little day of man's free heritage, Heaven's warm and sunny light ! — Oh ! if you deem That evil harbors in their souls, at least Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest, Shall bid stern Justice wake. Erihert. I am not one \ Of those weak spirits, that timorously keep watch For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been Where power sits crowned and armed. — And mark me, sister ; To a distrustful nature, it might seem Strange, that your lips thus earnestly should plead For these Sicilian rebels. O'er my being Suspicion holds no power. — And yet take; note. . — I have said, and they must die. Z^* . Constance. Have you no fear ? Erihert. Of what 1 — that heaven should fall ? Constance. No ; but that earth % Should arm in madness. Brother, I have seen Dark eyes bent on you, e'en midst festal throngs. With such deep hatred settled in their glance, My heart hath died within me. Erihert. Am I then To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a girl, A dreaming girl, hath trembled at a look ? Constance. Oh! looks are no illusions, when the soul, Which may not speak in words, can find no way But theirs, to liberty ! Have not these men Brave sons, or noble brothers ? Erihert. Yes ; whose name It rests with me to make a word of fear, A sound forbidden midst the haunts of men. Constance. But not forgotten ! — Ah ! beware, beware ! — Nay, look not sternly on me. — There is one Of that devoted band, who yet will need Years to be ripe for death. He is a youth, A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek YOUNG LADIES' CLASS BOOK. 407 The spring-time glow is lingering. 'Twas but now His mother left me, with a timid hope Just dawning in her breast ; — and I — I dared To foster its faint spark.— You smile ! — Oh ! then [e will be saved ! Erihert. Nay, I but smiled to think '"What a fond fool is hope ! She may be taught To deem that the great sun will change his course To work her pleasure, or the tomb give back Its inmates to her arms. In sooth, 'tis strange ! Yet, with your pitying heart, you should not thus Have mocked the boy's sad mother — I have said. You should not thus have mocked her ! — Now, farewell. Constance. Oh, brother ! hard of heart! for deeds like these There must be fearful chastening, if, on high, Justice doth hold her state. And I must tell Yon desolate mother, that her fair young son Is thus to perish ! — H'aply the dread tale May slay her too ; for Heaven is merciful. — 'Twill be a bitter task ! LESSON CLXXXII. Address to Light. — Milton. Hail, holy Light ! offspring of Heaven first oorn, Or of the Eternal coeternal beam, May I express thee unblamed ? since God is light, And never but in unapproached light Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee, Bright effluence of bright essence increate : Or hearest th»u rather, pure ethereal stream, Whose fountain who shall tell 1 before the sun. Before the heavens thou wert, and, at the voice Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest The rising world of waters dark and deep, Won from the void and formless infinite. 408 YOUNG LADIES- CLASS BOOK. , ^ Thee I revisit safe, And feel thy sovereign, vital lamp ; but thou Revisitest not these eyes, that roll in vain To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn ; So thick a drop serene hath quenched their orbs, Or dim suffusion veiled. Yet not the more Cease I to wander, where the muses haunt Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, Smit with the love of sacred song ; but chief Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath. That wash thy hallowed feet, and warbling flow, Nightly I visit : nor sometimes forget Those other two, eqjualled with me in fate, So were I equalled with them in renown. Blind Thamyris and blind Maeonides, And Tiresias and Phineus, prophets old Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move Harmonious numbers ; as the wakeful bird Sings darkling, and, in shadiest covert hid, Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year Seasons return ; but not to m^ returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ; But cloud instead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men Cut off, and, for the book of knowledge fair. Presented with a universal blank Of nature's works, to me expunged and razed, And wisdom, at one entrance, quite shut out. So much the rather thou, celestial Light, Shine inward, and the mind, through all her powers, Irradiate ; there plant eyes ; all mist from thence Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight. END. , tl4 '^^.. 6 4 « 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORJROWED EDUCATION-PSYCHOLOGY LIBRARY TEl. NO. 642-4209 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. MAR 1 3 REC'D -9 PW LD 21A-15m-ll,'72 (Q5761S10)476 — A-32 General Library University of Califormi Berkeley