AJ.f d, ^^^^^/^y^^^ BLMf^>^ : t^^jr'jo. (/ SANDEES' RHETORICAL, OR, UNION SIXTH READER EMBRACING A FULL KXPOSITfON OP THB PRINCIPLES OF RHETORICAL READING; RUMER0U8 SPECIMENS, BOTH IN PROSE AND POETRY, FROM THE bSBT WRITERS, ENQUSH AND AMERICAN, AS EXERCISES FOR PRACTICE; VORMINO TOGETHER A BRIEF, THOUGH COHPRBHENSITE COURSE OIT INSTRUCTION IN ENGLISH LITERATURE. (^ BY CHARLES W^ SANDERS, A.M., AUTHOR OF "A SERIES OF 8CB00L READERS," " YODNQ LADIES' READER," " DEFINER, AND ANALYZER," " ELOCDTIONARY CHART," ETC. IVISON, BLAKEMAN, TAYLOR & CO., NEW YOKK AND CHICAGO. JEDUCATION DEPT. Entered according; to Act of Congress, b the year 1862. by CHARLES W. SANDERS, IB the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District of New Tork. PREFACE VlE>\ AD merely in the light of its primary purpose, without refereuc t to collateral aims, the present work is simply a com- prehens* re course of reading. But this view is quite inadequate, because superficial. It is like examining a watch without opening the case. The main part is left out of sight. A bet Jer view may be gained by a different illustration ; for, as in a great garden, representing all the products of the earth, — where art works with nature in promotion of the general design, — where color, form, and variety unite in wooing the sense of heauty, — where every noxious growth is closely watched and carefully excluded, — and where, in addition to all this, a guide is at hand to point out the character of each production, so here, in the compass of a single volume, is a collection of specimens from every part of the literary world, all duly arranged and duly explained, and all shedding the selectest moral influence. liut, to enable the young reader better to appreciate all this variety of style and subject, pertinent collateral instructions and suggestions are provided throughout. These reach down to the very elements of vocal utterance. They reach up to whatever, in the matter of reading, can either be taught by rules or illus- trated by example. M193187 ''' It preface. But the range of* tLe work is wider still. The book is, indeed, a sort of History of Literature. Here, accordingly, will be found, in the form of Notes, numerous original sketches of literary character, brief, though comprehensive, as the space requires, but all in the spirit of truth and fairness ; while longer sketches, drawn by the ablest hands, and tracing with precisioD the subtle shades of literary merit, find place, as well they may, among the Exercises to be read in regular course. These sketches — even the best of them — are not, of course, exhaustive. They mark the main points, however, and cannot fail — even the poorest of them — to awaken that interest which always attends the perusal of a piece whose author is known to the reader by something more than the mere announcement of his name. They show how, as in the case of Cowper, labor imparts a finish which no time can wear off, and how, as in the Bame beautiful example, wit, humor, and gayety may be found in close alliance with all that is pure in sentiment and refined in language ; how worth, in spite of obstacles, rises slowly, it may be, but surely, to its own proper level ; how the walls of a prison, as in the case of Bunyan, and even total blindness, as in that of Milton, seem rather to quicken than to hinder the free movements of genius j how even genius itself, however tran- scendent, without the salutary check of goodness, is, after all, only what the ignorant deem of a comet — a mighty messenger of mischief; and how, in short, opportunities, the best and the worst, are alike unavailing, if the disposition be wanting to reacn Tionorable achievement. With these few words respecting the plan, purpose, matter, and execution of the work, the Union Rhetorical Reader is respectfully submitted to the judgment of teachers Nkw Touk, Sept. 1862. CONTENTS. PART FIRST. ELOCUTION. PAOl Section I. — Artictjlatiok 13 Elementary Sounds of the Letters 14 Substitutes for the Vowel Elements 15 Substitutes for the Consonant Elements 16 Errors in Articulation 16 Combinations of Consonants 17, 18 Examples to illustrate Indistinct Articulation 19 Miscellaneous Examples 20 Section II. — Accent and Emphasis .21 Examples of Primary and Secondary Accent 21 Examples of Intensive Emphasis 22 Examples of Absolute Emphasis 23 Examples of Antithetic Emphasis 24 Section III. — Inflections 25 Monotone 26 Rising and Falling Inflections 27 Rules for the use of Inflections . . . . ', . . 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33 The Circumflex 34 Section IV. — Modulatiojt 35 Pitch of Voice 36 Quantity 37 Rules for Quantity 38 Quality 39 Rules for Quality 40 Notation in Modulation 41 Examples for Exercise in Modulation 41, 42, 43, 44 Section V. — The Rhetorical Pause 45, 46 PART SECOND. EXERCISES IN RHETORICAL READING. CZBRCISE lAOE 1. The Sky, John Rcskin, ... 47 2. The Heavens declare the Glory of God, . Addison, 51 3. Grace preferable to Beauty, Oliver Goldsmith, . 53 4. Sandalphon — A Legend, Longfellow, ... 66 5. A Dream of Summer, John G. Whittier, . 58 (6) VI CONTENTS BZEBCI8I PAOl 6. The Angel in the Thunderstorm, .... John Wilson, . . 60 7. Roprecht the Robber, Abridged froviSovTBEY, 62 8. Scene from Hadad, James A. Hillhousb, 71 9. The Proud Miss Macbride, John G. Saxe, ... 76 10. The Ettrick Shepherd, Robert Chambers, . 83 11. Queen Mary's Landing, James Hogg, ... 87 12. Death of Mary Queen of Scots, .... John Lingard, ... 92 13 Toleration — An Apologue, ...... Jeremy Taylor, . . 96 14. Address to the Heavenly Bodies, .... Henry Ware, Jr., . 97 15. The Shepherd and the Philosopher, . . . John Qay, ... 9S 16. The Prodigal Son— ^ Parable, .... Luke, Chap, xv., . . 101 17. The Vase and the Pitcher, Jane Taylor, . . . 103 18. Cowper the Poet, Thomas Campbell, . 105 19. Passages from Cowper : — God observed in Nature 108 Love of Liberty 108 Love of Country 108 Wisdom and Knowledge 109 The true Freeman 109 Affectation in the Pulpit 110 The Positive Talker 110 20. The Senate of Rome and the American 1 t «^,» ir««c,w,„™ ^^^ Congress, j Louis Kossuth, . . Ill 21. The Men to make a State, Geo. W. Doane, . . 112 22. The Diver, \^From the Gef^an of ' I Schiller by Bulwer, 116 23. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, .... New Am. Cyclopaedia, 122 24. The Song of Hiawatha, Longfellow, . . . 123 25. Hiawatha's Wooing, Longfellow, . 26. The Eleventh Commandment — An Anecdote, Anon., .... 27. Without Charity all Gifts are as nothing, . 1 Cor. Chap, xiii., 28. Sketch of Shakspeare, Samuel Johnson, 29. Character of Hamlet, William Hazlitt, 30. Scene from Hamlet, Shakspeare, . 31. Scene from Hamlet {continued), .... Shakspeare, 32. The Fate of Macgregor, James Hogo, 33. Charade on the Name of Campbell the Poet, W. M, Praed, . 34. Charade on the word Blockhead, . . . . W. M. Praed, . Charade on Dr. Barnard Samuel Johnson, 125 130 133 134 138 140 145 150 154 155 156 35. The Spirit of British Liberty, Sir James Mackintosh, 157 -" - ------ - jgg 162 167 169 36. Letter to the Duke of Bedford, .... JuniuS; 37. Men of One Idea, J. G. Holland, 38. Imagination, Barry Cornwall, 39. Sketch of Lord Brougham, T. Noon Talfourd, 4rt T> 1 i iu T» A /• T»i.M- ^ Demoathenea, translated 40. Reply to the Party of Phihp, j 4^ lord Brougham, 171 41. Ode to Rain, Samuel T. Coleridge, 175 42. Why does your Hair turn White ? . . . W. Hunis, .... 177 43. Epitaphs, 179 On the Countess of Pembroke, . . . Ben Jonson, .... 180 On a Lady famed for her Caprice, . . Robert Burns, . . . 180 On Himself, S. T. Coleridge, . . 180 Punning Epitaph on Joseph Blackett, Byron, 181 On Samuel Johnson, William Cow?er, . . 181 On Charles II., Rochester, . , . . 182 Sir Isaac Newtoti, Pope, 182 A Living Author's Epitaph, .... Cowley, 182 On a Miser, Anonymous, .... 183 CONTENTS. VII eXBRCISE PAOa 44. Nothing but Leaves, Anonymous, ... 183 45. The Story of Le Fevre, Sterne 184 46. Laugh on, Laugh on, to-day ! W. M, Praed, ... 193 47. Hymn of Boyhood, A. Cleveland Coxe, . 195 48. Spiritual Freedom— What is it? .... Channino, .... 199 The Present Age, Channino, .... 200 49. Speech of Lord Mansfield on Privilege, 203 60. Sleep, Mr. Speaker ! W. M. Praed, ... 205 61. Parental Ode to my Little Son, .... Thomas Hood, ... 206 62. Song of the Shirt, Thomas Hood, ... 203 63. Man's Works shall follow him, .... John G. Whittieb, . 212 64. Resting-Placos for the Dead interesting to ) jyjj^g g^^^y ^ ^ 213 the Living, J » • • • 65. The Bell at Greenwood, . Arthur Morrell, . . 216 66. New Year's Eve, Charles Lamb, . . . 218 67. Ring out the Old Year, Tennyson, .... 220 68. Passages from PoUok : — Friends, 22t The Miser, 222 Fame, 222 Fate of Byron, 223 The Want above all other Wants, 223 59. The Dead Mother, Anonymous, .... 224 60. Dirge, Charles G. Eastman, 226 61. Overthrow of Belshazzar, Barry Cornwall, . 227 62. Excerpts from the Autocrat of the Break- ) Oliver Wendell Holmes, fast Table, J 228 63. Not on the Battle-Field John Pierpont, . . 232 64. Scene from the Honey-Moon, John Tobin, .... 235 65. The Lord of Burleigh, Tennyson, .... 242 66. Last Moments of Mozart, 246 67. Our One Life, Horatius Bonar, . . 248 fi8. A Rill from the Town Pump, Hawthorne, ... 250 69. Sonnets:— Sonnet ttpon Sonnets, Wordsworth, . . . 254 On his own Blindness Milton 254 To Milton, WoRDSV jRth, . . . 255 To Sleep, Wordsworth, . . . 255 The Moon's Mild Ray, John H. Bryant, . . 256 Upon a Primrose, John Clare,- . . . 256 Sabbath Morn, John Leyden, . . . 257 Shakspeare, Hartley Coleridge, 257 On Beauty, Shakspkare, . . . 258 Dwellings of the Dead, Blackwood's Magazine,258 70. Cicero against Mark Antony Translated by BROVGnAM,2b9 71. Richard the Third and Macbeth, .... William Hazlitt, . 261 72. Scene from Macbeth, Shakspkare, . . . 263 73. Scene from Richard IIL, Shakspeare, . . . 267 74. Richard of Gloster, John G. Saxe, ... 268 75. Chateaubriand and Sir Walter Scott, . . Alison, 271 76. No Religion without Mysteries, .... Chateaubriand, . . 274 ^'^' ^^Cav^aulf ""^ ^°'^^' ''"'^ *^^ ^*'^*'^° } ^'^ Walter Scott, . 276 78. Saladin and Malek Adhel, New Mon. Magazine, 282 79. The Life of a Naturalist, John James Audubon, 288 80. The Ministry of the Doves, Susan FenimoreCooper,290 81. The Church at Belem, . . . . . T. Noon Talfourd, . 292 vrtil CONTENTS. CXEBCI8B PAGI 82. Short Antithetical Passages: — The Spiritual and the Natural, ... 1 CoR. Chap, xv., . . 294 The Bible adapted to all, Mrs. Sarah S. Ellis, 295 Tact versus Talent, London Atlas, . . . 295 RoUa to the Peruvians, Sheridan, .... 296 Catiline's Forces in Contrast with the ) r>,^„„^ one Roman Army, | Cicero, 296 Contrasts in Man, Young, 297 The true Critic, Pope, 297 Chivalry and Puritanism, .... BANCRaPT, .... 298 Homer and Virgil, ....... Pope, 298 83. War Song, Sir Walter Scott, . 299 84. Hunting Song, Sir Walter Scott, . 801 85. Song of Peace, Cowper, 302 86. Sketch of Webster, E. P. Whipple, . . 303 87. Importance of the Union, Webster, 307 88. Life intended to be Happy, L. IL Grindon, . . 309 89. The American Flag J. Rodman Drakb, . 312 90. Words from Holy Writ :— Whence cometh Wisdom ? . . . . Job xxviii., .... 314 Confidence in God, Psalm xxiii., . . . 314 Maxims and Observations, .... Proverbs xxvii., . . 315 Call to Faith and Repentance, . . . Isaiah Iv,, .... 315 Deeds, not Words, Jeremiah vii., . . . 315 Seek first the Kingdom of God, . . Matthew vi., . . . 316 Duties enjoined, Romans xii., .... 316 General Exhortation, Philippians iv., . . 317 The Tongue an unruly Member, . . James iii., .... 317 i»l. Coronation of Napoleon, Madame Junot, . . 318 92. Sketch of Bonaparte, Charles Phillips, . 321 93. Eulogy on Franklin, . Mirabeau, .... 324 94. Trial of Baxter, James Stephen, . . 325 95. Filial Piety, Sheridan, .... 328 »»-^"'«-' {"'A^/^rv-LZ" ?°' io 97. The Coral Insect, Mrs. Sigourney, . . 331 98. The Aim of Don Quixote, George Ticknor, . . 333 99. Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, . . . Cervantes, .... 336 100. The Fatal Charge, Chapman and Shirley, 339 101. The Reign of Terror, Macaulay, .... 346 102. Ultimate Triumph of Public Opinion, . . Webster, 348 '^^' ^Dilemmr. ^]'^^'''^'-^'\ Pickwick's | ^^^^^^^ j^^^^^^^^ ^ 3^9 104. Another^Sc^n^^ P*ickwick,^Sam Well | ^^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^^ ^ 35^ 105. The F :nd Boy's Speech, Park Benjamin, . . 358 106. Duty ^>f the Governnaent in the Present) q^^_ j^ Prentice, . 360 107. Lip 5S on a Skeleton, Anonymous, .... 364 108. Sketch of Wordsworth, Chambers, .... 365 109. Intimations of Immortality, Wordsworth, . . . 367 110. Prospects of the Republic, Edward Everett, . 370 111. The Widow and her Son, Washington Irving, . 372 112. Eulogy on Washington, Francis C. Gray, . . 377 113. Washington's Solicitude for the Union, . Webster 379 114 The Mill, M. Elva Wood, . . 382 U'^ Hfigar in the Wilderness, N. P. Willis, . . . 384 Sketch of Samuel Johnson, Thos. B. Shaw, . . 388 CONTENTS. IZ CXERCI8B PAGB 117. Letter to Lord Chesterfield, Samoel Johnsoh, . . 392 118. Portrait of James Boswell, Macadlay, .... 394 119. Passages from Boswell's Life of Johnson, . 397 120. The Mocking Bird, Thomas Nuttall, . . 400 J 21. Scene from the Lady of the Lake, . . . Sir Walter Scott, . 402 122. The Borrowed Umbrella, Douglas Jerrold, . 415 123. Sketch of Addison, New Am. Cyclopedia, 418 124. Discretion, not Cunning Addison, 420 125. Moore as a Poet, Robert Chambers, . 423 126. Specimens from Thomas Moore : — The Meeting of the Waters, 424 There's nothing true but Heaven, 425 The Lake of the Dismal Swamp, .426 127. Trial and Execution of Charles L, . . . Hume, 428 128. Passages from Campbell's " Pleasures of Hope :" — Hope Kindled by Distant Objects, 432 Hope Lingered when all else had Fled, 433 Hope animates the Hero, 433 Hope invoked to cheer the Home of Poverty, 433 Hope, the Mother's Inspiration, 434 Hope soothes even the poor Maniac, 435 Hope gives Pledge of Progress, 435 No Hope of Happiness without Woman, . 435 Life without Christian Hope, 436 Hope the sole solace in the Dying Hour, 436 Hope of future Happiness inspiring, 437 Hope Eternal, 437 129. Cooper the American Novelist, .... RuFUS W. Griswold, 438 130. Escape of the Frigate, J. Frnimore Cooper, 440 131. Escape of the Frigate (continued), ... J. Fenimore Cooper, 446 132. Thanatopsis, Wm. Cullen Bryant, 452 133. Christian in Doubting Castle, .... John Bunyan, . . . 455 134. Cato's Soliloquy, Addison, 460 135. Passages from Burns : — The Wish for Manhood, 462 Pleasures Evanescent, 462 Money not to minister to Pride or Avarice, 463 A noble Anchor in the Tempest of Life, 463 The Rich and Great not all truly blest, 463 The Els we make for Ourselves and for Others, 464 Judge not thy Brother, 464 Grace before Dinner, 464 136. Piety and Virtue Distinguished, .... Young, 46a 137. Dante and Milton compared, Macaiilat, .... 467 138. Satan's Address to the Sun, Milton, 469 139 Scene of the French Revolution, . . . Felicia HemanSj . . 471 140. Heart and Head Susan Fenimore C30PER,474 141. Ode on the Passions, William Collins, . . 476 142. Burke and Chatham, William Hazlitt, . 480 143. The Invasion of the Carnatic, .... Edmund Burke, . . 482 144. The War in America, Lord Chatham, . . 484 145. Speech on the Overtures of Bonaparte, . Charles James Fox, 487 146. The Battle of Blenheim, .'..... Southey, 489 147. Elegy written in a Country Churchyard, . Thomas Gray, . . . 492 148. Parallel between Pope and Dryden, . . Samuel Johnson, . . 49? 149. Alexander's Royal Feast, Dryden, 50* 150. Messiah's Coming, Pope, 504 151. Washington Irving as a Writer, .... New Am. Cyclopaedia, 607 1* 5 R Z CONTENTS. EXERCISX PAfll 152. Tea-Parties in Old Times, Washington Iryinci, . 508 153. Quarrel Scene between Brutus and Cassiua, Shakspeare, . . . 511 154. Dream of an Opium Eater, De Quincey, . . . 515 155. Marco Bozzaris, Halleck, .... 517 156. Address to the Bristol Volunteers, . . . Robert Hall, . . . 519 157. Wonderful Contrast, Bancroft, .... 520 158. The Story of Lavinia, Thomson, 523 159. Apostrophe to the Ocean, Byron, 526 160. Sketch of Byron, Macaulay, .... 528 161. " Life Thoughts" from Beecher: — The object of Training, 532 A Blessed Bankruptcy, ... 533 Work, not Worry, 633 Christian Man's Life, 534 Ugly kind of Forgiveness, 534 A Noble Man, 534 The Severest Test of Friendship, 534 True way of looking at a Gift, 535 Scriptural Sobriety, 535 Home, 535 162. Epithalamium, Jo^N 6. C. Brainard, 536 163. Serenade, James G. Percival, . 537 164. Pictures of Memory, Alice Cary, .... 640 165. The UU of Life, Phcebe Gary, ... 541 166. Outward Bound, Emily C. Judson, . . 543 167. Days that are Gone, Charles Mackay, . 546 168. The Irish not Aliens, Richard Lalor Sheil, 548 169. Passages from Akenside : — Beauty the Ministrcss of Truth and Good, 551 Moral Sublimity, 552 Nature's Charms open to all, 552 Apostrophe to his Birthplace, 553 170. The Raven, Edgar A. Poe, ... 554 171. Fine Retort, William Wirt, ... 659 172. The Declaration of Independence, . . . John Quincy Adams, . 561 173. Last Words of John Quincy Adams, . . William H. Seward, 562 174. God and Heaven, Anonymous, .... 663 175. Each and All, Ralph Waldo Emerson, 564 176. Parting of Hector and Andromache, . . Homer, 566 177. Farewell to the Senate, Henry Clay, ... 571 178. The Midnight Sun, Bayard Taylor, . . 674 179. Opening Stanzas of the Minstrel, . . . Beattie, 575 180. The Blessing of Peace, Charles Sfmner, . . 577 181. Passages from Bishop Heber:— r Pictures of Palestine, 578 The Lilies and the Birds, 579 Ihe Moonlight March, 580 182. Spartacus to the Gladiators, E. Kellogg, .... 681 183. The Drowned Mariner, Elizabeth Oakes Smith,583 184. Passages from Crabbe : — Portrait of a Peasant, 586 Gradual approaches of Age, 688 185. True Love, Harriet Martineau, 689 186. 0, had I the Wings, J. G. Percival, . . 691 187. Gesler and William Tell, J. Sheridan Knowles, 593 188. Cupid's Adventure, Anacreon, .... 695 189. God everywhere, Hugh Hdtton, . . 597 190. Fossil Poetry, Trench, 599 ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS. PAQB Adams, John QcifrcT, . . . 660 Addison, Joseph, . . 61, 420, 460 Akenside, Mark, 661 Alison, Archibald, .... 271 Anaoreon, 595 Anonymous, 130, 183, 224, 364, 563 Audubon, John Jamhs, . . . 288 Bancroft, George, . . 298, 620 Beattie, James, 676 Beecher, Henry Ward, . . 632 Benjamin, Park, 358 » Bible, 101, 133, 294, 314, 315, 316, 317 bonar, horatius, .... 248 Boswell, James, 397 Brainard, John G. C, . . . 536 Brougham, Lord, . . . 171, 259 Bryant, J. H., 256 Bryant, W. C, . . . . 382, 452 BuLWER, E. G., 115 BuNYAN, John, 455 Burns, Robert, . . , 180, 462 BuRKE, Edmund, .'.... 482 Byron, Lord, .... 181, 526 Campbell, Thomas, . . 105, 432 Gary, Alice, ...... 540 Gary, Phcebe, 641 Cervantes, Miguel^ . . . 336 Chambers, Robert, . 83, 365, 423 Channing, W. E., . . 199, iOO Chapman, George, .... 339 Chateaubriand, 274 Chatham, 484 Cicero, Marcus Tullius, 259, 296 Clare, John, 256 Clay, Henry, 671 Coleridge, Hartley, . . . 257 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 174, 180 Collins, William, . ... 476 Cooper, J. Fenimore, . 440, 446 Cooper, Susan Fenimore, 289, 474 Cowley, 182 CowPER, William, . 108, 181, 302 CoxE, A, Cleveland, . . . 195 Crabbe, George, . . . 586, 588 Cyclopedia, New American, 122, 418, 507 Demosthenes, 171 Doane, Geo. W., . . . . 112 Drake, Joseph Eodman, . 312 Dickens, Charles, . . 349, 364 Dryden, John, 600 De Quincey, 615 Eastman, Charles G., . . . 226 Ellis, Mrs. Sarah S., . . . 295 Emerson, Ralph Waldo, . . 564 Everett, Edward, .... 370 Fanshawe, Miss, 829 Fox, Charles James, .... 487 Gay, John, 98 Goldsmith, Oliver, .' . . . 52 Gray, Francis C, 377 Gray, Thomas, 492 Grindox, L. H., 309 Griswold, Eufus W., .... 438 (11) Xll ALPHABETICAL LIST Uf AETHORS. PAOE Hall, Robert, 619 Halleck, Fitz-Qreenb, . , 617 Hawthorhe, Nathaniel, . . 250 Hazlitt, William, . 138, 281, 480 IIeber, Bishop, 578 llEMANn, Felicia, 471 HiLLBO'JSE, James A., . . . 70 Hogg, James, 87, 150 HtLMB'j, Oliver Wendell, . 228 Homer, 566 Hood, Thomas, 206, 208 Hume, David, 428 HuNis, W., 177 Holland, J. G., 162 Irving, Washington, . . . 372, 508 Jerrold, Douglas, .... 415 Johnson, Samuel, 134, 156, 179, 392, 497 JoNSON, Ben, 180 JuDSON, Emilt C, 543 Junot, Madame, . . . . . 318 Junius, 158 Kellogo, E. 581 Knowles, J. Sheridan, . . . 593 Kossuth, Ljuis, Ill Lamt), C'i^RLKS, 218 Leydi:n, John, 257 LiNGATiD, John, ...... 91 Longfellow, Henry W., 56, 123, 125 London Atlas, 295 Macaulat, . . 345, 394, 467, 528 Mackay, Charles, .... 546 Mackintosh, 157 Magazine, Blackwood's, . . 258 Magazine, New Monthly, . 282 Mansfield, Lord, 203 Martineau, Harriet, . . . 589 Milton, John, .... 254, 469 MlUABEAU, 324 Moore, Thomas, 424 Nuttall, Thomas, Percival, J. G., , Phillips, Chas., , 400 537. 591 , . 321 paob Pierpont, John, 232 PoE, Edgar A., 554 POLLOK, 221 Pope, Alex., 182, 297, 298; 504, 566 Praed, W. M., . 154, 155, 193, 205 Prentice, Geo. D., .... 360 Procter, 167, 227 ROCHESTEB, 182 RusKiN, John, 47 Saxe, John G., 75, 268 Schiller, Johann Fred., . . 115 Scott, Sir Walter, 276, 299, 301, 402 Seward, W. XL, 562 Shakspeare, 140, 145, 258, 263, 267, 511 Shaw, Thos. B., 388 Sheil, Richard Lalor, . . . 548 Sheridan, R. B., . . . 296, 328 Shirley, James, 339 Smith, E. Oakes, 583 SiGOURNEY, LyDIA II., . . . 331 Southey, Robert, .... 62, 489 Sterne, Latoence, .... 184 Stephen, James, 325 Story, Judge, 213 Sumner, Charles, .... 577 Talfourd, T. Noon, . . 169, 292 Taylor, Bayard, 574 Taylor, Jane, .... 103, 330 Taylor, Jeremy, 96 Tennyson, Alfred, . . 220, 242 Thomson, James, 523 TiCKNOR, George, 333 Tobin, John, 234 Trench, Richai^d Chevenix, . 599 Ware, Jr., Henry, .... 97 Webster, Daniel, . 307, 348, 379 Whipple, E. P., 303 Whittier, J. G., ^ . . . . 68, 212 Willis, N. P., ."'r*". " . . . 383 Wilson, John, 60 Wirt, William, 659 Wordsworth, William, 254 255,367 Young, 297, 465 SANDERS' RHETORICAL READER. PART FIRST. ELOCUTION. Elocution is the art of delivering written or extempo raneous composition with force, propriety, and ease. It deals, therefore, with words, not only as individuals, but as members of a sentence, and parts of a connected discourse : including every thing necessary to the just expression of the sense. Accordingly, it demands, in a special manner, attention to the following particulars ; viz.. Articulation, Accent, Emphasis, Inflection, Modulation, and Pauses. SECTION L articulation. Articulation is the art of uttering distinctly and justly the letters and syllables constituting a word. It deals, therefore, with the elements of words, just as elocu- tion deals with the elements of sentences : the one securing the true enunciation of each letter, or combination of letters, the other giving to each word, or combination of words, such a delivery as best expresses the meaning of the author. It is the basis of all good reading, and should be carefully practiced by the learner. (18\ 14 .8;A_N DELS' UNION SERIES. ELEMENTARY SOUNDS OF THE LETTERS. \OWEL SOUNDS. TONICS EkmeuL Power, 1 -»A as in Jpe. 2.— *A (( ^rm. 3— 'A (( ^11. 4.— *A « At. 5.— »A « Care. 6.— 'A (( ^sk. 7.— ^E « Eve. 8.— »E (( End. 9.— 'I (i Ice. 10.— «I <( It. 11.— iQ « Old. 12.— «0 (( Do. 13.— »0 (( Ox. 14.— ^U « Use. 15.— '^U « Up. 16.— »U u Pull. 17.— 01 u Oil 18.— OU u Out. CONSONANT SOUNDS. SUB-TONICS. 19.— B as in Bat. 20.— D Z>un. SUB-TONICS Element. Power 21.— a* as in Gun. 22.— J '' Jet 23.— L (( Let 24.— M 11 ilTan. 25.— N u Not 26.— R it Run. 27.— V (( Vent 28.— W (( TTent. 29.— Y (( Tea. 30.— »Z u Zeal. 31.— ''Z (( A2;ure 32.— NG (i Shig. 33.— TH a 7%j. A-TONICS. 34.— F as in Fit 35.— 11 ii Hat 36.— K u Kid. 37.— P It Pit 38.— S tt Sin. 39.— T tt Top. 40.— CH ii OAat. 41.— SH 11 Shun. 42.— TH li Thin. 43.— WHt 11 When * Soft G is equivalent to J ; Soft C to S, and hard C and Q to K. X U equivalent" to K and S, as in box, or to G and Z, as in exalt. •)• WH is pronounced as if the H preceded W, otherwise it would b« pronounced W-hen. R should be slightly trilled before a vowel. For further instructions, see Sanders and Merrill's Elementary and Eloca tionary Chart. RHETORICAL READER. 15 SUBSTITUTES FOR THE VOWEL ELEMENTS. ' ai as in eafl. For Long A. Y )\ Flat A. For Broad A. au " gawge ay " lay. ea << great. ei (( deign. ey (( they. au ea ua For Short A, { For Intermedi- ate A. For Long E. Vor Short E For Long 1 ay ea iei eo ie ue L« ai ei «y ie ]oi ui uy dawnt. heart, guard. au " pat/se. aw " law. eo * George. oa ♦• groat. ♦' horn. SOMght. " plajd. '♦ gwaranty. " haj'r. " bear. " where. " their. ** weak. '* seize. " people. *' key. ** bn'ef. " ptque. any. ** said. *♦ says. ** dead. " he/fer. •♦ leopard ** friend. ** gwess. '* bwry. " aisle. " sletght. " eye. " die. " choir. ** guide. " huy. " try. For Short I. For Long 0. e as in ^ng'ish. ee ie u ui \.y au eau eo ew oa oe ou ow For Long f Slender 0. t For Short For Long U. -{ For Short U. For Short Slender U. For the Diph- thong 01. {a " ou " ow " eau eu ew ieu lew ou ue ui e i oe \ ou }oy been. sieve. women. busy. build. symbol. hautboy beau. yeoman sew. ho at. hoe. soul. Q.OW. shoe. soup. was. hough. knouledge beauty feud deu7. adieu. \iew. your. cue. Buii. her. sir. does. love. youtg. wolf, would. joy. For the Diph- 1 thong OU. i'"" ^^"'- There is no pure Triphthong al sound in the language. Buoy ia equivalent to bwoy. U being a consonant. 16 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. SUBSTITUTES FOR THE CONSONANT ELEMENTS. f gh as in lau^A. »Z 2Z. NG. SH. CH. \' * 8iifl5ce. s ' ' was. X ' Xerxes. ' s ' treasure z ' azure. si * fus/on zi ' gla2ier n ' conch. {ce ' ocean. ci * social. ch * c/niise. si ' peuseon* s ' 3ure. ss ' issue. Vti ' notion. ti ' fusiian. B. 0, G, II, L, M, N, P, and R, have no substitutes. The most common faults in Articulation are I. The suppression of a syllable ; a« cab'n cap'n barr'l ev'ry hist'ry reg'lar several rhet'ric for cab-m. cap-\a.ck'n; knd, reck'n'd; kndst, reck'n'dst; knst, hlsick'n'st ; knz, reck'ns ; kr, crank j ks, checks; kt, a.ct. 7. Lb, as in hulb ; Ibd, hulb'd; lbs, hulbs ; Ich, %.lch ; Icht^ helch'd ; Id, hold ; Idst, fold'st ; Idz, holds ; If self • Ifs^ gulfs; IJ, bu/r/e; Ik, elk; Iks, silks; Ikt, milk'd; Ikts^ mulcts; Im, elm; Imd, whelm' d ; Imz, fi/ms; In, hlVn; 18 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Ip, help; Ips, scdilps; Ipst, help'st; Is, fa?ie; ht, oaU'stf It, melt; Ith, health; Iths, stealths; Its, colts; Iv, delve \ Ivd, shelv'd; Ivz, elves ; Iz, lia//s. 8. Md, as in doom'c?; mf, triumph; mp, hemp; mpt, tempt f mpts, attempts; mst, entomb' st; mz, tombs. 9. Nch, as in heiich; ncht, ^inch'd; nd, and; ndst, end'st; ndz, ends; ng, sung; ngd, hang'd; ngth, length; ngZj songs; nj, range; njd,rang'd; nk,ink; nks, ranks; nkst^ thank* St; nst, winc'd; nt, sent; nts, rents; nist, yfent'st; nz, runs. JO. PI, as in plume; pld, r'uppl'd; plst, ri^pVst; plz, aipples; pr, jprince ; ps, sips ; pst, raipp'st ; pt, ripp'c?. 11. Rb, as in herb; rch, search; rcht, church' d; rbd, orb'd, rbdst, harb'dst ; rbst, disturb' st ; rbz, orbs ; rd, hard ; rdst, heard' St ; rdz, vfords ; rf, turf; rft, scarf d ; rg, hurg ; rgz, hurgs; rj, dirge; rjd, urg'd; rk, ark; rks, arks; rkst, yfork'st; rkt, dirk'd; rktst, emhark'dst ; rl, girl; rid, world; rldst, hurld'st; rlst, whir^s^; 7-lz, hurls; rm, arm; rmd, arm'd; rmdst, harm'dst; rmst, arm'st; rmz, charms; rn, turn; rnd, turn'd; rndst, earn'dst; mst, learn' st; mz, urns; rp, carp; rps, harjjs ; rpt, warp'd; rs, verse; rsh, harsh; rst, ^rst; rsts, hursts; rt, dart; rth, earth; rths, hirths; rts, marts; rtst, dart'st; rv, curve; rvd, nerv'd; rvdst, curv'dst; rvst, swerv'st; rvz, nerves; rz, errs. 12. Sh, as in shiip; sht, hush'd; sk, scan, s^ip; sks, tusks; sksf, frisk' st; skt, risk'd; si, slow; sld, nestl'd; slz, wrestles; sm, smile ; sn, snag ; sp, sport ; sps, lisps ; spt, clasp' d ; st, stag; sir, strike; sts, rests; sw, string. 13. 7%, as in thine, thin; thd, hreath'd; thr, three; thst, hreath'st; thw, thwack; thz, writhes; tl, title; tld,settVd; tldst, settl'dst; tlst, settCst; tlz, nettles; tr, trunk y ts, fiis; tw, twirl. 14. Vd, as in curv'd; vdst, liv' dst; vl, driv'l ; vld, g^-^v'Vd] vldst, grov' Vdst; vlsi, driv' I' st; vn, driv'n ; vst, lij'Ui vz, lives. 15. Wh, as in when, where. 16 Zd, as in mus'd; zl, dazzle ; zld, muzzl'd; zldst, dazzVdsi, zlst, dazzl'st ; zlz, vnuzzles ; zm, spasm ; zmz, chasms ; zn ns'w ; znd, reas'n'd; znz, ^ris' nz; zndst, impris' ?tWs^. RHETORICAL READER. 19 V. Avoid blending the termination of one "w^i-d '^ith the beginning of another, or suppressing the fiD'jtl letter or letters of one word, when the next word commencea with a similar sound. EXAMPLES. His smal eyes instead of His small lies. Bhe keeps pies '* She keeps spied. Ilis hour is up " His sour is sup. Dry the widow's tears " Dry the widow steers. Your ejes and ears " Your rise sand dears. He had two small eggs ** He had two small legs. Bring some ice cream ** Bring some mice scream Let all men praise Him •' Let tall men pray sim. He was killed in war ** He was skilled in war. Water, air, and earth " Water rare rand dearth. Come and see me once more Come mand see me one smore. Note. — By an indistinct Articulation the sense of a passage is often liable to be perverted. 1. Will he attempt to conceal hw acts f Will he attempt to conceal hi* sacks f 2. The man haroft'ability. And behold, the angels of God a^'cending and rfe'^scending on it. For this corruptible must put on tn'corruption, and this mortal muii put on tm-'mortality. Dees his conduct deserve ajt>'probation, or rcp'robation ? RHETORICAL READER. 23 Note VI. — There are two kinds of Emphasis : — Absolute and Antithetic. Absolute Emphasis is used to designate the important words of a sentence, without any direct reference to other words. EXAMPLES OF ABSOLUTE EMPHASIS. 1. Oh, speak to passion's raging tide, Speak and say : "peace, be still I" 2. The Union, it MUST and SHALL BE PRESERVED I 8. Hush ! breathe it not aloud^ The wild winds must not hear it ! Yet, again^ I tell thee — we are fkee ! knowles. 4. When my country shall take her place among the nations of the earth, then and not TILL then, let my epitaph be written, emmett. 5. If you are men, follow me ! Strike down yon guards and gain the mountain passes. 6. Oh ! shame on us, countrymen, shame on us all. If we cringe to so dastard a race. 7. This doctrine never was received; it never can, bg any POSSIBIL- ITY, BE RECEIVED ; and, if admitted at all, it must be by THE TOTA.L SUBVERSION OF LIBERTY I 8. Are you Christians, and, by upholding duelists, will you deluge th« land with blood, and fill it with widows and orphans f beecher. 9. LiBERTT and union, now and forever, one and inseparable. WEBSTER. 10. Treason! cried the speaker; treason, treason, TREASON, re- echoed from every part of the house. 11. The war is inevitable, — and let it come I I repeat it, Sir, — LET IT COME I PATRICK HENRY 12. Be we men, And suflFer such dishonor ? Men, and wash not The stain away in blood ? miss mitford. 18. SACRED forms ! how proud you look I How high you lift your heads into the sky 1 How huge you are I how mighty and how free ! knowles 14. I shall know but one country. The ends / aim at, shall be " M.y Country's, my God's, and Truth's." websteb 24 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Note VII. — Antithetic Emphasis is that which is founded on the contrast of one word or clause with another. EXAMPLES OF ANTITHETIC EMPHASIS. 1. The faults of others should always remind us of our own. 2. He desired to protect his friend, not to injure him 3. But yesterday, the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world ; now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. shakspeakk. 4. A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches. B eble. 6 We can do nothing against the truth ; but for the truth. id. 6. He that is slow to anger, is better than the mighty ; and he that ruUth his spirit, than he that taketh a city. id. Note VIII. — The following examples contain two or more sets of Antitheses. 1. Just men are only free, the rest are slaves. 2. Beauty is like the flower of spring; virtue is like the stars of heaveh. 8. Truth crushed to earth shall rise again, The eternal years of God are hers ; But error, wounded, writhes in pain. And dies amid her worshipers. bryant. 4. A false balance is abomination to the Lord; but a just weight is his delight. bible. 6. A friend can not be known in prosperity ; and an enemy can not be hidden in adversity. 6. It is my living sentiment, and, by the blessing of God, it shall be my dying sentiment; independence now, and independence forevee, WEBSTER. 7. We live in deeds, not years, — ^in thoughts, not breath, — in feelings, i.ot in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart-throbs. He m.i/i lives, who THINKS THE MOST, FEELS THE NOBLEST, — ACTS THE BEST 8 You have done the mischief, and / bear the blame. 9. The wise man is happy when he gams his own approbation ; the fool, when he gains that of others. 10. We must hold them as we hold the rest of mankind — enemies in war, — in. peace friends. jbffebson. RHETORICAL READER. 25 Note IX. — The sense of a passage is varied by changing the place of the emphasis. 1. Has James seen his brother to-day ? No ; but Charles has. 2. Has James «ecn his brother to-day ? No; but he has heard from bim .? Has James seen his brother to-day ? No ; but he saw yours. 4. Has James seen his brother to-day? No: but he has seen his tister. 5. Has James seen his brother to-day f No ; but he saw him yes- terday. Remark. — To determine the emphatic words of a sentence, as well as the degree and kind of emphasis to be employed, the reader must be governed wholly by the sentiment to be expressed. The idea is sometimes entertained that emphasis consists merely in loudness of tone. But it should be borne in mind, that the most intense emphasis may often be eflfectively expressed, even by a whisper. "•^ SECTION III. INFLECTIONS. Inflections are turns or slides of the voice, made 111 reading or speaking; as, Will you go to New or to %^ All the various sounds of the human voice may be compre- hended under the general appellation of tones. The principal modifications of these tones are the Monotone, the RisiNO Inflection, the Falling Inflection, and the Circumflex. 2 6R 20 SANDERS UNION SERIES. The Horizontal Line ( — ) denotes the Monotone. The Rising Shde ( z') denotes the Rising InflectioQ. The Falling Slide ( \ ) denotes the Falling Inflection. The Curve (^) denotes the Circumflex. The Monotone is that sameness of sound, which arises from repeating the several words or syllables of a passage in one and the same general tone. Remark. — The Monotone is employed with admirable eflfect ill the delivery of a passage that is solemn or sublime. EXAMPLES. 1. thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers . whence are thy beams, sun, thy everlasting light ? onsujx. 2. "Hs midnight's holy hour, and silence now Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark ! on the winds The bells' deep tones are swelling ; 'tis the knell Of the departed year. prentice. 3. Qoi came from Teman, and the Holy One from Mount Paran Selah. His glory covered the heavens, and the earth was full of His praise. 4. Before Him went the pestilence, and burning coals went forth at His feet. He stood and measured the earth: He beheld, and drore asunder the nations ; and the everlasting mountains were scattered, the perpetual hills did bow : His ways are everlasting. bible. 5. The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth His handy work. Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto nigjit Bhoweth knowledge. There is no speech nor language, wheie their yoice is not heard. id. 6. How brief is life ! how passing brief I How brief its joys and cares ! It seems to be in league with time, And leaves iis unawares. T The thiinder rolls : be hiished the prostrate world, While cloiirl to cloiid retiirns the solemn hymn. thomsom RHETORICAL READER. 27 Remark. — The inappropriate use of the monotone, — a fault into which young people naturally fall, — is a very grave and obsf Jiate error. It is always tedious, and often even ridiculous. It snould be studiously avoided. The Rising Inflection is an upward turn, or slide of the voice,. used in reading or speaking; as, Are you prepared to recite your ^ The Falling Inflection is a downward turn, or slide of the voice, used in reading or speaking ; as, What are Q'r.y. you ^^.^ In the falling inflection, the voice should not sink below the general pitch; but in the rising inflection, it is raised above it. The two inflections may be illustrated by the followiog diagrams : 2. Did they go "^. He acted ^%. They went X^ ..v«e^ 8. If the flight of Dryden is \ If the blaze of Dryden's fire is ^^^ the heat of Pope's it Pope continues longer on the more regular and 28 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. 4. [s honor's lofty soul forever fled' ? Is virtue lost'' ? Is martial ardor dead'' ? Is there no heart where worth and valor dwell' ? No patriot Wallace' ? No undaunted? Tell' ? Ye8\ Freedom, yes^ ! thy sons, a noble band, Around thy banner, firm, exulting stand\ Remark. — The same degree of inflection is not, at all times ased, or indicated by the notation. The due degree to be employed, depends on the nature of what is to be expressed. For example ; if a person, under great excitement, asks another ; / Are you in * the degree of inflection would be much greater, than if he playfully asks : Are you in ®* Tho former inflection may be called intensive^ the latter, common. RULES FOR THE USE OF INFLECTIONS. RULE I. Direct questions, or those which may be answered by yes or no, usually take the rising inflection; but their answers, generally, the falling. KXAMPLSS. 1 Will you meet me at the depot' ? Yes^ ; or, I will\ 2. Did you inteni to visit Boston' ? No^ ; or, I did not\ 8. Can you explain this difficult sentence' ? Tes^ ; I can. 4 Are they willing to remain at home' ? They are^. 6. Is this a time for imbecility and inaction' ? By no means^. 6. King Agrippa, believest thou the prophets' ? I know that thou believesO. 7. Were the tribes of this country, when first discovered, making any progress in arts and civilization' ? By no means\ RHETORICAL READER. 29 To purchase heaven has gold the power' ? Can gold remove the mortal hour'' ? In life, can love be bought with gold' ? Are friendship's pleasures to be sold' ? No^ ; all that's worth a wish, a thought, Fair virtue gives unbribed, unbought. 9. What would content you^ ? Talents' ? No\ Enterprise' ? No\ Courage'? No\ Reputation'? No\ Virtue'? No\ The man whom you would select, should possess not one, but all of these\ Note I. — Wlien the direct question becomes an appeal, and the reply to it is anticipated, it takes the intense falling inflection. EXAMPLES. 1. Is^ he not a bold and eloquent speaker^ ? 2. CarC" such inconsistent measures be adopted^ ? 3. Did^ you ever hear of such cruel barbarities^ ? 4. Is this reason^ ? /* it law^ ? Is it humanity^ ? 5. Waa"" not the gentleman's argument conclusive^ ? RULE II. Indirect questions, or those which can not be answered by yes or no, usually take the falling inflection, and theii answers the same. 1. How far did you travel yesterday^ ? Forty miles^. 2. Which of you brought this beautiful bouquet^ ? Julia^. 3. Where do you intend to spend the summer^ ? At Saratoga\ 4. When will Charles graduate at college^ ? Next year^. 5. What is one of the most delightful emotions of the heartM 'Tlratitude\ Note I. — When the indirect question is one asking a repe tition of what was not, at first, understood, it takes the risiiig inflection. EXAMPLES. 1. When do you expect to return ? Next week. When did you say' ? Next week. 2. Where did you say William had gone' ? To New Fork. 30 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Note II. — Answers to questions, whether direct or indirect, when 'Expressive of indifference, take the rising inflection, or the circumflex. EXAMPLES. 1. Did you admire his discourse ? Not much^ 2. Which way shall we walk ? I am not particular^ 8 Can Henry go with us ? If he chooses'. 4. What color do you prefer ? I have no particular choice^ Note III. — In some instances, direct questions become in direct by a change of the inflection from the rising to the falling- EXAMPLES. 1. Will you come to-morrow' or next day' ? Yes. 2. Will you come to-morrow/ or next day^? I will come to-morrow. Remark. — The first question asks if the person addressed will come within the two days, and may be answered by yes or no ; but the second asks on which of the two days he will come, and it can not be thus answered. RULE III. When questions are connected by the conjunction or, the first requires the rising, and the second; the falling inflection. EXAMPLES. X. Does he study for amusement', or improvement^ ? 2> Was he esteemed for his wealth', or for his wisdom^ ? 3. Sink' or 8wim\ live' or die\ survive' or perish\ I give my haid and heart to this vote. webster 4. Is it lawful to do good on the Sabbath-days', or to do evil^ ? to save life', or to kiir ? bible. 5. Was it an ajt of moral courage', or cowardice^ for Cato to fall on hissword^? RHETORICAL READER. SI RULE IV. Antithetic terms or clauses usually take opposite in- flections ; generally, the former has the rising, and the latter the falling inflection. EXAMPLES. 1. If you seek to make one rich, study not to increase his storei' ; but to diminish his desires\ 2. They have mouths'', — but they speak noO : Eyes have they', — but they see not^ : They have ears', — but they hear not^: Noses have they', — but they smell not^ : They have hands', — but they handle not^ : Feet have they', — but they walk not\ bible. Note I. — When one of the antithetic clauses is a negative^ and the other an affirmative, generally the negative has the rising^ and the aflfirmative the falling inflection. EXAMPLES. 1, I said an elder soldier\ not a better'. 2, His acts deserve punishment^, rather than commiseration'. 3, This is no time for a tribunal of justice', but for showing mercy^ ; not for accusation', but for philantkropy^ ; not for trial', but for pardon^ ; not for sentence and execution', but for compassion and kindness^ RULE V. The Pause of Suspension, denoting that the sense is incomplete, usually has the rising inflection. EXAMPLES. 1. Although the fig-tree shall not blossom', neither shall fruit be in the vine' ; the labor of the olive shall fail', and the fields shall yield no meat' ; the flocks shall be cut off from the fold', and there shall be nc herd in the stalls' ; yet will I rejoice in the Lord\ I will joy in the God of my 8alvation\ bibl*. 82 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Note I. — The ordinary direct address, not accompanied with strong emphasis, takes the rising inflection, on the principle of the pause of suspension. EXAMPLES. 1. Men^ brethren'', and fathers'', hear ye my defense which I maka oow untc you. bible. 2. Ye living flowers-', that skirt the eternal frost'' 1 Ye wild goats-', sporting round the eagle's nest^l Ye eagles-', playmates of the mountain storm' I Ye lightnings-', the dread arrows of the clouds' 1 Ye signs-' and wonders-' of the elements-' I Utter forth Gon\ and fill the hills with praiseM coleiiidoe. Note II. — In some instances of a pause of suspension, the sense requires an intense falling inflection. 1. The prodigal, if he does not become a pauper^, will, at least, have out little to bestow on others. Kemark. — If the rising inflection is given on pauper, the sense would be perverted, and the passage n}ade to mean, that, in order to be able to bestow on others, it is necessary that he should become a pauper. • RULE VI. Expressions of tenderness, as of grief, or kindness, commonly incline the voice to the rising inflection. examples. 1. Mother', — ^^I leave thy dwelling' ; Oh ! shall it be forever' ? With grief my heart is swelling', Fi'om thee', — from thee', — to sever'. 2. my son Absalom' I my son', my son Absalom' I Would God ] hfttl died for thee', Absalom', my son', my son' 1 bible. RHETORICAL READ Ktt. 33 RULE VII. The Penultimate Pause, or the last hut one, of a passage, is usually preceded hy the ruing inflection. EXAMPLES. 1 Diligences industry^ and proper improvement of time', are mate- rial duties of the young.^ 2 These through faith subdued kingdoms^ wrought righteousnes8\ obtained promises\ stopped the mouths of lions\ quenched the violence of fire\ escaped the edge of the 8Word\ out of weakness were made Btrong\ waxed valiant in fight'', turned to flight the armies of the aliens\ Remark. — The rising inflection is employed at the penulti- mate pause in order to promote variety, since the voice generally falls at the end of a sentence. RULE VIII. Expressions of strong emotion, as of anger or surprise, and also the language of authority and reproach, are expressed with the falling inflection. EXAMPLES. L. On Tou\ and on your children^ be the peril of the innocent blood which shall be shed this day\ 2. What a piece of workmanship is manM How noble in reasgnM How infinite in faculties^ ! 3. FOOLS^ ! and slow of heart to believe all that the prophets hav* jrritten concerning me^ ! bible. 4. Hencb\ home\ you idle creatures^^ get tou home\ You blooks\ you stones\ tou worse than useless things^ ! 6. Avaunt^ ! and quit my sight^ I let the earth hide thee^ I Thy bones are marrowlesa ; thou hast no speculation in thine eyes which thou dost glare^ with. shakspearb. 5. Slave, do thy office' ! Strike\ as I struck the foe' I Strike , as I would have struck the tyrants' ! Strike deep as my curse^ ! Strike', and but once' I lo 2* 6R ;8^ . SANDERS' UNION SERIES. RULE IX. An emphatic succession of particulars, and emphatic repetition, require the falling inflection. EXAMPLES. 1. Bewar^ what earth calls happiness ; beware^ All joys but joys that never can expire\ 2. A great mind\ a great heart\ a great orator^ a great career'', have been consigned to history\ butler. Remark. — The stress of voice on each successive particu- lar, or repetition, should gradually be increased as the subject advances. The Circumflex is a union of the two inflections on the same word, beginning either with the falling and ending with the rising, or with the rising and ending with the falling ; as, If he goes to ^ ^^"^ I shall go to ^\ The circumflex is mainly employed in the language of irony, and in expressing ideas implying some condition, either expressed or understood. EXAMPLES. 1. Yoii, a beardless youth, pretend to teach a British general. 2. What! shear a wolf ? a prowling wolf ? 8. My father's trade ? ah, really, that's too bad ? My father's trade ? Why, blockhead, are you mad ? My father, sir, did never stoop so low, — He was a gentleman, I'd have you know. 4. What ! confer a crown on the author of the public calamities ? 5. But you are very wise men, and deeply learned in the truth ; w8 are weak, contemptible, mean persons. 6. They pretend they come to improve our state, enlarge our thoughts, and free us from error. 7. But youth, it seems, is not my only crime ; I have been accTJSed of acting a theatrical part. 8 4nd this man has become a god, and Cassius a wretched creature. RHETORICAL HEADER. 35 SECTION IV. MODULATION. Modulation implies those variations of the voice, heard in reading or speaking, which are prompted hy the feelings and emotions that the subject inspires. BiSAMPLES EXPRESSIVE OP COURAGE AND CHIVALROUS EXCITEMENT. Full f Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more^ Tone I Or close the wall up with our English dead ! Middle f In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man, Tone. \ As modest stillness and humility ; But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger ; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage. » '' On, ON, you noblest English, Whose blood is fetched from fathers of war-proof t Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders, Have, in these parts, from morn till even fought. And sheathed their swords for lack of argument. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips. Straining upon the start. The game's afoot ; Follow your spirits, and, upon this charge, Cry — Heaven for Harry! England! and St. GeohgkI shakspearb. Remark. — To read the foregoing example in one dull, mo« notonous tone of voice, \7ith0ut regard to the sentiment ex- pressed, would render the passage extremely insipid and life- less But by a proper modulation of the voice, it infuses into the mind of the reader or hearer the most animating and exciting-emotions. The voice is modulated in three diflferent ways. First, it is varied in Pitch; that is, from high to loto tones, and the reverse. Secondly, it is varied in Quantity, or in loudness or volume of sound. . Thirdly, it is varied in Quality, or in the kind of sound expressed Short AND Quick. HlOH AND Loud. Quick, AND VERT Loud. 3() SANDERS' UNION SERIES. PITCH OF VOICE. Pitch of Voice has reference to its degree of ele- vation. J^jvery person, in reading or speaking, assumts a certain pitch, which may be either high or lowy according to circum- stance? and which has a governing influence on the variations of tlie voice, above and below it. This degree of t!evation \h isiially called the Key Note. As an exercise in varying the voice in pitch, the practice of uttering a sentence on the several degrees of elevation, as represented in the following scale, will be found beneficial. First, utter the musical syllables, then the vowel sound, and lastly, the proposed sentence, — ascending and descending. -8. — (lo — # — c-in-mc. — Virtue alone survives. 7. si # t in (Ije. Virtue alone survives. — la — # — o-in-do. — Virtue alone survives. — 6. sol in no. Virtue alone survives. -4. — fa — # — o-in-at. — Virtue alone survives. — 3. mi # a in ale. Virtue alone survives. -2. — re — # — a-in-far. — Virtue alone survives. — 1 do # a in all. Virtue alone survives. Althou^^h the voice is capable of as many variations in speaking, as are marked on the musical scale, yet for all the purposes of ordinary elocution, it will be sufl&ciently exact if we make but three degrees of variation, viz., the Low, the Middle^ and the High. 1. The Low Pitch is that which falls below the usual speaking key, and is employed in expressing emotions »..f miKimityj awe, and reverence. Silence how dead ! darkness, how profound I Nor eye, nor list'niug ear, an object finds ; Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause, — An awful pause ! prophetic of her end. TOims RHETORICAL READER. 37 2. The Middle Pitch is that usually employed in common conversation, and in expressing unimpas^ioned tliought and moderate emotion. EXAMPLES. 1 it was wrly in a summer morning, when the air was cool, the earth moist, the whole face of the creation fresh and gay, that I lately walked in a beautiful flower garden, and, at once, regaled the senses %q1 indulged the fancy. HEKVEr. 2 **Ilove to live," said a prattling ooy, As he gayly played with his new-bought toy, And a merry laugh went echoing forth, From a bosom filled with joyous mirth. 8. The High Pitch is that which rises above the usual speaking key, and is used in expressing joyous and elevated feelings. EXAMPLli. Higher, higher, ever higher, — Let the watchword be "Aspire I" Noble Christian youth ; Whatsoe'er be God's behest, Try to do that duty best. In the strength of Truth. m. f. tuppee. QUANTITY. Quantity is two-fold ; — consisting in fullness or VOLUME of sound, as soft or loud ; and in time, as slow or quick. The former has reference to stress, che latter, to movement. The degrees of variation in quantity are numerous, varying from a slight, soft whisper to a vehement shout. But ^b- all practical purposes, they may be considered as three^ the same as in pitch j — the soft^ the middle^ and the loud. For exercise in quantity, let the pupil read any sentence, as, ** Beauty is a fading flower." 38 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. first in a slight, soft tone, and then repeat it, gradually in. creasing m quantity to the full extent of the voice. Also, let him read it first very slowly, and then repeat it gradually increasing the movement. In doing this, he should be careful not to vary the pitch. In like manner, let him repeat any vowel sound, or all of them, and also inversely. Thus : ccooOOOOOOO OOOO 000000 Remark. — Quantity is often mistaken for Pitch. But it should be borne in mind that quantity has reference to loudness or volume of sound, and pitch to the elevation or depression of a tone. The difi'erence may be distinguished by the slight and heavy strokes on a bell : — both of which produce sounds alike in pitch ; but they differ in quantity or loudness^ in proportion as the strokes are light or heavy. RULES FOR QUANTITY. 1. Soft, or Subdued Tones, are those which range from a »f his per to a complete vocality, and are used to express fear^ eauti'on^ secrecy, solemnity, and all tender emotions. EXAMPLES. I We watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. hood. 2. Softly, peacefully. Lay her to rest ; Place the turf lightly. On her young breast. D. B. oooduax 8. The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low. And sighed for pity as it answered, — "No." RHETCRICAL READER -g© 2 A Middle Tone, or medium loudness of voice, is em* ployed in reading narrative, descriptive, or didactic sentences. I love my country's pine-clad hills, Her thousand bright and gushing rills, Her sunshine and her storms ; Her rough and rugged rocks that rear Their hoary heads high in the air, In wild fantastic forms. 3. A Loud Tone, or fullness and stress of voice is used in expressing violeiM passions and vehement emotions. EXAMPLES. 1. Stand ! the ground's your own, my braves,— \^11 ye give it up to slaves 9 Will ye look for greener graves f Hope yc mercy still ? What's the mercy despots feel ? Hear it in that battle-peal, — Read it on yon bristling steel, — Ask it — ye who will ! pierpont. 2 <♦ Hold !" Tyranny cries ; but their resolute breath Sends back the reply: " Independence or death!" QUALITY. Quality has reference to the hind of sound uttered. Two sounds may be alike in quantity and pitch, yet differ in quality. The sounds produced on the clarinet and flute, may agree in pitch and quantity, yet be unlike in quality. The same is true in regard to the tones of the voice of two indi- viduals. This difference is occasioned mainly by the different positions of the vocal organs. The qualities of voice mostly used in reading or speaking, and which should receive the highest degree of culture, are the Vure Tone, tbe Orotund, the Aspirated, and the Guttural 10 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. RULES FOR QUALITY. 1. The Pure Tone is a clear, smooth, sonorous flow of sound, usually accompanied with the middle pitch of voice, and is adapted to express emotions of Joy, cheerfulness, love, and tranquillity. EXAMPLE. Hail ! beauteous stranger of the wood, Attendant on the spring, Now heaven repairs thy vernal seat, And woods thy welcome sing. cowpkb. 2. The Orotund is a full, deep, round, and pure tone of voice, peculiarly adapted in expressing sublime and pathetic emotions. EXAMPLE. It thunders ! Sons of dust, in reverence bow ! Ancient of Days! Thou speakest from abo^e: Almiglity ! trembling, like a timid child, I hear thy awful voice. Alarmed — afraid- — I see the flashes of thy lightning wild, And in the very grave would hide my head. 3. The Aspirated Tone of voice is not a pure, vocal sound, but rather a forcible breathing utterance, and is used to express amazemicnty fear^ terror, anger, revenge, remorse, and fervent emotions. SXAMPLB. Oh, coward conscience, how dost thou affright me! The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight ; Cold, fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. 4. The Guttural Quality is a deep, aspirated tone of voice, used to express aversion, hatred, loathing, and contempL EXAMPLE. Tell me I hate the bowl ? Hath is a feeble word : I loathe, ABHOR, my very soul With strong disgust is stirred, Whene'er 1 see, or hear, or tell. Of the dark beverage of hell. RHETORICAL READER. It NOTATION IN MODULATION. ( » ) high. ( p. ) soft. (° °) high and loud. {pp-^ very soft. ( ^ ) low. ( / ) loud. (o o) ^^^ ^°^ loud. . ( if- ) "^^ry loud. (=■) quick. (i'^-) plaintive. ( ' ) short and quick. ( ) decrease. EXAMPLES FOR EXERCISE IN MODULATION. (/? ) Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; (/.) But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar. (»Z.) When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, The line, too, labors, and the words move slow ; (— -) Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main, pop] ( -L) Go ring the bells and fire the guns. And fling the starry banner out ; {ff.) Shout " Freedom" till your lisping ones Give back the cradle shout. whittier. {pi ) "And now, farewell I 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee I — And thy dark sin ! — oh ! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom !" wiLua («i,) The. sun hath set in folded clouds, — Its twilight rays are gone, (^ And, gathered in the shades of night, The storm is rolling on. {pi.) Alas ! how ill that bursting storm r^^ The fainting spirit braves, (/>.) When they,^he lovely and the lost, — {pi.) Are gone to early graves ! 12 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. (®) On ! onwai'd still ! o'er the land he sweeps, (■ fity — the shout went up, like the sound of many waters, (jf.) "THE UNION: IT MUST BE PRESERVED." bauceoft. (p.) Hark ! (si.) Along the vales and mountains of the earth (o) There is a deep, portentous murmuring, (=s) Like the swift rush of subterranean streams, Or like the mingled sounds of earth and air, When the fierce tempest, with sonorous wing, Heaves his deep folds upon the rushing winds, r<^) And hurries onward, with his night of clouds, Against the eternal mountains. 'Tis the voice Of infant Freedom, — and her stirring call Is heard and answered in a thousand tones (<^) From every hill-top of her western home ; And lo ! it breaks across old Ocean's flood, — (°°) And "Freedom! Freedom!" is the answering shout Of nations, starting from the spell of years, a. d. prbmtiok r^) The thunders hushed, — The trembling lightning fled away in fear,- < (p.) The foam-capt surges sunk to quiet rest, — The raging winds grew still, — (pp.) There was a calm. ('/**/) "Quick! Man the boat!" (=) Away they spring The stranger ship to aid, (/.) And loud their hailing voices ring. As rapid speed they made. RHETORICAL tiKAVtlA. 43 {p.) Hush ! lightly tread ! still tranquilly she sleeps ; I've watched, suspending e'en my breath, in fear To break the heavenly spell, (pp-) Move silently. Can it be ? Matter immortal ? and shall spirit die ? Above the nobler, shall less nobler rise ? (^) Shall man alone, for whom all else revives, No resui-rection know ? (°. ^#•^ Tread soTtly — bow the head, — In reverent silence bow, — No passing bell doth toll, — (pi.) Yet an immortal soul Is passing now. mbs. southet. (*) Speak out, my firiends ; would you exchange it for the demon'i DRINK, (jf.) ALCOHOL? A shout, like the roar of a tempest, an- swered, (°°) NO I (®®) The combat deepens! (ff.) On! ye beavbI (=r) Who rush to gloey, (p.) or the geave 1 (ff.) Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave ! And CHAEGB with all thy Chivalry ! (pi.) Ah! few shall part where many meet ! The snow shall be their winding sheet. And every turf beneath their feet (*) Shall be a soldier's sepulcher ! oampbbll {si.) At length, o'er Columbus slow consciousness breaks, (oo) "Land! land!" cry the sailors; (ff.) "land! land!"— h« awakes, — ('^) Reruns, — yes! behold it I it blesseth his sight! The land ! O, dear aptctacle I transport 1 delight I RHETORICAL READER. 45 SECTION V. THE KHETORICAL PAUSE. Rhetorical Pauses are those which are frequently required by the voice in reading and speaking, although the construction of the passage admits of no grammatical point. These pauses should be as manifest to the ear as those which are indicated b} the comma, semicolon, or other grammatical point, though not commonly denoted by any visible sign. In the following examples they are denoted thus, ( || ). 1, In slumbers of midnight || the sailor-boy lay, His hammock swung loose || at the bport of the wind ; But watch-worn and weary, j| his cares flew away, And visions of happiness || danced o'er his mind. dimond. 2. There is a land,|| of every land the pride, Beloved of heaven || o'er all the world beside ; Where brighter suns || dispense serener light, And milder moons || imparadise the night. 0, thou shalt find,|| howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, || and that spot thy home I This pause is generally made before or after the utterance of some important word or clause, on which it is especially desired to fix the attention. In such cases it is usually denoted by the use of the dash ( — ). EXAMPLES. 1 GcdB&ii— *' Let there be liffhtr 2 All dead and silent was the earth, In deepest night it lay ; The Eternal spoke creation's word, And called to being — Day I 46 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. No definite rule can be given with reference to the length of the rhetorical, or grammatical pause. The correct taste of the reader or speaker must determine it. For the voice should sometimes be suspended much longer at the same pause in one situation than in another ; as in the two following EXAMPLES. LONG PAUSE. Pause a moment. I heard a footstep. Listen now. I heard it again ; but it is going from us. It sounds fainter, — still fainter It is gone. SHORT PAUSE. John, be quick. Get some water. Throw the powder overboard. *'It can not be reached." Jump into the boat, then. Shove ofi. There goes the powder. Thank Heaven. We are safe. REMARKS TO TEACHERS. It is of the utmost importance, in order to secure an easy ana elegant style in reading, to refer the pupil often to the more important principles involved in a just elocution. To this end, it will be found very advantageous, occasionally to review the rules and directions given in the preceding pages, and thus early accustom him to apply them in the subsequent reading lessons. For a wider range of examples and illustrations, it is only necessary to refer to the numerous and various exercises which form the body of this book. They have been selected, in many cases, with a special view to this object. SANDEES' RHETORICAL READER. PART SECOND. EXERCISE I. John Ruskin was born in London in the year 1819. In 1843 he publisbetl a work, under the title of "Modern Painters," in which ho advocates the claims of the moderns over the ancients to superiority in the art of Landscape Painting. In that work he deals, in the most trenchant way, with what aro considered the highest authorities in artj yet such is the brilliancy of hia diction, and such his power in description, that, though he often fails to secure for his views the assent of professed judges, he never fails to challenge the admiration of all by the splendor of his style. He has published quite a number of works since, and is still devoted to the study of art. THE SKY. JOHN RtJSKllf. 1. It is a strango thing how little in general people know about the sky. It is the part of creation in which Nature has done more for the sake of pleasing man, more for the sole and ev^idsnt purpose of talking to him and teaching him, than in any other of her works, and it is just the part in which we least attend to her. 2. There are not many of her other works in which some more material or essential purpose than the mere pleasing of man is not answered by every part of their organization ; but fivery essential purpose of the sky might, so far as we know, be answered, if once in three days, or thereabouts, a great, ugly, black rain-cloud were brought up over the blue, and everything well watered, and so all left blue again till next time, with, perhaps, a film of morning and evening mist for dew. v47^ 48 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. 8. And, instead of this, there is not a moment of any day of our lives, when Nature is not producing scene after scene, picture after picture, glory after glory, and working still upon su'jh exquisite and constant principles of the most perfect beauty, that it is quite certain it is all done for us, and intended for our perpetual pleasure. And every man, wherever placed, however far from other sources of interest or of beauty, has this doing for him constantly. 4. The noblest scenes of the earth can be seen and known Dut by few ; it is not intended that man should live always in the midst of them j he injures them by his presence; he ceases to feel them, if he be always with them; but the sky is for all; bright as it is, it is not " too bright, nor good, for human nature's daily food;" it is fitted in all its functions for the perpetual comfort and exalting of the heart, for the soothing it and purifying it from its dross and dust. 5. Sometimes gentle, sometimes capricious, sometimes awful, aever the same for two moments together ; almost human in its passions, almost spiritual in its tenderness, almost divine in its infinity, its appeal to what is immortal in us, is as distinct, as its ministry of chastisement or of blessing to what is mortal is essential. 6. And yet we never attend to it, we never make it a subject of thought, but as it has to do with our animal sensations ; we look upon all by which it speaks to us more clearly than to brutes, upon all which bears witness to the intention of the Supreme, that we are to receive more from the covering vault than the light and the dew which we share with the weed and the worm, only as a succession of meaningless and monotonous accidents, too common and too vain to be worthy of a moment of watchfulness, or a glance of admiration. 7. If, in our moments of utter idleness and insipidity, we turn to the sky, as a last resource, which of its phenomena do we speak of? One says it has been wet, and another it has been windy, and another it has been warm. Who, among the whole chattering crowd, can tell me of the forms and the precipices of the chain of tall white mountains that girded the horizon at RHETORICAL READER. 19 noon yesterday? Who saw the narrow sunbeam that came out of the south and smote upon their summits until they melted and moldered away in a dust of blue rain ? Who saw the dance of the clouds when the sunlight left them last night, and the west wind blew them before it like withered leaves ? 8 All has passed, unregretted as unseen ; or, if the apathy be ever shaken off, even for an instant, it is only by what is gross or what is extraordinary ; and yet it is not in the broad and fierce manifestations of the elemental energies, not in the clash of the hail, nor the drift of the whirlwind, that the highest ahafacters of the sublime are developed. God is not in the earthquake, nor in the fire, but in the still, small voice. They are but the blunt and lost faculties of our nature, which can only be addressed through lampblack and lightning. 9. It is in quiet and subdued passages of unobtrusive majesty, the deep, and the calm, and the perpetual, — that which must be sought ere it is seen, and loved ere it is understood, — things which the angels work out for us daily, and yet vary eternally, which are never wanting, and never repeated, which are to be found always, yet each found but once, — it is through these that the lesson of devotion is chiefly taught, and the blessing of beauty given. 10. These are what the artist of highest aim must study ; it is these, by the combination of which his ideal is to be created ; these of which so little notice is ordinarily taken by common observers, that I fully believe, little as people in general are concerned with art, more of their ideas of sky are derived from pictures than from reality, and that, if we could examine the conception formed in the minds of most educated persons when we talk of clouds, it would frequently be found composed of fragments of blue and white reminiscences of the old mastera 11. " The chasm of sky above my head Is Heaven's profoundest azure. No domain For fickle, short-lived clouds, to occupy, Or to pass through ; but rather an abytt In which the everlasting stars abide, 3 6R 56 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. And whose soft gloom, and boundless depth, might tempt The curious eye to look for them bj day." 12 In his American Notes, I remember Dickens notices the same truth, describing himself as lying drowsily on the barge deck, looking not at^ but ihrouyh the sky. And, if you look intensely at the pure blue of a serene sky, j'ou will see thai thei-c is a Tariety and fullness in its /ery repose. It is not that flat, d 3ad color, but a deep^ quivering, transparent body of pene- trable air, in which you trace or imagine short, falling spots of deceiving light, and dim shades, faint, vailed vestiges of dark vapor. 13. It seems to me that, in the midst of the material nearness of the heavens, God means us to acknowledge His own immediate presence as visiting, judging, and blessing us. "The earth shook, the heavens also dropped, at the presence of God V " He doth set His bow in the cloud, " and thus renews, in the sound of every dropping swathe of rain, His promises of everlasting love. " In them huth He set a tabernacle for the sun )" whose burning ball, which, without the firmament, would be seen as an intolerable and scorching circle in the blackness of vacuity, is by that firmament surrounded with gorgeous service, and tempered by mediatorial ministries ; by the firma- ment of clouds the golden pavement is spread for his chariot wheels at morning ; by the firmament of clouds the temple is built for his presence to fill with light at noon j by the firmament of clouds the purple vail is closed at evening round the sanctuary of his rest j by the mists of the firmament his implacable light is divided, and its separated fierceness appeased into the soft blue that fills the depth of distance with its bloom, and the flush with which the mountains burn as they drink the overflowing of the dayspring. 14. And, in this tabernacling of the unendurable sun witli men, through the shadows of the firmament, God would seem to set forth the stooping of His own majesty to men, upon the throne of the firmament. As the Creator of all the worlds, and the Inhabitei of eternity, we can not behold Him ; but as the RHIJTORICAL READER. 61 Judge of tire earth and the Preserver of men, ihose heavens are, indeed, His dwelling-place. " Swear not, neither by heaven, for it is God's throne; nor by the earth, for it His footstool." And all those passings to and fro of fruitful shower and grateful "ihade, and all those visions of silver palaces built about the horizon, and voices of moaning winds and threatening thunderSj and glories of colored robe and cloven ray, are but to deepen in our hearts the acceptance, and distinctness, and dearness of the simph words, — " Our Father which art in Heaven !" EXERCISE II. Joseph Addison, author of the following beautiful lines, was born at Milston, Wiltshire, in England, in the year 1672. He died in 1719. For a iketch of his character, see Exercise CXXIII. THE HEAVENS DECLARE THE GLORY OP GOD. «3>I>IB0B I. The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky. And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim j Th' unwearied sun, from day to day, Poes his Creator's power display, And publishes to every land The work of un Almighty hand. II. Soon as the evening shades prevail, The MOON takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly to the listening earth, Repeats the story of her birth ; While all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn. b2 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Confirm the tidings as tliey roll, And spread the truth from pole to pold. III. What though, in solemn silence, all Move round the dark terrestrial ball ? What though no real voice or sound Amid their radiant orbs be found ? In Reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice, Forever singing as they shine, " TJie Hand that made us, is divine !** EXERCISE III. OnvEF Goldsmith was born in the county of Longford, Ireland, in thf year 1728, and died in London, in 1774. *• There are few writers," eayi Washington Irving, " for whom the reader feels such personal kindness u Tor Oliver Goldsmith. The fascinating ease and simplicity of his style j th« benevolence that beams through every page ; the whimsical, yet amiable view of human life and human nature; the mellow unforced humor, blended so happily with good feeling and good sense, throughout his writings, win their way irresistibly to the affections, and carry the author with them. While writers of greater pretensions and more sounding names are suffered to lie upon our shelves, the works of Goldsmith are cherished and laid in our bosoms. We do not quote them with ostentation, but they mingle with our minds ; they sweeten our tempers and harmonize our thoughts ; they put us In good humor with ourselves and with the world; and, in doing so, they nake us happier and better men." 1 Al'^legory is a word of Greek origin. It is made up of two parts, All, other, and Euory, discourse: the literal meaning of the compound being discourse about other things, that is, things other than those ex- pressed by the words, literally interpreted Thus, in the LXXX Psalm, we have a beautiful allegory, in wnich the chosen people of God are represented under the figure of a vine planted and nurtured by the hand of the Almighty. Allegory is, therefore, the general name for that class of compositions, as Fables, Apologues, Parables, and Myths, in which there is a drablt signification, one literal and the other figurative: the literal being EHET0R1CA.LREADEE. 53 designed merely to givo a more clear and impressive view of that which is figurative. It is, indeed, a lively, though silent comparison, or series of comparisons ; diflering from what la called metaphor, or implied compan son, merely in being more exieiided. Thus, Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress if ftn allegory. GRACE PREFERABLE TO BEAUTY:— An Allegory. i OLrVER OOLDSHITB. 1. T fan(3ied myself between two landscapes; this called the Region of Beauty, and that the Valley of the Graces ; the one adorned with all that luxuriant nature could bestow ; the fruits of various climates adorned the trees, the grove resounded with music, the gale breathed perfume, every charm that could arise from symmetry and exact Jistribution, was here conspicuous; the whole offering a prospect of pleasure without end. 2. The Valley of the Graces, on the other hand, seemed, by no means, so inviting; the streams and groves appeared just as they usually do in frequented countries ; no magnificent parterres,* no concert in the grove, the rivulet was edged with weeds, and the rook joined its voice to that of the nightingale. All was simplicity and nature. 3. The most striking objects ever first allure the traveler. I entered the llegion of Beauty with increased curiosity, and promised myself endless satisfaction in being introduced to the presiding goddess. I perceived several strangers who entered with the sariie design ; and what surprised me not a little, was to see several others hastening to leave this abode of seeming felicity. 4. After some fatigue, I had, at last, the honor of being intro- duced to the goddess, who represented Beauty in person. She was seated on a throne, at the foot of which stood several strangers, lately introduced like me ; all regarding her form in ecstasy. " Ah^ v^hat eyts ! what lips ! how clear her complexion I how perfect her shape !'* At these exclamations. Beauty, with downcast eyes, would endeavor to counterfeit modesty, but soon again looking round as if to confirm every spectator in his * I'ar terrea' \ vdr tdres^X flower-beds. 54 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. favorable sentiments : sometimes she would attempt to allure ii« by smiles ; and, at intervals, would bridle back, in order to inspire us with respect as well as tenderness. 5. This ceremony lasted for some time, and had so much employed our eyes, that we had forgot all this while that the goddess was silent. We soon, however, began to perceive the defect. " What V said we among each other, " are we to have -notbing but languishing airs, soft looks, and inclinations of the head ? will the goddess only deign to satisfy our eyes V Upon this, one of the company stepped up to present her with some fruits he had gathered by the way. She received the present, most sweetly smiling, and with one of the whitest hands in the world, but still not a word escaped her lips. 6. I now found that my companions grew weary of their hom- age; they went off one by one, and, resolving not to be left behind, I offered to go in my turnj when, just at the door of the temple, 1 was called back by a female, whose name was Pride, and who seemed displeased at the behavior of the com- pany. 7. " Where are you hastening T' said she to me with an angry air ; " the goddess of Beauty is here." " I have been to visit her, madam," replied I, " and find her more beautiful even than report had made her." " And why, then, will you leave her ?" added the female. " I have seen her long enough," returned I J "I have got all her features by heart. Her eyes are still the same Her nose is a very fine one, but it is such a nose now as it was half an hour ago : could she throw a little more mind into her face, perhaps I should be for wishing to have a little more of her company." 8. " What signifies," replied the female, in an animated tone, " whether she has a mind or not ; has she any occasion for a mind, s > formed as she is by nature ? If she had a common face, indeed, there might be some reason for thinking to improve it; but, when features are already perfect, every alteration would but impair them. A fine face is already at the point of per^ fection, and a fine lady should endeavor to keep it so : the im- pression it would receive from thought, would but disturb ita RHETORICAL READER. 55 »7liole economy." To this speech T made no reply, but made the best of my way to the Valley of the Grraces. Here I found all those who before had been my companions in the Region of Beauty, now upon the same errand. 9. As we entered the valley, the prospect insensibly seemed to improve ; we found everything so natural, so domestic and pleasing, that our minds, which before were congealed in admi- ration, now relaxed into gayety and good humor. We had de signed to pay our respects to the presiding goddess, but she was nowhere to be found. One of our companions asserted, that her temple lay to the right; another, to the left; a third insisted that it was straight before us; and a fourth that we had left it behind. In short, we found everything familiar and charming, but could not determine where to seek for the Grace in person. 10. In this agreeable incertitude we passed several hours, and, though very desirous of finding the goddess, by no means im- patient of the delay. Every part of the valley presented some minute beauty, which, without offering itself, at once stole upon the soul and captivated us with the charms of our retreat. Still, however, we continued to search, and might still have continued, had we not been interrupted by a voice which, though we could not see from whence it came, addressed us in this manner. 11. "If you would find the goddess of Grace, seek her not under one form, for she assumes a thousand. Ever changing under the eye of inspection, her variety, rather than her figure, is pleasing. In contemplating her beauty, the eye glides over every perfection with giddy delight, and, capable of fixing no- where, is charmed with the whole. She is now Contemplation with solemn look, again Compassion with humid eyes; she no sparkles with Joy, soon every feature speaks Distress : her looks at times, invite our approach, at others, repress our presumption the goddess can not be properly called beautiful under any ;me )f these forms, but, by combining them all, she becomes irre- listibly pleasing." 56 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. EXERCISE IV. Herrt Wadsworth Lokgpellow, one of the most eminent poets of Amer- ica, was born in Portland, Maine, Feb. 27th, 1807. He is still living. Foi a skstch of him, see Exercise XXIII. ' Tal^mud is ft Hebrew word meaning doctrine, ft is the name ap- plied to a work containing a vast number of traditions respecting the usages and laws of the Jewish people. The law, among that people, was divided into the written and the unwritten. The written law em- braced the five books of Moses ; tne tinwritten was handed down orally : the oral being, in fact, explanatory of the written. But, in time, the oral came, also, to be put in writing, and formed the text of the Talmud. This was first done, it is believed, about the year 200. There are two separate commentaries on this text, which are distinguished respectively, as the Babylonian and the Jerusalem. ' Le''oknd or Leo^knu (in Latin legendiim) is, literally, a thing to he read, that is, worth reading. The primary application of the term, how- ever, was to tales of a fictitious character, founded on ecclesiastical tradition. » Rab''bih or Rab''bi is, among the Hebrews, a title equivalent to our word Doctor, Master, or Teacher. * Medi ^'val is compounded of two Latin words, (Medius, middle, and ^yuM, age,) and signifies pertaining to the Middle Ages. SANDALPHON. I. Have you read in the Talmud* of old, In the Legends" the Eabbins' have told Of the limitless realms of the air, — Have you read it, — the marvelous story Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer ? II. How, erect, at the outermost gates Of the City Celestial he waits, With his feet on the ladder of light, RHETORICAL READER. M That, crowded with angels unnumbered, By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered Alone in the desert at night ? ni. The Angels of Wind and of Fire Chant only one hymn, and expire With the song's irresistible stress; Expire in their rapture and wonder, As harp-strings are broken asunder By music they throb to express. IV. But serene in the rapturous throng, Unmoved by the rush of the song, With eyes unimpassioned and slow, Among the dead angels, the deathless Sandalphon stands listening breathless To sounds that ascend from below j — "v. From the spirits on earth that adore, From the souls that entreat and implore In the fervor and passion of prayer j From the hearts that are broken with losses, And weary with dragging the crosses Too heavy for mortals to bear. VI. And he gathers the prayers as he stands. And they change into flowers in his hands, Into garlands of purple and red ; And beneath the great arch of the portal, Through the streets of the City Immortal Is wafted the fragrance they shed 3* 5R i8 SANDERS UNION 8ER7E8. VII. It is but a legend I know, — A fable, a phantom, a show, Of the ancient Rabbinical lore ; Yet the old mediaBval* tradition, The beautiful, strange superstition. But haunts me and holds me the mora vni. When I look from my window at night, And the welkin above is all white. All throbbing and panting with stars, Among them majestic is standing Sandalphon the angel, expanding His pinions in nebulous bars. IX. And the legend, I feel, is a part Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, The frenzy and fire of the brain, That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, The golden pomegranates of Eden, To quiet its fever and pain. EXERCISE V. JoHM Greekleaf Whittier, author of the following beautiful lines, is an eminent American poet He was born near Haverhill, in Massachusetts, ia the year 180S. A DREAM OF SUMMER. JOBS I. Bland as the morning breath of Juno The south-west breezes play ; And, through its haze, the winter noon Seems warm as summer's day. ^.RHETORICAL READER. 58 The snow-plumed Angel of the North Has dropped his icy spear; Again the mossy earth looks forth, Again the streams gush clear. II. The fox his hill-side cell forsakes, The mnskrat leaves his nook, The bluebird in the meadow brakes Is singing with the brook. " Bear up, oh, mother Nature !'' cry Bird, breeze, and streamlet free ; " Our winter voices prophesy Of summer days to thee !" III. So, in those winters of the soul, By bitter blasts and drear O'erswept from Memory's frozen pole, Will sunny days appear. Reviving Hope and Faith, they show The soul its living powers. And how beneath the winter's snow Lie germs of summer flowers 1 The Night is mother of the Day, The Winter of the Spring, And ever upon old Decay The greenest mosses cling. Behind the cloud the starlight iurks. Through showers the sunbeams fall ; For Grod, who loveth all His works. Has left His Hope with all. 50 BANDERS' UNION SERIES. EXERCISE VI. John Wn.soif, tho celebrated professor of Moral Philosophy, in tlo Uni- versity of Edinburgh, was born in Paisley, in the year 1788. He was first distinguished by his poetical efiFusions. Afterwards he became far more so l)y hia writings in prose. The incident related in the exercise following, is on« of the many beautiful and impressive things found in his famous contribu- t,( ns to Blackwood's Magazine, under the title of Christopher North. THE ANGEL IN THE THUNDER-STORM. JOHN WILSOH. 1. How beautifully emerges that sun-stricken cottage froiu the rocks, that all around it are floating in a blue vapory light! Were we so disposed, methinks we could easily write a little book entirely abouu the obscure people that have lived and died about that farm, by name Logan Braes. Neither is it without its old traditions. One May-day long ago — some two centuries since — that rural festival was there interrupted by a thunder- storm, and the party of youths and maidens, driven from the budding arbors, were all assembled in the ample kitchen. 2. The house seemed to be in the very heart of the thunder; and the master began to read, without declaring it to be a reli- gious service, a chapter of the Bible; but the frequent flashes of lightning so blinded him, that he was forced to lay down the book, and all then sat still without speaking a word; many with pale faces, and none without a mingled sense of awe and fear. The maiden forgot her bashfulness as the rattling peals shook the roof-tree, and hid her face in her lover's bosom ; the children crept closer and closer, each to some protecting knee, and the dogs came all into the house, and lay down in dark places Now and then there was a convulsive, irrepressible, but half-stifled shriek — some sobbed — and a loud hysterical laugh from one overcome with terror, sounded ghastly between the deepest of all dread repose — that which separates one peal fi.m another, when the flash and the roar are as one, and the thick air smells of sulphur. 3. The body feels its mortal nature, and shrinks as if about to be withered into nothing. Now the muttering thunder seems RHETORICAL READER. 61 to have changed its place t) some distant cloud — now, as if re- turning to blast those Avhom it had spared, waxes louder and fiercer than before — till the great tree that shelters the house is shivered with a noise like the masts of a ship carried away by the board. 4. ' Look! father, look! — see, yonder is an angel all in white, descending from heaven !" said little Alice, who had already hc3n almost in the attitude of prayer, and now clasped her handa together and steadfastly, and, without fear of the lightning, eyed the sky --"One of God's holy angels — one of those who sing bsfore the Lamb !" And, with an inspired rapture, the fair child sprung to her feet. " See ye her not — see ye her not — father — mother ? Lo ! she beckons to me with a palm in her hand, like one of the. palms in that picture in our Bible, when our Savior is entering into Jerusalem ! There she comes, nearer and nearer the earth. Oh ! pity, forgive, and have mercy on me, thou most beautiful of all the angels, even for His name's sake \" 5. All eyes were turned towards the black heavens, and then to the raving child. Her mother clasped her to her bosom, afraid that terror had turned her brain — and her father, going to the door, surveyed an ampler spnce of the sky. She flew tr his side, and clinging to him again, exclaimed in a wild outcry, — " On her forehead a star ! on her forehead a star ! And, oh ! on what lovely wings she is floating away, away into eternity ! The angel, father, is calling me by my Christian name, and I must no more abide on earth ; but, touching the hem of her garment, be wafted away to heaven." Sudden, as a bird let loose from the hand darted the maiden from her father's bosom, and, with her face upward to the skies, pursued her flight. 6 Young and old left the house, and, at that moment, tha forked lightning came from the crashing cloud, and struck the whoL tenoment into ruins. Not a hair on any head was singed; and, with one accord, the people fell down upon their kneec. Ytoil. the eyes of the child, the angel, or vision of the angel, had disappeared ; but, on her return to Heaven, the celestial heard the hymn that rose from those that were saved, and above B2 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. all the voices, the small, sweet, silvery voice of her whose eyea alone were worthy of beholding a saint transfigured. EXERCISE VII. Robert Southet was born in Bristol, England, in the year 1774, and died It 1843. He is distinguished both as a poet and as a prose writer. His wiitings are numerous. The following humorous tale is one of his best piece* in this line. The etory, however, is not original with him ; but thi« terse >ply. ROPRECHT THE ROBBER. ABBXDOIP raOK BOtrrHXT. I. Roprecht the Robber is taken at last;* In Cologne they have him fast; Trial is over, and sentence past; And hopes of escape were vain, he knew ; For the gallows now must have its due. n. But buried Roprecht must not be; He is to be left on the triple tree; That they who pass along, may spy Where the famous robber is hanging on high. III. It will be a comfortable sight To see him there by day and by night; For Roprecht the Robber many a year Had kept the country round in fear. IV. In his suit of irons he was hung; They sprinkled him then, and their psalm they sungi And, turning away when this duty was paid, Tliey said, — " What a goodly end he had mad«." BHETOEICAL READER. 68 V. The crowd broke up, and went their way; All were gone by the close of day; And Roprecht the Robber was left there Hanging alone in the moonlight air. VI. The stir in Cologne is greater to-day Than all the bustle of yesterday; Hundreds and thousands went out to see; The irons and chains, as well as he, Were gone, but the rope was left on the tree VII. A wonderful thing ! for every one said He had hung till he was dead, dead, dead; And on the gallows was seen, from noon Till ten o'clock, in the light of the moon. VIII. Moreover, the hangman was ready to sweax He had done his part with all due care; And that certainly better hanged than he No one ever was, or ever could be» IX. So 'twas thought, because he had died so well, He was taken away by miracle. But would he again alive be found? Or had he been laid in holy ground? X. 'Twas a whole week's wonder in tha.t great town. And in all places, up the river and down ; But a greater wonder took place of it then; For Roprecht was found on the gallows again. €4 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. XI. With that the whole city flocked oat to seej There Roprecht was on the triple tree, Dead, past all doubt, as dead could be j But fresh he was, as if spells had charmed him, And neither wind nor weather had harmed him XII. While the multitude stood in a muse, One said, — "I am sure he was hanged in shoes;" In this the hangman and all concurred; But now, behold, he was booted and spurred I XIII. Plainly, therefore, it was to be seen, That somewhere on horseback he had been; And at this the people marveled more. Than at anything which had happened before. XIV. For not in riding trim was he, When he disappeared from the triple tree; And his suit of irons he still was in, With the collar that clipped him under the chin XV. Roprecht the Robber had long been their curse. And hanging had only made him worse; For bad as he was when living, they said They had rather meet him alive than dead XVI. S: some were for digging a pit in the place, And burying him there with a stone on his face; And that hard on his body the earth should be pressed, And exorcists be sent for *x) lay him at rest. RHETORICAL READER 65 XVII. But others, whose knowledge was greater, opined That this corpse was too strong to be confined; No weight of earth which they could lay, Would hold him down a single day, If he chose to get up and ride away. XVIII. But fire, they said, had been proved to be The only infallible remedy ; So they were for burning the body outright, Which would put a stop to his riding by night. XIX. Some were for this, and some for that. And some they could not tell for what; And never was such commotion known In that great city of Cologne. XX. Pieter Snoye was a boor of good renown, Who dwelt about an hour and a half from the town, And he, while the people were all in debate, Went quietly in at the city gate. XXI. J^'or Father Kijf* he sought about, His Confessor, till he found him out; But the Father Confessor wondered to see Tho old man, and what his errand might be. XXII. And something so strange the Father saw In Pieter's looks, and his hum and his haw, That he began to doubt it was something more Than a trifle omitted in last week's score. * Kijf {klfe) W SANDERS' UNION SERIES. XXIII. At length, it came out, that in the aflFair Of Roprecht the Robber he had some share. The Confessor then gave a start in fear — God grant there have been no witchcraft here . XXIV. Pieter Snoye, who was boking down, With something between a smile and a frown, Felt that suspicion move his bile, And looked up with more of a frown than a smila XXV. " Though I am, as you very well know. Father Kijf, A peaceable man, and keep clear of strife, It's a queerish business that now Fve been inj But I can't say that it's much of a sin." XXVI. " Under the seal, I tell it you. And you will judge what is best to do, That no hurt to me and my son may ensue. No earthly harm have we intended, And what was ill done, has been well mended. XXVII. " I and my son, Piet Pieterszoon, Were returning home, by the light of the moon, From this good city of Cologne, On the night of the execution day; And hard by the gibbet was our way. XXVIII. , " About midnight it was we were passing by, My son, Piet Pieterszoon, and I, When we heard a moaning as we came near, Which made us quake, at first, for fear. RHETORICAL READER. $11 XXIX. "But the moaning was presently heard again, And we knew it was nothing ghostly thenj 'Lord help us, father!' Piet Pieterszoon said, *E,oprecht, for certain, is not dead/ XXX. ** So under the gallows our cart we drive . And, sure enough, the man was alive Because of the irons that he was in, He was hanging, not by the neckj but the chin. XXXI. "The reason why things had got thus wiong. Was that the rope had been left too long; The hangman's fault — a clumsy rogue, He is not fit to hang a dog. XXXII. " Now Roprecht, as long as the people were there, Never stirred hand or foot in the air; But when, at last, he was left alone. By that time so much of his strength was gone, That he could do little more than groan." xxxin. »' Father Kijf, we could not bear To leave him hanging in misery there; And 'twas an act of mercy, I cannot but say, To get him down, and take him away. XXXIV. " My son, Piet Pieterszoon, and I, We took him down, seeing none was nigh: And we took off his suit of irons with care, When we got him home, and we hid him there. 98 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. XXXV. 'The secret, as you may guess, was known To Alit, my wife, but to her alone; And never sick man, T dare aver. Was better tended than he was by her. XXXVI. **Piet Pieterszoon, my son, and I, We heard folks talk as we stood by. And Piet looked at me with a comical eye. We thought them fools, but, you shall see, Not over wise ourselves were we. XXXVII. " For, I must tell you, Father Kijf, That when we told this to Alit, my wife, She at the notion perked up with delight, And said she believed the people were right. XXXVIII. " Yes, she said, it was perfectly clear That there must have been a miracle here ; And we had the happiness to be in it, Having been brought there just at the minute XXXIX. " Well, Father, we kept him at bed and board, Till his neck was cured and his strength restored And we should have sent him off this day With something to help him on ^is way. XL. "But this wicked Roprecht, what did he? Though he had been saved thus mercifully; Hanging had done him so little good, Tliat he took to his old ways as soon as he couid RHETORICAL READER. XLI. " Last night, when we were all asleep, Out of his bed did this gallows-bird creep; Piet Pieterszoon's boots and spurs he put on, And stole my best horse, and away he was gone. XLII " Now Alit, my wife, did not sleep so hard, But she heard the horse's feet in the yard; And, when she jogged me, and bade me wake, My mind misgave me as soon as she spake. XLIII. " To the window my good woman went, And watched which way his course he bent; And, in such time as a pipe can be lit, Our horses were ready with bridle and bit. XLIV. " Away, as fast as we could hie, We went, Piet Pieterszoon and I; And still on the plain we had him in sight; The moon did not shine for nothing that night. XLV. " Knowing the ground and riding fast, We came up with him at last; And — would you believe it? Father Kijf, The ungrateful wretch would have taken my life, If he had not missed his stroke with a knife. XL VI. " The struggle in no long time* was done. Because, you know, we were two to one; But yet all our strength we were fain to try, Piet Pieterszoon, my son, and I. f0 SANDERb UNION SERIES. XLVII. " When we had got him on the groundj We fastened his hands, and his legs we bouad And across the horse we laid him then, And brought him back to the house again/' XLVIII. * ' We have robbed the gallows and that was ill done ;' Said I to Piet Pieterszoon, my son, * And restitution we must make To that same gallows, for justice* sake/ XLIX. •' In his suit of irons the rogue we arrayed, And once again in the cart he was laid; Night not yet so far was spent, But there was time enough for our intent; And back to the triple tree we went. L. " His own rope was ready there, To measure the length we took good care; And the job which the bungling hangman begun, This time, I think, was properly done. By me and Piet Pieterszoon, my son/' EXERCISE VIII. James Abraham Hillhouse was born in New Haven, Ct., Sept. 2i% 1789, and died near the same place, Jan. 4th, 1841. He was a writar of con- siderable merit, both in prose anJ verse. The following is from a .Irama by him, entitled Hadad. In this play, Hadad is represented as a person of tha royal blood of Damascus, detained as a hostage in Jerusalem. The Tamar, here introduced, is a daughter of Absalom, who is described (IT. Sam., chap, xiv. V. 27) as " a woman of fair countenance." Absalom, in furtherance of hie ambitious projects, is disposed to give her in marriage to Hadad; nor if RHETORICAL READER. 71 she herself av^erse to the alliance, as will appear in the dialogue. Nathak is the celebrated prophet who so pointedly rebuked king David (II. Sam., chap. xii.). ^ Thebes, the "hundred-gated city," was situated in Upper Egypt. It wa« said to have 20,000 war-chariots, and a circuit of not less than 17 miles. Its flourishing era lasted nearly eight centuries, that is, from W. 0. 1600 to B. c. 800. The site of the city is now a desert, or occupied by a few stragding villages. '' Palibo'thra, or Palimbo''thra, a celebrated city of ancient India, DOW known by the narae of Patna. '* Seren''dib, an old name for the island of Ceylon ; so called by the Arabs. * Ilium is only another name for ancient Troy in Asia Minor. * ElFshah's Isles, so called from Elishah, a son of Javan (Gen, x. iv.). His descendants are supposed to have peopled Greece, especially the southern part, as also the islands of the iEgean Sea. * Mem-'non is represented by most Greek writers as king of Ethiopia. He fought against the Greeks in the Trojan War, and was slain by Achilles. ' Urim and Thummim, Itf/his and truths ; a kind of ornaments on the breastplate of the high priest, in virtue of which he gave answers to the people in certain cases of appeal to God. SCENE FROM HADAD. JAMES A. HILLHOrM. An Apartment in Ahsalom's House. Nathan and Tamar. Natli. But tell me, hast thou ever noted Amidst his many shining qualities Aught strange or singular ? — unlike to others '/ That caused thy wonder ? even to thyself Aloved thee to say, " How? — Wherefore's this?'* Tarn. Never. Naili. Nothing that marked him from the rest of men ? — Hereafter you shall know why thus I question. Tarn. 0, yes, unlike he seems in many things,— In knowledge, eloquence, high thoughts. Nath. Proud thoughts Thou mean'st ? Tarn. I'm but a young and simple maid ; 72 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. But, father, he, of all my ears have judged, Is master of the loftiest, richest mind. Nafh. How have I wronged him ! deeming him more apt For intricate designs, and daring deeds, Than contemplation's solitary flights. Tarn. Seer, his far-soaring thoughts ascend the stars, Pierce the unseen abyss, pervade, like light, The universe, and wing the infinite Naih. (^fixing his eyes upon her) What stores of love, and praise, and gratitude He thence must bring to Him whose mighty hand Fashioned their glories, hung yon golden orbs Amidst His 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 ! How his soul. Returning from its quest through Earth and Heaven, Must glow with holy fervor ! Doth it, maiden ? Tajn. Ah ! father, father, were it so indeed, I were too happy I 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 ? Tarn. 0, ask not. Nath. (fervently.') My child ! thou wouldst not wed an Infidel ? Tarn, (in tears) O, no ! 0, no ! Nath. Why then this embassage ? Why doth your sire Still urge the king ? Why hast thou hearkened it ? Tarn. There was a time when T had hopes, — when truth RHETORICAL. READER. tJ 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. Nafh. Beware, Or thou'lt delude thy soul to ruin. Say, Doth he attend our holy ordinances ? Tarn. He promises observance. Nath. Two full years Hath he abode in Jewry. Tarn. Prophet, think How he was nurtured — in the faith of Ido's ; That impious worship long since he abjured 15y his own native strength ; and now he looks Abroad through Nature's works, and yet must rise. Nath. Speaks he of Moses ? 7^am. Familiar as thyself. N'afh. I think thou said'st he had surveyed the world ? Tarn. father, 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 Ilium* Where fleets and warriors from Elishah's Isles* Besieged the Beauty,* where Memnon* fell : — Of pyramids, temples, 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. Nafh. Yet manhood scarce confirms his cheek. Tarn. All this His thirst of knowledge has achieved ; the wish To prather from the wise eternal Truth. * Helea 6R f-^ SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Nath. Not found where he has sought it, and ha« led Thy wandering fancy. Tarn. 0, might I relate — But T 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 ? Tarn. 'Tis not unfrequent. Nath Only When thou'rt alone ? Tarn. I have not heard it else. Nath. A sound like what ? Tarn. Like wild, sad music, father; More moving than the lute or viol touched By skillful 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 ? Tarn. At his step it dies. Nath. Mark me. — Thou know'st 'tis held by righteous men. That Heaven intrusts us all to Holy Watchers,* Who ward us from the Tempter. This I deem Some intimation of an unseen danger. Tarn. But whence ? Nath. Time may reveal; meanwhile I warn thee Trust not thyself alone with Hadad. Tarn. Thiuk'st thou — Nath. I scarce know what I think, — my thoughts are troubled If some lewd spirit, taken with thy beauty, Or plotting to deceive and disunite us, Cculd put on human semblance, this were he. Tarn. father, father ! Nath. Inscrutable he seems, yet ever busy ; * Psalm xxxiv., v. 7. RHETORICAL READER. 75 His mocking eye insults, while it emits Tlie malice of the serpent; snake-like, too, He slinks away, even while his looks dart fury. Nay, nay — I lay not to his charge — I know Little of him, though I have supplicated, — T will not wound thee with my dark suspicions— 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 1 EXERCISE IX. .tonw GoDFRET Saxe, one of the wittiest of American poets, was bom U Franklin County, Vermont, June 2d, 1816. His lines are full of verbal feli- cities, often sparkling with genuine wit and humor, and ever abounding in "graceful and poetical puns." We select the following, as best exhibiting his manner, and, at the same time, showing a definite purpose underlying all this fun. » Job. i. f 7. 7M SANDERS' UNION SERIES. THE PROUD MISS MACBRIDE. A LEGEND OF GOTHAM. joHR I. am. O, terribly proud was Miss MacBride, The very personification of pride, As she minced along in fashion's tide, Adown Broadway — on the proper side — When the golden sun was setting; There was pride in the head she carried so high, Pride in her lip, and pride in her eye, And a world of pride in the very sigh That her stately bosom was fretting 1 II. O, terribly proud was Miss MacBride, Proud of her beauty, and proud of her pride, And proud of fifty matters beside — That wouldn't have borne dissection; Proud of her wit, and proud of her walk. Proud of her teeth, and proud of her talk, Proud of " knowing cheese from chalk," On a very slight inspection ! III. Proud abroad, and proud at home, Proud wherever she chanced to come — When she was glad, and when she was glumj Proud as the head of a Saracen Over the door of a tippling-shop ! — Proud as a duchess, proud as a fop, " Proud as a boy with a bran-new top," Proud beyond comparison I IV. It seems a singular thing to say. But her very senses led her astray Kespecting all humility; RHETORICAL READER. 77 In sooth, her dull, auricular drum Could find in humble only a " hum," And heard no sound of "gentle" come, In talking about gentility. What lowly meant she didn't know, For she always avoided " everything low," With care the most punctilious; And, queerer still, the audible sound Of "super-silly" she never had found In the adjective supercilious ! VI. The meaning of meek she never knew. But imagined the phrase had something to do With " Moses," a peddling German Jew, Who, like all hawkers, the country through, Was "a person of no position;" And it seemed to her exceedingly plain, If the word was really known to pertain To a vulgar German, it wasn't germane To a lady of high condition 1 vn. Even her graces — not her grace — For that was in the " vocative case" — Chilled with the touch of her icy face. Sat very stiffly upon her ! She never confessed a favor aloud, Like one of the simple, common crowd- But coldly smiled, and faintly bowed, As who should say, "You do me proud, And do yourself an honor I" 78 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. VIII. Aud yet the pride of Miss MacBride, Although it had fifty hobbies to ride, Had really no foundation j But, like the fabrics that gossips devise — Those single stories that often arise And grow till they reach a four-story size- Was merely a fancy creation ! IX. Her birth, indeed, was uncommonly high — For Miss MacBride first opened her eye Through a skylight dim, on the light of the skyj But pride is a curious passion — And in talking about her wealth and worth, She always forgot to mention her birth To people of rank and fashion 1 X. Of all the notable things on earth, The queerest one is pride of birth, Among our "fierce democracie!" A bridge across a hundred years. Without a prop to save it from sneers— Not even a couple of rotten peers — A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers, Is American aristocracy I XI English and Irish, French and Spanish, German, Italian, Dutch and Danish, Crossing their veins until they vanish In one conglomeration; So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed, N » heraldry-Harvey will ever succeed In finding the circulation I RHETORICAL READER 79 XTI, Depend upon it, my snobbish friend, Your family thread you can't ascend, Without good reason to apprehend You may find it waxed at the farther end. By some plebeian vocation; Or, worse than that, your boasted line May end in a loop of stronger twine, That plagued some worthy relation J XIII. But Miss MacBride had something beside Her lofty birth to nourish her pride — For rich was the old paternal MacBride, A-Ccording to public rumor; And he lived "up town," in a splendid square, And kept his daughter on dainty fare, And gave her gems that were rich and rare, And the finest rings and things to wear, And feathers enough to plume her. XIV. A thriving tailor begged her hand. But she gave " the fellow" to understand, By a violent manual action, She perfectly scorned the best of his clan, And reckoned the ninth of any man An exceedingly vulgar fraction I XV. Another, whose sign was a golden boot, Was mortified with a bootless suit. In a way that was quite appalling; For, though a regular szitor* by trade, He wasn't a suitor to suit the maid. Who cut him off with a saw — and bade " The cobbler keep to his calling !" * Sutor is the Latin for shoemaker. #0 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. XVI. A rich tobaccoDist comes and sues, And, thinking the lady would scarce refuse A man of his wealth, and liberal views, Began, at once, with " If you dioose — And could you really love him—" . But the lady spoiled his speech in a huff, With an answer rough and ready enough, To let him know she was up to snuff, Aud altogether above him I XVII. A young attorney, of winning grace. Was scarce allowed to "open his face," Ere Miss MacBride had closed his case With true judicial celerity; For the lawyer was poor, and "seedy" to boot, And to say the lady discarded his .smi7, Is merely a double verity ! XVIII. The last of those who came to court, Was a lively beau, of the dapper sort, " Without any visible means of support," A crime by no means flagrant In one who wears an elegant coat. But the very point on which they vote A ragged fellow "a vagrant!" XIX. Now dapper Jim his courtship plied (I wish the fact could be denied) With an eye to the purse of the old MacBride, And really "nothing shorter!" For he said to himself, in his greedy lust, " Whenever he dies — as die he must — RHETORICAL READER. 8] And yields to Heaven his vital trust, He's very sure to ' come down with his duat/ In behalf of his only daughter." XX. And the very magnificent Miss MacBride, Half in love, and half in pride, Quite graciously relented; And, tossing her head, and turning her back, No token of proper pride to lack — To be a bride, without the " Mac," With much disdain, consented! XXI. Old John MacBride, one fatal day, Became the unresisting prey Of fortune's undertakers; And staking all on a single die. His foundered bark went high and dry Among the brokers and breakers ! XXII. But, alas, for the haughty Miss MacBride, 'Twas such a shock to her precious pride I She couldn't recover, although she tried Her jaded spirits to rally; 'Twas a dreadful change in human aflfairs, From a place " up town," to a nook " up stairs From an avenue down to an alley ! XXIII. 'Twas little condolence she had, God wot — From her " troops of friends," who hadn't forgot The airs she used to borrow I They had civil phrases enough, but yet 'Twas plain to see that their " deepest regret" Was a different thing from sorrow ' ^* 5R ^2 SANDERS* UNION SERIES. XXIV. And one of those chaps who make a pun As if it were quite legitimate fun To be blazing away at every one With a regular, double-loaded gun — Remarked that moral transgression Always brings retributive stings To candle-makers as well as kings; For " making light of cereous things" Was a very loick-ed profession ! XXV. And vulgar people — the saucy churls — Inquired about " the price of pearls," And mocked at her situation : ** She wasn't ruined — they ventured to hope— - Because she was poor, she needn't mope* Few people were better oflF for soap. And that was a consolation " XXVI. And to make her cup of woe run over. Her elegant, ardent plighted lover Was the very first to forsake her; " He quite regretted the step, 'twas true- The lady had pride enough ' for two/ But that alone would never do To quiet the butcher and baker '** XXVII. And now the unhappT Miss MacBride— The merest ghost of her early pride — Bewails her lonely position; ^ Cramped in the very narrowest niche, Above the poor, and below the rich — Was ever a worse condition I RHETORICAL READER ' S3 XXVIII. MORAL. Because you flourish in worldly aflfairs, Don't be haughty, and put on airs, With insolent pride of station ! Don't be proud, and turn up your nose At poorer people in plainer clothes. But learn, for the sake of your mind's repose, That wealth's a bubble that comes — and goes ! And that all proud flesh, wherever it grows, Ts subject to irritation ! EXERCISE X. THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. ROBERT CHAMBBRS.* f-. James Hogg, generally known as "The Ettrick Shep- HSR^o," was, perhaps, the most creative and imaginative of the uneducated poets. His fancy had a wide range, picturing in its flight scenes of wild aerial magnificence and beauty. His taste was very defective, though he had done much to repair his early want of instruction. His occupation of a shepherd, among solitary hills and glens, must have been favorable to his poetical enthusiasm. He was not, like Burns, thrown into so- ciety when young, and forced to combat with misfortune. His destiny was unvaried, until he had arrived at a period, when the bent of his genius was fixed for life. Without society during the day, his evening hours were spent in listening to ancient legends and ballads, of which his mother, like Burns's, was a great reci or. This nursery of imagination he has himself beautifully described : — 2. list, the mystic lore sublime Of fairy tales of ancient time I For a Note on Chambers, see Exercise CVIII. W SANDERS' UNION SERIES. I learned them in the lonely glen, The last abodes of Hying men, Where never stranger came our way By summer night, or winter day; Where neighboring hind or cot was none— Our converse was with heaven alone — With voices through the cloud that sung, And brooding storms that round us hung; 0, lady, judge, if judge we may. How stern and ample was the sway Of themes like these, when darkness fell, And gray-haired sires the tales would tell When doors were barred, and elder dame Plied at her task beside the flame. That, through tlie smoke and gloom alone, On dim and umbered faces shone, — The bleat of mountain goat on high. That from the cliff came quivering by; The echoing rock, the rnsliing flood, The cataract's swell, the moaning wood; The undefined and mingled hum — Voice of the desert never dumb! All these have left within this heart A feeling tongue can ne'er impart; A wildered and unearthly flame, A something that's without a name. 3. Hogg was descended from a family of shepherds, and ouiu, as he alleged (though the point was often disputed), on the 25Lh January (Burns's birthday), in the year 1772. When a mere child he was put out to service, acting first as a cow-herd, until capable of takiiig care of a flock of sheep. He had in all about half a year's sc hooling. When eighteen years of age, he entered the service of .Mr. Laidlaw, Blackhouse. He was then an eager reader of poetiy and romances, and he subscribed to a ciiculatiug library in Peebles, the miscellaneous contents of which he pe- rused with th 5 utmost avidity. 4. He was a remarkably fine-looking young man, with a pro- fusion of light-brown hair, which he wore coiled up under his hat or blue bonnet, the envy of all the country maidens. Ad RHETORICAL READER. 85 attack of illness, however, Drought on by over exe.'ticn on a hot summer day, completely altered his countenance, anj changed the very form of his features. His first literary eifort was in song writing, and, in 1801, he published a small volume of pifies. He was introduced to Sir Walter Scott by his master's son, Mr. William Laidlaw, and assisted in the collection of old ballads for the Border Minstrelsy. He soon imitated the style of these ancient strains with great felicity, and published another volume of songs and poems under the title of the Mountain Bard. 5. He now embarked in sheep farming, and took a journey t the island of Lewis on a speculation of this kind; but all he had saved as a shepherd, or by his publication, was lost in these attempts. He then repaired to Edinburgh, and endeavored to subsist by his pen. A collection of .»ongs, The Forest Min- strel, was his first eflPort; his second was a periodical called The Spy; but it was not till the publication of the Queen's Wake, in 1813, that the Shepherd established his reputation as an author. 6. This legendary poem consists of a collection of tales and ballads, supposed to be sung to Mary, Queen of Scots, by the native bards of Scotland, assembled at a royal wake at Holy rood, in order that the fair queen might prove *♦ The wondrous power of Scottish song." The design was excellent, and the execution so varied and masterly, that Hogg was at once placed among the first of our living poets. The difi'erent productions of the native minstrels are strung together by a thread of narrative so gracefully written in many parts, that the reader is surprised equally at the delicacy and the genius of the author. 7. At the conclusion of the poem, Hogg alludes to Lis illustrious friend Scott, and adverts with some feeling K -lO aavice which Sir Walter had once given him, to abstain £r( a his worship of poetry : " The land was charmed to list his lays ; It knew the harp of ancient days. 86 SANDERS' UNION SERIES* The border chiefs that long had been In sepulchers, unhearsed and green, Passed from their moldy vaults away, In armor red and stern array, And, by their moonlight halls, were seen In visor, helm, and habergeon,* Even fairies sought our land again, So powerful was the magic strain. 8. Blest be his generous heart for aye 1 He told me where the relic lay ; Pointed my way with ready will Afar on Ettrick's wildest hill ; Watched my first notes with curious eye, And wondered at my minstrelsy : He little weened a parent's tongue Such strains had o'er my cradle sung. 9. But, when to native feelings true, I struck upon a chord was new ; When by myself I 'gan to play, He tried to wile my harp away. Just when her notes began with skill, To sound beneath the southern hill, And twine around my bosom's core. How could we part for evermore ? 'Twas kindness all — I cannot blame — For bootless is the minstrel flame: But eure a bard might well have known Another'^ feelings by his own /" 13. His love of angling and field-sports amounted to a passion, and, when lie could no longer fish or hunt, he declared his belief that his death was near. In the autumn of 1835, he was attacked with a dropsical complaint ; and, on the 21st November of tha' year, after some days of insensibility, he breathed his last as calmly, and with as little pain, as he ever fell asleep in his gray plaid on the hill-side. His death was deeply mourned in the vale of Ettrick, for all rejoiced in his fame; and, not- withstanding his personal foibles, the Shepherd was generous, kind-hearted, and charitable far beyond his means. * Habergeon (ha ber^ j'e on), armor to cover the neck and breast RHETORICAL READER. 87 EXERCISE XI. Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, was born in the palace of Linlithgow, in Dec. 1542, and was beheaded at Fotheringay Castle, in Northamptonshire, England, Feb. 8th, 1587. She was betrothed to the dauphin of France, son of Henry II., and sailed for that country Aug. 7th, 1548. She was kindly received by Henry II., and treated as a daughter. In France she received a brilliant ed ication. She was married to the dauphin April 24th, 1558. Upon the death of Henry II., in 1559, Mary became Queen of France. But, in 1560, not quite seventeen months after «he was made queen, her husband, Francis II., died. After his death, she resolved to return to Scotland. She embarked at Calais Aug. 14th, 1561, and arrived at Leith on the 19th of the game month. This is the Landing op Queen Mary, so beautifully sung in the following piece. QUEEN MARY'S LANDING. I. After a youth, by woes o'ercast, After a thousand sorrows past, The lovely Mary once again Set foot upon her native plain. Kneeled on the pier with modest grace, And turned to heaven her beauteous face. 'Twas then the caps in air were blended, A thousand, thousand shouts ascended; Shivered the breeze around the throng; Gray barrier cliffs the peals prolong : And every tongue gave thanks to Heaven, That Mary to their hopes was given n. Her comely form, and graceful mien, Bespoke the Lady and the Queen ; The woes of one so fair and young, Mo\ ed every heart, and every tongue ; Driven from her home, a helpless child, To brave the winds and billows wild ; An exile bred in realms afar Amid commotions, broils, and war. JMOa HOOO 8ANDERS' ONION SERIES. Ill one short year her hopes all crossed,— A parent, husband, kingdom lost ! And all ere eighteen years had shed Their honors o'er her royal head. For such a Queen, the Stuart's heir, A Queen so courteous, young, and fair; Who would not every foe defy ? Who would not stand ? Who would not die T m. Light on her airy steed she sprung, Around with golden tassels hung; No chieftain there rode half so free, Or half so light and gracefully. How sweet to see her ringlets pale Wide waving in the southland gale. Which, through the broom-wood blossoms, flew To fan her cheeks of rosy hue ! Whene'er it heaved her bosom's screen, What beauties in her form were seen ! And when her courser's mane it swung, A thousand silver bells were rung. A sight so fail, on Scottish plain, A Scot shall never see again. IV. When Mary turned her wondering eyes On rocks that seemed to prop the skies. On palace, park, and battled pile, — On lake, on river, sea, and isle, — O'er woods and meadows bathed in dew, To distant mountains wild and blue, — She thought the isle that gave her birth. The sweetest, wildest land on earth. V. Slowly, she ambled on her way, Amid her lords and ladies gay. RHETORICAL READER. H9 Priest, abbot, iayman, all were there, And presbyter with look severe. There rode the lords of France and Spain. Of England, Flanders, and Lorraine, While serried thousands round them stood, From shore of Leith to Holyrood. VI. Though Mary's heart was light as air To find a home so wild and fair, To see a gathered nation by, And rays of joy from every eye, Though frequent shouts the welkin broke, Though courtiers bowed, and ladies spoke^ An absent look they oft could trace Deep settled on her comely face. Was it the thought that all alone She must support a rocking throne ? That Caledonia's rugged land Might scorn a lady's weak command, And the Red Lion's haughty eye ^o.ovfl at a maiden's feet to lie ? VII. No : 'twas the notes of Scottish song, Soft pealing from the countless throng. So mellowed came the distant swell, That on her ravished ear it fell Like dew of heaven, at evening close, On forest flower or woodland rose ; For Mary's heart, to nature true, The powers of song and music knew • But all the choral meaaures bland Of anthems rung in southern land, Appeared a useless pile of art, Unfit to sway or melt the heart, Compared with that which floated by,— Her simple, native melody 90 SANDERS' UNION SERIES As she drew nigh the Abbey stile, She halted, reined, and bent the while : She heard the Caledonian lyre Pour forth its notes of Runic jSre : But scarcely caught the ravished Queen The minstrel's song that flowed between : Entranced upon the strain she hung; 'Twas thus the gray -haired minstrel sung : — IX. THE SONG. " ! Lady dear, fair is thy noon, But man is like the inconstant moon : Last night she smiled o'er lawn and lea ; That moon will change, and so will he. Thy time, dear Lady, 's a passing shower ; Thy beauty is but a fading flower : Watch thy young bosom and maiden eye j For the shower will fall, and the floweret die " X. What ails my Queen ? said good Argyle ; Why fades upon her cheek the smile ? Say, rears your steed too fierce and high? Or sits your golden seat awry ? — XI. Ah ! no, my Lord ! this noble steed. Of Rouen's calm and generous breed, Has borne me over hill and plain, Swift as the dun-deer of the Seine. But such a wild and simple lay, Poured from the harp of minstrel gray. My every sense away it stole, And swayed awhile my raptured soul. RHETORICAL READER. 0] O ! say, my Lord, (for you must know Wliat strains along your valleys flow, And all the hoards of Highland lore,) Was ever song so sweet before ? XII. Replied the Earl as round he flung, — Feeble the strain that minstrel sung I My royal Dame, if once you heard, The Scottish lay from Highland bard, Tten might you say in raptures meet, No song was ever half so sweet ! Ah ! yes, my Queen ! if once you heard The Scottish lay from Highland bard. Then might you say in raptures meet No song was ever half so sweet. XIII. Queen Mary lighted in the court ; Queen Mary joined the evening's sport; Yet, though at table all were seen To wonder at her air and mien, Though courtiers fawned and ladies sung. Still in her ear the accents rung, — " Watch thy young hosoni and maiden eye ; For the shower must fall and the floweret die T"* EXERCISE XII. JOHK LiNOARD wi- bom in Winchester, England, in the year 1771. He died in July, 1851. x£e is the author of an elaborate History of England, flrom which the follow .ng affecting narrative is taken. It may be interesting to know that Dr. Liugard was a clergyman of the same faith with Queen Mary. * The reference is to her melancholy death, for an account of which, aee Exercise XII 9ii SANDERS' UNION SERIES. DEATH OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. JOHN L2N0AKD. 1 . In the midst of the great hall of the castle had been raised a scaffold, covered with black serge, and surrounded with a low railing. About seven, the doors were thrown open; the gentle- men of the county entered with their attendants; and Paulet's* guard augmented the number to between one hundred and fifty and two hundred spectators. Before eight, a message was sent to the queen, who replied that she would be ready in hall an hour. 2. At that time, Andrews, the sheriff, entered the oratory, and Mary arose, taking the crucifix from the altar in her right, and carrying her prayer-book in her left hand. Her servants were forbidden to follow ; they insisted ; but the queen bade them to be content, and turning gave them her blessing. They received it on their knees, some kissing her hands, others her mantle. The door closed ; and the burst of lamentation from those within resounded through the hall. 3. Mary was now joined by the earl and her keepers, and descending the staircase, found at the foot Melville, the steward of her household, who, for several weeks, had been excluded from her presence. This old and faithful servant threw himself on his knees, and wringing his hands exclaimed, — "Ah, madam, unhappy me ! was ever a man on earth the bearer of such sorrow as I shall be, when I report that my good and gracious queen and mistress was beheaded in England !" 4. Here his grief impeded his utterance ; and Mary replied : " Good Melville, cease to lament ; thou hast rather cause to joy than mourn; for thou shalt see the end of Mary Stuart's troubles. Know that this world is but vanity, subject to more sorrow than an ocean of tears can bewail. But I pray thee, report that I die a true woman to my religion, to Scotland, and to Fraice, * This was Sir AmiasPaulet, the appointed custodian of the unfor- tunate queen. How unflinchingly he performed his office may be in- ferred from a letter of Queen Elizabeth to him, in which she says : — *' Amias, mymost faithful and careful servant, God Almighty reward thee treblefold for thy most troublesome charge so well discharged." RHETORICAL READER. 08 May God forgive them that have long thirsted for my blood, as the hart Joth for the brooks of water. O God, thou art the author of truth, and truth itself Thou knowest the inward chambers of my thoughts, and that I always wished the union of England and Scotland. Commend me to my son, and tell him that I have done nothing prejudicial to the dignity or in- dependence of his crown, or favorable to the pretended superiority of oui enemies." Then bursting into tears, she said, — " Good Melville, farewell;" and kissing him, "once again, good Mel- ville, farewell, and pray for thy mistress and thy queen." It was remarked as something extraordinary, that this was the first time in her life that she had ever been known to address a per- son with the pronoun " thou." 5. Drying up her tears, she turned from Melville and mado her last request, that her servants might be present at her death. But the Earl of Kent objected that they would be troublesome by their grief and lamentations, might practice some supersti- tious trumpery, perhaps, might dip their handkerchiefs in hei grace's blood. " My lords," said Mary, " I will give my word for them. They shall deserve no blame. Certainly your mis- tress, being a maiden queen, will vouchsafe, in regard of woman- hood, that T have some of my own women about me at my death.'' 6. Receiving no answer, she continued, — " You might, I think, grant me a far greater courtesy, were I a woman of lesser calling than the Queen of Scots." Still they were silent ; when she asked with vehemence, — " Am I not the cousin to your queen, a descendant of the blood royal of Henry VII., and the anointed Queen of Scotland?" At these words the fanaticism of the Earl of Kent began to yield ; and it was resolved to admit four of her men and two of her women servants. She selected her steward, physician, apothecary, and surgeon, with her maids Kennedy and Curie. 7. The procession now set forward. It was headed by the sheriflF and his officers ; next followed Paulet and Drury, and the Earls of Shrewsbury and Kent j and lastly came the Scottish queen, with Melville bearing her train. She wore the richest 94 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. of hex dresses — that which was appropriate to the rank of a queen dowager. Her step was firm, and her countenance cheer- ful. She bore without shrinking the gaze of the spectators, and the sight of the scaffold, the block, and the executioner, and advanced into the hall with that grace and majesty which she had so often displayed in her happier days, and in the palace of her fathers. To aid her as she mounted the scaffold, Piulct off'ered his arm. "I thank you, sir," said Mary; " it is the las< trouble I shall give you, and the most acceptable service you have ever rendered me." 8. The queen seated herself on a stool which was prepared for her. On her right stood the two earls; on the left the sheriff and Beal, the clerk of the council ; in front, the execu- tioner from the Tower, in a suit of black velvet, with his assistant, also clad in black. The warrant was read, and Mary, in an audible voice, addressed the assembly. She would have them recollect, also, that she was a sovereign princess, not subject to the parliament of England, but brought there to suffer by in- justice and violence. She, however, thanked her God that he had given her this opportunity of publicly professing her reli- gion, and of declaring, as she had often before declared, that she had never imagined, nor compassed, nor consented to, the death of the English queen, nor ever sought the least harm to her person. After her death, many things, which were thcD buried in darkness, would come to light. But she pardoned from her heart all her enemies, nor should her tongue utter that which might turn to their prejudice. 9. Here she was interrupted by Dr. Fletcher, dean of Peter- borough, who, having caught her eye, began to preach, and under cover, perhaps, through motives of zeal, contrived to insult the feelings of the unfortunate sufferer. Mary repeated y de- sired him not to trouble himself and her. He persisted; sho tur led aside. He made the circuit of the scaffold, and again addressed her in front. An end was put to this extraordinary scene by the Earl of Shrewsbury, who ordered him to pray. His prayer was the echo of his sermon ; but Mary heard him a'^t. She was employed at the time in her devotions, repeating RHETORICAL READER. 95 with a loud voice, and in the Latin language, passages from the book of Psalms ; and, after the dean was reduced to silence, a prayer in French, in which she begged of God to pardon her sins, declared that she forgaye her enemies, and protested that she was innocent of ever consenting in wish or deed to the death of her English sister. She then prayed in English for Christ's afflicted church, for her son James, and for queen Elizabeth, and in conclusion, holding up the crucifix, exclaimed, — "As th^ sirms, God, were stretched out upon the cross, so receive mo into the arms of thy mercy, and forgive my sins." 10. When her maids, bathed in tears, began to disrobe their mistress, the executioners, fearing the loss of their usual per- quisites, hastily interfered. The queen remonstrated, but in- stantly submitted to their rudeness, observing to the earls with a smile, that she was not accustomed to employ such grooms, or to undress in the presence of so numerous a company. 11. Her servants, at the sight of their sovereign in this lamentable state, could not suppress their feelings ; but Mary, putting her finger to her lips, commanded silence, gave them her blessing, and solicited their prayers. She then seated her- self again. Kennedy, taking from her a handkerchief edged with gold, pinned it over her eyes ; the executioners, holding her by the arms, led her to the block ; and the queen, kneeling down, said repeatedly Mith a firm voice, — "Into thy hands, Lord, I commend my spirit." 12. But the sobs and groans of the spectators disconcerted the headsman. He trembled, missed his aim, and inflicted a deep wound in the lower part of the skull. The queen remained motionless ; and, at the third stroke, her head was severed from her body. When the executioner held it up, the muscles of the face were so strongly convulsed, that the features could not be recfgnized. He cried as usual, — "God save queen Elizabeth." " So perish all her enemies !" subjoined the dean of Peter« borough r " So perish all the enemies of the gospel !" exclaimed, in a still louder tone, the fanatical Earl of Kent. Not a voice was heard to cry amen. Party feeling was ab- sorbed in admiration and pity. 96 SANDERS' UNION SERIEB. EXERCISE XIII. Jeremy Taylor, one of the most eminent of English divines, and often styled the Shakspeare of theological literature, was born in CambrtJge, Eng- land, in, or about the year lfi02. He was remarkable for learning, piety, and eloquence, and for a style singularly vivid and imaginative. His chief work is entitled " Liberty of Prophesying," by which he meant Liberty of Preach- ing. The beautiful Fable below forms the close of that famous discourse. 1e says he found it in the books of the Jews. He died in 1667. A Fable is a species of Allegory :* being a short fictitious story to 2on"ey or enforce a moral. It is sometimes called an Apologue; though this latter name is by some restricted to fables in which brutes and things inanimate are made to talk and act like human beings. TOLERATION :— An Apologue. JEREMY TATLOB. 1. When Abraham sat at his tent door, according to his cus- tom, waiting to entertain strangers, he espied an old man stooping and leaning on his staflf, weary with age and travel, coming towards him, who was a hundred years of age. 2. He received him kindly, washed his feet, provided supper, and caused him to sit down ; but, observing that the old man ate and prayed not, nor begged for a blessing on his meat, asked him why he did not worship the God of Heaven ? The old man told him that he worshiped the fire only, and acknowledged no other God; at which answer Abraham grew so zealously angry, that he thrust the old man out of his tent, and exposed him to all the evils of the night and an unguarded condition. 3. When the old man was gone, God called to Abraham, and asked him where the stranger was ? He replied, — " I thrust him away because he did not worship Thee" : God answered him, "I have suffered him these hundred years, although he dishonored me, and couldst thou not endure him one night, when he gave thee no trouble ?" Upon this, saith the story, Abraham fetched him back again, and gave him hospitable entertainment and wise instruction. Go thou and do likewise, and thy charity will be rewarded by the God of Abraham. * For an analysis of the word Allegory, see page 52. RHETORICAL READER. 97 EXERCISE XIV. Henry Ware, Jr., D. D., was born at llingham, Massachusetts, April 7lsh, 1794, and died September 22d, 1843. His writings are numerous and im- portant, both in prose and verse. They are mainly on theological and devotional themes, and executed with scholarly taste and ability. ADDRESS TO THE HEAVENLY BODIES. HENRT WARE, JB. I. Tell me, ye splendid orbs ! as from your throne Ye mark the rolling provinces that own Your sway, what beings fill those bright abodes ? How formed, how gifted ? what their powers, their state, Their happiness, their wisdom ? Do they bear The stamp of human nature ? Or has Grod Peopled those purer realms with lovelier forms And more celestial minds ? Does Innocence Still wear her native and untainted bloom ? II. 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 scatter woe where Heaven had planted joy ? Or are they yet all paradise, unfallen And uncorrupt ? existeace one long joy. Without disease upon the frame, or sin Upon the heart, or weariness of life j Hope never quenched, and age unknown, And death unfeared ; while fresh and fadeless youth Glows in the light from Grod's near throne of love ? III. 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 5 6R ifS SANDERS' UNION SERIES. EXERCISE XV. John Gat, an English poet, was born in Deronshire, England, in 1688, and died in 1732. His " Fablks," to which the following piece is introdae- toTj, are among the very best in the language. • Pla'to, a celebrated Greek philosopher, was born in Athena in th« year 429 before Christ, and died in 348. He was a profound thinker. ^ Soc'rates, a famous Grecian philosopher, was born in Athens 169 B. c, and died in 399. He was an earnest advocate of practical msdom, and, by his stern moral teachings, made many enemies. These, finally, procured his death upon a charge of corrupting the youth of the city, by introducing new religious opinions and despising the national gods. • Ulys^'ses was one of the early princes of Greece, and greatly celebrated for his wisdom and shrewdness. He was among the fore- most of those engaged in the Trojan War. THE SHEPHERD AND THE PHILOSOPHER. /OHIT SAT. T. Remote from cities lited a swain Unvexed with all the cares of gain ; His head was silvered o'er with age, And long experience made him sage ; Tn summer's heat and winter's cold He fed his flock and penned the fold; His hours in cheerful labor flew, Nor envy nor ambition knew : His wisdom and his honest fame Through all the country raised his name. II. A deep Philosopher (whose rules Of moral life were drawn from schools,) The Shepherd's homely cottage sought, And thus explored his reach of thought:— Whence is thy learning? hath thy toil O'er books consumed the midnight oil ? RHET(»aiCATi READER. ftfl Hast thou old Greece and Rome surveyed, And the vast sense of ]*lato^ weighed? Hatli Socrates' thy soul refined, And hast thou fathomed Tully's* mind? Or, like the wise Ulysses,' thrown, By various fates, on realms unknown, Hast thou through many cities strayed, Their customs, laws, and manners weighed? III. The Shepherd modestly replied, I ne'er the paths of learning tried j Nor have I roamed in foreign part To read mankind, their laws and arts; For man is practiced in disguise, He cheats the most discerning eyes; Who by that search shall wiser grow, When we ourselves can never know? The little knowledge I have gained, VV^as all from simple nature drained; Hence my life's maxims took their rise, Hence grew my settled hate to vice. IV. The daily labors of the bee Awake my soul to industry; Who can observe the careful ant. And not provide for future want ? My dog (the trustiest of his kind) With gratitude inflames my mind; I mark his true, his faithful way. And, in my service, copy Tray. In constancy and nuptial love, I learn my duty from the dove. * Marcus TuUius C.cero. See page 296, 100 SANDERS' UNION SERIES The ben, who from the chilly air, With pious wing, protects her care, And every fowl that flies at large, Instruct me in a parent's charge. V. From nature, too, I take my rule, To shun contempt and ridicule. r never, with important air, In conversation overbear. Can grave and formal pass for wise, When men the solemn owl despise? My tongue within my lips I rein; For who talks much, must talk in vain. We from the wordy torrent fly ; Who listens to the chattering pye? Nor would I, with felonious sleight. By stealth invade my neighbor's right. Rapacious animals we hate: Kites, hawks, and wolves, deserve their fate. VI. Do not we just abhorrence find Against the toad and serpent kind? But Envy, Calumny, and Spite, Bear stronger venom in their bite. Thus every object of creation Can furnish hints to contemplation ; And from the most minute and mean, A virtuous mind can morals glean. VII. Thy fame is just, the Sage replies. Thy virtue proves thee truly wise. Pride often guides the author's pen| Books as affected are as men : RHETORICAL REAPER. TO! But he who studies Nature's laws, From certain truth his maxims draws; And those, without our schools, suffice To make men moral, good, and wise. EXERCISE XVI. Pae' a ble is a word made up of two Greek words (Para, beside, aai Bole, a throwing), signifying the act of throwing or placing one thing beside another for the purposes of comparison. It is the name applied to a species of Allegory (see page 52), and differs from the Fable only, or chiefly, in treating of things spiritual, and in not violating the order of things in real life. *' The excellence of a parable," says an able writer, "depends on the propriety and force of the comparison on which it is founded ; on the general fitness and harmony of its parts ; on the obviousness of its main scope or design ; on the beauty and conciseness of the style in which it is expressed; and on its adaptation to the circumstances and capacities of the hearers." The one here given, besides conveying a noble moral lesson, furnishes an admirable exercise in reading. THE PRODIGAL SON :— A Parable. LUKE, CHAP. XV. 1. And he said, A certain man had two sons: and the younger of them said to his father. Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me. And he divided unto them his living. And not many days after, the younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living. And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine in that land; and he began "to be in want. ^ 2. And he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country ; and he sent him into his fields to feed swine. And he would fain have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat; and no man gave unto him. And when he came to himself, he said. How many hired servants of my father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with l02 -^B-AND-ERS' 'UNION SERIES. hunger ! I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son : make me as yae of tliy hired servants. 3. And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way oflF, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him. And the son said unto him. Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son. But the father said tc. his servants. Bring forth the best robe, and |)ut it on him ; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet: and bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let ua eat, and be merry : for this my son was dead, and is alive again ; he was lost, and is found. And they began to be merry. 4. Now his elder son was in the field : and as he came and drew nigh to the house, he heard music and dancing. And he called one of the servants, and asked what these things meant. And he said unto him. Thy brother is come ; and thy father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath received him safe and sound. And he was angry, and would not go in ; therefore came his father out, and entreated him. 5. And he answering, said to his father, Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither transgressed I at any time thy commandment; and yet thou never gavest me a kid, that I might make merry with my friends : but as soon as this thy son was come, which hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf. And he said unto him, Son , thou art ever with me ; and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad : for this thy brjther was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found. EHETOaiCAL READER. lO^ EXERCISE XVII. Jane Taylou was born in London in the year 17S3. She died in 1824 She began to make verses before she had reached her ninth year. She wrote much and wrote well ; and, in her writings, has left to the young a rich legacy ol mingled enterUinment and instruction. The following is quite in her vein. THE VASE AND THE PITCHER JANE TAYLOR Oae day, when a grand entertainment was ended, A rich china Vase, lately come from abroad, In which every tint of the rainbow was blended. Spoke thus to a Pitcher that stood on the board :-^ n. " I hope, rustic neighbor, you don't feel distressed At standing before me so shabbily dressed: It will mitigate, may be, your feelings to know That, though so superb, I can stoop to the low. III. " 'Tis true that, before I arrived from abroad, Beyond the wide Ganges, I lived with a lord : *Tis true, in the west, that no king can procure, For his service of state, so splendid a ewer. IV. " *Tis true that gay ladies, lit feathers and pearls, Survey and admire me — and barons and earls : 'Tis true that I am, as you must understand, Prodigiously rich, and excessively grand. V. "But you, paltry bottle! I pity your fate: Whence came ye, coarse neighbor, I prithee relate ; And tell us, how is it you ever endure S*^ graceless a shape, and so vile a contour?" ^04 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. VI. The Pitcher, who stood with his hand on his hip, Shrugged up his round shoulders and curled his brown lip^ And grave to appearance, but laughing inside, He thus from his orifice coolly replied ; — vn •* I came, noble Vase, from the cottage below, Where I serve a poor husbandman, if you must know 5 And my trade, might I venture to name such a thing, Is bringing pure water each morn from the spring. VUI. "There's a notable lass who, at dawn of the day, When dewdrops yet glisten on meadow and spray, When the lark soars aloft, and the breezes are cool, Sets off on light tiptoe with me to the pool. IX. " The pool is surrounded with willow and ash. At noon in the sun, its dark waters will flash; And, through the deep shade, you at intervals hear The lowing of kine in the meadow land near. X. " The sheep with their lambkins there browse at their ease, Beneath the cool arch of embowering trees ; While low creeping herbs give their sweets to the air; Wild thyme, and the violet, and primrose fair. XI. " 'Tis here that myself every morning she bears ; Then back to the cot in the valley repairs : The faggot is blazing, the breakfast is placed, And appetite sweetens coarse fare to the taste. RHETORICAL READER. 106 XII. " In these humble services passes my life, Remote from the city, its noise and its strife ; Though homely, I'm fit for the work of the dayj And I'm not ashamed of my true British clay. XIII. * And now, noble Vase, may I ask if 'tis true, That you stand every day here with nothing to do? A poor idle gentleman, up in your niche, Quite useless, and nothing but handsome and rich ! XIV. " They neither intrust you with victuals nor drink ; You must have but a poor sorry life on't, I think ; And, though such an elegant creature you're thought, Pray are you not tired with doing of naught ?" But the Vase would not answer such questions as these j And the Pitcher felt glad he was not a Chinese. EXERCISE XVIII. William Cowpbr, the subject of the following admirable sketch, was born in Hertfordshire, England, in November 1731, and died in 1800. COWPER THE POET. THOMAS CAMPBELL. 1 . The nature of Cowper's works makes us peculiarly identify the poet and the man in perusing them. As an individual, he was retired and weaned from the vanities of the world; and, as an original writer, he left the ambitious and luxuriant subjects of fiction and passion, for those of real life and simple nature, and for the development of his own earnest feelings, in behalf of moral and religious truth, 2. His language has such a masculine, idiomatic strength, 5* 5R 106 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. and his manner, whether he rises into grace or falls into negli- gence, has so much plain and familiar freedom, that we read no poetry with a deener conviction of its sentiments having come from the author's heart; and of the enthusiasm, in whatever he describes, having been unfeigned and unexaggerated. He impresses us with the idea of a being, whose fine spirit had been long enough in the mixed society of the world to be polished by its intercourse, and yet withdrawn so soon as to retain an unworldly degree of purity and simplicity. 3. Ho was advanced in years before he became an author; but l.is compositions display a tenderness of feeling so youth- fully preserved, and even a vein of humor so far from being extinguished by his ascetic habits, that we can scarcely regret his not having written them at an earlier period of life. For he blends the determination of age with an exquisite and ingenuous sensibility ; and, though he sports very much with his subjects, yet, when he is in earnest, there is a gravity of long-felt conviction in his sentiments, which gives an un- common ripeness of character to his poetry. 4. It is due to Cowper to fix our regard on this unaffectedness and authenticity of his works, considered as representations of nimself, because he forms a striking instance of genius, writing the history of its own secluded feelings, reflections, and enjoy- mnnts, in a shape so interesting as to engage the imagination like a work of fiction. He has invented no character in fable, nor in the drama ; but he has left a record of his own character, which forms not only an object of deep sympathy, but a subject for the study of human nature. His verse, it is tnie, considered as such a record, abounds with opposite traits of severity and gentleness, of playfulness and superstition, of solemnity and mirth, which appear almost anomalous ; and there is, undoubt- edly, sometimes an air of moody versatility in the extreme contrasts of his feelings. 5. But looking to his poetry, as an entire structure, it has a massive air of sincerity. It is founded in steadfast principles of belief; and, if we may prolong the architectural metaphor, though its arches may be sometimes gloomy, its tracery sportive, RHETORICAL READER. 107 and its lights and shadows grotesquely crossed, yet altogether, it still forms a vast,. various, and interesting monument of the builder's mind. Young's works are as devout, as satirical, sometimes as merry as those of Cowper; and, undoubtedly, more witty. But the melancholy and wit of Young do not maVe up to us the idea of a conceivable or natural being. He has sketched, in his pages^ the ingenious, but incongruous form of a fictitious mind — Cowper's soul speaks from his volumes. 6. Considering the tenor and circumstances of his life, it is not much to be wondered at, that some asperities and peculiari- ties should have adhered to the strong stem of his genius, like the moss and fungus that cling to some noble oak of the forest, amidst the damps of its unsunned retirement. 7. In addition to these finely appreciative observations of the poet Campbell, himself among the brightest ornaments in English literature, we give, as showing the secret of his success in the art of composition, the following sentences from a letter of Cowper to one of his most intimate friends : "To touch and retouch," says he, " is, though some writers boast of negligence and others would be ashamed to show their foul copies, the secret of almost all good writing, especially in verse. I am never weary of it myself. With the greatest indifference to fame^ which you know me too well to suppose me capable of affecting, T have taken the utmost pains to deserve it. 8 I considered that the taste of the day is refined and delicate to excess, and that to disgust that delicacy of the taste by a slovenly inattention to it, would be to forfeit at once all hope of being useful j and for this reason, though I have written more verse this year than, perhaps, any other man in England, I have finished, and polished, and polished, and touched, and retouched witl the utmost care. Whatever faults I may be chargeable with as a poet, I cannot accuse myself of negligence: I never suffe. a line to pass till I have made it as good as I can ; and, though some may be offended at my doctrines, I trust none will be disgusted by slovenly inaccuracy, in the numbers, the rhymes. 108 SANDERS' ONION SERIES. or the language. If, after all, I should be converted into waste paper, it may be my misfortune^ but it will not be my fauU; and I shall bear it with perfect serenity." EXERCISE XIX. PASSAGES FROM COTTPER. I. GOD OBSERVED IN NA'^URE. Not a flower But shcrws some touch in freckle, streak, or stain, Of His unrivaled pencil. He inspires Their balmy odors, and imparts their hues, And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, In grains as countless as the sea-side sands, The forms with which He sprinkles all the earth. n. LOVE OF LIBERTY. Liberty ! the prisoner's pleasing dream, The poet's muse, his passion, and his theme j Genius is thine, and thou art Fancy's nurse; Lost without thee the ennobling powers of verse; Heroic song from thy free touch acquires Its clearest tone, the rapture it inspires : Place me where Winter breathes his keenest air. And I will sing, if Liberty be there ; And I will sing at Liberty's dear feet, In Afric's torrid clime, or India's fiercest heat. in. LOVE OP COUNTRY. England, with all thy faults I love thee still I— My country ! and, while yet a nook is left, RHErORICAL READER. J09 Where English minds and manners may be found, Sliall be constrained to love thee. Though thy clime Be fickle, and thy year most part deformed With dripping rains, or withered by a frost, I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies, And fields without a flower, for warmer France With all her vines ; nor for Ausonia's groves Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers." IV. WISDOM AND KNOWLEDGE. Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one. Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass. The mere materials with which Wisdom builds, Till smoothed and squared, and fitted to its place, Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much; Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. THE TRUE FREEMAN. He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain That hellish foes, confederate for his harm, Can wind around him, but he casts it ofiF With as much ease as Samson his green withes. He looks abroad into the varied field Of nature, and though poor, perhaps, compared With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, Calls the delightful scenery all his own. His are the mountains, and the valleys his, And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy With a propriety that none can feel, 110 BANDERS' UNION SERIES. But who, with filial confidence inspired, Can lift to heaven an uupresuuiptuous eye, And smiling say — " My Father made them all!" VI. AFFECTATION IN THE PULPIT. In man or woman, but far most in man, And most of all in man that ministers, And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe All aflfectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn ; Object of my implacable disgust. What! — will a man play tricks, — ^will he indulge A silly fond conceit of his fair form, And just proportion, fashionable mien, And pretty face, in presence of his God ? Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes, As with the diamond on his lily hand, And play his brilliant parts before my eyes, When I am hungry for the bread of life? He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames His noble ofl&ce, and, instead of truth. Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock. VII. THE POSITIVE TALKER. Where men of judgment creep and feel their way, The positive pronounce without dismay; Their want of light and intellect, supplied By sparks absurdity strikes out of pride. Without the means of knowing right from wrong, They always are decisive, clear, and strong ; Where others toil with philosophic force. Their nimble nonsense takes a shorter course; Flings at your head conviction in the lump. And gains remote conclusions at a jump: RHFTORICAL READER. Ill Their own defect invisible to them, Seen in another, they at once condemn ; Aiid_ though self- idolized in every case, Hate their own likeness in a brother's face. EXERCISE XX Lorris Kossuth, the celebrated Hungarian exile, was born in the village of Monok, county of Zemplen, April 27th, 1802. During his visit to the United States, where he arrived in December, 1851, he was everywhere receive! with the most flattering distinctions. At a banquet given him by the members of Congress, at which he was addressed by General Cass, Daniel Webster, and others, he opened his speech with the following beautiful parallel. CiN'' E AS was the warm friend and minister of Pyrrhus, the famoua king of Epirus. He was the most eloquent man of his day. Pyrrhus used to say that "the words of Cineas had won hira more cities than his own arms." The most famous event of his life is his embassy to Rome, with proposals for peace from Pyrrtius to the Senate. This was in the year before Christ 280. When he returned, he told the king that there was no people like the Romans, — that their city was a temple, and their Senate an assembly of kings. THE SENATE OF ROxME AND THE AMERICAN CONGRESS. LOUIS KOSSUTH. 1. Sir: — As once Cineas, the Epirote, stood among the senators of Rome, who, witii a word of self-conscious majesty, arrested kings in their ambitious march, tlius, full of admiration and of reverence, I stand among you, 1( gislators of the neT» capitcl, that glorious hall of your people's collective majesty. The capitol of old yet stands, but the spirit has departed from it, and is come over to yours, purified by the air of liberty. The old stands, a mournful monument of the fragility of human things ; yours, as a sanctuary of eternal right. The old beamed with the red luster of conquest, now darkened by the gloom of oppression ; yours is bright with freedom. The old absorbed the world into its own centralized glory ; yours protects your 112 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. own nation from being absorbed, even by itself. The old was awful with unrestricted power; yours is glorious by having restricted it. At the view of the old, nations trembled j at the vieM of yours, humanity hopes. 2. To the old, misfortune was introduced with fettered hands to kneel at triumphant conquerors' feet ; to yours, the triumph of introduction is granted to unfortunate exiles, who are invited U the honor of a seat. And, where kings and Caesars never A-ill be hailed for their power and wealth, there the persecuted chief of a down-trodden nation is welcomed, as your great Republic's guest, precisely because he is persecuted, helpless, and poor. In the old, the terrible vce victis!*^ was the rule; in yours, protection to the oppressed, malediction to ambitious oppressors, and consolation to a vanquished just cause. And, while from the old a conquered world was ruled, you in y^Tirs provide for the common federative interests of a territory larger than that old conquered world. There sat men boasting that their will was sovereign of the earth ; here sit men whose glory is to acknowledge '' the laws of nature and nature's God, and to do what their sovereign, the people, wills.' EXERCISE XXI. George Washington Doane, second bishop of the Protest .ot Episcopal Church in the state of New Jersey, was born at Trenton, in that state, in 1799, and died at Burlington in 1859. His contributions to literature are large and elegant, both in prose and poetry. The following admirable sketch of the class of men fit tc make a state, is from ono of big -allege addresses. THE MEN TO MAKE A STATE. QEORGE W. OOANB. 1. The men, to make a state, must be intelligent MEN. I do not mean that they must know that two and two make four; or, that six per cent, a year is half per cent, a month. I take a wider and a higher range. I limit myself to * Woe to the conquered. RHETORICAL READER. 118 no mere utilitarian intelligence This has its place. And this will come almost unsought. The contact of the rough and rugged world will force men to it in self-defense. The lust of worldly gain will drag men to it for self-aggrandizement. But men w made, will never make a state. The intelligence which that demands, will take a wider and a higher range. Its study will be man. It will make history its cheap experience. It will read hearts. It will know men. It will first know iudf. What elsi can govern men ? Who else can know the men to govern men ? The right of suffrage is a fearful thing. It calls for wisdom, and discretion, and intelligence, of no ordinary standard. It takes in, at every exercise, the interests of all the nation. Its results reach forward through time into eternity. Its discharge must be accounted for among the dread respon- sibilities of the great day of judgment. Who will go to it blindly ? Who will go to it passionately ? Who will go to it, as a sycophant, a tool, a slave ? How many do I These are not the men to make a state. 2. The men, to make a state, must be honest men. I do not mean men that would never Ueal. I do not mean men that would scorn to cheat in making change. I mean men with a single face. I mean men with a single eye. I mean men with a single tongue. I mean men that consider always what is riglit ; and do it at whatever cost. I mean men who can dine, like Andrew Marvel, on a neck of mutton; and whom, therefore, no king on earth can huy. Men that are in the market for the highest bidder; men that make politics their trade, and look to office for a living ; men that will crawl, where they cannot climb : these are not the men to make a state. 3. The men, to make a state, must be brave men. I do not mean the men that pick a quarrel. I do not mean the men that carry dirks. I do not mean the men that call them- selves hard names ; as Bouncers, Killers, and the like. I mean the men that walk with open face and unprotected breast. I mean the men that do, but do not talk. I mean the men that dare to stand alone. I mean the men that are to-day where they were yesterday, and will be there to-morrow. I mean the U 114 BANDERS' UNION SERIES. men that can stand still aud take the storm. I mean the men that are afraid to kiJl^ but not afraid to die. The man that calls hard names and uses threats ; the man that stabs, in secret, with his tongue or with his pen ; the man that moves a mob to deeds of violence and self-destruction ; the man that freely offers his last drop of blood, but never sheds the y?rs^; these a:e not the men to make a state. 4. The men, to make a state, must be religious men. Bfcates are from God. States are dependent upon God. States are accountable to God. To leave God out of states, is to be Atheists. I do not mean that men must cant. I do not mean that men must wear long faces. I do not mean that men must talk of conscience^ while they take your spoons. One shrewdly called hypocrisy, the tribute which vice pays to virtue. These masks and vizors, in like manner, are the forced concession which a moral nature makes to him, whom, at the same time, it dishonors. I speak of men who feel and own a God. I speak of men who feel and own their sins. I speak of men who think the Cross no shame. I speak of men who have it in their heart as well as on their brow. The men that own no future, the men that trample on the Bible, the men that never pray, are not the men to make a state. 6. The men, to make a state, are made by faith. A man that has no faith, is so much fiesh. His heart, a muscle; nothing more. He has no past, for reverence; no future, iot reliance. He lives. So does a clam. Both die. Such men can never make a state. There must be faith, which furnishes the fulcrum Archimedes* could not find, for the long lever that should move the world. There must be faith to look through clouds and storms up to the sun that shines as cheerily on high as on creation's morn. There must be faith that can lay hold on Heaven, and let the earth swing from beneath it, if God wiU. There must be faith that can afford to sink the present in the future; and let time go, in its strong grasp upon eternity. This is the way that men are made, to make a state. * Au CHI me' des. a celebrated malhematician of antiquity, born on the island of Sicily about the year 287 before Christ. rhetorical reader. 115 6. The men, to make a state, are made by self-denial. The willow dallies with the water, and is fanned forever by its coolest breeze, and draws its waves up in continual pulses of refreshment and delight ; and is a willoic, after all. An acorn has been loosened, some autumnal morning, by a squirifel's foot. It finds a nest in some rude cleft of an old granite rock, where there is scarcely earth to cover it. It knows no shelter, and it feels no shade. It squares itself against the storms. It shoulders through the blast. It aslcs no favor, and (/ives none. It grapples with the rock. It crowds up toward the sun. It is an oak. It has been seventy years an oak. It will be an oak for seven times seventy years ; unless you need a man-of-war to thunder at the foe that shows a fiag upon the shore, where freemen dwell : and then you take no willow in its daintiness and gracefulness ; but that old, hardy, storm-stayed and storm-strengthened oak. So are the men made that will make a state. 7. The men, to make a state, are themselves made by obedience. Obedience is the health of human hearts: obedi- ence to God; obedience to father and to mother, who are, to children, in the place of God; obedience to teachers and to masters, who are in the place of father and of mother; obedi- ence to spiritual pastors, who are God's ministers ; and to the powers that be, which are ordained of God. Obedience is but self-government in action : and he can never govern men who does not govern first himself. Only such men can make a state. EXERCISE XXII. JoHAKN CnmsTOPH FniEDRicH Schiller, one of the best of Germail poctr ar.d historians, was born in WUrtcmberg in the year 1759, and died in 1805. " The primary vocation of his nature," says Carlyle, " was poetry ; the ac- quisitions of his other faculties served but as the materials for his poetical faculty to act upon, and seemed imperfect till they had been sublimated into the perfect forms of beauty, which it is the business of this to elicit fronc them." Edwaku LvrioN Bui.vvi,K, Lord J^yttou, tiie celcbvattjJ i:]iJL,'-i=>-t uovelist and politiciau, wuij burn in tiic county of Norfolk, in 1805. Ho is tba 116 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. author of many w )?ks, and, among them, one entitled "Poems and Balladfl of Schiller," being translations from the German into English meter. From this work we take the following very interesting piece. * Chartb''di8 {ka ryh dis), a whirlpool between Italy and Sicily, said, in ancient times, to have been very dangerous; hence, generally, a ffulf, or whirlpool. ' Mael'^strom [male strum) is, literally, a mill-stream ; the fearful vortex, or whirlpool oflF the coast of Norway, being so called becauM of its violent whirling motion. The word is thence often applied, like Charybdis, to any dangerous gulf, or whirlpool. THE DIVER. FKOM THK GERMAN 07 SCHnjJBB BT BULWSS. I. " Oh, where is the knight or the squire so bold As to dive to the howling Charybdis* below? — I cast in the whirlpool a goblet of gold, And o'er it already the dark waters flow ; Whoever to me may the goblet bring, Shall have for his guerdon that gift of his king." n. He spoke, and the cup from the terrible steep, That, rugged and hoary, hung over the verge Of the endless and measureless world of the deep. Swirled into the maelstrom' that maddened the sur^. " And where is the diver so stout t.o go— I ask ye again — to the deep below ?" Ill And the knights and the squires that gathered around, Stood silent — and fixed on the ocean their eyes; They looked on the dismal and savage Profound, And the peril chilled back every thought of the prize And thrice spoke the monarch — " The cup to win. Is there never a wight who will venture in V* RHETORICAL READER. 117 IV. And all, as before, heard in silence the king, Till a youth with an aspect unfearing but gentle, *Mid the tremulous squires — stepped out from the ring, Unbuckling his girdle, and doflSng his mantle ; And the murmuring crowd, as they parted asunder, Od the stately boy cast their looks of wonder. V. As he strode to the marge of the summit, and gave One glance on the gulf of that merciless main, Lo ! the wave that forever devours the wave, Casts roaringly up the Charybdis again ; And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom, Rushes foamingly forth from the heart of the gloom. VI. And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars, As when fire is with water commixed and contending, And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars, And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending j And it never will rest, nor from travail be free, Like a sea that is laboring the birth of a sea. Yut, at length, comes a lull o'er the mighty commotion, And dark through the whiteness, and still through the swell, The whirlpool cleaves downward and downward m ocean, A yawning abyss, like the pathway to hell ; The stiller and darker the farther it goes, Racked into that smoothness the breakers repose. vrn. The youth gave his trust to his Maker ! Before That path through the riven abyss closed again, 118 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Hark ! a shriek from tlie gazers that circle the shore, — And, behold ! he is whirled in the grasp of the main I And o'er him the breakers mysteriously rolled, And the giant mouth closed on the swimmer so bold. IX. All wa* still on the hight, save the murmur that went From the grave of the deep, sounding hollow and fell, Or save when the tremulous sighing lament Thrilled from lip unto lip, — " Gallant youth, fare thee well V More hollow and more wails the deep on the ear — More dread and more dread grows suspense in its fear. X. If thou shouldst in those waters thy diadem fling, And cry, — "Who may find it, shall win it and wear; Grod wot, though the prize were the crown of a king — A crown, at such hazard, were valued too dear. For never shall lips of the living reveal What the deeps that howl yonder in terror conceal. XI. Oh, many a bark, to that breast grappled fast, Has gone down to the fearful and fathomless grave ^ Again, crashed together the keel and the mast, To be seen tossed aloft in the glee of the wave ! Like the growth of a storm, ever louder and clearer, Grows the roar of the gulf rising nearer and nearer. XII. And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars, As when fire is with water commixed and contending; And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars. And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending. And as with the swell of the far thunder-boom, Rushes roaringly forth from the heart of the gloom. RHETORICAL READER. 119 XIII. And, lo ! from the heart of that far-floating 'gloom, Like the wing of the cygnet — what gleams on the sea? Lo ! an arm and a neck glancing up from the tomb ! Steering stalwart and shoreward. joy, it is he ! Tho left hand is lifted in triumph ; behold, Tt -waves as a trophy the goblet of gold ! XIV. And he breathed deep, and he breathed long, And he greeted the heavenly delight of the day. They gaze on each other — they shout as they throng — " He lives — lo, the ocean has rendered its prey! And safe from the whirlpool and free from the grave, Comes back to the daylight the soul of the brave I" XV. And he comes, with the crowd in their clamor and glee; And the goblet his daring has won from the water, He lifts to the king as he sinks on his knee — And the king from her maidens has beckoned his dau^^hter She pours to the boy the bright wine which they bring. And thus spoke the Diver — "Long life to the King! XVI. '* Happy they whom the rose-hues of daylight rejoice, The air and the sky that to mortals are given ! May the horror below never more find a voice— Nor man stretch too far the wide mercy of Heaven I Nevermore, nevermore may he lift from the sight The vail which is woven with terror and night ! XVII. •Quick brightening like lightning, the ocean rushed o'er me, Wild floating, borne down fathom-deep from the d.iy; Jill a torrent rushed out on the torrents that bore ma, And doubled the tempest that whirled me away. 120 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Vain, vain was my struggle — the circle had won me, Round and round in its dance the mad element spun me. XVIII. *' From the deep, then I called upon God, and He heard mo, In the dread of my need, He vouchsafed to mine eye A rock jutting out from the grave that interred me ; I sprung there, I clung there, and death passed me by, A.nd, lo I where the goblet gleamed through the abyss, By a coral reef saved from the far Fathomless. XIX. " Below, at the foot of that precipice drear, Spread the gloomy, and purple, and pathless Obscure ! A silence of horror that slept on the ear. That the eye more appalled might the horror endure I Salamander, snake, dragon — vast reptiles that dwell In the deep — coiled about the grim jaws of their hell. XX. " Dark crawled, glided dark the unspeakable swarms, Clumped together in masses, misshapen and vast; Here clung and here bristled the fashionless forms; Here the dark moving bulk of the hammer-fish passed; And, with teeth grinning white, and a menacing motion, Went the terrible shark — the hyena of ocean. XXI. " There I hung, and the awe gathered icily o'er me, So far from the earth, where man's help there was nonol The one human thing, with the goblins before me — Alone — in a loneness so ghastly — alone ! Peep under the reach of the sweet living breath. And begirt with the broods of the desert of death. XXII. ** Methought, as I gazed through the darkness, that now I saw a dread hundred-limbed creature — its prey I — RHETORICAL READER. 121 A.nd darted, devouring; I spiaLg from the bough Of the coral, and swept on the horrible way ; And the whirl of the mighty wave seized me once more, It seized me to save me, and dash to the shore." XXIII. On the youth gazed the monarch, and marveled : quoth he, " Bold diver, the goblet I promised is thine ; A.nd this ring I will give, a fresh guerdon to thee — Never jewels more precious shone up from the mine — If thou' It bring me fresh tidings, and venture again, To say what lies hid in the innermost main !" XXIV. Then out spake the daughter in tender emotion — "Ah! father, my father, what more can there rest? Enough of this sport with the pitiless ocean — He has served thee as none would, thyself hast confest. If nothing can slake thy wild thirst of desire, Let thy knights put to shame the exploit of the squire ! f,. XXV. The king seized the goblet, he swung it on high, And whirling, it fell in the roar of the tide ; " But bring back that goblet again to my eye, And I'll hold thee the dearest that rides by my sidej And thine arms shall embrace, as thy bride, I decree. The maiden whose pity now pleadeth for thee." XXVI. And heaven, as he listened, spoke out from the space. And the hope that makes heroes shot flame from his eyes He gazed on the blush in that beautiful face — It pales — at the feet of her father she lies ! How priceless the guerdon ! a moment — a breath — And headlong he plunges to life and to death I 6 6R 122 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. XXVII. Thej hear the loud surges sweep back in- their swell) Their coming the thunder-sound heralds along ! Fond eyes yet are tracking the spot where he fell, They come, the wild waters, in tumult and throng Roaring up to the cliff — roaring back as before, But no wave ever brings the lost youth to the shore I EXERCISE XXIII. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. NEW AM. CTCLOIJBDIA. 1. The wide range of Mr. Longfellow's studies, at an early period of life, as well as his introduction to the picturesque and quaint features of society and manners in foreign nations, has served to give a certain cosmopolitan character to the productions rf his pen. As a translator, he is singularly happy in trans- fusing not only the ideas, but the spirit of his originals, into apt and expressive diction; as a critic, whether commenting on character or literature, he is the genial interpreter, rather than the censorious judge; and, as a poet, he appeals to the universal aft'ections of humanity, by thoughts and images derived from original perceptions of nature and life. 2. His fellow feeling with his kind gives him easy admission to the common heart. Averse, both by temperament and habit, to everything harsh, bitter, disdainful, or repellent, there is no element in his poetry to call forth an ungracious or discordant emotion. It is always tolerant and human, kindled by wide sympathies, and with a tender sense of every variety of human condition. Mr. Longfellow combines, in a rare degree, the senti- ment of the artist, with the practical instincts of the man of the world. His thoughts are uniformly lucid and transparent, and never clouded by fanciful speculations. The clearness, simplicity, and force of his leading conceptions, leave the im pression of unity even on his longest poems. However vivid his imagery, it never seduces the attention from his main idea. RHETORICAL READER. 12Z 3. Without attempting to represent the depths of passion, in his own sphere of feeling, he is a genuine master, and the purity, sweetness, and refinement with which he delineates the affections of the heart, make him the most welcome of visitants at the domestic fireside. Though not destitute of the creative and shaping faculty, the best expression of his imagination is, per- haps, to be found in the subtle essence of beauty which pervades his writings, and seems to form the natural atmosphere of his mind. His susceptibility to the historical associations of Europe lends a peculiar charm to his poetry. The antiquities of Nurem- burg and Bruges make but a faint impression on the Bavarians and Belgians who grow up in the shade of the quaint town hall, or within the sound of the lofty belfry; but they cast a spell over the imagination of the poet, and haunt him with perpetual visions of romance. EXERCISE XXIV. "The Song of Hiawatha," says Mr. Longfellow, "is founded on a tradition prevalent among the North American Indians, of a personage of miraculous birth, who was sent among them to clear their rivers, forests, and fishing-grounds, and to teach them the arts of peace. Into this old tradition I have woven other curious Indian legends, drawn chiefly from the various and valuable writings of Mr. Schoolcraft, to whom the literary world is greatly indebted for his indefatigable zeal in rescuing from oblivion so much of the legendary lore of the Indians. The scene of the poem is among the Ojibways on the southern shore of Lake Superior." The following are among the 0T)<»mug lines of this interesting poem. THE SONG OF HIAWATFA, I. In the vale of Tawasentha, In the green and silent valley, By the pleasant water-courses. Dwelt the singer Nawadaha. 124 8ANDER8' UNION SERIES. There he sang of Hiawatha, Sang the song of Hiawatha, Sang his wondrous birth and being, How he prayed, and how he fasted. How he Hved, and toiled, and suflfered, That the tribes of men might prosper, That he might advance his people. II. Ye who love the haunts of Nature, Love the sunshine of the meadow, Love the shadow of the forest, Love the wind among the branches. And the rain-shower, and the snow-storm, And the rushing of great rivers, Listen to these wild traditions, To this Song of Hiawatha. III. Ye who love a nation's legends. Love the ballads of a people. That like voices from afar oflF Call to us to pause and listen. Speak in tones so plain and childlike, Scarcely can the ear distinguish Whether they are sung or spoken;— Listen to ihis Indian Legend, To this Song of Hiawatha ! IV. Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, Who have faith in God and Nature, Who believe, that in all ages Every human heart is human, That in even savage bosoms, There are longings, yearnings, strivings. For the good they comprehend not. That the feeble hands and helpless, liONGFELLOW, RHETORICAL READER 125 Groping blindly in the darkness, Touch God's right hand in that darkness, And are lifted up and strengthened ; — Listen to this simple story, To this Song of Hiawatha ' EXERCISE XXV. HIAWATHA'S WOOING. I. At the doorway of his wigwam Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, In the land of the DacotaKs, Making arrow-heads of jasper, Arrow-heads of chalcedony. At his side, in all her beauty. Sat the lovely Minnehaha, Sat his daughter, Laughing Water, Plaiting mats of flags and rushes; Of the past the old man's thoughts were And the maiden's of the future. II. He was thinking, as he sat there. Of the days, when with such arrows He had struck the deer and bison, On the Muskoday, the meadow ; Shot the wildgoose, flying southward, On the wing, the clamorous Wawa; Thinking of the great war-parties^ How they came to buy his arrows, Could not Jight without his ai rows. Ah, no more such noble warriors Could be found on earth, as they were I Now the men were all like women, Only used their tongues for weapons I 126 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. III. She was thinking of a hunter, From another tribe and country, Young and tall and very handsome, Who one mornino^, in the spring time, V Came to buy her father's arrows. Sat and rested in the wigwam, Lingered long about the doorway. Looking back, as he departed. She had heard her father praise him, Praise his courage and his wisdom; Would he come again for arrows To the Falls of Minnehaha ? On the mat her hands lay idle, And her eyes were very dreamy. IV. Through their thoughts they heard a footstep, Heard a rustling in the branches. And, with glowing cheek and forehead, With the deer upon his shoulders. Suddenly from out the woodlands Hiawatha stood before them. V. Straight the ancient Arrow-maker Looked up gravely from his labor. Laid aside th' unfinished arrow. Bade him enter at the doorway. Saying, as he rose to meet him, — " Hiawatha^ you are welcome V^ At the feet of Laughing Water Hiawatha laid his burden, Threw the red deer from his shoulders; And the maiden looked up at him, Looked up from her niat of rushes, RHETORICAL READER. 127 Said with gentle look and accent, — " You are welcome^ Hiawatha /" VI. Very spacious was the wigwam, Made of deer-skin dressed and whitened, With the gods of the Dacotahs Drawn and painted on its curtains j And so tall the doorway, hardly Hiawatha stooped to enter. Hardly touched his eagle-feathers As ho entered at the doorway. VII. Then uprose the Laughing Water, From the ground fair Minnehaha, Laid aside her mat unfinished. Brought forth food, and set before them Water brought them from the brooklet, Gave them food in earthen vessels, Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood, Listened while the guest was speaking, Listened while her father answered, But not once her lip she opened, Not a single word she uttered. VIII. Yes, as in a dream, she listened To the words of Hiawatha, As he talked of old Nokomis, Who had nursed him in his childhood, As he told of his companions, Chibiabos, the musician. And the very strong man, Kwasind, And of happiness and plenty In the land of the Ojibways, In the pleasant land and peaceful 128 SANDXRS' UNION SERIES. IX. " After raany years of warfare, Many years of strife and bloodshed, There is peace between the Ojibways And the tribe of the Dacotahs." Thus continued Hiawatha, And then added, speaking slowly, — " That this peace may last for ever, And our hands be clasped more cloeely, And our hearts be more united, Give me, as my wife, this maiden, Minnehaha, Laughing Water, Lovelieot of Dacotah women I" X. And the ancient Arrow-maker Paused a moment ere he answered, Smoked a little while in silence. Looked at Hiawatha proudly. Fondly looked at Laughing Water, And maJe answer very gravely: *' Yes, i/ Minnehaha wishes; Let your heart stpeak, Minnehaha !** XI. And the lovely Laughing Water Seemed more lovely, as she stood there. Neither willing nor reluctant. As she went to Hiawatha, Softly took the seat beside him, While she said, and blushed to say it,— ** / wiU follow you my husband !" This was Hiawatha's wooing ! Thus it was he won the daughter Of the ancient Arrow-maker, In the land of the Dacotahs! RHETORICAL READER. 129 XII. From the wigwam he departed, Leading with him Laughing Water ; Hand in hand they went together, Through the woodland and the meadow, Left the old man standing lon^lj At the doorway of his wigwam. Heard the Falls of Minnehaha Calling to them from the distance, Crying to them from afar off, — " Fare thee well, Minnehaha !" XIII. Pleasant was the journey homeward I All the birds sang loud and sweetly Songs of happiness and heart' s-ease ; 8ang the blue-bird, the Owaissa, — " Happy are you, Hiawatha^ Having such a wife to love you !" Sang the Opechee, the robin, — " Happy are you, Laughing Watery Having such a noble husband!*' From the sky the sun benignant Looked upon them through the branches, Saying to them, — " my children^ Jjove is sunshine, hate is shadow, Life is checkered shade and sunshine, Rule by love, Hiatcatha !" XIV. From the sky the moon looked at them, Filled the lodge with mystic splendors, Whispered to them, — " my children^ Day is restless, night is quiet, Man imperious, woman feeble; Half is mine, although I follow ; Rule by patience, Laughing Water !" 5R 130 SANDERS UNION SERIEH. XV. Thus it was they journeyed homeward; Thus it was that Hiawatha To the lodge of old Nokomis Brought the moonlight, starlight, firelight, Brought the sunshine of his people, Minnehaha, Laughing Water, Handsomest of all the women In the land of the Dacotahs, En the land of handsome women. EXERCISE XXVI. Jahes Usher, the celebrated Archbishop of Armagh, was bom in Dabliii, in 1581. He died in 1656. His chief production, as a writer, is his great chronological work, entitled " Annals." The chronological system developed in this work, is that which has been generally followed even down to the present time. * Anecdote is made up of three Greek words (An, noty Ec, out, and Dote, given), meaning together not given out, that is, something not yet formally published or edited. This was the original sense of the word. It is, therefore, properly applied to any brief story or incident; any minute passage of private history. THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT :— An Anecdotb.i 1. The eminent Archbishop Usher, being once on a visit in •Scotland, heard a great deal of the piety and devotion of the famous Mr. Samuel Rutherford, who, he understood, spent whole nights in prayer, especially before the Sabbath. The bishop wished much to witness such extraordinary down -pouring of the Spirit; but was utterly at a loss how to accon.plish his design. At length, it came into his mind to dress himself like a pauj^er; and on a Saturday evening, when turning dark, he called at Mr. Rutherford's house, and asked if he could get quarters for the night, since he could go to no other house at so late an hour for th^t purpose. Mr. Rutherford consented to RHETORICAL READER. 181 give the pr.or man a bed for a night, and desired him to sit down in the kitchen, which he did cheerfully. 2. Mrs. Rutherford, according to custom on Saturday evening, that her servants might be prepared for the Sabbath, called them together, and examined them. In the course of examination that e'sning, she asked the stranger how many commandments there were. To which he answered eleven. Upon receiving this answer, she replied, — "What a shame is it for you ! a man with gray hairs, living in a Christian country, not to know how many commandments there are ! There is - not a child of sii years old in this parish but could answer this question properly." She troubled the poor man no more, thinking him so very igno- rant; but lamented his condition to her servants; and, after giving him some supper, desired a servant to show him up stairs to a bed in a garret. 3. This was the very situation in which he desired to be placed, that he might hear Mr. Rutherford at his secret devo- tion. However, he was disappointed ; for that night the good man went to bed, but did not fall asleep for some hours. The stranger did not go to bed, b.ut sat listening, always hoping to hear Mr. Rutherford at prayer ; and, at length, concluding that all the family were asleep, the bishop thought, 'if he had been disappointed of hearing another oflfering up his desires to God kt the throne of grace, he would embrace the opportunity Aim- self; and poured out his heart to God with so much liberty and enlargement, that Mr. Rutherford, immediately below, over- heard, and getting up, put on his clothes. 4. Should this have awakened Mrs. Rutherford, she could have suspected nothing of his design, seeing he commonly rose every day at three o'clock in the morning; and, if she could have heard one at prayer afterwards, she would naturally have concluded it was her husband. Mr. Rutherford went up stairs, and stDod waiting at the garret door till the bishop concluded his devotion; upon which he knocked gently at the door, and the other opened it with surprise, thinking none were witness to his devotion. ^Ir. Rutherford took him by the hand saying,— " Sir, T am j^orsuaded you can be none other than Archbishop 132 SANDERS' UNION SERIES- rislier; Jind you tnust certainly preach for me to-da} ' for it was DOW Sabbath morning. The bishop confessed who ie was 5 and, after telHng Mr. Eutherford what induced him to take such a step, said he would preach for him, on conditica he would not discover who he was. Happy union of souls, al- though of different persuasions ! yet not marvelous. God makes but two distinctions among mankind — the righteous and the wicked. 5. The bishop, being provided by Mr. Rutherford with a suit of his own clolhes, went out early in the morning into the fields ; whither, also, Mr. Rutherford following, soon after re- turned, bringing in the bishop as a strange minister passing by, who had promised to preach for him. Mrs. Rutherford found that the poor man had gone away before any of the family were out of bed. After domestic worship, and breakfast, the family- went to the kirk, and the bishop had for his text Joiin xiii. 34 — "^ new commandment I -give unto i/ou, that ye love one another;^' a suitable subject for the occasion. In the course of this sermon, he observed that this might be reckoned the eleventh com- mandment : upon whicli Mrs. Rutherford said to herself, — "TViac ?s the answer the jfoor man gave me last night;" and looking up to the pulpit, said, — "i« cannot he possible this is he!" After public worship the strange minister and Mr. Rutherford spent the evening in mutual satisfaction ; and, early on Monday morning, the former went away in -the dress he came in, and was not discovered. 6. When Mrs. Rutherford came to know for certain that the Btrange preacher was none other than the poor man whom she had kindly taken in, on the night before, she must have had a new and singularly impressive illustration of the famous toxt in Hebrews (xiii. 2), — "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers : for thereby some have entertained angels unawares " Hospitality is a high CI ristian virtue, and never fails of its ju«it rewar>i RHETORICAL REALER. 138 EXERCISE XXVIl. Charity, in the New Testament, never means mere alms, or almt- fivinff, which is the common acceptation of fhe word in these days. It means Love ; of which charity/, in the sense of giving aid or relief to the poor, is merely one manifestation. This being understood, the follow- ing beautiful chapter will serve, not only as an excellent exercise in pealing, but, also, as an admirable sequel to the preceding anecdote of Archbishop Usher. CHARITY. 1 COR. CHAP. zm. WITHO'JT CHARITY ALL GIFTS ARE AS NOTHING. 1. Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tink- ling cymbal. And, though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and, though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. And, though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and, though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing. • 2. Charity suflfereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not*, charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth ; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endure th all things. 3. Charity never faileth : but whether there be prophecies, chey shall fail ; whether there be tongues, they shall cease ; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which is per- fect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away. 4. When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a jhild, I thought as a child : but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face ; now I know in part ; but then shall T know even as also I am known. And now abideth faith, hope, charity, thsse three ; but the greatest of these is charity 134 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. EXERCISE XXVIII. SKETCH OF SHAKSPEARE. SAMUEL J0HN80W' 1 Sliakspeare is. above all writers, at least above all modern writers, the poet of nature ; the poet that holds up to his readers a faithful mirror of manners and of life. His characters arc rot modified by the customs of particular places, uupracticed bjr the rest of the world ; by the peculiarities of studies or profes- sions, which can operate but upon small numbers ; or by the accidents of transient fashions or temporary opinions ; they are the genuine progeny of common humanity, such as the world will always supply, and observation will always find. His per- sons act and speak by the influence of those general passions and principles by which all minds are agitated, and the whole system of life is continued in motion. In the writings of other poets, a character is too often an individual ; in those of Shak- speare, it is commonly a species. It is from this wide extension of design, that so much instruction is derived. It is this which fills the plays of Shakspeare with practical axioms and domestic wisdom. It was said of Euripides,f that every verse wa& a pre- jept; and it may be said of Shakspeare, that from his works maybe collected a system' of civil and economical prudence. Yet his real power is not shown in the splendor of particular passages, but by the progress of his fable, and the tenor of his dialogue. 2. It will not easily be imagined how much Shakspeare excels in acconmiodating his sentiments to real life, but by comparing him with other authors. It was observed of the ancient school? of declamation, that the more diligently they were frequented, the moie was the student disqualified for the world, because he found nothing there which he should ever meet in any other place. The same remark may be applied to every stage but * For a sketch of Johnson, see Exercise CXVI. f A celebrated Greek dramatist who flourished about the yeai 460 B.C. RHETORICAL READER. 13d that of Shakspeare. The theater, when it is under any other direction, is peopled by such characters as were never seen, con- versing in a language which was never heard, upon topics which will never arise in the commerce of mankind. But the dialogue of this author is often so evidently determined by the incident which produces it, and is pursued with so much ease and sim- plicity, that it seems scarcely to claim the merit of fiction, but to ha\e been gleaned by diligent selection out of common con- versation, and common occurrences. 3. Upon every other stage the universal agent is love, by whose power all good and evil is distributed, and every action quickened or retarded. To bring a lover, a lady, and a rival into the fable j to entangle them in contradictory obligations, perplex them with oppositions of interest, and harass them with violence of desires inconsistent with each other ; to make them meet in rapture, and part in agony ; to fill their mouths with hyperbolical joy and outrageous sorrow; to distress them as nothing human ever was distressed ; to deliver them as nothing human ever was delivered, is the business of a modern dra- matist. 4. For this, probability is violated, life is misrepresented, and language is depraved. But love is only one of many passions; and as it has no great influence upon the sum of life, it has little operation in the drama of a poet, who caught his ideas from the living world, and exhibited only what he saw before him. He knew that any other passion, as it was regular or exorbitant, was a cause of happiness or calamity. Characters thus ample and general were not easily discriminated and preserved, yet, perhaps, no poet ever kept his personages more distinct from each other. I will not say with Pope, that every speech may be assigned to the proper speaker, because many speeches there are, which have nothing characteristical ; but, perhaps, though some may be equally adapted to every person, it will be difficult to find that any can be properly transferred from the present p'jssessor to another claimant. The choice is right when there is reason for choice. 5 Other dramatists .;an only gain attention by hyperbolical 136 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. or aggravated characters, by fabulous and unexamp.ed excel- lence or depravity, as the writers of barbarous romances m- vigorated the reader by a giant and a dwarf; and he that should form his expectations of human affairs from the play or from the tale, would be equally deceived. Shakspeare has no heroes ; his scenes are occupied only by men, who act and speak as the reader thinks that he should himself have spoken or acted on the same occ \sion j even where the agency is supernatural, the dialogue is level with life. 6. Other writers disguise the most natural passions and most frequent incidents ; so that he who contemplates them in the bDok, will not know them in the world ; Shakspeare approximates the reuiuw, o prescribe a larger number. 2. In a country like ours, in which everything is new and everybody is free, there are multitudes of self-constituted doctors, RHETORICAL READER. 163 each of whom has a nostrum for curing all physical and moral disorders and diseases, — a patent process by which humanity may achieve its proudest prooress and its everlasting happiness. The country is full of hobby-riders, booted and spurred, who imagine they are leading a grand race to a golden goal, forget- ful of the truth that their steeds are tethered to a single idea, around which they are revolving only to tread down the grass and wind themselves up, where they may stand at last amid th world's ridicule, and starve to death. 3. Man can not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds out of the mouth of God, whether spoken through na- ture or revelation. There is no one idea in all God's universe so great ond so nutritious that it can furnish food for an immor- tal soul Variety of nutriment is absolutely essential, even to physic?! health. There are so many elements that enter into the sti^'icture of the human body, and such variety of stimuli requif^'te for the play of its vital forces, that it is necessary to lay u'^der tribute a wide range of nature ; and fruits and roots and "^rain, beasts of the field, fowls of the air, and fish of the sea, juic s and spices and flavors, all bring their contributions to the perfection of the human animal, and the harmony of its functions. 4. A mind that surrenders itself to a single idea becomes essentially insane. I know a man who has dwelt so long upon the subject of a vegetable diet, that it has finally taken possession of him. It is now of such importance in his eyes that every other subject is thrown out of its legitimate relations to him. It is the constant theme of his thought — the study of his life. He questions the properties and quantities of every mouthfu; that passes his lips, and watches its effects upon him. He reads upon this subject everything he can lay his hands on. He talks upon it with every man he meets. 5. He has ransacked the whole Bible for support to his theories ; and the man really believes that the eternal salvation of the human race hinges upon a change of diet. It has become a standard by which to decide the validity of all other truth. If he did not believe that the Bible was on his side of the question, he would discard the Bible. Experiments or opinions that make against his faith are either contemptuously rejected or ingeniously 164 SANDERS UNION SERIES. explained away. Now this man's mind is not only reduced to the size of his idea, and assimilated to its character, but it has lost its soundness. His reason is disordered. 6. His judgment is perverted — depraved. He sees things in unjust and illegitimate relations. The subject that absorbs him has grown out of proper proportions, and all other subjects iiave shrunk away from it. I know another man — a man of fine powers — who is just as much absorbed by the subject of ventila^ tion ; and though both of these men are regarded by the com- munity as of sound mind, I think they are demonstrably insane. 7. If we rise into larger fields, we shall find more notable demonstration of the starving effect of the entertainment of a single idea. Scattered throughout the country we shall find men who have devoted themselves to the cause of temperance, or abstinence from intoxicating liquors. Here is a grand, a humane, a most worthy and important cause ; yet temperance as an idea is not enough to furnish food for a human soul. Some of these men have only room in them for one idea, and, so far as they are concerned, it might as well be temperance as any- thing, though it is bad for the cause ; but the majority of thera were, at starting, men of generous instincts, a quick sense of that which is pure and true, and a genuine love of mankind. 8. They dwelt upon their idea — they lived upon it for a few years — and then they "showed their keeping." If I should wish to find a narrow-minded, uncharitable, bigoted soul, in the smallest possible space of time, I would look among those who have made temperance the specialty of their lives — not because temperance is bad, but because one idea is bad; and the men afflicted by this particular idea are numerous and notorious. 9. They have no faith in any man who does not believe ex- actly as they do. They accuse every man of unworthy motives who opposes them. They permit no liberty of individual judg- nent and no range of opinion ; and when they get a chance, they drive legislation into the most absurd and harmful extremes Men of one idea are always extremists, and extremists are always nuisances. I might truthfully add that an extremist is never a man of sound mind. 10. The whole tribe of professional agitators and mis-called RHETORICAL READER. 165 reformers are men of one idea. That these men do good, some- times directly and frequently indirectly, I do not deny ; and it is equally evident that they do a great deal of harm, the worst of which, perhaps, falls upon themselves. Like the charge of a cannon, they do damage to an enemy's fortifications, but they burn up the powder there is in them, and lose the ball. Like blind old Samson, they may prostrate the pillars of a great vviong, but they crush themselves and the Philistines together rie greatest and truest reformer that ever lived was Jesus Christ ; hut ah ! the difference between his broad aims, universal sym- pathies, and overflowing love, and the malignant spirit that movec those who angrily beat themselves to death against an instituted wrong ! 11. If a man undertake to live upon a single idea, it really makes very little difference to him whether that idea be a good or a bad one. A man may as well get scurvy on beans as beef. 1 suppose a diet of potatoes would be quite as likely to support life comfortably as a diet of peaches. It is because the human 6Cn\\ cannot live upon one thing alone, but demands participation in every expression of the life of God, that it will dwarf and i starve upon even the grandest and most divine idea. 12. This selection of a single idea from the great world of ideas to which the mind is vitally related, and making it food and drink, and motive and pivotal point of action, and supreme object of devotion, is mental and moral suicide. It makes that a despotic king which should be a tributary subject. It enslaves the soul to a base partisanship. It is right to make money, and it is right to be rich when wealth is won legitimately ; but when money becomes the supreme object of a man's life, the soul starves as rapidly as the coffers are filled. It is right to be a temper- ance man and an anti-slavery man, and an advocate of any special Christian reform ; but the effect of adopting any one of theie reforms as the supreme object of a man's pursuit, never fails toi belittle him. 13. One of the most pitiable objects the world contains is a man of generous natural impulses grown sour, impatient, bitter, abusive, uncharitable, and ungracious, by devotion to one idea, and the failure to impress it upon the world with the strength 166 SANDERS UNION SERIES. by which it possesses himself. Many of these fondly hug the delusion to themselves that they are martyrs, when, in fact, they are only suicides. Many of these look forward to the day when posterity will canonize them, and lift them to the glory of those who were not received by their age because they were in advance of their age. So they regard with contempt the pigmy world, wrap the mantles of their mortified pride about them, and lie own in a delusive dream of immortality. 14. Whether the effect of devotion to a single idea be disas- trous or otherwise to the devotees, nothing in all history is bet- ter proved — nothing in all philosophy is more clearly demonstra- ble — than the fact that it is a damage to the idea. If I wished to disgust a community with any special idea, I would set a man talking about it and advocating it, who would talk of nothing else. If I wished to ruin a cause utterly, I would submit it to the advocacy of one who would thrust it into every man's face, who would make every other cause subordinate to it, who would refuse to see any objections to it, who would accuse all opponents of unworthy motives, and who would thus exhibit his absolute slavery to it. Men have an instinct which tells them that such people as these are not trustworthy — that their sentiments and opinions are as valueless as those of children. 15. We have only to learn that a man can see nothing but his pet idea, and is really in its possession, to lose all confidence in his judgment. When in a court of justice a man testifies upon a point that touches his personal interests or feelings or relations, we say that his testimony is not valuable — not reliable. It decides nothing for us. We say that the evidence does not come from the proper source. We do not expect candor from him, for we perceive that his interests are too deeply involved to allow sound judgment and utterly truthful expression. It is recisely thus with all professional agitators and reformers— all evotees of single ideas. They are personally so intimately con- ected with their idea — have been so enslaved by their dea— are so interested in its prosperity — that they are not competent to testify with relation to it. RHETORICAL READER. 167 EXERCISE XXXVIII. Brtan Waller Procter, distinguished as the author of some admirable Bongs and other writings, was born in the year 1790. He is better known ' under the assumed name of Barrt Cornwall, which is merely an anagram formed by transposing the letters of his real name. IMAGINATION. PROCTER. 1. Imagination diflfers from Fancy, inasmuch as it does by a single effort what the latter effects by deliberate comparison. Generally speaking, imagination deals with the passions and the higher moods of the mind. It is the fiercer and more potent spirit ; and the images are flung out of its burning grasp, as it were molten, and massed together. It is a complex power, including those faculties which are called by metaphysicians, Conception, Abstraction, and Judgment. It is the genius of personification. It concentrates the many into the one, coloring and investing its own complex creation with the attributes of all. It multiplies and divides and remodels, always changing^ in one respect or other, the literal fact, and always enriching it, when properly exerted. 2. It merges ordinary nature and literal truth in the brilliant atmosphere which it exhales, till they come forth like the illu- minations of sunset, which were nothing but clouds before. It acts upon all things drawn within its range j sometimes in the creation of character, and sometimes in figures of speech only. It is different in different people ; in Shakspeare, bright and rapid as lightning, /M.sin^/ things by its power; in Milton, awful as collected thunder. It peoples the elements with fantastic fornix, and fills the earth with unearthly heroism, intellect, and beauty. 3. It is the parent of all those passionate creations which Shakspeare has bequeathed to us. It is the origin of tha< terrible generation of Milton, — Sin, and the shadowy Death, RjMOR, and Discord with its thousand tongues, Night and CriAOSj ancestors of Nature; down to all those who lie 168 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. " Under the boiling ocean, wrapped in chains'^ — of all phantasies born beneath the moon, and all the miracles of dreams. It is an intense and burning power, and comes " Winged with red lightning and impetuous rage^^ — (^ which line is itself a magnificent instance of imagination) — End is, indeed, a concentration of the intellect, gathering to- gether its wandering faculties, and bursting forth in a flood of thought, 'till the apprehension is staggered which pursues it. 4. The exertion of this faculty is apparent in every page of our two great poets ; from " The shout that tore Hell's concave," to the ^^ care'' that ^^ sate on the faded cheek" of Satan; from the wounds of Thammuz* which allured ** The Syrian damsels to lament his fate," to those " Thoughts that wander through eternity ;" from the curses of Lear upon his daughters, which «* Stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth," to Hamlet, *< Benetted round with villainies,^^ and thousands of others which meet us at every opening of the leaves. * Thammuz, or Tammuz, was a Syrian deity for whom the Hebrew Idolatresses were accustomed to hold an annual lamentation. Set Ezek. viii. 14. EHETORICAL READER. 169 EXERCISE XXXIX. Thomas Noon Talfocrd is an eloquent English barrister, and, also, a chaste, clear and imaginative writer. " He is the author of two classic plays," says Chambers, "Ion and The Athenian Captive, remarkable for a gentle beauty, refinement and pathos." Henry Brougham, late lord chancellor of England, the subject of the following sketch, was born in Edinburgh in September, 1778. He was one of the founders of the Edinburgh Review, was for twenty-five years one of its ablest contributors, and is even now one of the most remarkable of lublic men in England. SKETCH OF LORD BROUGHAM. t. NOON TALFOUHrtw 1. True it is, that this extraordinary man, who, without high birth, splendid fortune, or aristocratic connection, has, by mere intellectual power, become the parliamentary leader of the whigs of England, is, at last, beginning to succeed in the pro- fession he has condescended to follow. 2. But, stupendous as his abilities, and various as his acqui- sitions are, he does not possess that one presiding faculty — imagination, which, as it concentrates all others, chiefly renders them unavailing for inferior uses. Mr. Brougham's powers are uot thus united and rendered unwieldly and prodigious, but remain apart, and neither assist nor impede each other. The same speech, indeed, may give scope to several talents ; w lucid narration, to brilliant wit, to irresistible reasoning, and even to heart-touching pathos j but these will be found in parcels, not blended and interfused in one superhuman burst of passionate eloquence. The single power in which he excels all others is sarcasm, and his deepest inspiration — scorn ! 3. Hence he can awaken terror and shame far better than he can melt, agitate, and raise. Animated by this blasting spirit, he can " bare the mean hearts" which " lurk beneath" a hun- dred " stars," and smite a majority of lordly persecutors into the dust ! His power is all directed to the practical and earthy ^ 6R 170 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. It is rather that of a giant than a magician, — of Briareus * than of Prospero.* He can do a hundred things well, and almost at once ; but he cannot do the one highest thing ; he cannot, by a single touch, reveal the hidden treasures of the soul, and astonish the world with truth and beauty unknown till disclosed at his bidding. Over his vast domain he ranges with amazing activity, and is a diflFerent man in each province which he occupies. 4. He is not one, but legion. At three in the morning, he will make a reply in Parliament, which shall blanch the cheeks and appall the hearts of his enemies ; and, at half-past nine, he will be found in his place in court, working out a case in which a bill of five pounds is disputed, with all the plodding care of a most laborious junior. This multiplicity of avocation, and division of talent, suit the temper of his constitution and mind. 5. Not only does he accomplish a greater variety of purposes than any other man, — not only does he give anxious attention to every petty cause, while he is fighting a great political battle, and weighing the relative interests of nations — not only does he write an article for the Edinburgh Review while contesting a county, and prepare complicated arguments on Scotch appeals, by way of rest from his generous endeavors to educate a people — but he does all this as if it were perfectly natural to him, in a manner so unpretending and quiet, that a stranger would think him a merry gentleman, who had nothing to do but enjoy him- self and fascinate others. 6. The fire which burns in the tough fibers of his intellect, does not quicken his pulse, or kindle his blood to more than a genial warmth. He, therefore, is one man in the senate, another in the study, another in a committee-room, and anothei in a petty cause ; and, consequently, is never above the work which he has to perform. * Bri a-'re us was a fabled giant of old, who is rep cited to have had a hundred hands ; Prospero is the rightful Duke of Milan, a character iu one of Shakspeare's plays [The Tempest], who is represented as having acquired power over '^^ potent spirits^' to make them obedient to his will. RHETORICAL READER. 171 EXERCISE XL. Demos'thenes, the greatest of the Grecian orators, was borii at Athens. Hi3 principal orations, called " Philippics," were designed to incite his coun- trj'men against the encroachments of Philip, king of Macedon, upon the lib- erties of Greece. After the death of Alexander the Great, the Athenians revolted, but were subdued; and Demosthenes, to avoid falling into the hands of Autipater, the Macedonian General, took poison, b. o. 322. Cher so nese', or Cher so ne'' bus (Cherso, land, or mainland, an 1 K< su«, an island), means, literally, a land-island, or an island attached to Me mainland, that is, a peninsula. There were several places so called bj the ancients; but the one here meant, is that long, narrow strip of land running out in a southwesterly direction from the mainland of European Turkey, between the Dardanelles and the Gulf of Melas. It is now called the peninsula of the Dardanelles. This Chersonese had been ceded by its sovereign to Athens ; but Cardia, one of the principal cities, had put itself under the protection of Philip, king of Macedon. A Grecian general had been sent out to plant a colony in the peninsula. He regarded Philip's conduct towards Cardia, as sufficient to justify hostile action on his part, although he had no orders to that effect. He, accordingly, made a vigorous attack ; relying of course on support from the party of Demosthenes at home. The opposite party, however, or Macedonian party, as they were called, inveighed bitterly against the proceedings of the general, and against all who favored them, as being an infraction of the peace nominally subsisting between Athens and Macedon. Hence the admirable speech from which the following extract is taken. REPLY TO THE PARTY OF PHILIP. DEMOSTHENES {translated by Lord BrotigJiam). 1. Whence is it, after all, men of Athens, that Philip is thus openly carrying on military operations, doing acts of vio- lence, taking towns, and yet no one of these creatures of his ever thinks of charging him with committing outrages, or even going to war at all, while the whole blame of beginning hostili- ties is cast upon those who are for resisting such violence, and against abandoning everything to his mercy ? I can tell you the reason of all this : — That indignation which you are likely to feel when you suffer by the war, our accusers would fain turn oflF upon US who gave you the sound advice, in order that you -172 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. may condemn us, instead of punishing Philip, and that th«?m« selves may play the part of prosecutors against us, instead of paying the penalty of their own misconduct. 2. But 1 perceive that some of our politicians by no means lay down the same rule for themsehes and for you. They would have you remain (|uiet, whatever wrongs are done to you ; while they can never remain quiet themselves, though no one is wronging them at all. Then, whoever rises, is sure to ^iint me with — '' So you will not brm(j forward a proposition for war ; you will not venture upon tJutt, timid and spiritless as you are?" 3. For my part, self-confident, and forward, and shameless, I am not, and may I never be ! Yet do T account myself by a great deal more courageous than those whose counsels are marked with such temerity. He, in truth, Athenians, who, regardless of the interests of the country, condemns, confiscates, rewards, impeaches, by no means proves his rourage in all this; for, if he insures his own safety by such speechos and such counsels as are calculated to win your favor, he may be daring with very little hazard. 4. But he who for your good oftentimes thwarts your inclina- tions ; who n<5ver speaks to gain your good graces, but consults your interest* always ; who, should he recommend some course of policy, in which fortune may baffle the calculations of reason, yet makes himself accountable for the event — he is indeed courageous — an invaluable citizen he truly is; not like those who to an ephemeral popularity have sacrificed the highest itt crests of their country — men whom I am so far from wishing to rival, or from regarding as true patriots, that were I called upon to declare what services I had rendered our common oouutry, although I have to tell, Athenians, of naval commands, and public shows, of supplies raised and of captives ransomed, and ther passages of like description, to none of them all would I point but to this one thing, that mij policy has never been like theirs, 5. Able I may be, as well as others, to impeach, and distri- bute, and proscribe^ and whatever else it is they are wont to do; RHETORICAL READER. 178 yet on none of these grounds did I ever choose to take my place, or rest my pretensions, either through avarice or ambition. I have persevered in holding that language which lowers me in your estimation as compared with others, yet which must greatly exalt you, so you will only listen to me. Thus much to have said, may, perhaps, not be deemed invidious. 6. Nor do I conceive that I should be acting an honest part, were I to devise measures, which, while they raised me to the first rank in Athens, sank you to the lowest station among the Grreeks. But the state ought to be exalted by the counsels of patriots, and it is the duty of us all to render, not the most easy, but the most profitable advice. Towards the former, our nature is of itself but too prone; to enforce the latter, a patriot's lessons and eloquence are required. 7. I not long since heard some one talking as if my advice was always sound enough, but words were all I gave the state j whereas it wanted deeds and actions. Now upon tliis point 1 will tell you what I think, and without any reserve. I do not hold it to be the province of those who advise you, to do any act whatever beyond giving you sound counsel ; and that this is a correct view of the subject, I think I shall easily show You remember how the celebrated Timotheus harangued you upon the necessity of succoring the Euboeans and saving them from the Theban yoke. " What !" he said, " do you deliberate how to proceed and what to do, when the Thebans are actually in the island ? Men of Athens ! will you not cover the sea with your ships ? Will you not instantly arise and fly to the Piraeus ?* Will you not draw down your vessels to the beach ?" 8. These were Timotheus' words; this was what you did; and, from both concurring, the work was accomplished But, had he given, as, indeed, he did, the best of counsels ; if you had remained immovable, giving ear to nothing that he said j would any of those things have been performed which wore- then done for the country ? impossible ! And so it is with what I am now urging and what others may urge. For deeds you * Pi ree' us ia the name of the celebrated harbor of ancient Athena 174 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. must rely on yourselves; looking to statesmen only for the capacity to give you salutary counsels. And now after summing up in a word what I have to urge, I have done. I tiy jou should levy the necessary supplies, should maintain the aimy on its necessary establishment — correcting whatever abuses may be found to exist, but not disbanding it altogether upon the first clamor that is raised — should send ambassadors, wherevei they can be useful in informing, admonishing, or anywhere further ing the interests of this country. 9. But you should, beside all this, bring the men to punish- ment whose administration has been stained with corruption, and consign them to abhor'^nce in all times and all places, to the end that those whose conduct has been temperate and pure, may be shown to have consulted at once their own interests and yours. If such shall be your course, and you no longer neglect your most important concerns, it may be that our affairs shall take a better turn. But, if you sit down inactive and confining youi exertions to acclamations and applause, shrink back the moment anything is required to be done, I can conceive nc eloquence which, in the absence of every necessary effort on your part, will have the power to save the country. EXERCISE XLI. Samuel Tati.ob Coleridob, author of the following humorous eflFusion, vim me of the most distinguiBhsd poets and nhilosophers of his time. He was born in Devonshire in the year 1772, and died in 1834. "The literary char- acter of Samuel Taylor Coleridge," says an able critic, " resembles some vast but unfinished palace : all is gigantic, beautiful, and rich ; but nothing is somplete, nothing compact. He was all his days, from his youth to his death, laboring, meditating, projecting : and yet all that he left us, bears a painful character of fragmentariness and imperfection. His mind was eminently jreamy ; he was deeply tinged with that incapacity of acting, which form* the characteristic of the German intellect: his genius was multiform, many- Bided j and for this reason, perhaps, could not at once seize upon the right point of view. No man, probably, ever existed, who thought more, and more intensely, than Coleridge ; few ever possessed a vaster treasury of learning and knowledge ; and yet how little has he given us ! or rather how few of hia »rorks are in any way worthy of the undoubted majesty of his genius!" RHETORICAL READER. 175 ODE TO RAIN. 8AHCEL TATLOB COLESIDGS. OOMIOSED BEFORE DAYLIGHT, ON THE MORNING APPOINTED FOR THE DK» PARTTTRE OF A VERY WORTHY, BUT NOT VERY PLEASANT VISITOR, WHOM IT ▼» < FEARED THE RAIN MIGHT DETAIN. I. 1 know it is dark ; and though I have lain Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain, T have not once opened the lids of my eyes, But lie in the dark, as a blind man lies. Rain, that I lie listening to, You're but a doleful sound at best ; 1 owe you little thanks, 'tis true. For breaking thus my needful rest, Yet if, as soon as it is light, Rain ! you will but take your flight, FU neither rail, nor malice keep, Though sick and sore for want of sleep, But only now for this one day, Do po, dear Rain ! do go away ! n. Rain ! with your dull twofold sound, The clash hard by, and the murmur all round, You know, if you know aught, that we, Both day and night, but ill agree : For days, and months, and almost years, Have limped on through this vale of tears, Since body of mine and rainy weather. Have lived on easy terms together. Yet if, as soon as it is light, Rain ! you will but take your flight, Though you should come again to-morrow, And bring with you both pain and sorrow ; Though stomach should sicken and knees should swell, ni nothing speak of you but well. 176 SANDERS' UNION SERIKS. But only now for this one day, Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ' III. Dear Rain ! I ne'er refuse to say You're a good creature in your way. Nay, I could write a book myself, Would fit a parson's lower shelf. Showing how very good you are. What then ? sometimes it must he fair. And, if sometimes, wjiy not to-day ? 1)0 go, dear Rain ! do go away. IV. Dear Rain ! if I've been cold and shy, Take no ofFense ! I'll tell you why. A dear old Friend e'en now is here, And with him came ray sister dear; After- long absence now first met. Long months by pain and grief beset With three dear Friends ! in truth, we groui Impatiently to be alone. We three you mark I and not one more ! The strong wish makes my spirit sore. We have so much to talk about, So many sad things to let out ; So many tears in our eye-corners, Sitting like little Jacky Homers — In short, as soon as it is day, Do go, dear Rain ! do go away I V. And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain! Whenever you shall come again, Re you as dull as e'er you could ; (And, by the by, 'tis understood, You're not so pleasant, as you're good 5} RHETORICAL READER. 177 Yet, k nowing well your worth and place, I'll welcome you with cheerful face ; And though you stay a week or more, Were ten times duller than before ; Yet with kind heart, and right good will,. I'll sit and listen to you still; Nor should you go away, dear Rain! Bat only now for this one day, Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! EXERCISE XLII. The following curious piece, found in an old English collection, was written in answer to the question once put to the author — " Why turnt your hair white?" It is a good example of labored alliteration, that is, the style in which the same sound is made frequently to recur in the Bame I'ne; as where Milton says — "J5ehemoth, iiggest 6orn of earth." WHY DOES YOUR HAIR TURN WHITE? Where seething sighs and sorrow sobs Hath slain the slips that nature set; And scalding showers with stony throbs, The kindly sap from them hath /e^,* What wonder, then, though that you see, Unon my head, white hairs to be ? II. Where thought hath thrilled, and thrown his spears, To hurt the heart that harmeth him not ; And groaning grief hath ground forth tears, Mine eye to stain, my face to spot : What wonder, then, though that you see, Upon my head, white hairs to be ? * Fetch, or bring out. The word is obsolete 8* R 1/8 SANDERS' UNION SERIEb III. Where pinching pain himself has placed, There peace with pleasures were possessed : And, where the walls of wealth lie waste, And poverty in them is pressed; What wonder, then, though that you see, Upon my head, white hairs to be ? •IV. Where wretched woe will weave her web, Where care the clue can catch, and dust: And floods of joy are fallen to ebb, So low, that life may not long last ; What wonder, then, though that you aee, Upon my head, white hairs to be ? V. These hairs of age are messengers Which bid me fast, repent, and pray; They be of death the harbingers, That doth prepare and dress the way; Wherefore I joy that you may see. Upon my head, such hairs to be. VI. They be the lines that lead the length, How far my race is yet to run : They show my youth is fled with strength, And how old age is weak begun : The which I feel^ and you maj see. Upon my head, such lines to be. VII. They be the strings of sober sound, Whose music is harmonical : Their tunes declare what time from ground I came, and how thereto I shall : RHETORICAL READER. 179 Wherefore I joy that you may see, Upon my head, such strings to be. VITI. God grant to those that white hairs have. No woHe them take than I have meant . That, after they be laid in grave, Their souls may joy their lives well spent • Grod grant likewise that you may see, Upon your head, such hairs to be. EXERCISE XLIII. Epitaph is from the Greek (Epi, upon, and Taphos, tomb), and signi- fies what is written on a tomb, that is, a monumental inscription. It is usually very brief. Its general tone is serious. But often it has been made the vehicle of wit, humor, and satire, and not seldom the channel of gross flattery or slander. EPITAPHS. SAMUEL J0H:»8CN. 1. An epitaph, as the word itself implies, is an inscription on the tomb, and in its most extensive import may admit indis- criminately satire or praise. But, as malice has seldom produced monuments of defamation, and the tombs hitherto raised have been the work of friendship and benevolence, custom has con- tracted the original latitude of the word, so that it signifies, in the general acceptation, an inscription engraven on a tomb in honor of the person deceased. 2. As honors are paid to the dead in order to incite others to the imitation of their excellencies, the principal intention of epitaphs is to perpetuate the examples of virtue, that the tomb of a good man may supply the want of his presence, and vene- ration for his memory produce the same efibct as the observation of his life. Thosc epitaphs are, therefore, the most perfect, which set virtue in the strongest light, and are best adapted to exalt the reader's ideas and rouse his emulation. 180 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. 3. The best subject for epitaphs is private virtue ; virta« exerted in the same circumstances in which the bulk of man- kind are placed, and which, therefore, may admit of many imita- i^rs. He that has delivered his country from oppression, or freed the world from ignorance and error, can excite the emula- tion of a very small number; but he that has repelled the temptations of poverty, and disdained to free himself from dis- tress at the expense of his virtue, may animate multitude^, by his example, to the same firmness of heart and steadiness of rcfcolution. ON THE COUNTESS OP PEMBROKE. BXH JORBOIf. Underneath this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse : Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother. Death, ere thou canst find another, Good, and fair, and wise as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee. II. ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. BOBERT BOSm. Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect. What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam : Want only of wisdom denied her respect, Want only of goodness denied her esteem. III. COLERIDGE ON HIMSELF. 8. t. omjxnax. Stop, Christian passer-by. stop, child of God ! And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod A poet lies, or that which once seemed he — Oh, lift a thought in prayer for S. T. C. ! That he, who, many a year, with toil of breath, Found death in life, may here find life in death 1 ftHETORICAI READER. 181 Mercy, for praise — to be forgiven, for fame, He asked and hoped through Christ. Do thou the same IV. PUNNING EPITAPH ON JOSEPH BLACRETT.* BTBOa Stranger ! behold, interred together, The souls of learning and of leather. Poor Joe is gone, but left his all: You'll find his relics in a stall. His works were neat, and often found Well stitched, and with morocco bound. Tread lightly — where the bard is laid, He cannot mend the shoe he made j . Yet is he happy in his hole. With verse immortal as his sole. But still to business he held fast, And stuck to Phoebus to the last. Then who shall say so good a fellow Was only " leather and prunella ?" For character — he did not lack itj And, if he did, 'twere shame to " Bla4;k-it.** EPITAPH ON SAMUEL JOHNSON. WILLIAM OOWMBL Here Johnson lies — a sage by all allowed, Whom to have bred, may well make England proud ; Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught, The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought j Whose verse may claim — grave, masculine, and strong, Superior praise to the mere poet's song ; Who many a noble gift from heaven possessed, And faith at last, alone worth all the rest. man, immortal by a double prize, By fame on earth — by glory in the skies I * Blackett was a shoemaker and a poet. SANDERS' UNION SERIES.' VI. ON CHARLES II. Here lies our sovereign lord the king, Whose word no man relies on j Who never said a foolish thing, And never did a wise one. VII. ON Snt ISAAO NEWTON. Mature and nature's laws lay hid in night: God said — Let Newton be! and there was light. VIII. A LIVING author's EPITAPH. From life's superfluous cares enlarged, His debt of human toil discharged, Here Cowley lies, beneath this shed, To every worldly interest dead : With decent poverty content j His hours of ease not idly spent; To fortune's goods a foe professed, And, hating wealth, by all caressed. 'Tis sure he's dead ! for lo ! how small A spot of earth is now his all ! Oh ! wish that earth may lightly lay, And every care be far away; Bring flowers, the short-lived roses bring, To life deceased fit ofi'ering ! And sweets around the poet strow, Whilst yet with life his ashes glow RHETORICAL READER. 188 IX. ON A MISER. Here crumbling lies beneath this mold A man whose sole delight was gold ; Content was never once his guest, Though twice ten thousand filled his chest; For he, poor naan, with all his store, Died in great want — the want of more I EXERCISE XLIV. NOTHING BUT LEAVES. I. Nothing but leaves ; the spirit grieves Over a wasted life ; Sin committed while conscience slept, Promises made but never kept, Hatred, battle, and strife j Nothing hut leaves I II. Nothing but leaves ; no garnered sheavot Of life's fair, ripened grain ; Words, idle words, for earnest deeds ; We sow our seeds — lo ! tares and weeds ; We reap with toil and pain Nothing but leaves I ni. Nothing but leaves ; memory weaves No vail to screen the past : As we retrace our weary way, Counting each lost and misspent day— We find, sadly, at last. Nothing but leaves ! 184 SANDERS' ONION SERIES. IV. And shall we meet the Master so, Bearing our withered leaves ? The Savior looks for perfect fruit, — "We stand before him, humbled, mute ; Waiting the words he breathes,— ^^ Nothing but leaves .?"* EXERCISE XLV. Lavrenob Sterne was bom in Clonmol, Ireland, in the year 171 3. He died in 1768. Though a member of the clerical profession, he was by no means exemplary in walk and conversation. As a writer, however, he was not without extra- ordinary claims to distinction. He excelled in the delineation of comic char- acter, in coarse, and often vulgar humor, in occiiaional touches of pure and tender sentiment, and in the command of a style and diction powerful to interest the fancy and move the heart. The following is a specimen in bin best manner. THE STORY OF LE FEVRB. 8TERITX. 1. It was some time in the summer of that year in which Dendermond was taken by the allies, which was about seven years before my father came into the country, and about as many, after the time, that my uncle Toby and Trim had privately decamped from my father's house in town, in order to lay some of the finest sieges to some of the finest fortified cities in Europe, when my uncle Toby was one evening getting his supper, with Trim sitting behind him at a small sideboard, I say sitting, for in consideration of the corporal's lame knee, (which sometimes gave him exquisite pain) when my uncle Toby dined or supped alono, he would never suffer the corporal to stand; and the poor fellow's veneration for his master was such, that, with a proper artillery, my uncle Toby could have taken Dendermond itself with less trouble than he was able to gain this point over * He found nothing thereon but leaves. Matt. chap. xxi. v. 19. RHETORICAL READER. 185 him ; for many a time, when my uncle Toby supposed the cnr- poral's leg was at rest, he would look back and detect him stand- ing behind him with the most dutiful respect. This bred more little squabbles betwixt them than all other causes for five-and- twenty years together ; but this is neither here nor there — why do I mention it ? Ask my pen — it governs me — I govern not it. 2. He was one evening sitting thus at his supper, when tl e landlord of a little inn in the village came into the parlor with in empty vial in his hand, to beg a glass or two of sack. 'Tis r)r a poor gentleman — I think of the army, said the 'andlord, who has been taken ill at my house four days ago, and has never held up his head since, or had a desire to taste anything, till just now, that he has a fancy for a glass of sack and a thin toast; I think, says he, taking his hand from his forehead, it would comfort me. If I could neither beg, borrow, nor buy such a thing, added the landlord, I would almost steal it for the poor gentleman, he is so ill. I hope in Grod, he will still mend, continued he ; we are all of us concerned for him. 3. Thou art a good-natured soul, I will answer for thee, cried my uncle Toby; and thou shalt drink the poor gentleman's health in a glass of sack thyself; and take a couple of bottles with my service, and tell him he is heartily welcome to them, and to a dozen more, if they will do him good. Though I am persuaded, said my uncle Toby, as the landlord shut the door, he is a very compassionate fellow, Trim, yet I cannot help enter- taining a high opinion of his guest too ; there must be some- thing more than common in him, that, in so short a time, should win so much upon the aflfections of his host. And of his whole family, added the corporal; for they are all concerned for him. Step after him, said my uncle Toby ; do. Trim ; and ask if he knows his name. 4. I have quite forgot it, truly, said the landlord, coming back into the parlor with the corporal ; but I can ask his son again. Has he a son with him, then? said my uncle Toby. A boy, replied the landlord, of about eleven or twelve years of age ; but the poor creature has tasted almost as little as bis father; he does nothing but mourn and lament for him night 186 SANDERS UNION SERIES. and day He has not stirred from the bedside these two days. My uncle Toby laid down his knife and fork, and thrust his plate from before him, as the landlord gave him the account; and Trim, without being ordered, took it away, without saying one word, and, in a few minutes after, brought him his pipe and tobacco. 5. Stay in the room a little, said my uncle Toby. Trim ! said my uncle Toby, after he lighted his pipe, and smoked about a dozen whiffs. Trim came in front of his master, and made his ^tow. My uncle Toby smoked on, and said no more. Corporal! aaid my uncle Toby. The corporal made his bow. My uncle Toby proceeded no further, but finished his pipe. 6. Trim, said my uncle Toby, I have a project in my head, as it is a bad night, of wrapping myself up warm in my roque- laur,* and paying a visit to this poor gentleman. Your honor's roquelaur, replied the corporal, has not once been had on since the night before your honor received your wound, when we mounted guard in the trenches before the gate of St. Nicholas. And besides, it is so cold and rainy a night, that what with the roquelaur, and what with the weather, 'twill be enough to give your honor your death, and bring on your honor's torment in your back. I fear so, replied my uncle Toby; but I am not at rest in my mind. Trim, since the account the landlord has given me. I wish I had not known so much of this affair, added my uncle Toby, or that I had known more of it. How shall we manage it? Leave it, an'tf please your honor, to me, quoth the corporal. I'll take my hat and stick, and go to the house and reconnoiter, and act accordingly; and I will bring your honor a full account in an hour. Thou shalt go, Trim, said my uncle Toby; and here's a shilling for thee to drink with his servant. 7. It was not till my uncle Toby had knocked the ashes out 3f his third pipe that Corporal Trim returned from the inn, and gave him the following account. I despaired at first, said the corporal, of being able to bring back your honor any kind of * Roquelaur, (rok^ e lor) a cloak. f An't is old English for i/'t, that is, if it. RHETORICAL READER. 187 iutelligence concerning the poor sick lieutenant. Is he in the army, then ? said my uncle Toby. He is, said the corporal. And in what regiment? said my uncle Toby. I'll tell your honor, replied the corporal, everything straightforwards as I learned it. Then, Trim, I'll fill another pipe, said my uncle Toby, and not interrupt thee till thou hast done; so sit down at thy ease. Trim, in the window seat, and begin thy story again. Th-s corporal made his old bow, which generally spoke as plain as a bow could speak it — Your honor is good. And having done that, he sat down, as he was ordered; and began the story tc my uncle Toby over again in pretty near the same words. 8. I despaired at first, said the corporal, of being able to bring back any intelligence to your honor about the lieutenant and his son; for, when I asked where his servant was, from whom I made myself sure of knowing everything which was proper to be asked — That's a right distinction. Trim, said my uncle Toby — I was answered, an' please your honor, that he had no servant with him ; that he had come to the inn with hired horses, which, upon finding himself unable to proceed, (to join, I suppose, the regiment) he had dismissed the morning after he came. If I get better, my dear, said he, as he gave his purse to his son to pay the man, we can hire horses from hence. But, alas ! the poor gentleman will never get from hence, said the landlady to me ; for I heard the deathwatch all night long : and, when he dies, the youth, his son, will certainly die with him; for he is broken-hearted already. 9. I was hearing this account, continued the corporal, when the youth came into the kitchen, to order the thin toast the landlord spoke of. But I will do it for my father myself, said the youth. Pray, let me save you the trouble, young gentle- man, said I, taking up a fork for the purpose, and offering him my chair to sit down upon by the fire, whilst I did it. I believe, sir, said he, very modestly, I can please him best myself I am sure, said I, his honor will not like the toast the worse for being toasted by an old soldier. The youth took hold of my hand, and instantly burst into tears. Poor youth ! said my uncle Toby ; he ha& been bred up from an infant in the army, and the 188 SANUERS' UNION SERIES. name of a soldier, Trim, sounded in his ears like the name ot a friend ; I wish I had him here. 10. I never, in the longest march, said the corporal, ha-d so great a mind to my dinner, as I had to cry with him for com- pany. What could he the matter with me, an' please your honor ? Nothing in the world. Trim, said my uncle Toby, blow- ing his nose ; but that thou art a good-natured fellow. When I gave him the toast, continued the corporal, I thought it was proper to tell him I was Captain Shandy's servant, and that youi honor, though a stranger, was extremely concerned for his father; and that, if there was anything in your house or cellar — And thou might'st have added my purse too, said my uncle Toby — he was heartily welcome to it. He made a very low bow, which was meant to your honor ; but no answer, for his heart was full ; so he went up stairs with the toast. I warrant you, my dear, said I, as I opened the kitchen door, your father will be well again. Mr. Yorick's curate was smoking a pipe by the kitchen fire, but said not a word, good or bad, to comfort the youth. 1 thought it wrong, added the corporal. I think so too, said my uncle Toby. 11. When the lieutenant had taken his glass of sack and toast, he felt himself a little revived, and sent down into the kitchen to let me know that, in about ten minutes, he should be glad if I would step up stairs. I believe, said the landlord, he is going to say his prayers ; for there was a book laid upon the chair by his bedside, and, as I shut the door, I saw his son take up a cushion. 12. I thought, said the curate, that you gentlemen of the army, Mr. Trim, never said your prayers at all. I heard the poor gentleman say his prayers last night, said the landlady, very devoutly, and with my own ears, or I could not have believed it. Are you sure of it? replied the curate. A soldier^ an' please your reverence, said I, prays as often of his own accord as a parson ; and, when he is fighting for his iing, and for his own life, and for his honor too, he has the most reason to pray to God of any one in the whole world. 'Twas well said of thee. Trim, said my uncle Toby. But, when a soldier, said f RHETORICAL READER. 18£ an' please your reverence, has been standing for tweVe htmra together in the trenches up to his knees in cold water, or engaged, said I, for months together in long and dangerous marches; harassed, perhaps, in his rear to-day; harassing others to-morro\\ ; detached here ; countermanded there ; resting this night out upon his arms; benumbed in his joints; perhaps, without straw in his tent to kneel on ; he must say his prayers hov) and ivhe7i he can. 13. I believe, said I — for I was piqued, quoth the corporal for the reputation of the army — I believe, an' please your reverence, said I, that when a soldier gets time to pray, he prays as heartily as a parson, though not with all his fuss and hypocrisy. Thou shouldst not have said that, Trim, said my uncle Toby ; for Grod only knows who is a hypocrite and who is not. At the great and general review of us all, corporal, at the day of judgment, and not till then, it will be seen who has done his duties in this world and who has not; and we shall be advanced. Trim, accordingly. I hope we shall, said Trim. It is in the Scripture, said my uncle Toby ; and I will show it thee to-morrow. In the meantime, we may depend upon it, Trim, for our comfort, said my uncle Toby, that God Almighty is so good and just a governor of the world, that, if we have but done our duties in it, it will never be inquired 4nto whether we have done them in a red coat or a black one. I hope not, said the corporal. But go on. Trim, said my uncle Toby, with thy story. 14. When I went up, continued the corporal, into the lieu- tenant's room, which I did not do till the expiration of the ten minutes, he was lying in his bed with his head raised upon his hand, with his elbow upon the pillow, and a clean white cambric handkerchief beside it. The youth was just stooping down to take up the cushion, upon which I supposed he had been kneeling ; the book was laid upon the bed ; and, as he rose, in taking up the cushion with one hand, he reached out his other to take it away at the same time. Let it remain there, my dear, said the lieutenant. 15 He did not offer to speak to me till I had walked up 190 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. close to his bedside. If you are Captain Shandy's sonant, &aid he, you must present my thanks to your master, with my little boy's thanks along with them, for his courtesy to me." If he was of Levens's, said the lieutenant. I told him your honor was. Then, said he, I served three campaigns with him in Flanders, and remember him ; but 'tis most likely, as I had not the honor of any acquaintance with him, that he knows nothing of me. You will tell him, however, that the person his good- ature I as laid under obligations to him, is one Le Fevre, a lieutenant in Angus's. But he knows me not, said he, a second time, musing. Possibly he may my story, added he. Pray, tell the captain, I was the ensign at Breda, whose wife was most unfortunately killed with a musket shot as she lay in my arms in my tent. I remember the story, an't please your honor, said I, very well. Do you so ? said he, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief, then well may I. In saying this, he drew a little ring out of his bosom, which seemed tied with a black ribbon about his neck, and kissed it twice. Here, Billy, said he. The boy flew across the room to the bedside, and falling down upon his knee, took the ring in his hand, and kissed it too; then kissed his father, and sat down upon the bed and wept. 16. I wish, said my uncle Toby, with a deep sigh — I wish, Trim, I was asleep. . Your honor, replied the corporal, is too much concerned. Shall I pour your honor out a glass of sack to your pipe ? Do, Trim, said my uncle Toby. I remember, said my uncle Toby, sighing again, the story of the ensign and his wife, with a circumstance his modesty omitted; and par* ticularly well that he, as well as she, upon some account or other, I forget what, was universally pitied by the whole regi- ment; but finish the story thou art upon. 'Tis finished alread/, said the corporal, for I could stay no longer; so wisl ed l.i^ honor a good night. Young Le Fevre rose from oflf the bedj and saw me to the bottom of the stairs; and, as we went down together, told me they had come from Ireland, and were on their route to join the regiment in Flanders. But, alas ! said the corporal, the lieutenant's last day's march is over. Then what is to become of his poor boy ? cried my uncle Toby. IIHETORICAL HEADER. 191 17. It was to my uncle Toby's eternal honor — though I tell it only for the sake of those, who, when cooped in betwixt a natural and a positive law, know not for their souls which way m the world to turn themselves — that, notwithstanding my uncle Toby was warmly engaged at that time in carrying on thef siege of Dendermond, parallel with the allies, who pressed theirs on so vigorously that they scarce allowed him time to get his dinner — that, nevertheless, he gave up Dendermond, though he had already made a lodgment upon the counterscarp — and bent his whole thoughts towards the private distresses at the inn j and, except that he ordered the garden gate to be bolted up, by which he might be said to have turned the siege of Dender- mond into a blockade, he left Dendermond to itself, to be relieved or not by the French king as the French king thought good, and only considered how he himself should relieve the poor lieutenant and his son. That kind Being, who is a friend to the friendless, shall recompense thee for this. 18. Thou hast left this matter short, said my uncle Toby to the corporal, as he was putting him to bed ; and I will tell thee in what. Trim. In the first place, when thou madst an offer of my services to Le P^evre — as sickness and traveling are both expensive, and thou kuowest he was but a poor lieutenant, with a son to subsist as well as himself out of his pay — that thou didst not make an offer to him of my purse ; because, had he stood in need, thou knowest, Trim, he had been as welcome to it as myself. Your honor knows, said the corporal, I had no orders. True, quoth my uncle Toby, thou didst very right, Trim, as a soldier, but certainly very wrong as a man. 19. In the second place, for which indeed thou hast the same excuse, continued my uncle Toby, when thou offer edst him whatever was in my house, thou shouldst have offered him my \ ouse too. A sick brother oflBcer should have the best quarters, Trim; and, if we had him with us, we could tend and look to him. Thou art an excellent nurse thyself. Trim ; and what with thy care of him, and the old woman's and his boy's, and mine together, we might recruit him again at once, and set 192 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. him upon his legs. In a fortnight or three weeks, added my uncle Toby, smiling, he might march. 20. He will never march, an' please your honor, in thia wo'.ld, said the corporal. He will march, said my uncle Toby, rising up from the side of the bed with one shoe off. An' please your honor, said the corporal, he will never march but to his grave. He shall march, cried my uncle Toby, marching the foot which had a shoe on, though without advancing an inch — he shall march to his regiment. He cannot stand it. said the corporal. He shall be supported, said my uncle Toby. He'll drop at last, said the corporal; and what will become of his boy ? He shall not drop, said my uncle Toby, firmly A-well-o'-day, do what we can for him, said Trim, maintaining his point, the poor soul will die. He shall not die, with an oath, cried my uncle Toby. The Accusing Spirit, which flew up to heaven's chancery with the oath, blushed as he gave it in; and the Recording Augel, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out for ever. 21. My uncle Toby went to his bureau ; put his purse into his breeches pocket; and having ordered the corporal to go early in the morning for a physician, he went to bed, and fell asleep. The sun looked bright the morning after to every eye in the village but Le Fevre's and his aiBicted son's. The hand of death pressed heavy upon his eyelids, and hardly could the wheel at the cistern turn round its circle, when my uncle Toby, who had risen up an hour before his wonted time, entered the lieutenant's room, and, without preface or apology, sat himself down upon the chair by the bedside ; and, independently of all modes and customs, opened the curtain in the manner an old friend and brother officer would have done it, and asked liira how he did — how he had rested in the night — what was his complaint — where was his pain — and what he could do to help him. \nd, without giving him time to answer any one of the inquiries, went on and told him of the little plan which he had been concerting with the corporal the night before for him. You shall go home directly, Le Fevre, said my uncle Toby, to my house, and we'll send for a doctor to see what's the matter : RHETORICAL READER. 193 and we'll have an apothecary, ana the corporal shall be your nurse, and I'll be your servant, Le Fevre. 22. There was a frankness in my uncle Toby — not the effect of familiarity, but the cause of it — which let you at once into his soul, Hfld showed you the goodness of his nature; to this there was something in his looks, and voice, and manner super- added, which eternally beckoned to the unfortunate to come and take shelter under him ; so that before my uncle Toby had half finished the kind offers he was making to the father, had the son insensibly pressed up close to his knees, and had taken hold of the breast of his coat, and was pulling it towards him. The blood and spirits of Le Fevre, which were waxing cold and slow within him, and were retreating to their last citadel, the heart, rallied back ; the film forsook his eyes for a moment j he looked up wishfully in my uncle Toby's face, then cast a look upon his boy J and that ligament, fine as it was, was never broken. Nature instantly ebbed again ; the film returned to its place j the pulse fluttered — stopped — went on — throbbed — stopped again —moved — stopped. Shall I go on ? No. EXERCISE XLVI. LAUGH ON, LAUGH ON, TO-DAY I I. Laugh on, fair cousins, for to you All life is joyous yet; Your hearts have all things to pursue, And nothing to regret ; And every flower to you is fair, And every month is May; You've not been introduced to Care,— Laugh on, laugh on, to-day! * See Note on Exercise XXXIII. 6R 194 SANDERS' UNION 8JBKIE8. Old Time will fling his clouds ere long Upon those sunny eyes j The Toiee whose every word is song, Will set itself to sighs ; Your quiet slumbers, — hopes and fears Will chase their rest away; To-morrow, you'll be shedding tears, — Laugh on, laugh on, to-day I III. Oh, yes ; if any truth is found In the dull schoolman's theme, — If friendship is an empty sound. And love an idle dream, — If mirth, youth's playmate, feels fatigue Too soon on life's long way. At least, he'll run with you a league, — Laugh on, laugh on, to-day I IV. Perhaps your eyes may grow more bright As childhood's hues depart; You may be lovelier to the sight, And dearer to the heart; You may be sinless still, and see This earth still green and gay ; But what you are you wiU not be, Laugh on, laugh on, to-day I V. O'er me have many winters crept, With less of grief than joy; But I have learned, and toiled, and weptj- I am no more a boy I RHETORICAL READER. I9h I've never had the gout, 'tis true, My hair is hardly gray; But now / cannot laugh like you ; Laugh on, laugh on, to-day I vi. T used to have as glad a face, As shadowless a brow ; T once could run as blithe a race As you are running now ; But never mind how / behave, Don't interrupt your play, And, though I look so very grave, Laugh on, laugh on, to-day I EXERCISE XLVll. Arthur Clevblant) Coxe is an Episcopal clergyman, and was born at Mendham, in New Jersey, in the year 1818. He is a lyric poet of remarkabl* merit, and writes chiefly on religious themes. The following is one of hi« best productions. HYMN OF BOYHOOD. A. CLEVVLiHS OOZa. The first dear thing that I ever loved, Was a mother's gentle eye, That smiled, as I woke on the dreamy couch That cradled my infancy. I never forget the joyous thrill That smile in my spirit stirred, Nor how it could charm me against my will. Till I laughed like a joyous bird. II. And the next fair thing that ever I loved, Was a bunch of summer flowers, 196 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. With odors, and hues, and loveliness, Fresh as from Eden's bowers. I never can find such hues again, Nor smell such sweet perfume ; And, if there be odors as sweet as then 'Tis I that have lost the bloom. m. And the next dear thing that ever I loved, Was a fawn-like little maid, Half pleased, half awed by the frolic boy That tortured her doll, and played : I never can see the gossamer Which rude, rough zephyrs tease, But I think how I tossed her flossy locka With my whirling bonnet's breeze. rv. And the next good thing that ever I loved, Was a bow-kite in the sky j And a little boat on the brooklet's surf, And a dog for my company ; And a jingling hoop, with many a bound To my measured strike and true j And a rocket sent up to the firmament. When Even was out so blue. V. And the next fair thing I was fond to love, Was a field of wavy grain. Where the reapers mowed j or a ship in sail On the billowy, billowy main : And the next was a fiery prancing horse That I felt like a man to stride; And the next was a beautiful sailing-boat With a helm it was hard to guide. RHEIORICAL READER. 197 VI. And the next dear thing I Tfas fond to love, Is tenderer far to tell ; 'Twas a voice, and a hand, and gentle eye That dazzled me with its spell : And the loveliest things I had loved before, Were only the landscape now, On the canvas bright where I pictured her, In the glow of my early vow VII. And the next good thing 1 was fain to love, Was to sit in my cell alone, Musing o'er all these lovely things, Forever, forever flown. Then out I walked in the forest free. Where wantoned the autumn wind. And the colored boughs swung shiveringly, Tn harmony with my mind. VIII. And a spirit was on me that next I loved. That ruleth my spirit still. And maketh me murmur these sing-song words. Albeit against my will. And I walked the woods till the winter came, And then did I love the snow j And I heard the gales, through the wild wood aisles, Like the Lord's own organ blow. IX. And the bush I had loved in my greenwood walk, I saw it afar away, Surpliced with snows, like the bending priest That kneels in the church to pray : 198 SANDERS' UN ON SERIES. And I thought of the vaulted fane, and high, Where I stood when a little child, Awed by the lauds sung thrillingly, And the anthems un defiled. X. And again to the vaulted church I went. And I heard the same sweet prayers. And the same full organ-peals upsent. And the same soft soothing airs ; And I felt in my spirit so drear and strange To think of the race I ran, That I loved the lone thing that knew no change, In the soul of the boy and man. XI. And the tears I wept in the wilderness, And that froze on my lids, did fall. And melted to pearls for my sinfulness. Like scales on the eyes of Paul : And the dear thing I was fond to love, Was that holy service high. That lifted my soul to joys above And pleasures that do not die. XII. And then, said I, one thing there is That I of the Lord desire. That ever, while I on earth shall live, I will of the Lord require, — That I may dwell in His temple blest, As long as my life shall be ; And the beauty fair of the Lord of HosTti, In the home of His glory see. RHETORICAL READER. 199 EXERCISE XLVIII. William Elleby Channjng, D. D., was born at Newport, in Rhode Island, in the year 1780. He died in 1842. He wrote chiefly on theological subjects, and was a profound thinker, an admirable writer, and an excellent man. From one of his discourses on the practical duties of life, we take the first extract following, and from one of his occasional addresses the second. SPIRITUAL FREEDOM— WHAT IS IT? OHANNINQ. 1. / call that mind free., which masterp the senses, which protects itself against animal appetites, which contemns pleasure and pain in comparison with its own energy, which penetrates beneath the body and recognizes its own reality and greatness, which passes life, not in asking what it shall eat or drink, but in hungering, thirsting, and seeking after righteousness. 2. I call that mind free., which escapes the bondage of matter, which, instead of stopping at the material universe and making it a prison-wall, passes beyond it to its Author, and finds, in the radiant signatures which it everywhere bears of the Infinite Spirit, helps to its own spiritual enlargement. 3. I call that mind free ^ which jealously guards its intellectual rights and powers, which calls no man master, which does not content itself with a passive or hereditary faith, which opens itself to light whencesoever it may come, which receives new truth as an angel from heaven, which, while consulting others, inquires still more of the oracle within itself, and uses instruc- tion from abroad, not to supersede, but to quicken and exalt its own energies. 4. I call that wiiwo? /ree, which sets no bounds to its love, 'which is not imprisoned in itself or in a sect, which recognizes in all human beings the image of God and the rights of hip children, which delights in virtue and sympathizes with suffering, wherever they are seen, which conquers pride, anger, and sloth, and offers itself up a willing victim to the cause of mankind. 5. / call that mind free., which is not passively framed by oitward circumstances, which is not swept away by the torrents 200 SANDERS' UNION SLRIE8. of events, which is not the creature of accidentaJ imp ilse, but which bends events to its own improvement, and acts from an inward spring, from immutable principles which it has delibe- rately espoused. 6. 1 call that mind free, which protects itself against the usurpations of society, which does not cower to human opinion,! which feels itself accountable to a higher tribunal than man's, which respects a higher law than fashion, which respects itself too much to be the slave or tool of the many or the few. 7. / call that mind free, which, through confidence in God, and, in the power of virtue, has cast off all fear but that of wrong doing, which no menace or peril can enthrall, which is calm in the midst of tumults, and possesses itself, though all else be lost. 8. / call that mind free, which resists the bondage of habit, which does not mechanically repeat itself and copy the past, which does not live on its old virtues, which does not enslave itself to precise rules, but which forgets what is behind, listens for new and higher monitions of conscience, and rejoices to pour itself forth in fresh and higher exertions. 9. I call that mind free, which is jealous of its own freedom, which guards itself from being merged in others, which guards its empire over itself as nobler than the empire of the world. 10. In fine, I call that mind free, which, conscious of its affinity with God, and confiding in his promises by Jesus Christ, devotes itself faithfully to the unfolding of all its powers, which passes the bounds of time and death, which hopes to advance forever, and which finds inexhaustible power, both for action and suffering, in the prospect of immortality. THE PRESENT AGE. 1. The grand idea of humanity, of the importance of man as man, is spreading silently, but surely. Even the most abject portions of society are visited by some dreams of a better con- dition for which they were designed. The grand doctrine, that RHETORICAL READER. 201 every human being should have the means of self-culture, of progress in knowledge and virtue, of health, comfort, and hap- piness, of exercising the powers and affections of a man, this is slowly taking its place as the highest social truth. That the world was made for all, and not for a few ; that society is to care for all ; that no human being shall perish but through his own fault; that the great end of government is to spread a Bhield over the rights of all, — these propositions are growing into axioms, and the spirit of them is coming forth in all the departments of life 2. The Present Age ! In these brief words what a world of thought is comprehended ! what infinite movements ! what joys and sorrows ! what hope and despair I what faith and doubt I what silent grief and loud lament ! what fierce conflicts and subtle schemes of policy ! what private and public revolutions I In the period through which many of us have passed, what thrones have been shaken ! what hearts have been bled ! what millions have been butchered by their fellow -creatures ! what hopes of philanthropy have been blighted ! 3. And at the same time, what magnificent enterprises have been achieved ! what new provinces won to science and art ! what rights and liberties secured to nations ! It is a privilege to have lived in an age so stirring, so pregnant, so eventful. It is an age never to be forgotten. Its voice of warning and encouragement is never to die. Its impression on history is indelible. 4. Amidst its events, the American Revolution, the first dis- tinct, solemn assertion of the rights of men, and the French Revolution, that volcanic force which shook the earth to its center, are never to pass from men's minds. Over this age the night will, indeed, gather more and more as time rolls away; but, in that night, two forms will appear, Washington* and Napoleon,! the one a lurid meteor, the other a benign, serene, and in de- caying star. * See Exercise CXII. •} See Exercise XCI 9* '2Uli BANDERS' UNION SERIES. 5. Another American name will live in history, your Frank- lin ;* and the kitef which brought lightning from heaven, will be seen sailing in the clouds by remote posterity, when the city where he dwelt may be known only by its ruins. There is, however, something greater in the age than in its greatest menj it is the appearance of a new power in the world, the appear- ance of the multitude of men on that stage where as yet the few have acted their parts alone. 6. This influence is to endure to the end of time. What more of the present is to survive ? Perhaps, much of which we now take no note. The glory of an age is often hidden from itself. Perhaps, some word has been spoken in our day which we have not deigned to hear, but which is to grow clearer and louder through all ages. 7. Perhaps, some silent thinker among us is at work in his closet whose name is to fill the whole earth. Perhaps, there sleeps in his cradle some reformer who is to move the church and the world, who is to open a new era in history, who is to fire the human soul with new hope and new daring. What else is to survive the age ? That which the age has little thought of, but which is living in us all ; — I mean the Soul, the Immortal Spirit. 8. Of this all ages are the unfoldings, and it is greater than all. We must not feel, in the contemplation of the vast move- ments of our own and former times, as if we ourselves were nothing. I repeat it, we are greater than all. We are to sur- vive our age, to comprehend it, and to pronounce its sentence. As yet, however, we are encompassed with darkness. The issues of our time how obscure ! The future into which it Dpsu:, who of us can foresee? To the Father of all Ages I commit this future with humble, yet courageous and unfaltering hope. * See Exercise CXXXIII. f The reference here is to Dr. Franklin's well-known experiment with a kite made in Philadelphia, in June 1752, whereby he succeeded in actually cond acting the lightning to the earth, and so establishing the identity of lightning with electricity. RHETORICAL READER 208 EXERCISE XLIX William Murray, .Irst Earl of Mansfield, was born near Perth, iu Scot- land, in the year 1705, and died in 1793. While a student he gave himself to Btudy with that extraordinary diligence for which he was always remarkable. Being jestined for the bar, he made everything subservient to that object. "In closeness of argument," says an able writer, quoted by Prof. Goodrich, "in happiness of illustration, in copiousness and grace of diction, the oratory of Murray was unsurpassed." The speech, part of which we give below, is regarded as his best efifort in Parliament. It was delivered during a debate on a bill for taking away all privilege from the servants of members of Par- liament. As an exercise m reading, to show the tone and manner proper in dignified debate, it has no superior SPEECH OF LORD MANSFIELD ON PRIVILEGE. 1. I come now to speak upon what, indeed, I would have gladly avoided, had I not been particularly pointed at for the part I have taken in this bill. It has been said by a noble lord on my left hand, that / likewise am running the race of popularity. If the noble lord means by popularity, that applause bestowed by after ages on good and virtuous actions, I have long been struggling in that race, — to what purpose all-trying time can alone determine; but, if that noble lord means that mushroom popularity which is raised without merit, and lost without a crime, lie is much mistaken in his opinion. I defy the noble lord to point out a single action of my life, where the popularity of the times ever had the smallest influence on my determinations. 2. I thank God, I have a more permanent and steady rule for my conduct — the dictates of my own breast. Those that have forgone that pleasing adviser, and given up their minds to be the slave of every popular impulse, I sincerely pity; I pity them stiL more, if their vanity leads them to mistake the shouts of a mob for the trumpet of fame. Experience might inform them, that many who have been saluted with the huzzas of a erowd one day, have received their execrations the next; and many who, by the popularity of the times, have been held up as spotless patriots, have, nevertheless, appeared upon the histo- 204 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. rian's page, where truth has triumphed over delusion, tha assassins of liberty. 3. Why, then, the noble lord can think I am ambitious of present popularity, that echo of folly and shadow of renown, I am at a loss to determine. Besides, I do not know that the bill now before your lordships will be popular j it depends much upon the caprice of the day. It may not he popular to compe. p3ople to pay their debts j and, in that case, the present must be a very unpopular bill. It may not be popular, neither, to take away any of the privileges of Parliament : for I very well remember, and many of your lordships may remember, that not long ago, the popular cry was for the extension of privileges ; and so far did they carry it at that time, that it was said that privilege protected members even in criminal actions; nay, such was the power of popular prejudices over weak minds, that the very decisions of some of the courts were tinctured with this doctrine. It was indubitably an abominable doctrine : I thought so then^ and think so still ; but nevertheless, it was a popular doctrine, and came immediately from those who are called the friends of liberty — how deservedly time will show. 4. True liberty, in my opinion, can only exist when justice is equally administered to all — to the king and to the beggar. Where is the justice, then, or where is the law, that protects a member of Parliament more than any other man from the punishment due to his crimes ? The laws of this country allow no place nor employment to be a sanctuary for crimes; and, where I have the honor to sit as a judge, neither royal favor nor popular applause shall ever protect the guilty. I have now only to beg pardon for having employed so much of your lordships' time, and am sorry a bill fraught with so good con- 3r][uences, has not met with an abler advocate ; but I doubt not your lordships* determination will convince the world, that a bill calculated to contribute so much to the equal distrihdtion of justice as the present, requires, with your lordships, but ver^ little S'lpport. RHETORICAL READER. 205 EXERCISE L. SLEEP, MR. SPEAKER! W. X PTiABD.* OH 8BSINQ THE SPEAKER ASLEEP IN HIS CHAIR IN ONE Of THB DSBATSI OP THE FIRST REFORMED PARLIAMENT. I. Sleep, Mr. Speaker ! 'tis surely fair If you mayn't in your hed^ that you sh'^uld in yom chair* Louder and longer now they grow, Tory and Radical, Jy, and No ! Talking by night, and talking by day. Sleep J Mr. Speaker^ sleep while you may I n. Sleep, Mr. Speaker ; slumber lies Light and brief on a Speaker's eyes. Fielden or Finn in a minute or two Some disorderly thing will do; Riot will chase repose away — Sleep, Mr. Speaker^ sleep while you may! III. Sleep, Mr. Speaker. Sweet to men Is the sleep that cometh but now and then ; Sweet to the weary, sweet to the ill. Sweet to the children that work in the mill. Yoic have more need of repose than they — Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may I IV. !51eep Mr. Speaker ; Harvey Wiil soon Move to abolish the sun and the moon j * See Note on Exercise XXXIII. i200 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Hume will, no doubt, be taking the sense Of the House on a question of sixteen pence. Statesmen will howl, and patriots bray — Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may ! V. Sleep, Mi. Speaker, and dream of the time, When loyalty was not quite a crime ; When Grant was a pupil in Canning's school, And Palmerston fancied Wood a fool. Deal me ! how principles pass away — Sleep, Mr. Speaker, sleep while you may ! EXERCISE LI. TnoMAS Hood, chiefly known as a comie poet and humorist, was born in London in 1795, and died in 1845. Though best known as a humorous writer, he wfcs capable of moving the higher feelings to an extent that makes us regret that his tastes or his necessities kept him almost constantly in the region of fun, frolic, and gayety. Yet "even in his puns and levities," says an able judge, "there is a 'spirit of good' directed to some kindly or philan- thropic object." Wo give below two of his most celebrated pieces, in which he appears in the opposite lights ot gayety and gravity — for which he is 80 reaaarkable. PARENTAL ODE TO MY LITTLE SON. THOMAS HOOD. I. Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop — first let me kiss away that tear T) Thou tiny image of myself! ('My love, he's poking peas into his ear !) Thou merry, laughing sprite I With spirits, feather light. Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, (Good heavens ! the child is swallowing, a pin I) RHETORICAL READER. 20' Thou little tricksy Puck ! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (The door ! the door ! he'll tumble down the stair I) Thou darling of thy sire ! (Why Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire !) Thou imp of mirth' and joy! In JVC's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents (Drat the boy I There goes my ink !) ni. Thou cherub — but of earth ; Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale, In harmless sport, and mirth, (That dog will bite him, if he pulls its tail !) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, '(Another tumble — that's his precious nose !) Thy father's pride and hope ! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope !) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint !) IV. Thou young domestic dove ! (He'll have that jug oflf with another shove !) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest ! (Are those torn clothes his best ?) Tjittle epitome of man ! (He'll dimb upon the table, that's his plan !) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, (He's got a knife !) 208 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Thou enviable being ! No storms, no clouds, in thy blu€ sky foreseeing, Play on, play, on, My elfin John I V. Toss the light ball — bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick !) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at youi gown !) Thou pretty opening rose ! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose I) Balmy, and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth !) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar I) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above !) EXERCISE LII. SONG OF THE SHIRT. tUOUAS HOOb With fingers weary and worn. With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread, — Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, She sang the " Song of the Shirt." RHETORICAL READER. 209 11. "Work! work! work I While the cock is crowing aloof ! And work — work — work, Till the stars shine through the roof! It's oh ! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work III. " Work — work — work, Till the brain begins to swim, Work — work — work, Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep. And sew them on in a dream I IV. " Oh ! men, with sisters dear I Oh ! men, with mothers and wives ! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives ! Stitch — stitch — stitch. In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt. V. " But why do I talk of death. That phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own — O 210 SANDERS' UNION SERIES." It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep, Oh Grod ! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap I VI. " Work — work — work 1 My labor never flags ; And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, A crust of bread, — and rags, — That shattered roof — and this naked floor — A table — a broken chair — And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there I VII. " Work — work — work I From weary chime to chime ! Work — work — work, As prisoners work for crime I Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand. vin. " Work — work — ^work ! In the dull December light. And work — work — work. When the weather is warm and bright- While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling. As if to show me their sunny backs, And twit me with the Spring. RHETORICAL READER. 211 IX. " Oh ! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet— With the sky above my head And the grass beneath my feet. For only one sweet hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, And the walk that costs a meal I " C)h ! but for one short hour I A respite, however brief I No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief! A little weeping would ease my heart, But, in their briny bed, My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread !" XI. With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread — Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch — Would that its tone could reach the rich !- She sung this " Song of the Shirt " 212 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. EXERCISE LIII. MAN'S WORKS SHALL FOLLOW HIM. JOHN Q. WBITTUR.* I. 'Tis truth that painter, bard, and sage, Even in earth's cold and changeful clime, Plant for their deathless heritage The fruits and flowers of time. n. We shape ourselves the joy or fear Of which the coming life is made, And fill our Future's atmosphere With sunshine or with shade. in. The tissue of the Life to be We weave with colors all our own, And in the field of Destiny We reap as we have sown rv. Still shall the soul around it call The shadows which it gathered hero, And fainted- on the eternal wall The Past shall re-appear. Think ye the notes of holy song On Milton's tuneful ear have died ? Think ye that Kaphael's angel throng Has vanished from his side? * See Note, Exercise V. RHETORICAL READER 218 VI. Oh, no ! We live our life again : Or warmly touched or coldly dim, The pictures of the Past remain, — Man's works shall follow him 1 EXERCISE LIV. Joseph Story, the eminent jurist, and accomplished scholar, was born at Marblehead, in Massachusetts, in 1782. In 1811 he was made a judge of the Supreme Court of the United States. In 1830 he was appointed Dane Pro- fessor of the Law School of Harvard University. In both these situations he acquitted himself with distinguished ability. He died in 1845. The fol- lowing is from a discourse on the occasion of the consecration of Mount Auburn Cemetery in 1831. RESTING-PLACES FOR THE DEAD INTERESTING TO THE LIVING. JUDGE BTOST. 1. " Bury me not, I pray thee" said the patriarch Jacob, " hury me not in Egypt : but I will lie with my fathers. And thou shalt carry me out of Egypt: hut I will lie with my fathers. And thou shalt carry me out of Egypt ; and bury me in their hurying-place." " There they buried Abraham, and Sarah his wife ; there they buried Isaac, and Rebecca his wife ; and there I buried Leah." 2. Such are the natural expressions of human feeling, as they fall from the lips of the dying Such are the reminiscences that forever crowd on the confines of the passes to the grave. We seek again to have our home there with our friends, and to be blest by a communion with them. It is a matter of instinct, not of reasoning. It is a spiritual impulse, which supersedes belief, and disdains question. 3. It is to the living mourner — to the parent, weeping over his dear dead child — to the husband, dwelling in his own solitary desolation — to the widow, whose heart is broken by untimely sorrow — to the friend, who misses at every turn the 214 SANDERS' UNION 8ERIES. presence of some kindred spirit, — it is to these that the repo/ji- tories of the dead bring home thoughts full of admonition, of instruction, and slowly, but surely, of consolation also. They admonish us, by their very silence, of our own frail, transitory being They instruct us in the true value of life, and in its noble purposes, its duties, and its dfc;,-ination. They spread around us, in the reminiscences of the past, sources of pleasing, though malancholy reflection. 4. I have spoken but of feelings and associations common to all ages, and all generations of men — to the rude and the polished — to the barbarian and the civilized — to the bond and the free — to the inhabitant of the dreary forests of the north, and the sultry regions of the south — to the worsh.'.per of the sun, and the worshiper of idols — to the heathen, dwelling in the darkness of his cold mythology, and to the Christian, rejoicing in the light of the true God. Everywhere we trace them, in the characteristic remains of the most distant ages and nations, and as far back as human history carries its traditionary out- I'.ies. They are found in the barrows, and cairns, and mounds jf olden times, reared by the uninstructed affection of savage tribes ; and everywhere the spots seem to have been selected with the same tender regard to the living and the dead ; that the magnificence of nature might administer comfort to human sorrow, and incite human sympathy. 5. If this tender regard for the dead be so absolutely uni- versal, and so deeply founded in human affection, why is it not made to exert a more profound influence on our lives ? Why do we not enlist it with more persuasive energy in the cause of human improvement ? Why do we not enlarge it as a source of religious consolation? Why do we not make it a more efl&cient instrument to elevate ambition, to stimulate genius, and to dignify learning ? Why do we not connect it indiasolubly with associations, which charm us in nature, and engross us in art ? Why do we not dispel from it that unlovely gloom, from which our hearts turn, as from a darkness that ensnares, and a horroi that appalls our thoughts ? 6 To many, nay, to most of the heathen, the burying-place RHETORICAL READER. 2l5 was tbe end of all things. They indulged no hope, at least, no solid hope, of any future intercourse or reunion with their friends. The farewell at the grave was a long, and an ever- lasting farewell. At the moment, when they breathed it, it brought to their hearts a startling sense of their own wretched- ness. Yet, ^hen the first tumults of anguish were passed, they visit-ed the spot, and strewed flowers, and garlands, and crowns aiound it, to assuage their grief, and nourish their piety. They delighted to make it the abode of the varying beauties of nature; to give it attractions, which should invite the busy and the thoughtful; and yet, at the same time, afford ample 8cope for the secret indulgence of sorrow. 7. Why should not Christians imitate such examples ? They have far nobler motives to cultivate moral sentiments and sen- sibilities; to make cheerful the pathways to the grave; to combine with deep meditations on human mortality the sublime consolations of religion. We know, indeed, as they did of old, that " man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets.'* But that home is not an everlasting home ; and the mourners may not weep, as those who are without hope. 8. What is the grave to us, but a thin barrier, dividing time from eternity, and earth from Heaven? What is it, but "the appointed place of rendezvous, where all the travelers on life'*i journey meet," for a single night of repose ? "'Tis but a night — a long and moonless night, We make the grave our bed, and then are gcnr ' Know we not, *♦ The time draws on When not a single spot of burial earth, Whether on land or in the spacious sea, But must give up its long-committed doit InTloUte ?'' !16 SANDEF> UNION SERIES EXERCISE LV. THE BELL AT GREENWOOD.* AETHUR acOBBELL, I. A mourir?rul office is thine, old Bell, To ring 'brth naught but the iust aad knell Of the coffined worm, as he passeth by, And thou seem'st to say, — " Ye all must die!** n. No joyful peal dost thou ever ring ; But ever and aye, as hither they bring The dead to sleep 'neath the greenwood tree, Thy sound is heard, pealing mournfully. in. No glad occasion dost thou proclaim ; Thy mournful tone is ever the same — The slow measured peal, that tells of woe, Such as hearts that feel it, may only know. IV. Hadst thou the power of speech, old Bell, Methinks strange stories thou'dst often tell; How some are brought here, with tear and moan, While others pass by, unmourned, alone; V. How strangers are hither brought to sleep, Whose home, perhaps, was beyond the deep ; Who, seeking our shores, come but to die, And here, in this hallowed spot, to lie ; * A. beautiful cemetery in Brooklyn, New York. EHETORICAL REA.DER. 217 Vl. flow a wife hath followed a husband's bier, — How a husband hath followed a wife most dear,— How brother and sister have come in turn, To shed their tears o'er a parent's urn j VII. How father and mother, in accents wild. Have bewailed the loss of a darling child ; How a friend o'er a friend hath shed the tear, As he laid him down to slumber here; VIII. How the victim of sorrow's ceaseless smart, Hath given up life with a willing heart, And thought of this spot with a smiling face, Glad, at last, to find him a resting-place IX. I wonder if thou dost ring, old Bell, For the rich man, a louder, longer knell, Than thou dost for the poor who enter here, Or the humble and unpretending bier ; X. And dost thou ring forth a peal less sad For the pure and the good, than for the bad ? Or dost thou toll the same knell for all — The rich and the poor, the great and the small I XI. Oh, a mournful office is thine, old Bell I To ring forth naught but the last sad knell Of the coffined worm, as he passeth by. And thou seem'st to say, — " Thus all must die!" 6 R 10 218 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. EXERCISE LVI. " CfiARLES Lamb," eaya an acute critic, "is one of the most admirable of those humoriats who form the peculiar feature of the literature, as the ideas they express, are the peculiar distinction of the character of the English people. He was born in 1775, and died in 1834; and forms a bright light in that intellectual galaxy of which Wordsworth is the center. He was essen- tially a Londoner: London life supplied him with his richest materials; and yet his mini was so imbued, so saturated with our older writers, that ae is original by the mere force of self- transformation into the spirit of the eldei literature : be was, in short, an old writer, who lived by accident a century or two after his real time. Wordsworth is peculiarly the poet of solitary rural nature; Lamb drew an inspiration as true, as delicate, as profound, from the city life in which he lived ; and from which he never was, for a moment, remoyed but with pain and a yearning to come back." NEW YEAR'S EVE. CHARLES LAMB. 1. Every man hath two hirthdays: two days, at least, in every year, which set him upon revolving the lapse of time, as it affects his mortal duration. The one is that which, in an especial manner, he termeth his. In the gradual desuetude of old observances, this custom of solemnizing our proper birthday, hath nearly passed away, or is left to children, who reflect nothing at all about the matter, nor understand anything in it beyond cake and orange. But the birth of a New Year is of an interest too wide to be pretermitted by king or cobbler. No one ever regarded the first of January with indifference. It is that from which all date their time, and count upon what is left. It is the nativity of our common Adam. 2. Of all sound of all bells — (bells, the music nighest border-., ing upon heaven) — most solemn and touching is the peal which rings out the Old Year. I never hear it without a gathering up of my mind to a concentration of all the images that have been diffused over the past twelvemonth ; all I have done or suffered, performed or neglected — in that regretted time. 1 begin to know its worth, as when a person dies. It takes a personal color; nor was it a poetical flight in a contemporary, when he sxclaimed, " / saw the skirts of the departing Year /*' RHETORICAL READER. 219 It is no more than what^ in sober sadness, every one ol* us seems to be conscious of, in that awful leave-taking. I am sure I felt it, and all felt it with me, last night ; though some of my com- panions affected rather to manifest an exhilaration at the birth of the coming year, than any very tender regrets for the decease of its predecessor. But I am none of those who — *' Welcome the coming, speed the parting guests \ am naturally, beforehand, shy of novelties; new books, new laces, new years, — from some mental twist which makes it diffi- cult in me to face the prospective. I have almost ceased to hope ] and am sanguine only in the prospects of other (former) years. I plunge into foregone visions and conclusions. I en- counter pell-mell with past disappointments. I am armor-proof against old discouragements. I forgive, or overcome in fancy, old adversaries. I play over again for love, as the gamester's phrase it, games for which I once paid so dear. I would scarce now have any of those untoward accidents and events of my life reversed. I would no more alter them than the incidents of some well contrived novel. 3. The elders, with whom I was brought up, were of a character not likely to let slip the sacred observance of any old institution j and the ringing out of the Old Year was kept by them with circumstances of peculiar ceremony. In those days the sound of those midnight chimes, though it seemed to raise hilarity in all around me, never failed to bring a train of pensive imagery into my fancy. Yet I then scarce conceived what it meant, or thought of it as a reckoning that concerned me. 4. Not childhood alone, but the young man till thirty, never feels practically that he is mortal. He knows it, indeed, and, if need were, he could preach a homily on the fragility of life ; but he brings it not home to himself, any more than, in a hot June, we can appropriate to our imagination the freezing days of December. But now, shall I confess a truth ? I feel these audits but too powerfully. I begin to count the probabilities of my duration, and to grudge at the expenditure of moments and shortest periods, like miser's farthings. In proportion as the 220 8ANDER8' UNIO>' SERIES years both lessen and shorten, I set more count uj an theit periods, and would fain lay my ineflFectual finger upon the spoke of the great wheel. EXERCISE LVII. Alfred Tennyson, author of the following spirited verses, was born about the year 1810. He has written some things so true to nature, so simple, so touchingly pathetic, — as " The May Queen," for example, — as to entitle him to the praise of a true poetic inspiration. His father was a clergyman in Lincolnshire, England. RING OUT THE OLD YEAR. nmasoa. I. Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light : The year is dying in the night j Ring out, wild bells, and let him die I II. Ring out the old, ring in the new. Ring, happy bells, across the snow : The year is going, let him go j Ring out the false, ring in the true I III. Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more j Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind I IV. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife ; Ring in the nobler modes of life. With sweeter manners, purer laws. V. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness af the times : Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. RHETORICAL READER. 22} VI. RiDg out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite ; Ring in the love of truth and right, Rin^ in the common love of good. VII. Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. VIII. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; Ring out the darkness of the land. Ring in the Christ that is to be EXERCISE LVIII. Robert Pjllok was born in Renfrewshire, Scotland, in the year 1799. He died near Southampton, in 1827, just after his entrance upon duty, as a minister in the Presbyterian Church. He was the author of several works both in prose and verse. That, however, which gave him his chief distinction, is his " Course of Time :" a work abounding in fine passages and noble senti- ments, but clouded to excess with gloomy reflection, often deficient in care and polish, and oftener still inflated in style and diction. Had he lived, however, time might have cured these defects, and brought out to the highest advan- ta^e, what doubtless he had, a rare combination of natural endowments PASSAGES FROM POLLOR FRIENDS. Much beautiful, and excellent, and fair Waa seen beneath the sun ; but naught was seen More beautiful or excellent, or fair Than face of faithful friend ; fairest when seen BANDERS' UNION SERIES. In darkest day. And many sounds were sweet, Most ravishing, and pleasant to the ear ; But sweeter none than voice of faithful friend ; Sweet always, sweetest heard in loudest storm. II. THE MISER. Of all God made upright, And in their nostrils breathed a living soul. Most fallen, most prone, most earthy, most debased. Of all that sold Eternity for Time, None bargained on so easy terms with death. Illustrious fool ! nay, most inhuman wretch 1 He sat among his bags, and with a look Which hell might be ashamed of, drove the poor Away unalmsed ; and midst abundance died — Sorest of evils ! died of utter want. III. FAME. Of all the phantoms fleeting in the mist Of Time, though meager all, and ghostly thin, Most unsubstantial, unessential shade, Was earthly Fame. She was a voice alone ; And dwelt upon the noisy tongues of men. She never thought ; but gabbled ever on ; Applauding most what least deserved applause ; The motive, the result, was naught to her : The deed alone, though dyed in human gore. And steeped in widows' tears, if it stood out To prominent display, she talked of much. And roared around it with a thousand tongues. As changed the wind her organ, so she changed Perpetually , and whom she praised to-day, Vexing his ear with acclamation loud. To-morrow blamed, and hissed him out of sight. RHETORICAL READER. 223 IV. FATE OF BYRON. Great man ! the nations gazed, and wondered much, An i praised : and many called his evil good. Wits wrote in favor of his wickedness : And kings to do him honor took delight Thus full of titles, flattery, honor, fame : Beyond desire, beyond ambition full. He died. He died of what? of wretchedness. Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump Of fame ; drank early, deeply drank, drank draughts That common millions might have quenched — then died Of thirst, because there was no more to drink. His goddess. Nature, wooed, embraced, enjoyed, Fell from his arms, abhorred j his passions died ; Died all, but dreary, solitary pride ; And all his sympathies in being died. V. THE WANT ABOVE ALL OTHER WANTS. I. There was another, large of understanding, Of memory infinite, of judgment deep ; Who knew all learning, and all science knew ; And all phenomena, in heaven and earth, Traced to their causes; traced the labyrinths Of thought, association, passion, will; And all the subtle nice affinities Of matter traced ; its virtues, motions, laws ; And most familiarly and deeply talked Of mental, moral, natural, divine. II. Leaving the earth at will, he soared to heaven, And read the glorious visions of the skies ; And to the music of the rolling spheres 224 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Intelligently listened ; and gazed far back In the awful depths of Deity ; Did all that mind assisted most could do ; And yet in misery lived, in misery died, Because he wanted holiness of heart. EXERCISE LIX. THE DEAD MOTHER. AHCR. Father. Touch not thy mother, boy. Thou canst not wake her. Child. Why, father ? She still wakens at this hour. F. Your mother's dead, my child. 0. And what is dead ? If she be dead, why, then, His only sleeping; For I am sure she sleeps. Come, mother, — rise : — Her "hand is very cold I F. Her heart is cold. Her limbs are bloodless ; would that mine were so I C. If she would waken, she would soon be warm. Why is she wrapped iu 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. G. Once^ when I sat upon her lap, I felt A beating at her side , and then she said RHETORICAL READER. 225 It was her heart that beat, and bade me feel For mj 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, 1 1 ly. C Nay, father, be not angry ; let me stay here Till my mother wakens. F. I have told you, Four mother cannot wake — not in this world; But in another she loill wake for us. When we have slept like her, then we shall see her. C. Would it were night then ! F. No, unhappy child j 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 j thou wilt soon forget That thou hadst natural ties, — an orphan, lone, Abandoned to the wiles of wicked men, And women still more wicked. C. Father, father, Why do you look so terribly upon me ? Tou will not hurt me 't F. Hurt thee, darling ? no I Has sorrow's violence so much of anger. That it should fright my boy ? Come, dearest, come. G. You are not angry, then ? F. Too well I love you, C. All you have said I can not 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 I father, that to-morrow were but come I J22(5 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. EXERCISE LX. Charles Gt. Eastman, an American poet and journalist, was born in Fryeburg, Maine, in the year 1816. He has been a large contributor to various periodicals, and his poems have gained him no small reputation. A DiRQE is a hymn for the dead, or a funeral song. The word ig most probably a contraction from Diriqe, which is the first word in the line Dirige, Domine Deus! [Direct us, Lord God!) which forms part rf an old Latin funeral service. DIRGE. OHARLKS O. lASniAS I. Softly! She is lying With her lips apart. Softly! She is dying Of a broken heart. II. Whisper ! She is going To her final rest. Whisper ! Life is growing Dim within her breast. III. Gently! She is sleeping; She has breathed her last. Gently ! While you are weeping, She to Heaven has passed I RHETORICAL READER. 227 EXERCISE LXI. Belshazzae is the name given in the Book of Daniel to the last king of the Chaldees, during whose reign Babylon was taken by the Medea and Persians. Out of the striking account of his impious feast, found fn tlie fifth chapter of that Book, Procter has made the following spirited piece. For a Note on Procter, better known as Barry Corn- wall, see Exercise XXXVIII. OVERTHROW OF BELSHAZZAR. BAKBT OORITWAU. I. Belshazzar is king ! lielshazzar is lord ! And a thousand dark nobles all bend at his board ; — Fruits glisten, flowers blossom, meats steam, and a flood Of the wine that man loveth, runs redder than blood : Wild dancers are there, and a riot of mirth. And the beauty that maddens the passions of earth ; And the crowds all shout, Till the vast roofs ring, — " All praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king !" II. ** Bring forth," cries the monarch, " the vessels of gold, Which my father tore down from the temples of old : Bring forth; and we'll drink, while the trumpets are blown, To the gods of bright silver, of gold, and of stone : Bring forth !" — and before him the vessels all shine. And he bows unto Baal, and he drinks the dark wine ; While the trumpets bray. And the cymbals ring, — " Praise, praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king i'* III. Now^ what cometh ? — look, look ! — Without menace, or call, Who writes, with the lightning's bright hand, on the wall ? What pierceth the king, like the point of a dart ? What drives the bold blood from his cheek to his heart? 228 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. " Chaldeans ! magicians ! the letters expound !" They are read ; — and Belshazzar is dead on the ground I Hark ! — the Persian is come, On a conqueror's wing ; And a Medo's on the throne of Belshazzar the king I EXERCISE LXIl. Oliver Wendell Holmes was born in Cambridge, Mass., August 29tl\, 1809. In 1832 he went to Europe to pursue the study of medicine, where he spent some years in attendance on the great hospitals. In 1838 he was appointed Professor of Anatomy and Physiology in Dartmouth College, and, in 1847, he was chosen to fill the same oflSce in the medical college of Harvard University. His chief distinction, however, is that of an author - bis productions, both in prose and poetry, having given him a very elevated rank in the world of letters. As a writer of songs and lyric poems, he has few superiors. His papers, first published in " The Atlantic Monthly" under the title — "The Actocrat op the Breakpast Table," furnish some very rare and racy reading: mingling, in pleasant proportions, wit, humor, pathos, fancy, fact, keen discernment, large information, and great felicity of style and diction. The following excerpts are from several of these papers. Excerpts (Ex, out, and Cekpt, plucked) are pieces /»ZMc^erf out of their proper places in an author's work, and presented separately ; extracts. EXCERPTS FROM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMU. I. I really believe some people save their bright thoughts as being too precious for conversation. What do you think an admiring friend said the other day to one that was talking good things, — good enough to print? " Why/' said he, "you are wasting merchantable literature, a cash article, at the rate, as nearly as I can tell, oi' fifty dollars an hour!" The talker took him to the window, and asked him to look out and tell him what he saw. " Nothing but a very dusty street," he said " and a xuao driving a sprinkling-machine through it." RHETORICAL READER. 229 "Why don't you tell the man he is wasting that water? What would be the state of the highways of life, if we did not drive owx thovyht-sprinklers through them with the valves open, sometimes V II. Besides, there is another thing about this talking, which you forget. It shapes our thoughts for us j — the waves of con- fyrsation roll them as the surf rolls the pebbles on the shore, fjet me iBodify the image a little. I rough out my thoughts in taJk^ aa ac artist models in day. Spoken language is so plastic, you can pat and coax, and spread and shave, and rub out, and fill up, and stick on, so easily, when you work that soft material, that there is nothing like it for modeling. Out of it come the shapes which you turn into marble or bronze in yourjmmortal books, if you happen to write such. Or, to use another illustra- tion, writing or printing is like shooting with a rifle ; you may hit your reader's mind or miss it, — but talking is like playing at a mark with the pipe of an engine ; if it is within reach, and you have time enough, you can't help hitting it. III. The company agreed that this last illustration was c " superior excellence, or, in the phrase used by them, " Fust rate." I acknowledged the compliment, but gently rebuked the expres- sion. ^^Fust rate" '■^ prime" " a prime article" " a superior piece of goods" "a handsome garment" "a gent in a flowered vest" — all such expressions are final. There is one other phrase which will soon come to be decisive of a man's social status* if it is not already : " That tells the whole story " It is an expression which vulgar and conceited people particularly affect, and which well-meaning ones, who know better, catch from them. It is intended to stop all debate, like the previous question in the General Court. Only it don't, simply because '' that" does not usually tell the whole, nor oda half of the whole story. * Sta^tuiy position. 23U SANDERS' UNION SERIES. IV. I think there is oue habit, — I said to our compaDy a day oi two afterwards, — worse than that of punning. It is the gradual substitution of cant or Jiash terms for words which characterize their object. 1 have known several very genteel idiots whose whole vocabulary had deliquesced into some half dozen expres- sions All things fell into one of two great categories, — fast or dew. Man's chief end was to be a brick. When the great calamities of life overtook their friends, these last were spoken of, as being a good deal cut up. Nine-tenths of human exist- ence were summed up in the single word, hore. These expres sions come to be algebraic symbols of minds which have grown too weak or indolent to discriminate. They are the blank checks of intellectual bankruptcy ; — you may fill them up with what idea you like ; it makes no difference ; for there are no funds in the treasury upon which they are drawn. The young fellow called John spoke up sharply and said it was ^^rum" to hear me ^^pitchin' into fellers" for ^^goin' it in the slang line" when /used all the flash words myself just when I pleased. I replied with my usual forbearance ! y. The business of conversation is a very serious matter. There are men that it weakens one to talk with an hour, more than a day's fasting would do. Mark this that I am going to say ; for it is as good as a working professional man's advice, and costs you nothing. There are men of esprit* who are excessively exhausting to some people. They are the talkers that have what may be called Jerk^ minds. Their thoughts do not run in the natural order of sequence. They say bright things on all possible subjects, but their zigzags rack you to death. After a jolting half hour with one of these jerky companions, talking with a lull companion affords great relief It is like taking the cat in your lap after holding the squirrel. * Esprit [is pre'], wit; genius. RHETORIOAL^EADER. 231 VI. Talk about conceit as much as you like ; it is to human char- •cter what salt is to the ocean ; it keeps it sweet, and renders it endurable. When one has had all his conceit taken out of him, when he has lost all his illusions, his feathers will soon soak through, and he will fly no more. But little-minded people's thoughts move in such small circles, that five minutes' conversation gives you an arc long enough to determine their whole curve. Even in common people, conceit has the virtue of making thim cheerful; the man who thinks his wife, his baby, his house, his horse, his dog, and himself severally unequaled, is almost sure to be a good-humored person, though liable to be tedious at times. VII. I will tell }'0u what I have found spoil more good talks than anything else; — long arguments on especial points between people who differ on the fundamental principles upon which these depend. No men can have satisfactory relations with each other until they have agreed on certain ultimata'^ of belief not to be dis- turbed in ordinary conversation, and, unless they have sense enough to trace the secondary questions depending on the ultimate beliefs to their source. VIII. Don't flitter yourselves that friendship authorizes you to say disagreeable things to your intimates. On the contrary, the nearer you come into relation with a person, the more necessary do tact and courtesy become. Except in cases of necessity, vhich are rare, leave your friend to learn unpleasant truths ^rom his enemies ; they are ready enough to tell them. Good- breeding never forgets that self-love is universal. When you ru were cut out by nature. Jul. You will find, then. That education, sir, has spoilt me for it. Why ! do you think I'll work ? Duke. I think 'twill happen, wife. Jul. What ! Rub and scrub Your noble palace clean ? Duke. Those taper fingers Will do it aamtily. Jul. And dress your victuals ? (If there be any). — ! I could go mad I ' Duke. And mend my hose, and darn my nightcaps neatly; Wait, like an echo, till you're spoken to — Jul. Or, like a clock, talk only once an hour? Duke. Or, like a dial; for that quietly Performs its work, and never speaks at all. Jul. To feed your poultry and your hogs ! — 0, monstr«'u8l And, when I stir abroad, on great occasions, Carry a squea}£:ing tithe-pig to the vicar ; Or jolt with higgler's wives the market trot, To sell your eggs and butter ! Duke. Excellent ! How well you sum the duties of a wife ! Why, what a blessing I shall have in you I Jul. A blessing ! Duke. When they talk of you and me. Darby and Joan shall no more be remembered j We shall be happy I Jul Shall we? Duke. Wondrous happy ! 0, you will make an admirable wife I 840 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Jul. I'll make a vixen I Duke. What? Jul. A very vixen ! Duke. 0, no ! We* 11 have no vixens. Jul. ril not bear it I I'll to my father's ! — Duke. Gently J you forget You are a perfect stranger to the road. Jul. My wrongs will find a way, or make one \ Duke. Softly! You stir not henoe, except to take the air ; And then I'll breathe it with you. Jul. What ! — confine me ? Duke. 'Twould be unsafe to trust you yet abroMl. Jul. Am I a truant schoolboy ? Duke. Nay, not so j But you must keep your bounds. Jul. And, if I break them, Perhaps, you'll beat me. Duke. Beat you ! The man that lays his hand upon a woman, Save in the way of kindness, is a wretch Whom 'twere gross flattery to name a coward. I'll talk to you, lady, but not heat you. Jul. Well, if I may not travel to my father, I may write to him, surely ! — And I will — If I can meet within your spacious dukedom, Three such unhoped-for miracles, at once, As pens, and ink, and paper. Duke. You will find them [n the next room. A word before you go. You are my wife, by every tie that's sacred ; The partner of my fortune and — Jul. Your fortune I Duke. Peace ! — No fooling, idle woman I Beneath the attesting eye of Heaven IVe sworn To love, to honor, cherish, and protect you. RHETOR/CAL READER. 241 No human power can part us. What remains, then ? To fret, and worry and torment each other, And give a keener edge to our hard fate, By sharp upbraidings, and perpetual jars ? — Or, like a loving and a patient pair (Waked from a dream of grandeur, to depend Upon their daily labor for support), To soothe the taste of fortune's lowliness With sweet consent, and mutual fond endearment? Now to your chamber, — write whate'cr you please ; But pause before you stain the spotless paper With words that may inflame, but cannot heal ! Jul. Why, what a patient worm you take me for I Duke. I took you for a wife ; and, ere I've done, I'll know you for a good one. Jul. You shall know me For a right woman, full of her own sex ; Who, when she suffers wrong, will speak her anger; Who feels her own prerogative, and scorns, By the proud reason of superior man. To be taught patience, when her swelling heart Cries out revenge ! [^ExU. Duke. Why, let the flood rage on ! There is no tide in woman's wildest passion But hath an ebb. — I've broke the ice, however. Write to her father ! — She may write a folio ; But, if she send it ! — 'Twill divert her spleen, The flow of ink may save her blood-letting. Perchance she may have fits ! — They are seldom mortal Save when the doctor's sent for. I'hough I have heard some husbands say, and wisely, A woman's honor is her safest guard, Yei there's some virtue in a lock and key. [^Locks the door So, thus begins our honey-moon. — 'Tis well ! For the first fortnight, ruder than March winds, She'll blow a hurricane. The next, perhaps, Like April, she may waar a changeful face 11 6R 24£ SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Of atorm and sunshine j and, when that is past, She will break glorious as unclouded Mayj And. where the thorns grew bare, the spreading blossoms Meet with no lagging frost to kill their sweetness. Whilst others, for a month's delirious joy, J^uy a dull age of penance, we, more wisely, Taste first the wholesome bitter of the cup, That after to the very lees shall relish ; And, to the close of this frail life, prolong The pure delights of a well-governed marriage. EXERCISE LXV. The story so charmingly told in the following lines of Tennyson, ici said to hare had a foundation in the actual history of an old English family. It presents a scene the exact opposite of that in the Exercise preceding ; seeing that here an humble, unaspiring spirit is suddenly surprised into social position and circumstances undesired and over- powering. For a Note on Tennyson, see Exercise LVIII. THE LORD OP BURLEIGH. I. lu her ear he whispers gayly, — " If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watched thee daily, And I think thou lov'st me well." She replies, in accents fainter, — " There is none I love like thee." He is but a landscape painter, And a village maiden she. He to lips, that fondly falter. Presses his, without reproof; Leads her to the village altar, And they leave her father's roof. RHETORTCAL READER. 21-. " I can make no marriage present ; Little can I give my wife ; Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life." n. They, by parks and lodges going, See the lordly castles stand ; Summer woods, about them blowing, Made a murmur in the land. From deep thought himself he rouses, Says to her that loves him well, — " Let us see these handsome houses, Where the wealthy nobles dwell/ So she goes, by him attended, Hears him lovingly converse. Sees whatever fair and splendid Lay betwixt his home and hers j Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and ordered gardens great; Ancient homes of lord and lady. Built for pleasure and for state. III. All he shows her makes him dearer; Evermore she seems to gaze On that cottage, growing nearer, Where they twain will spend their days. O, but she will love him truly ; He shall have a cheerful home; She will order all things duly, When beneath his roof they come Thus her heart rejoices greatly, Till a gateway she discerns. With armorial bearings stately. And beneath the gate she turns, — 244 BANDERS UNION SERIES. Sees a mansion more majestic Than all those she saw before ; Many a gallant, gay domestic Bows before him at the door. IV. And they speak in gentle murmur, When they answer to his call, While he treads with footstep firmer, Leading on from hall to hall. And, while now she wonders blindly. Nor the meaning can divine, Proudly turns he round, and kindly ,- " All of this is mine and thine." Here he lives in state and bounty, Lord of Burleigh, fair and freej Not a lord in all the county Is so great a lord as he. All at once the color flushes Her sweet face, from brow to chin : As it were with shame she blushes, And her spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over Pale again as death did prove ; But he clasped her like a lover. And he cheered her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Though at times her spirit sank ; Shaped her heart, with woman's meekness, To all duties of her rank : And a gentle consort made he, And her gentle mind was such, That she grew a noble lady, And the people loved her much. RHETORICAL READER. 245 VI. But a trouble weighed upon her, And perplexed her night and morn, With the burden of an honor Unto which she was not born Faint she grew, and ever fainter, As she murmured, — " 0, that he Were once more that landscape painter, Which did win my heart from me ! " So she drooped and drooped before him, Fading slowly from his side ; Three fair children first she bore him, Then, before her time, she died. VII. Weeping, weeping late and early. Walking up nnd pacing down, Deeply mourned the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh House, by Stamford town. And he came to look upon her, And he looked at her and said, — " Bring the dress, and put it on her. That she wore when she was wed." Then her people, softly treading. Bore to earth her body dressed In the dress that she was wed in, That her spirit might have rest. EXERCISE LXVl Jony CnnvsosTOM Mozart, the great German musical composer, was bcra in Saltzburg. January 27th, 1756, He died December 5th, 1791. Even in early youth he discovered wonderful musical talents, which were afterwards brought to the highest pitch of cultivation. His last and greatest composi- tion engaged his attention in the very day of his death, which took place under the following affecting circumstances. 246 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. KEQirruM signifies rest; the name being taken from the first word of an old Latin service for the repose of the dead. It is, therefore, ft hymn for the dead or in honor of the dead. LAST MOMENTS OP MOZART. 1. A few months before the death of the celebrated Mozart, a mysterious stranger brought him an anonymous* letter, in which his terms for a requiem were required. Mozart gave them Soon after the messenger returned, and paid a portion of the price in advance. To the composition of this requiem he gave the full strength of his powers. Failing to learn the name of him who had ordered it, his fancy soon began to connect something supernatural with the affair. The conviction seized him that he was composing a requiem for his own obsequies. While engaged in this work, and under this strange inspiration, he threw himself back, says his biographer, on his couch, faint and exhausted. His countenance was pale and emaciated; yet there was a strange fire in his eye, and the light of gratified joy on his brow that told of success. 2. His task was finished, and the melody, even to his ex- quisite sensibility, was perfect. It had occupied him for weeks ; and, though his form was wasted by disease, yet the spirit seemed to acquire more vigor, and already claim kindred to immortality ; for oft, as the sound of his own composition stole on his ear, it bore an unearthly sweetness that was to him too truly a warning of his future and fast coming doom. 3. Now it was finished, and, for the first time for many weeks, he sank into a quiet and refreshing slumber. A slight a):se in the apartment awoke him, when, turning towards a fair young girl who entered, — " Emilie, my daughter," said he, " come near to me — my task is over — the requiem is finished My requiem," he added, and a sigh escaped him. 4. " Oh ! say not so, my father," said the girl, interrupting him, as tears stood in her eyes, " you must be better, you look better, for even now your cheek has a glow upon it; do let mo * For an analysis of the word anonymous, see Sanders & McElligott's A.nalysis, p. 88. RHK'lORfCAL READER. 247 bring you something refreshing, and I am sure we will nurse you well again." 5. " Do not deceive yourself, my love," said he ; " this wasted form can never be restored by human aid. From Heaven's mercy alone can I hope for succor; and it will be granted, Emilie, in the time of my utmost need ; yes, in the hour of deatli, 1 will claim His help who is always ready to aid those who trust in Him ; and soon, very soon, must this mortal frame be laid in its quiet sleeping place, and this restless soul return to Him who gave it." 6. The dying father then raised himself on his couch ; — '' You spoke of refreshment, my daughter ; it can still be aflforded my fainting soy I. Take these notes, the last I shnll ever pen, and sit down to the instrument. Sing with them the hymn so beloved by your mother, and let me once more hear those tones which have been my delight since my earliest remembrance." Emilie did as she was desired ; and it seemed as if she sought a relief from her own thoughts ; for, after running over a few chords of the piano, she commenced, in the sweetest voice, the following lines : Spirit ! thy labor is o'er, Thy term of probation is run, Thy steps are now bound for the untrodden shore, And the race of immortals begun. Spirit ! look not on the strife Or the pleasures of earth with regret — Pause not on the threshold of limitless life, To mourn for the day that is set. Spirit ! no fetters can bind, No wicked have power to molest ,• There the weary, like thee — the wretched shall find, A Heaven — a mansion of rest. 248 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. IV. Spirit! how bright is the road, For which thou art now on the wing! Thy home it will be with thy Savior and God, Their loud halleluiahs to sing ! 7. As she concluded the last stanza, she dwelt for a few moments on the low, melancholy notes of the piece, and then waited in silence for the mild voice of her father's praise. He spoke not — and, with something like surprise, she turned towards him. He was laid back on the sofa, his face shaded in part by his hand, and his form reposing as if in slumber. Start- ing with fear, Emilie sprang towards him and seized his hand ; but the touch paralyzed her, fbr she sank senseless by his side. He was (jone ! With the sound of the sweetest melody ever composed by human thought, his soul had winged its flight to regions of eternal bliss. EXERCISE LXVII. fiORATivs BoNAR, D. D., 18 a distinguished clergyman of the Scottisn Church. The beautiful lines below form one of his " Hymns of Faith and Hope;" which, to use his own words, "are not the expressions of one man's or one party's faith and hope ; but are meant to speak what may be thought and spoken by all to whom the Church's ancient faith and hope are dear." OUR ONE LIFE. I. 'Ti£ not for man to trifle ! Life is brief, And sin is here. Our age is but the falling of a leaf, A dropping tear. We have no time to sport away the hours, All must be earnest in a world like ours. aORATICS BOIf Am. RHETORICAL READER. 240 Not many lives, but only one have we, — One, only one ; — How sacred should that one life ever be — That narrow span ! — Day after day filled up with blessed toil, Hour after hour still bringing in new spoil. III. Our being is no shadow of thin air, No vacant dream, No fable of the things that never were, But only seem. 'Tis full of meaning as of mystery, Though strange and solemn may that meaning be. IV. Our sorrows are no phantom of the night, No idle tale ; No cloud that floats along a sky of light, On summer gale. They are the true realities of earth. Friends and companions even from our birth. V. O life helow- -how brief, and poor, and sad I One heavy sigh. O life above — how long, how fair, and glad, — An endless joy. Oh, to be done with daily dying here ; Oh, to begin the living in yon sphere ! VI. U day of time, how dark ! sky and earth, How dull your hue ; O day of Christ — how bright ! sky and earth, Made fair and new ! Come, better Eden, with thy fresher green ; Come, brighter Salem, gladden all the scene ! 11* R ^50 SAWDERS' UNION SERIES. EXERCISE LXVIII. Nathaniel Hawthorne was born in Salem, Massachusetts, July 4th, 1S04 After quitting college, in 1825, ho resided many years in Salem : leading a life solitary and meditative, though diversified by the composition of occa- sional tales and sketches of a wild and romantic character. Some of these he published in newspapers and magazines ; many he destroyed. In 1837 he published a number of his papers which had before appeared in an annual called "The Token," and which, for that reason, he called " Twice- Tuld Tales." In 184.3 he was married, and went to reside "in the old manse at Concord, which adjoins the battle-field of the Revolution, a parsonage which had nevor before been profaned by a lay occupant." This explains the title of his volume of tales and sketches which appeared, in 1846, under the name of *' Afoenes from an Old Manne." Mr. Hawthorne is, also, the author of several other works, and is conceded to be a writer of exquisite grace and finish J abounding in kindly humor and ever exercising the healthiest moral influence. The following extract is from the " Twice-Told Tales." A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. HAWTHORNE. 1. At this sultry noontide, I am cupbearer to the parched populace, for whose benefit an iron goblet is chained to my waist. Like a dram-seller on the mall, at muster day, I cry aloud to all and sundry, in my plainest accents, and at the very tiptop of my voice. Here it is, gentlemen ! Here is the good liquor I Walk up, walk up, gentlemen, walk up, walk up ! Here is the superior stuff ! Here is the unadulterated ale of father Adam — better than Cognac, Hollands, Jamaica, strong beer, or wine of any price ; here it is by the hogshead or the single glass, and not a cent to pay ! Walk up, gentlemen, walk up, and help yourselves ! It were a pity, if all this outcry should draw no customers. Here they come. A hot day, gen tlemen ! Quaff, and away again, so as to keep yourselves in a aice, cool sweat. 2. W^elcome, most rubicund sir ! You and I have been great strangers hitherto; nor, to confess the truth, will my nose be anxious for a closer intimacy, till th^ fumes of your breath be a little less potent. Mercy on you, man ! the water absolutely hisses down ! Fill again, and tell me, on the word of an honest Doper, did you e/er, in cellar, tavern, or any kind of a dram-shop, spend the price of your children's food, for a swig half so deli- rious ? Now, for the first time these ten years, you know the RHETORICAL READER. 251 flavor of cold water. Good-by ; and, whenever you are thirsty, remember that I keep a constant supply, at the old stand. 3. Who next? Oh, my little friend, you are let loose from school, and come hither to scrub your blooming face, and drown the memory of certain taps of the ferule, and other schoolboy troubles, in a draught from the Town Pump. Take it, pure as the current of your young life. Take it, and may your heart and tongue never be scorched with a fiercer thirst than now . There, my dear child, put down the cup, and yield your place io this elderly gentleman, who treads so tenderly over the paving- stones, that I suspect he is afraid of breaking them. 4. What ! he limps by, without so much as thanking rae, as if my hospitable offers were meant only for people who have no wine cellars. Well, well, sir — no harm done, I hope ! Gro, draw the cork, tip the decanter; but, when your gieat toe shall set you a-roaring, it will be no affair of mine. This thirsty dog, with his red tongue lolling out, does not scorn my hospitality, but stands on his hind logs, and laps eagerly out of the trough. See how lightly he capers away again ! Jowler, did your wor- ship ever have the gout ? Are you all satisfied ? Then wipe your mouths, my good friends; and, while my spout has a moment's leisure, I will delight the town with a few historical reminiscences 5. In far antiquity, beneath a darksome shadow of venerable boughs, a spring bubbled out of the leaf-strewn earth, in the very spot where you now behold me, on the sunry pavement. But, in the course of time, a Town Pump was sunk into the source of the ancient spring ; and, when the first decayed, another took its place — and then another, and still another — till hero stand I, gentlemen and ladies, to serve you with my iron goblet. Drink, and be refreshed ! The water is pure and 3old as that which slaked the thirst of the red sagamore, beneath the aged boughs, though now the gem of the wilderness is treasured under these hot stones, where no shadow falls, but from the biick buildings. And be it the moral of my story, that, as this wasted and long-lost fountain is now known and prized again, so shall the virtues of cold water, too Httle valued since your father's days, be recognized by all. 252 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. 6. Your pardon, good people ! T must interrupt my stream of eloquence, and spout forth a stream of water, ti replenish the trough for this teamster and his two yoke of oxen, who have come from Topsfield, or somewhere along that way No part of my business is pleasanter than the watering of cattle. Look I how rapidly they lower the watermark on the sides of the trough till their capacious stomachs are moistened with a gallon or two apiece, and they can afford time to breathe it in, with ?ighs of calm enjoyment. Now they roll their quiet eyes around ihe briin of their monstrous drinking vessel. An ox is your true toper. 7. But I perceive, my dear auditors, that you are impatient for the remainder of my discourse. Impute it, I beseech you, to no defect of modesty, if I insist a little longer on so fruitful a topic as my own multifarious merits. It is altogether for your good. The better you think of me, the better men and women will you find yourselves. I shall say nothing of my all- important aid on washing days ; though, on that account alone, I might call myself the household god of a hundred families. Far be it from me, also, to hint, my respectable friends, at the show of dirty faces, which you would present, without my pains to keep you clean. 8. Nor will I remind you how often, when the midnight bells make you tremble for your combustible town, you have fled to the Town Pump, and found me always at my post, firm, amid the confusion, and ready to drain my vital current in your behalf. Neither is it worth while to lay much stress on my claims to a medical diploma, as the physician, whose simple rule of practice is preferable to all the nauseous lore which has found men sick or left them so, since the days of Hippocrates.* Let us take a broader view of my beneficial influence on mankind. 9. No; these are trifles, compared with the merits which wiso men concede to me — if not in my single self, yet as the repre- sentative of a class — of beiiig the grand reformer of the age. From my spout, and such spouts as mine, must flow the stream, * Hip poc' rat es, a famous Grecian physician. RHETORICAL READER. 253 that shall cleanse our earth of the vast portion of its crime and anguish, which has gushed from the fiery fountains of the still. In this mighty enterprise, the cow shall be my great confederate. Milk and water ! The Town Pump and the Cow ! Such is the glorious copartnership, that shall tear down the distilleries and brewhouses, uproot the vineyards, shatter the cider-presses, ruin the tea and coffee trade, and, finally, monopolize the whole busi- ness of quenching thirst. Blessed consummation ! 10. Ahem! Dry work, this speechifying; especially to an unpraeticed orator. I never conceived, till now, whnt toil the temperance lecturers undergo for my sake. Hereafter, they shall have the business to themselves. Do, some kind Christian, pump a stroke or two, just to wet my whistle. Thank you, sir ! My dear hearers, when the world shall have been regenerated, by my instrumentality, you will collect your useless vats and liquor casks into one great pile, and make a bonfire, in honor of the Town Pump, And, when I shall have decayed, like my predecessors, then, if you revere my memorj'^, let a marble foun- tain, richly sculptured, take my place upon the spot. EXERCISE LXIX. A Sonnet, as a general rule, is a poem consisting of fourteen lines forming two stanzas of four lines each, followed by two more of three lines each. In the first two stanzas, called quatrains, the 1st and the 4th, the 5th and the 8th lines rhyme together ; while in the last two, called tercets, the rhymes are made at the pleasure of the poet, but never in couplets. This is held to be the rule, thtugh deviations from it are not wanting even among the best writers, >\«s have, in English, many admirable sonnets, among which those of Milton and Wordsworth hold pre-eminent rank. Of the latter it has been well remarked that "whether the prevailing emotion be patriotic enthusiasm, religious fervor, or the tenderer influences of beautiful scenery, historic spots a>' national interest, or the impressions of art. he never fails to give that unity of feeling, that gradual swell of gentle harmony — rising, like a summer wave, till it softly breaks into melody in the last line — which is the peculiar charm and merit of this most difficult kind of compo sition 254 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. SONNETS. A SONNET upon SONNETS. W0RD8WOBTH.* Scorn not the Sonnet, critic ! you have frowned, Mindless of its just honors : with this key Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; A. thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound j CamoSns soothed with it an exile's grief: The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle-leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante bound His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp, It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew Soul-animating strains — alas ! too few. ON HIS OWN BLINDNESS. When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide. Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He, returning, chide ; " Doth God exact day labor, light denied V I fondly ask ; but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, — " God doth not need Either man's work, or His own gifts ; who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best ; His state Is kingly ; thousands at His bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; They, also, serve who only stand and wait." * For a sketch of Wordsworth, see Exercise CVIII. t See Exercise CXXXVII. RHETORICAL READER. 255 III. TO MILTON. WORI 8W0RTH Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour ; England hath need of thee ; she is a fen Of stagnant waters ; altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men j Oh ! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart ; Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea ; Pure as the naked heavens — majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. IV. TO SLEEP. WOBBSWOKTH A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by, One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds, and seas, Smooth fields; white sheets of water, and pure sky; I thought of all by turns, and yet I lie Sleepless ! and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees, And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay And could not win thee, Sleep ! by any stealth; So do not let me wear to-night away. Without thee, what is all the morning's wealth ! Come, blessed barrier between day and day. Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health 256 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. V. THE moon's mild RAY. JOHN B BRTASt.* There is a magic in the moon's mild ray, — What time she softly climbs the evening sky, And sitteth with the silent stars on high, — That charms the pang of earth-born grief away. I raise my eye to the blue depths above, And worship Him whose power, pervading spac'e, Holds those bright orbs at peace in His embrace, Yet comprehends earth's lowliest things in love. Oft, when that silent moon was sailing high, I've left my youthful sports to gaze, and now. When time with graver lines has marked my brow, Sweetly she shines upon my sobered eye. 0, may the light of truth, my steps to guide, Shine on my eve of life — shine soft, and long abide. VI. ON THE PRIMROSE. JORir oi.Aiti.-t Welcome, pale primrose ! starting up between Dead matted leaves of ash and oak that strew The every lawn, the wood, and spinney through. Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green; How much thy presence beautifies the ground I How sweet thy modest, unaffected pride Glows on the sunny bank and woods' warm side ! And, where thy fairy flowers in groups are found, The school-boy roams enchantedly along, Plucking the fairest with a rude delight ; While the meek shepherd stops his simple song. To gaze a moment on the pleasing sight ; * Brother of William Cullen Bryant, and born in July 1807. f John Clare, an English poet, born in 1793. His personal history is interesting, as showing what industry and perseverance, even in early youth, and under the heaviest embarrassments, can achieve. RHETORT'^AL READER. 257 O'erjoyed to see the flowers that truly biing The welcome news of sweet returning spring. VII. ON SABBATH MORN. JOHN LBTDEH.* With silent awe I hail the sacred morn, That scarcely wakes while all the fields are still ; A soothing calm on every breeze is borne, A graver murmur echoes from the hill. And softer sings the linnet from the thorn ; The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill. Hail, light serene ! hail, sacred Sabbath morn ! The sky a placid yellow luster throws ; The gales that lately sighed along the grove Have hushed their drowsy wings in dead repose ; The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move : So soft the day when the first morn arose I VIII. ON SHAKSPEARE. HARTLEY COLERIDeB.t The soul of man is larger than the sky. Deeper than ocean — or the abysmal dark Of the unfathomed center. Like that ark, Which, in its sacred hold, uplifted high, O'er the drowned hills, the human family, And stock reserved of every living kind, So, in the compass of the single mind. The seeds and pregnant forms in essence lie, That make all worlds. G-reat poet, 'twas thy art To know thyself, and in thyself to be Whate'er Love, Hate, Ambition, Destiny, Or the firm, fatal purpose of the heart Can make of man. Yet thou wert still the same, Serene of thought, unhurt by thy own flame. * Born in Denholm, Scotland, in 1775, and died in 1811. f Soy of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, born in 1796, and died in 1849 R 258 ' SANDERS' UNION SERIES. IX. ON BEAUTY. SHAKSPXIOIK 0, Low much more doth beauty beauteous seem, By that sweet ornament which truth doth give I The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odor which doth in it live. The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye, As the perfumed tincture of the roses. Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds discloses ; But, for their virtue only is their show. They live unwooed and unrespected fade ; Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so ; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made ; And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth. When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth. DWELLINGS OF THE DEAD. BLACKWOOD'S HAaAZIlll. A sweet and soothing influence breathes around The dwellings of the dead. Here on this spot, Where countless generations sleep forgot. Up from the marble tomb and grassy mound There cometh on mj ear a peaceful sound. That bids me be contented with my lot. And suffer calmly. ! when passions hot. When rage or envy doth my bosom wound ; Or wild designs — a fair deceiving train — Wreathed in their flowery fetters me enslave , Or keen misfortune's arrowy tempests roll Full on my naked head, — 0, then, again May these still, peaceful accents of the grave Arise like slumbering music on my soul! RHETORICAL READER. , 259 EXERCISE LXX. Marcus Tullitjs Cicero, the great Roman orator, statesman aad philoso' pher, was born at Arpinum, January 3d, 106 before Christ. He was slain, in the 64th year of his age, by the hand of an assassin whom he had once suc- cessfully defended. This was done at the instigation of Mark Antony, whom he had bitterly assailed in fourteen scorching invectives j from one of whi:b we select the following. CICERO AGAINST MARK ANTONY. {Translated by) lORD brougham.* 1. This one day — this blessed individual day — I say, this very point of time in which I am speaking — defend it, if you can ! Why is the Forum iiedged in with armed troops ? Why stand your satellites listening to me sword in hand ? Why are the gates of the Temple of Peace not flung open ? Why have you marched into the town, men of all nations, — but chiefly barbarous nations, — savages from Ituraea, armed thus with slings ? 2. You pretend that it is all to protect your person. Is it not better far to die a thousand deaths, than be unable to live in one's own country without guards of armed men ? But trust me, there is no safety in defenses Hke these. We must be fenced round by the affections and the good-will of our country- men, not by their arms, if we would be secure. 3. Look back, then, Mark Antony, on that day when you abolished the Dictatorship ; set before your eyes the delight of the Senate and People of Rome ; contrast it with the traflic you and your followers are now engaged in — then you will be sensible of the vast difference between glory and gain. Yet, as some stricken with a morbid affection, an obtuseness of the senses, are unable to taste the flavor of their food, so profligate, rapa- cious, desperate men, lose the relish of true fame. 4. But, if the glory of great actions has no charms for yo'i, cannot even /ear deter you from wicked deeds? You have no apprehension of criminal prosecutions — be it so; if this arises * For a sketch of Brougham, see Exercise XXXIX. 260 . SANDERS' UNION SERIES. from conscious innocence, I commend it; but, if it proceeds from your reliance upon mere force^ do you not perceive what it is that awaits him who has thus overcome the terrors of the law ? 5. But, if you have no dread of brave men and patriotic citizens, because your person is protected from them by your satellites, believe me your own partisans will not bear with you much longer ; and what kind of life is his whose days and niglits are distracted with the fear of his own followers ? Unless, indeed, you have bound them to you by greater obligations than those by which Caesar had attached some of the very men who put him to death ; or that you can, in any one respect, be com- pared to him. 6. In Mm there was genius, judgment, memory, learning, circumspection, reflection, application. His exploits in war, how mischievous soever to his country, were yet transcendent. Bent for years upon obtaining supreme power, he had accomplished his object with vast labor, through countless perils. By his munificence, by public works, by largesses, by hospitality, he had won over the thoughtless multitude ; he had attached his followers by his generosity, his adversaries by his specious clemency. In a word, he had introduced into a free state, partly through fear of him, partly through tolerance of him, a famil- iarity with slavery. 7. With that great man I may compare you as regards the lust of power : in no other thing can you be, in any manner or way, likened to him. But out of a thousand ills which he forced into the constitution of our commonwealth, this one good has come, that the Roman people have now learned how far each person is to be trusted, to whom they may commit thecaselves, against whom they must be on their guard. Do these thicga never pass through your mind ? Do you not comprehend that it suffices for brave men to have learned how beautiful the deed, how precious the service, how glorious the fame of extirpating a tyrant ? When mankind could not endure Cceaar, will they hear thee ? Henceforward, trust me, they will flock emulously to tbis work, nor wait for the lingering opportunity, 8 Regard the commonwealth for a moment, Mark Antony, T do RHETORICAL READER. 261 beseech you. Think of the race you are sprung from, not the generation you live with. Be on what terms you please with me; but return into favor with your country. That, however, is your own affair — I will declare mi/ course. Young, I stood by the country — old, I will not desert her. I defied the arms of Catiline- -I will not tremble at yours ! Nay, I should cheerfully fling myself into the gulf, if my death would restore the public freedom, and the sufferings of the Roman people could thus be exasperated at once to the crisis which has been so long comiog on ! 9. For truly, if it is well nigh twenty years since I denied, in this very temple, that death ever could come before its time to a man of consular rank, how much more truly may I say so now, in my old age ? To me, Senators, death is even desirable, having lived to finish all I have undertaken to achieve. For two things only I feel anxious ; the one, that my eyes may close upon the liberties of Rome — a greater boon than this Heaven has not to bestow; the other, that that fate may befall every one. which his conduct to his country has earned. EXERCISE LXXl. RICHARD THE THIRD AND MACBETH. WaUAM HABUTT.* 1. The leading features in the character of Macbeth are striking enough, and they form what may be thought, at first, only a bold, rude, Gothic outline. By comparing it with other characters of the same author, we shall perceive the absolute truth and identity which is observed in the midst of the giddy whirl and rapid career of events. Thus he is as distinct a being from Richard the Third, as it is possible to imagine, though these two characters, in common hands, and, indeed, in the * See Note on Hazlitt, Exercise XXIX. 262 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. hand of auy other poet, would have been a repetition of the same general idea, more or less exaggerated. 2. For both are tyrants, usurpers, murderers, — both aspiring and ambitious, — both courageous, cruel, treacherous. But Richard is cruel from nature and constitution. Macbeth be- comes so from accidental circumstances. Richard is, from his birth, deformed in body and mind, and naturally incapable of good. Macb-^th is full of " the milk of human kindness," is rank, sociable, generous. He is tempted to the commission of guilt by golden opportunities, by the instigations of his wife, and by prophetic warnings. '^ Fate and metaphysical aid" con- spire against his virtue and his loyalty, 3. Richard, on the contrary, needs no prompter; but wades through a series of crimes to the hight of his ambition, from the ungovernable violence of his temper, and a reckless love of mischief. He is never gay but in the prospect or in the success of his villainies : Macbeth is full of horror at the thoughts of the murder of Duncan, which he is with diflBculty prevailed on to commit ; and of remorse after its perpetration. . Richard has no mixture of common humanity in his composition, no regard to kindred or posterity — he owns no fellowship with others ; he is " himself alone." 4. Macbeth is not destitute of feelings of sympathy, is accessi- ble to pity, is even made, in some measure, the dupe of hi? uxoriousness J ranks the loss of friends, of the cordial love of his followers, and of his good name, among the causes which have made him weary of life; and regrets that he has cvei seized the crown by unjust means, since he cannot transmit it to his posterity. There are other decisive differences inherent in the two characters. 5. Richard may be regarded as a man of the world, a plotting hardened knave, wholly regardless of everything but his own ends, and the means to secure them — not so Macbetl. The superstitions of the age, the rude state of society, the local scenery and customs, all give a wildness and imaginary grandeur to his character. From the strangeness of the events that sur- round him, he is full of amazement and fear; and stands in RHETORICAL READER. 26S doubt between ti e world of reality and the world of fancy. He sees sights not shown to mortal eye, and hears unearthly music. 6. All is tumult and disorder within and without his mindj his purposes recoil upon himself, are broken and disjointed; he is the double thrall of his passions and his destiny. Richard is not a character of either imagination or pathos, but of pure self-will. 7. There is no conflict of opposite feelings in his breast, [n the busy turbulence of his projects, he never loses his self- possession, and makes use of every circumstance that happens, as an instrument of his long-reaching designs. In his last ex- tremity, we regard him but as a wild beast in the toils. But we never entirely lose our concern for Macbeth j and he calls back all our sympathy by that fine close of thoughtful melancholy. EXERCISE LXXII. The story on which is founded the play of Macbeth is told by Holin- shfid, an old English chronicler, who died about the year 1580. Dun- can, king of Scotland, in reward for meritorious services, had determined to make Macbeth, one of his generals, thane of Cawdor: the previous incumbent having proved a traitor. Meantime, Macbeth had been told by three witches, that he should be made, not only thane of Cawdor, but king of Scotland. From that moment he began to meditate the death of the king, so as to realize that part of the prophecy which j>ointed to the possession of the crown. In this, his wife proves his evil minister ; and soon, in pursuance of their foul purpose, Duncan is murdered, while a guest and asleep in Macbeth's castle. The scenea below powerfully portray the workings of guilty ambition. SCENE FROM MACBETH. Enter Macbeth. Mach. If it were done, when 'tis done, then ^twere well It were done quickly : if the assassination Could trammel up the consequence, and catch, Witli his surcea,«ie, success; that but this blow 264 SANDERS UNION SERIES. Might be the be-all and the end-all here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, — We'd jump the life to come. But, in these cases, We still have judgment here; that we but teach Bloody instructions, which being taught, return To plague the inventor : this even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice To our own lips. He's here in double trust ; First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, Strong both against the deed : then, as his host, Who should against his murderer shut the door, Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been 80 clear in his great office, that his virtues Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against The deep damnation of his taking-off: And pity, hke a naked new-born babe, Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur To goad the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself, And falls on the other. — How now, what news 'i Enter Lady Macbeth. Lady M. He has almost supped. Why have you left the chamber ? Mach. Hath he asked for me ? Lady M. Know you not, he has ? Mach. We will proceed no further in this business : He hath honored me of late ; and I have bought Groldea opinions from all sorts of people. Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, Not cast aside so soon. Lady M. Was the hope drunk. Wherein you dressed yourself? hath it slept since? RHETORICAL READER 265 And wakes it now, to look so green and pale At what it did so freely ? From this time, Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valor. As thou art in desire ? Would'st thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward, in thine own esteem; fiCtting / dare not wait upon / would, Fiiko the poor cat i' the adage ? Macb. Pr'ythee, peace : I dare do all that may become a man ; Who dares do more, is none. Ladi/ M. What beast was it then, That made you break this enterprise to me ? When you durst do it, then you were a man ; And, to be more than what you were, you would Be so much more the man. Nor time, nor place, Did then adhere, and yet you would make both : They have made themselves, and that their fitness now Does unmake you. Macb. If we should fail, Lady M. We fail I But screw your courage to the sticking place. And we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep, (Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey Soundly invite him,) his two chamberlains Will I, with wine and wassail, so convince. That memory, the warder of the brain. Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason A limbeck* only: When in swinish sleep, Their drenched natures lie, as in a death. What can not you and I perform upon The unguarded Duncan ? what not put upon His spongy officers j who shall bear the guilt Of our great quell ^ f * Alembic, a still. f Murder 12 6 R t&S^ SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Macb. Will it not be received, When we haye marked with blood those sleepy two Of his own chamber, and used their very daggers, That they have done it ? Lady M. Who dares receive it other, As we shall make our griefs and clamor roar Upon his death? Macb. T am settled, and bend up Kach corporal agent to this terrible feat. Away, and mock the time with fairest show : 1 alse face must hide what the false heart doth know. [^Exeunt. Court within the Castle. Enter Macbeth and a Servant with a torch. Macb. Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. [Exit Set v. Is this a dagger, which I see before me, The handle toward my hand ? Come, let me clutch thee : I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling, as to sight ? or art thou but A dagger of the mind j a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Thou marshal' st me the way that I was going j And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools of the other senses, Or else worth all the rest : I see thee still j And on thy blade, and dudgeon, gouts of blood. Which was not so before. — There's no such thing : It is the bloody business which informs Thus to mine eyes. — Thou sure and firm set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my where-about, And take the present horror from the time, RHETORICAL READER. 267 Which LOW suits with it. — Whiles I threat, he lives ; Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. [J. bell rings. I go, and it is done ; the bell invites me ; Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a knell That summons thee to Heaven, or to Hell. EXERCISE LXXIII. The merciless monarch whose character is portrayed in the play ot Richard III., was born in the year 1452. The story of the savage means by which he reached the throne is one of the blackest in all history. In the scene below he appears just after waking out of a frightful dream. In that dream had appeared to him severally the ghosts of all those whom he had murdered. Each, in terrible terms, announces the doom that awaited him on the following day ; on which (August 22d, 1485) he was slain in the celebrated battle of Boswortb Field. SCENE FROM RICHARD III. SHAKSPEASa. King Richard starting out of his dream. Rich. Grive me another horse, — bind up my wounds, — Have mercy. Heaven ! — Soft j I did but dream. coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me ! The lights burn blue. — It is now dead midnight. Cold, fearful drops stand on my trembhng flesh. What do I fear f Myself? There's none else by : Richard loves Richard ; that is, / am Z Is there a murderer here ? No ; — Yes ; I am. Then fly. — What, from myself? Great reason I Why ? Lest I revenge. What? Myself on myself? 1 love myself. Wherefore ? For any good That I myself have done unto myself? 0, no : alas, I rather hate myself, For hateful deeds committed by myself! I am a villain ; yet I lie, — I am not. Fool, of thyself speak well : — Fool, do not flatter. 268 SANDERS- UNION SERIES. My conscience liath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury in the high'st degree, Murder, stern murder, in the dir'st degree, All several sins, all used in each degree. Throng to the bar, crying all — Guilty ! Guilty I I shall despair. — There is no creature loves me j Anc, if 1 die, no soul w\\\ pity me: Nay, wherefore should they ? since that I myself Find in myself no pity to myself. Methought the souls of all that I had murdered, Came to my tent j and every one did threat To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard. EXERCISE LXXIV. RICHARD OF GLOSTER. JOHN S. 8AXB.* I. Perhaps, my dear boy, you may never have heard Of that wicked old monarch, Kino Richard the Thirj>, — Whose actions were often extremely absurd; And who led such a sad life, Such a wanton and mad life ; Indeed, I may say, such a wretchedly bad life, I suppose I am perfectly safe in declaring, There was ne'er such a monster of infamous daring j In all sorts of crime he was wholly unsparing ; In pride and ambition was quite beyond bearing, And had a bad habit of cursing and swearing. * See Note on Exercise IX. i a^ETORICAL READER. 269 II. And yet Richard's tongue was remarkably smooth • Could utter a lie quite as easy as truth ; (Another bad habit he got in his youth ;) And had, on occasion, a powerful battery Of plausible phrases and eloquent flattery, Which gave him, my boy, in that barbai-ous day, (Things are different now, I am happy to say,) V)ver feminine hearts a most perilous sway. III. He murdered their brothers, And fathers and mothers, And, worse than all that, he slaughtered by dozens His own royal uncles and nephews and cousins; And then, in the cunningest sort of orations, In smooth conversations. And flattering ovations. Made love to their principal female relations I 'Twas very improper, my boy, you must know, For the son of a king to behave himself so ; And you'll scarcely believe what the chronicles show Of his wonderful wooings And infamous doings; But here's an exploit that he certainly did do — Killed his own cousin Ned, As he slept in his bed, And married next day the disconsolate widow I IV. 1 don't understand how such ogres arise. But beginning, perhaps, with things little in size, Such as torturing beetles and blue-bottle flies, Or scattering snuff in a poodle-dog's eyes, — King Richard had grown so wantonly cruel, He minded a murder no more than a duel; 270 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. He'd indulge, on the slightest pretense or occasion, In his favorite amusement of decapitation, Until " Off with his head!" It is credibly said, From his majesty's mouth came as easy and pat — As from an old constable, " Off with his hat /" V. And now King Richard has gone to bed ; But e'en in his sleep He can not keep The past or the future out of his head. In his deep remorse. Each mangled corse, Of all he had slain, — or, what was worse. Their ghosts. — came up in terrible force. And greeted his ear with unpleasant discourse, Until, with a scream He woke from his dream. And shouted aloud for " another horse I" VI. But see I the murky Night is gone ! The Morn is up, and the Fight is on ! The Knights are engaging, the warfare is waging; On the right — on the left — the battle is raging ; King Richard is down ! Will he save his crown ? There's a crack in it now ! — he's beginning to bleed * Aha ! King Richard has lost his steed I (At a moment like this 'tis a terrible need t^ He shouts aloud with thundering force, And offers a veri/ high price for a horse. But it's all in vain — the battle is done — The day is lost ! — and the day is won ! — And Richmond is King ! and Richard's a corte I RHETORICAL READER. 271 EXERCISE LXXV Archibald Alison, the distinguished Scotch advocate and historian, i^as born at Kenley in 1792. He has published several able works on Law, but is best known by his " History of Europe from the Commencement of the French Revolution t« the Battle of Waterloo." He has been for many years, also, a large contributor to Blackwood's and other Magazines, and a selection from these papers has been published under the title of " Essai/a." His style is singularly animated and interesting. Franjois ArGUSTE, VicoMTE DB CHATEAUBRIAND, a French author and statesman, was born at St. Malo, in the year 1768, He died in Paris in 1848. Sir Walter Scott, the celebrated Scottish poet and novelist, was born in Kdinburgh, August 15th, 1771, and died at Abbotsford, September 21st, 1832. He was made a baronet in 1820. CHATEAUBRIAND AND SIR WALTER SCOTT. ALISON. 1. Though pursuing the same pure and ennobling career, though gifted with the same ardent imagination, and steeped in the same fountains of ancient lore, no two writers were ever more dijOferen"- than Chateaubriand and Sir Walter Scott. The great characteristic of the French author, is the impassioned and enthusiastic turn of his mind. Master of immense infor- mation, thoroughly imbded w^ith the learning of classical and Catholic times, gifted with a retentive memory, poetical fancy, and a painter's eye, he brings to bear upon every subject the force of erudition, the images of poetry, the charm of varied scenery, and the eloquence of impassioned feeling. 2. Hence his writings display a reach and variety of imagery, a depth of light and shadow, a vigor of thought, and an extent of illustration, to which there is nothing comparable in any other writer, ancient or modern, with whom we are acquainted All that he has seen, or read, or heard, seem present to his mind, whatever he does, or wherever he is. He illustrates the genius of Christianity by the beauties of classical learning, inhales the spirit of ancient prophecy on the shores of the Jordan, dreams on the banks of the Eurotas of the solitude and gloom of the American forests, visits the Holy Sepulcher with a mind alternately devoted to the devotion of a pilgrim, 272 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. the curiosity of an antiquary, and the enthusiasm of a .rusader, and combines, in his romances, with the tender feelings of chiv- alrous love, the heroism of Roman virtue, and the sublimity of Christian martyrdom. 3. His writings are less a faithful portrait of any particular age or country, than an assemblage of all that is grand, and generous, and elevated in human nature. He drinks deep of inspiration at all the fountains where it has ever been poured forth to mankind, and delights us less by the accuracy of any particular picture, than the traits of genius, which he has com- ftined from every quarter where its footsteps have trod. His «tyle seems formed on the lofty strains of Isaiah, or the beautiful images of the book of Job, more than all the classical or modern literature with which his mind is so amply stored. 4. He is admitted by all Frenchmen, of whatever party, to be the most perfect living master of their language, and to have gained for it beauties unknown to the age of Bossuet* and Fenelon.j" Less polished in his periods, less sonorous in his dic- tion, less melodious in his rhythm, than these illustrious writers, he is incomparably more varied, rapid, and energetic; his ideas flow in quicker succession, his words follow in more striking antithesis ; the past, the present, and the future rise up at once before us ; and we see how strongly the stream of genius, in- stead of gliding down the smooth current of ordinary life, has been broken and agitated by the cataract of revolution. 5. With far less classical learning, fewer images derived from traveling, inferior information on many historical subjects, and a mind of a less impassioned and energetic cast, our own Sir Walter is far more deeply read in that book which is ever the same — the human heart. This is his unequaled excellence — there he stands, since the days of Shakspeare, without a rival. It is to thio cause that his astonishing success has been owing. We feel, in his characters, that it is not romance, but real life * Bossuet [Bossicd), a most renowned pulpit orator of France, born in the year 1627, and died in 1704 f Fenelon, the celebrated Archbishop of Cambray, so renowned foi his eloquence and his virtues, was born in 1651, and died in 1715. RHETORICAL READER. 273 which is represented. Every word that is said, especially in the Scotch novels, is nature itself. Homer, Cervantes, Shak- speare, and Scott, alone have penetrated to the deep substratum of character, which, however, disguised by the varieties of cli- mate and government, is, at bottom, everywhere the same ; and thence they have found a responsive echo in every human heart. 6. E^^ery man who reads these- admirable works, from the North Gape to Cape Horn, feels that what the characters they contain, are made to say, is just what would have occurred to themselves, or what they have heard said by others as long as they lived. Nor is it only in the delineation of character, and the knowledge of human nature, that the Scottish Novelist, like his great predecessors, is, but for them, without a rival. Power- ful in the pathetic, admirable in dialogue, unmatched in descrip- tion, his writings captivate the mind as much by the varied excellencies which they exhibit, as the powerful interest which they maintain. 7. He has carried romance out of the region of imagination, and sensibility into the walks of actual life. We feel interested in his characters, not because they are ideal beings with whom we have become acquainted for the first time when we began the book, but because they are the very persons we have lived with from our infancy. His descriptions of scenery are not luxuriant and glowing pictures of imaginary beauty, like those of Mrs. Radcliffe, having no resemblance to actual nature, but faithful and graphic portraits of real scenes, drawn with tho eye of a poet, but the fidelity of a consummate draughtsman. 8. He has combined historical accuracy and romantic adven- ture with the interest of tragic events ; we live with the heroes, and princes, and paladins of former times, as with our own coU' temporaries; and acquire from the splendid coloring of his pencil such a vivid conception of the manners and pomp of the feudal ages, that we confound them, in our recollections, with the scenes which we ourselves have witnessed. 9. Disdaining to flatter the passions, or pander to the am- bition of the populace, he has done more than any man alive to 12* R 274 SA^DERS' union series. elevate their character ; to fill their minds with the noble senti- ments which dignify alike the cottage and the palace ; to exhibit the triumph of virtue in the humblest stations over all that the world calls great; and without ever indulging a sentiment which might turn them from the scenes of their real usefulness, bring home to every mind the " might that slumbers in a peasant's arm." 10. Above all, he has uniformly, in all his varied and exten- sive productions, shown himself true to the cause of virtue Amidst all the innumerable combinations of character, event, and dialogue, which he has formed, he has ever proved faithful to the polar star of duty ; and alone, perhaps, of the great ro- mance writers of the world, has not left a line which on his death-bed he would wish recalled. EXERCISE LXXVI. til ft RO glyph' ic is a sacred character or symbol : the word being compouuded of two Greek words (Hikro, sacred, and Glyphic, relating to carving or carved work), and used to denote, especially, the ancient Egyptian picture-writing. NO RELIGION WITHOUT MYSTERIES. CHATEAUBRIAND. 1. There is nothing beautiful, sweet, or grand in life, but in its mysteries. The sentiments which agitate us most strongly, are enveloped in obscurity; modesty, virtuous lovo, sincere friendship, have all their secrets, with which the world must not be made acquainted. Hearts which love understand each other by a word ; half of each is at all times open to the other. Inno- cence itself is but a holy ignorance, and the most ineffable of mysteries. Infancy is only happy, because it as yet knows nothing ; age miserable, because it has nothing more to learn. Happily for it, when the mysteries of life are ending, those of immortality commence. RHETORICAL READER. h{5 2, If it is thus with the sentiments, it is assuredly not. less so with the virtues ; the most angeUc are those which, emanating directly from the Deity, such as charity, love to withdraw them- selves from all regards, as if fearful to betray their celestial origin. 3. If we turn to the understanding, we shall find that the pleasures of thought, also, have a certain connection with the mysterious. To what sciences do we unceasingly return ? To those which always leave something still to be discovered, and fix our regards on a perspective which is never to terminate. If we wander in the desert, a sort of instinct leads us to shun the plains where the eye embraces at once the whole circum- ference of nature, to plunge into forests — those forests — the cradle of religion, whose shades and solitudes are filled with the recollection of prodigies, where the ravens and the doves nour- ished the prophets and fathers of the church. If we visit a modern monument, whose origin or destination is known, it excites no attention ; but, if we meet on a desert isle, in the midst of the ocean, with a mutilated statue pointing to the west, with its pedestal covered with hieroglyphics, and worn by the winds, what a subject of meditation is presented to the traveler ! Everything is concealed, everything is hidden in the universe. Man himself is the greatest mystery of the whole. Whence comes the spark which we call existence, and in what obscurity is it to be extinguished? The Eternal has ph^ced our birth, and our death, under the form of two vailed phantoms, at the two extremities of our career; the one produces the inconceivable gift of life, which the other is ever ready to devour. 4 It is not surprising, then, considering the passion of the human mind for the mysterious, that the religions of every country should have had their impenetrable secrets. God for- bid! that I should compare the mysteries of the true faith, or the unfathomable depths of the Sovereign in the heavens, to the changing obscurities of those gods which are the work of human hands. All that I observe is, that there is no religion without mysteries, and that it is they, with the sacrifice^ which everywhere constitute the essence of the worship. 276 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. EXERCISE LXXVII. THE CHRISTIAN KNIGHT AND THE SARACEN CAVALIER: h PASSAGE AT ARMS. aiK WALTER 8C0TT.* 1 . The burning sun of Syria had not yet attained its highesi p«ji" t in the horizon, when a knight of the Red Cross, who had leff his distant northern home, and joined the host of the ei'Udaders in Palestine, was pacing slowly along the sandy ieserts which lie in the vicinity of the Dead Sea, where the waves of the Jordan pour themselves into an inland sea, from which there is no discharge of waters. 2. Upon this scene of desolation the sun shone with almost intolerable splendor, and all living nature seemed to have hidden itself from the rays, excepting the solitary figure which moved through the flitting sand at a foot's pace, and appeared the sole breathing thing on the wide surface of the plain. The dress of the rider and the accouterments of his horse were peculiarly unfit for the traveler in such a country. 3. A coat of linked mail, with long sleeves, plated gauntlets, and a steel breastplate, had not been esteemed a sufl&cient weight of armor ; there was, also, his triangular shield suspended round his neck, and his barred helmet of steel, over which he had a hood and collar of mail, which was drawn around the warrior's shoulders and throat, and filled up the vacancy between the hauberk and the head-piece. His lower limbs were sheathed, like his body, in flexible mail, securing the legs and thighs, while the feet rested in plated shoes, which corresponded with the gauntlets. 4. A long, broad, straight-shaped, double-edged falchion, with a handle formed like a cross, corresponded with a stout poniard on the other side. The knight, also, bore, secured to his saddle with one end resting on his stirrup, the long steel-headed lance, his own proper weapon, which, as he rode, projected backwards^ * See Exercise LXXV. RHETORICAL READER. 277 and displayed its little penuoncelle,* to dally with the faint breeze, or drop in the dead calm. To this cumbrous equipment must be added a surcoat of embroidered cloth, much frayed and worn, which was thus far useful, that it excluded the burning rays of the sun from the armor, which they would otherwise have rendered intolerable to the wearer. 5. The surcoat bore, in several places, the arms of the owner, although much defaced. These seemed to be a couchant Ic.pard, with the motto, " / sleep — wake me not^ An outline of the same device might be traced on his shield, though many a blow had almost effaced the painting. The flat top of his cumbrous cylindrical helmet was unadorned with any crest. In r<5taining their own unwieldy defensive armor, the northern crusaders seemed to set at defiance the nature of the climate and country to which they were come to war. 6. The accouterments of the horse were scarcely less massive and unwieldy than those of the rider. The animal had a heavy saddle plated with steel, uniting in front with a species of breast- plate, and behind with defensive armor made to cover the loins. Then there was a steel ax, or hammer, called a mace-of-arms, and which hung to the saddle bow ; the reins were secured by chain work, and the front stall of the bridle was a steel plate, with apertures for the eyes and nostrils, having in the midst a short, sharp pike, projecting from the forehead of the horse like the horn of the fabulous unicorn. 7. But habit had made the endurance of this load of panoply a second nature, both to the knight and his gallant charger. Numbers, indeed, of the western warriors who hurried to Pales- tine died ere they became inured to the burning climate ; but there were others to whom that climate became innocent, and even friendly, and among this fortunate number was the solitary horseman who now traversed the border of the Dead Sea. 8. Nature, which cast his limbs in a mold of uncommon strength, fitted to wear his linked hauberk with as much ease as if the meshes had been formed of cobwebs, had endowed him * Pennoncelle, a small flag or banner. ^78 SANDERS' UNI0NSERIE8. with a constitution as strong as his limbs, and whicli bade defiance to almost ail changes of climate, as well as to fatigue and privations of every kind. His disposition seemed, in some degree, to partake of the qualities of his bodily frame ; and as the one possessed great strength and endurance, united with the power of violent exertion, the other, under a calm and undis- tu"bed semblance, had much of the fiery and enthusiastic love of glory which constituted the principal attribute of the re- aowned Norman line, and had rendered them sovereigns in every corner of Europe where they had drawn their adventurous swords. 9. Nature had, however, her demands for refreshment and repose, even on the iron frame and patient disposition of the Knight of the Sleeping Leopard ; and at noon, when the Dead Sea lay at some distance on his right, he joyfully hailed the sight of two or three palm trees, which arose beside the well which was assigned for his midday station. His good horse, too, which had plodded forward with the steady endurance of his master, now lifted his head, expanded his nostrils, and quickened his pace, as if he snuffed afar ofi" the living waters, which marked the place of repose and refreshment. But labor and danger were doomed to intervene ere the horse or horseman reached the desired spot. 10. As the Knight of the Couchant Leopard continued to fix his eyes attentively on the yet distant cluster of palm trees, it seemed to him as if some object was moving among them. The distant form separated itself from the trees, which partly hid its motions, and advanced towards the knight with a speed which soon showed a mounted horseman, whom his turban, long spear, and green caftan floating in the wind, on his nearer approach, proved to be a Saracen cavalier* " In the desert," saith an Eastern proverb, '' no man meets a friend.'' The crusader was totally indifferent whether the infidel, who now approached on his gallant barb, as if borne on the wings of an eagle, came as * This Saracen cavalier turns out, in the course of the story, {Thi T-xii^man) to be^he celebrated Salatlin. See Note on Exercise LXXVIII RHETORICAL READER. 279 friend or foe — perhaps, as a vowed champion of the cross, he might rather liave preferred the latter. He disengae:ed hig lance from his saddle, seized it with the right hand, placed it in rest with its point half elevated, gathered up the reins in the left, waked his horse's mettle with the spur, and prepared to encounter the stranger with the calm self-confidence belonging to the victor in many contests. 11. The Saracen came on at the speedy gallop of an Arab horseman, managing his steed more by his limbs, and the inflec- tion of his body, than by any use of the reins which hung loose in his left hand ; so that he was enabled to wield the light, round buckler of the skin of the rhinoceros, ornamented with silver loops, which he wore on his arm, swinging it as if he meant to oppose its slender circle to the formidable thrust of the western lance. His own long spear was not couched or leveled like that of his antagonist, but grasped by the middle with his right hand, and brandished at arm's length above his head. As the cavalier approached his enemy at full career, he seemed to expect that the Knight of the Leopard would put his horse to the gallop to encounter him. 12. But the Christian knight, well acquainted with the cus- toms of Eastern warriors, did not mean to exhaust his good horse by any unnecessary exertion ; and, on the contrary, made a dead halt, confident that if the enemy advanced to the actual shock, his own weight, and that of his powerful charger, would give him sufl&cient advantage, without the additional momentum of rapid motion Equally sensible and apprehensive of such a probable result, the Saracen cavalier, when he had approached towards the Christian within twice the length of his lance, wheeled his steed to the left with inimitable dexterity, and rode twice around his antagonist, who turning without quitting his ground, and presenting his front constantly to his enemy, frus- trated his attempts to attack him on an unguarded point; so that tlie Saracen, wheeling his horse, was fain to retreat to the distance of a hundred yards. 13. A .second time, like a hawk attacking a heron, the heathen renewed the char":e, and a second time was fain to 280 SANDERS UNION SERIES. retreat without coming to a close struggle. A third tine ho approached in the same manner, when the Christian knight, desirous to terminate this illusory warfare, in which he might at length have been worn out by the activity of his foeman, suddenly seized the mace which hung at his saddle bow, and, with a strong hand and unerring aim, hurled it against the head cf the emir; for such, and not less, his enemy appeared. 14. The Saracen was just aware of the formidable missile la lime to interpose his light buckler betwixt the mace and his head ; but the violence of the blow forced the buckler down on his turban, and though that defense also contributed to deaden it? violence, the Saracen was beaten from his horse. Ere the Christian could avail himself of this mishap, his nimble foeman sprang from the ground, and, calling on his steed, which instantly returned to his side, he leaped into his seat without touching the stirrup, and regained all the advantage of which the Knight of the Leopard hoped to deprive him. 15. But the latter had in the mean while recovered his mace, and the Eastern cavalier, who remembered the strength and dexterity with which his antagonist had aimed it, seemed to keep cautiously out of reach of that weapon, of which he had so lately felt the force ; while he showed his purpose of waging a distant warfare with missile weapons of his own. Planting his long spear in the sand at a distance fron? the scene of combat, he si rung with great address a short bow, which he carried at his back, and putting his horse to the gallop, once more described two or three circles of a wider extent than formerly, in the course of which he discharged six arrows at the Christian with such unerring skill, that the goodness of his harness alone saved him from being wounded in as many places. The seventh shaft apparently found a less perfect part of the armor, and the Christian dropped heavily from his horse. 16. But what was the surprise of the Saracen, when, dis- mounting to examine the condition of his prostrate enemy, he found himself suddenly within the grasp of the European, who had had recourse to this artifice to bring his enemy within his reach. Even in this deadly grapple, the Saracen was saved by RHETORICAL READER. 281 his agility and presence of mind. He unloosed the sword belt, in which the Knight of the Leopard had fixed his hold, and thus eluding his fatal grasp, mounted his horse, which seemed to watch his motions with the intelligence of a human being, and again rode oflf. But in the last encounter the Saracen had lost his sword and his quiver of arrows, both of which were attached to the girdle, which he was obliged to abandon. Ho had also lost his turban in the struggle. These disaivantages seamed to incline the Moslem to a truce : he approached tho Christian with his right hand extended, but no longer in a menacing attitude. 17- "There is truce betwixt our nations," he said, in the' lingua franca commonly used for the purpose of communication with the crusaders ; " wherefore should there be war betwixt thee and me? Let there be peace betwixt us." " I am well contented," answered he of the Couchant Leop- ard ; " but what security dost thou offer that thou wilt observe the truce ?" " The word of a follower of the Prophet was never broken," answered the emir. " It is thou, brave Nazarene, from whom I should demand security, did I not know that treason seldom dwells with courage." 18. The crusader felt that the confidence of the Moslem made him ashamed of his own doubts. " By the cross of my sword," he said, laying his hand on the weapon as he spoke, " I will be true companion to thee, Saracen, while our fortune wills that we remain in company together." '^ By Mohammed, Prophet of God, and by Allah, God of the Prophet," replied his late foeman, " there is not treachery in my heart towards thee. And now wend we to yonder fountain, for the hour of rest is at hand, and the stream had hardly touched my lip when I was called to battle by thy approach." The Knight of the Couchant Leopard yielded a ready and courteous assent; and the late foes, without an angry look or gesture of doubt, rode side by side to the little cluster of palm trees. 282 SANi)ERS' I3NI0N SERIES. EXERCISE LXXVIII. Saladjn, the celebrated Sultan of Syria and Egypt, whose virtnes and whose courage have been equally lauded by both Christiana and Moham- medans, was born in 1137, and died of a bilious fever, after twelve days' illness, in the year 1193. He was a man of noble, generous disposition, which characteristic feature is finely brought out in the following touching •sene. SALADIN AND MALEK ADHEL. NXW MONXELT BIAOAZINX. Attendant. A stranger craves admittance to your Highness. Saladin. Whence comes he ? Attendant. That I know not. Enveloped with a vestment of strange form, His countenance is hidden ; but his step, His lofty port, his voice in vain disguised, Proclaim, — if that I dare pronounce it, — Saladin. Whom? Attendant. Thy royal brother ! Saladin. Bring him instantly. [^Exit Attendant.'] Now, with his specious, smooth, persuasive tongue. Fraught with some wily subterfuge, he thinks To dissipate my anger. He shall die ! [^Enter Attendant and Malek Adhel.] Leave us together. [^Exit Attendant.'] ^^Aside.] I should know that form. Now summon all thy fortitude, my soul, Nor, though thy blood cry for him, spare the guilty I [_Aloud.] Well, stranger, speak ; but first unvail thyself. For Saladin must view the form that fronts him. Malek Adhel. Behold it, then ! . Saladin. I see a traitor's visage. Malek Adhel. A brother's ! Saladin. No ! Saladin owns no kindred with a villain. Malek Adhel. 0, patience. Heaven ! Had any tongue but thine lltteied that word, it ne'er should speak another. RHETORICAL READER. 283 Saladin. And why not now ? Can this heart be more pierced By Malek Adhel's sword than by his deeds ? 0, thou hast made a desert of this bosom I For open candor, planted sly disguise j For confidence, suspicion ; and the glow Of generous friendship, tenderness and love, Forever banished ! Whither can I turn, When he by blood, by gratitude, by faith, By every tie, bound to support, forsakes me ? Who, who can stand, when Malek Adhel falls ? Henceforth I turn me from the sweets of love : The smiles of friendship, and this glorious world, In which all find some heart to rest upon, Shall be to Saladin a cheerless void, — His brother has betrayed him ! Malek Adhel. Thou art softened ; I am thy brother, then ; but late thou saidst, — My tongue can never utter the base title ! Saladin. Was it traitor ? True ! Thou hast betrayed me in my fondest hopes ! Villain? 'Tis just; the title is appropriate! Dissembler ? 'Tis not written in thy face ; No, nor imprinted on that specious brow; But on this breaking heart the name is stamped, Forever stamped, with that of Malek Adhel! Thinkest thou I'm softened ? By Mohammed ! these hands Should crush these aching eye-balls, ere a tear Fall from them at thy fate ! monster, monster I The brate that tears the infant from its nurse Is excellent to thee ; for in his form The impulse of his nature may be read ; But thou, so beautiful, so proud, so noble, 0, what a wretch art thou ! ! can a term In all the various tongues of man be found To match thy infamy ? Malek Adhel. Go on ! go on ! 'Tis but a little time to hear thee, Saladin j 284 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. And, bursting at thy feet;, this heart will prove Its penitence, at least. Saladin. That were an end ^ Too noble for a traitor ! The bowstring is A more appropriate finish ! Thou shalt die ! Malek Adhel. And death were welcome at another's mandaif 1 What, what have I to live for ? Be it so, If that, in all thy armies, can be found An executing hand. Saladin. 0, doubt it not ! They're eager for the office. Perfidy, So black as thine, effaces from their minds All memory of thy former excellence. Malek Adhel. Defer not, then, their wishes. Saladin, If e'er this form was joyful to thy sight, This voice seemed grateful to thine ear, accede To my last prayer : — 0, lengthen not this scene, To which the agonies of death were pleasing I Let me die speedily ! Saladin. This very hour ! [Aside."] For, 0, the more I look upon that face, The more I hear the accents of that voice. The monarch softens, and the judge is lost In all the brother's weakness ; yet such guilt, — Such vile ingratitude, — it calls for vengeance ; And vengeance it shall have ! What, ho ! who waits there ? \_Enter Attendant.'] Attendant. Did your Highness call ? Saladin. Assemble quickly My forces in the court. Tell them they come To view the death of yonder bosom traitor. And, bid them mark, that he who will not spare His brother when he errs, expects obedience. Silent obedience, from his followers. \^Exit Attendant.] Malek Adhel. Now, Saladin, The word is givan ; I have nothing more To fear from thee, my brother. I am not RHETORICAL READER. 285 A^bout to crave a miserable life. Without thy love, thy honor, thy esteem, liife were a burden to me. Think not, either, The justness of thy sentence I would question. But one request now trembles on my tongue, — One wish still clinging round the heart ; which soon Not even that shall torture, — will it, then, rhinkest thou, thy slumbers render quieter. Thy waking thoughts more pleasing, to reflect, That when thy voice had doomed a brother's death, The last request which e'er was his to utter Thy harshness made him carry to the grave ? Saladin. Speak, then ; but ask thyself if thou hast reason To look for much indulgence here. Malek Adhel. I have not ! Yet will I ask for it. We part forever ; This is our last farewell ; the king is satisfied ; The judge has spoke the irrevocable sentence. None sees, none hears, save that Omniscient Power, Which, trust me, will not frown to look upon Two brothers part like such. When, in the face Of forces once my own, I'm led to death, Then be thine eye unmoistened ; let thy voice Then speak my doom untrembling j then, Unmoved, behold this stiff and blackened corse. But now I ask, — nay, turn not, Saladin I — I ask one single pressure of thy hand ; From that stern eye, one solitary tear,— 0, torturing recollection ! — one kind word From the loved tongue which once breathed naught but kindness Still silent ? Brother ! friend ! beloved companion Of all my youthful sports ! — are they forgotten ? — Strike me with deafness, make me blind, Heaven I Let me not see this unforgiving man Smile at my agonies ! nor hear that voice Pronounce my doom, which would not say one word, One little word, whose cherished memory 286 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Would soothe the struggles of departing life ! Yet, yet thou wilt ! 0, turn thee, Saladin ! Look on my face, — thou canst not spurn me then ; Look on the once-loved face of Malek Adhel For the last time, and call him — Saladin. [^Seizing his hand.'] Brother! brother! Malek Adhel. [^Breaking away.'] Now call thy followers j Death has not now A. single pang in store. Proceed ! I'm ready. Saladin. 0, art thou ready to forgive, my brother ? To pardon him who found one single error, One little failing, 'mid a splendid throng Of glorious qualities — Malek Adhel. 0, stay thee, Saladin I I did not ask for life. I only wished To carry thy forgiveness to the grave. No, Emperor, the loss of Cesarea Cries loudly for the blood of Malek Adhel. Thy soldiers, too, demand that he who lost What cost them many a weary hour to gain, Should expiate his offenses with his life. Lo ! even now they crowd to view my death, Thy just impartiality. I go ! Pleased by my fate to add one other leaf To thy proud wreath of glory. [^Going.] Saladin. Thou shalt not. \^Enter Attendant.] Attendant. My lord, the troops assembled by your order Tumultuous throng the courts. The prince's death Not one of them but vows he will not suffer. The mutes have fled ; the very guards rebel. Nor think I, in this city's spacious round, Can e'er be found a hand to do the ofl&ce. Malek Adhel. faithful friends I \^To Attendant.] Thmo shalt. Attendant. Mine? Never! The other first shall lop it from the body. Saladin. They teach the Emperor his duty well. RHETORICAL READER. 2^7 Tell then) he thanks them for it. Tell them too, That ere their opposition reached our ears, Saladin had forgiven Malek Adhel. Attendant. joyful news ! I haste to gladden many a gallant heart, And dry the tear on many a hardy cheek, Unused tv) such a visitor. \^Exit.'\ Saladin. These men, the meanest in society. The outcasts of the earth, — by war, by nature, Flardened, and rendered callous, — these who claim No kindred with thee, — who have never heard The accents of affection from thy lips, — 0, these can cast aside their vowed allegiance, Throw off their long obedience, risk their lives, To save thee from destruction. While I, T, who can not, in all my memory, Call back one danger which thou hast not shared, One day of grief, one night of revelry, Which thy resistless kindness hath not soothed. Or thy gay smile and converse rendered sweeter, — 1, who have thrice in the ensanguined field. When death seemed certain, only uttered — " Brother T And seen that form, like lightning, rush between 8aladin and his foes, and that brave breast Dauntless exposed to many a furious blow Intended for my own, — I could forget That 'twas to thee I owed the very breath Which sentenced thee to perish ! 0, 'tis shameful I Thou canst not pardon me ! Malek Adhel. By these tears, I can I brother ! from this very hour, a new, A glorious life commences ! I am all thine ! Again the day of gladness or of anguish Shall Malek Adhel share ; and oft again May this sword fence thee in the bloody field. Henceforth, Saladin, My heart, my soul, my sword, are thine forever I 2^8 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. EXERCISE LXXIX. John James Attdubon, the great American ornithologist, was born on • plantation in Louisiana, May 4th, 1780, and died in New York city, January 27th, 1851. His early childhood was marked by a passion for the study of birds. He soon acquired skill in drawing their forms, and went early to Prance to perfect himself in that art. On his return, after marrying a lady of congenial tastes, he entered upon other pursuits, as a business; giving himself largely, however, to the study of birds, as a pleasure. But the birds happily got the mastery, and thenceforward absorbed his whole time and attention. With what zest he pursued his inquiries, the following extract will show. The results of his labors he has embodied in two splendid works — " Birds of America" and "Ornithological Biographies" — works which fully entitle him to the grateful and lasting remembrance of all his countrymen THE LIFE OF A NATURALIST. JOHW JAMES AUDXTBON. 1. Reader, the life which I have led has been in some respects a singular one. Think of a person, intent on such pursuits as mine have been, arouaed at early dawn from his rude couch on the alder-fringed brook of some northern valley, or in the midst of some yet unexplored forest of the west, or, perhaps, on the soft and warm sands of the Florida shores, and listening to the pleas- ing melodies of songsters innumerable, saluting the magnificent orb, from whose radiant influence the creatures of many worlds receive life and light. 2. Refreshed and re-invigorated by healthful rest, he starts upon his feet, gathers up his store of curiosities, buckles on his knapsack, shoulders his trusty firelock, says a kind word to his faithful dog, and recommences his pursuit of zoological know- lodge. Now the morning is spent, and a squirrel or a trout aff'ords him a repast. Should the day be warm, he reposes for a time under the shade of some tree. The woodland choristers tgain burst forth into song, and he starts anew to wander wher- ever his fancy may direct him, or the objects of his search may lead him in pursuit. 3. When evening approaches, and the birds are seen betaking themselves to their retreats, he looks for some place of safety, erects his shed cf green boughs, kindles his fire, prepares hia RHETORICAL READER. 289 meal, and as the widgeon or blue-winged teal, or, perhaps, the breast of a turkey or a steak of venison, sends its delicious per- fumes abroad, he enters into his parchment-bound journal the remarkable incidents and facts that have occurred in the course of the day. 4. Darkness has now drawn her sable curtain over the scene ; bis repast is finished, and kneeling on the earth, he raises his soul to Heaven, grateful for the protection that has been granted to him, and the sense of the divine presence in this solitary place. Then wishing a cordial good-night to all the dear friends at home, the American woodsman wraps himself up in his blanket, and, closing his eyes, soon falls into that comfortable pi»eep which never fails him on such occasions. EXERCISE LXXX. Susan Fknimore Cooper is the eldest daughter of the great American novelist. As a writer, she is best known by her " Rural Hours" — a work, in journal form, devoted to the record of scenes and circumstances in rural life, during the changes of the several seasons, all which bear the impress of fresh observation and the charm of easy, natural description. In 1860 appeared her last work — " Pages and Pictures from the Writings of James Fenimore Cooper." This we regard as a most valuable contribution to the history of literature : giving, as it does, in the form of notes, a most interest- ing view of the circumstances under which each of Cooper's novels came into being. The notes, moreover, discover no small sagacity in the matter of criticism. They show, also, thought, culture, refinement, high moral tone, good sense, and a style at once effective and graceful. The following is from her not« on the character of " Red Rover," who, according to the novel, despite of the happiest early training, had become t. f irate, but is suddenly, by the sound of a sister's voice, awakened to the recollection of his better days, and thenceforward leads the life of a repentant, reformed man. The story is recited by her in order to show the probability of the fiction by an appeal to the recorded experience of fact. Or nith ol'ogist (Ornitho, bird, and Logist, a reasoner), is one wha ttudiee and reasons about birds, and, therefore, understands their babita« character, and scientific classification. 1* 6R 290 8ANIiERS' UNION SERTEB. THE MINISTRY OF THE DOVES. SnSAS FESIMvEB COOrSR. 1. On the shores of Southern Florida, and among the rockj islets, or ''keys," of the Gulf of Mexico, there is a rare and beautiful bird, to which the name of the Zenaida Dove has been given by J^rince Charles Buonaparte, the ornithologist. This creature is very beautiful in its delicate form and in its coloring of a warm and rosy gray, barred with brown and white on back and wing ; its breast bears a shield of pure and vivid blue, bordered with gold, its cheeks are marked with ultramarine, and its slender legs and feet are deep rose-color tipped with black nails. Innocent and gentle, like others of its tribe, this little creature flits to and fro, in small family groups, over the rocky islets, and along the warm, sandy beaches of the Gulf — " Tampa's desert strand.'' ••*0n that lone shore, loud moans the sea." 2. There are certain keys, wheie it loves especially to alight, attracted by the springs which here and there gush up pure and fresh among the coral rocks. The low note of this bird is more than usually sweet, pure, and mournful in its tone. But the doves are not the only visitors of those rare springs. A few years since, pirates haunted the same spots, seeking, like the birds, water from their natural fountains. 3. It chanced one day that a party of those fierce outlaws came to a desolate key to fill their water-casks, ere sailing on some fresh cruise of violence. A little flock of the rosy-gray doves — and their flocks are ever few and rare — were flitting and cocing in peace about the rocky basin when the pirates appeared ; in afi'right they took wing, and flew away. The casks were filled, and the ruffian crew rowed their boat ofi" to their craft lying at anchor in the distance. For some reason, apparently acci^ dental, one of the band remained awhile on the island alone. In a quiet evening hour, he threw himfielf on the rocks, near the spring, looking over the broad sea, where here and there & low desert islet rose from the deep, while t}je vessel with which his RHETORIOA r, RKAHER. 291 own falG nad long been connected lay idle, with furled canvas, in the ofl&ng. 4. Presently the little doves, seeing all quiet again, returned To their favorite spring, flitting to and fro in peace, uttering to each other their low gentle notes, so caressing, and so plaintive. It may have been that in the wild scenes of his turbulent career the wretched man had never known the force of solitude. He was now gradually overpowered by its mysterious influences, pressing upon heart and mind. He felt himself to be alone with his Maker. The works of the Holy One surrounded him — the pure heavens hanging over his guilty head, the sea stretching in silent grandeur far into the unseen distance. One object alone, bearing the mark of man, lay within range of his eye — that guilty craft, which, like an evil phantom, hovered in the ofl&ng, brooding sin. 5. The sounds most familiar to him for years had been curse, and ribald jest, and brutal threat, and shriek of death. But now those little doves came hovering about him, uttering their guileless notes of tenderness and innocence. Far away, in his native woods, within sight of his father's roof, he had often listened in boyhood to other doves, whose notes, like these, were pure and swaet. Home memories, long banished from his breast, returned. The image of his Christian mother stood before him. Those little doves, still uttering their low, pure, inoflfensive note, seemed bearing to him the far-oflf echoes of every sacred word of devout faith, of pure precept, of generous feeling, which, in happier years, had reached his ear. A fearful consciousness of guilt came over the wretched man. His heart was utterly subdued. The stern pride of manhood gave way. A powerful tide of contrition swept away all evil barriers. Bitter tears of Tsmorse fell upon the stone on which hi& head rested. And that was to him the turning point of life. G. He rose from the rock a penitent, firmly resolved to retrace his steps — to return to better things. By the blessing of God, the resolution was adhered to. He broke away from his evil courses, thrust temptation aside, returned to his native soil c6 lead a life of penitence and hone*«t toil. Many years later » 292 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. stranger came to his cabin, in the wild forests of the ftonthem country, a man venerable in mien, shrewd and kindly in counte- nance — wandering through the woods on pleasant errands of his own The birds of that region were the stranger's object. The inmate of the cabin had much to tell on this subject; and, gradually, as the two were thrown together in the solitude of the forest, the heart of the penitent opened to his companion. Hf avowed that ho loved the birds of heaven : he had cause to lovd them— the doves, especially ; they had been as friends tu him ; they had spoken to his heart in the most solemn hour of life ! And then came that singular confession. The traveler was Audubon,* the great ornithologist, who has left on record in his works this striking incident. In olden times, what a beautiful ballad would have been written on such a theme: fresh and wild as the breeze of the forest, sweet and plaintive as the note of the dove I EXERCISE LXXXI. THE CHURCH AT BELEM. T. NOON TALFOtlBD. 1. The church at Belem, a fortified place on the Tagus, three or four miles from Lisbon, where the kings and royal family of Portugal have, for many generations, been interred, must not be forgotten. It is one of the most ancient buildings in the kingdom, having originally been erected by the Romans, and splendidly adorned by the Moorish sovereigns. Formed of white stone, it is now stained to a reddish brown by the mere influence of years, and frowns over the water " cased in the unfeeling armor of old time." 2. Its shape is oblong, its sides of gigantic proportion, and its massive appearance most grand and awe-inspiring. The princi* * See Exercise LXXIX. f See Note on Talfourd, Exercise XXXIX. RHETORICAL READER. 29S pal entrance is by a deep archwaj , reaching to a great tight, and circular within, ornamented above and around with the most crowded, venerable, and yet fantastic devices — martyrs and heroes of chivalry — swords and crosiers — monarchs and saints — crosses and scepters — " the roses and flowers of kings," and the sad emblems of mortality — all wearing the stamp of deep antiquity, all appearing carved out of one eternal rock, and promising, by their air of solid grandeur, to survive as many stupendous changes as those which have already left them unshaken. 8. The interior of this venerable edifice is not less awe- breathing or substantial. Eight huge pillars of barbaric archi- tecture, and covered all over with strange figures and grotesque ornaments in relievo,* support the roof, which is white, ponder- ous, and of a noble simplicity, being only divided into vast square compartments by the beams which cross it. Such a pile, devoted to form the last resting-place of a line of kings who have, each in his brief span of timti, held the fate of millions at his pleasure, cannot fail to excite solemn and pensive thought. 4. And yet what are the feelings thus excited, to those meditations to which the great repository of the illustrious deceased in England invites us ? Bere we think of nothing but the perishableness of man in his best estate — the emptiness of human honors — the low and frail nature of all the distinctions of earth. A race of monarchs occupy but a narrow vault : they were kings, and now are dust ; and this idea forced home upon us, makes us feel that the most potent and enduring of worldly things — thrones, dynasties, and tho peaceable succession of high families — are but as feeble shadows. We learn only to feel our weakness. 5. But, in the sacred place where all that could perish of qui orators, philosophers, and poets, is reposing, we feel our mortality only to lend us a stronger and moro ethereal sense of our etercal being. Life and death seem met together, as in a holy fane, in peaceful conoord. While we feel that the mightiest must yield * Relievo {re let' vo), prominence of figures in statuary, &c. 294 bANDERS' UNION SERIES. to the stern law of necessity, we know that the very monuments which record the decay of their outward frame, are so many proofs and symbols that they shall never really expire. 6. We feel that those whose remembrance is thus extended beyond the desolating power of the grave, over whose /amc death and mortal accidents have no power, are not themselves destroyed. And, when we recollect the more indestructible mon iments of their genius, those works, which live, not only in the libraries of the studious, but in the hearts and imaginations of men, we are conscious at once, that the spirit which con- ceived, and the souls which appreciate and love them, are not of the earth, earthy. Our thoughts are not wholly of humilia- tion and sorrow; but stretch forward, with a pensive majesty, unto the permanent and the immortal. EXERCISE LXXXII. Antithesis, whence the adjective antithetical, is from the Greek \Anti, against, and Thesis, the act of putting), and signifies the act of putting thinrs over against one another for the purposes of comparison and conti-ast. Passages of this sort furnish fine exercises for practice in reading SHORT ANTITHETICAL PASSAGES. THE SPIRITUAL AND THE NATURAL. 1 COR. CHAF. XV. The firsi man Adam was made a living soul, the last Adam was made a quickening spirit. Howbeit, that was not first which IS spiritual but that which is natural; and afterward that which is spiritual The first man is of the earth, earthy : the second man is the Lord from heaven. As is the earthy, such are they, also, that a/e earthy : and as is the heavenly, such are they, also, that are L javenly. And as w^e have borne the image of the earthy, we ^hall, also, bear the image of the heavenly. RHETORICAL HEADER. 295 THE BIBLE ADAPTED TO ALL. MRS. SARAH tf. ZUIS.* Simple as the language of a child — it charms the most fasti- dious taste. Mournful as the voice of grief — it reaches to tho, highest pitch of exultation. Intelligible to the unlearned peasant — it supplies the critic and the sage with food for earnest thought. Silent and secret as the reproofs of conscience — it echoes be- neath the vaulted dome of the cathedral, and shakes the trem- bling multitude. The last companion of the dying and desti- tute — it seals the bridal vow, and crowns the majesty of kings. Closed in the heedless grasp of the luxurious and the slothful — it unfolds its awful record over the yawning grave. Bright and joyous as the morning star to the benighted traveler — it rolls like the waters of the deluge over the path of him who willfully mistakes his way. in. TACT versus TALENT. LONDON ATLAS. Talent is something, but ta st is everything. Talent is serious, bober, grave, and respectable : tact is all that, and more too. It is not a sixth sense, but it is the life of all the five. It is the open eye, the quick ear, the judging taste, the keen smell, and the lively touch j it is the interpreter of all riddles, the sur- mounter of all diflSculties, the remover of all obstacles. It is useful in all places, and at all times ; it is useful in solitude, for it shows a man his way into the world ; it is useful in society, for it shows him his way through the world. Talent is power, tact is skill ; talent is weight, tact is momentum ; talent knows what to do, tact knows how to do it ; talent makes a man re- spectable, tact will make him respected ; talent is wealth, tact is ready money. * Sarah Stickney Ellis, wife of William Ellis, an English missionary, is the author of some twenty or thirty different publications, all written in excellent style, and devoted to the moral and intellectual culture of hei own sex 296 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. IV. ROLLA TO THE PERUVIANS. SHEBIDAW.* 1. They, by a straoge frenzy driven, fight for power, foJ plunder, and extended rule ; — we, for our country, our altars, and our homes. They follow an adventurer whom they fear, and obey a power which they hate ; — we serve a monarch whom we love — a God whom we adore. Where'er they move in anger, desolation tracks their progress ! Where'er they pause in amity, aflSiction mourns their friendship. 2. They boast they come but to improve our state, enlarge our thoughts, and free us from the yoke of error ! — Yes : — they will give enlightened freedom to our minds, who are themselves the slaves of passion, avarice, and pride. They offer us their protection ! — Yes, such protection as vultures give to lambs — covering and devouring them 1 They call on us to barter all the good we have inherited and proved, for the desperate chance of something better, which they promise. Catiline's forces in contrast with the roman army. oiozao.t Against these gallant troops of your adversary, prepare, Romans, your garrisons and armies ; and, first, to that maimed and battered gladiator oppose your Consuls and Generals ; next, against that miserable, outcast horde, lead forth the strength and flower of all Italy 1 On the one side, chastity contends ; on the other, wantonness ; here purity, there pollution ; here in- tegrity, there treachery; here piety, there profaneness ; here constancy, there rage ; here honesty, there baseness ; here con- tinence, there lust; in short, equity, temperance, fortitude, pru dence, struggle with iniquity, luxury, cowardice, rashness ; every virtue with every vice; and, lastly, the contest lies between well-grounded hope and absolute despair. * See Note on Sheridan, Exercise XCV. t See Note on Exercise LXX. RHETORICAL READER. 29"? VI. CONTRASTS IN MAN. TO0Ha.« How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful is man ! How passing wonder He wb^ made him such ! Who centered in our make such strange extremes ! A beam ethereal, sullied ana absorpt ! Though sullied and dishonored, still divine I Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! An heir of glory! a frail child of dust I Helpless immortal ! insect infinite ! A worm ! a god ! — I tremble at myself. what a miracle to man is man ! Triumphantly distressed ! what joy! what dread! Alternately transported and alarmed, What can preserve my life ? or what destroy ? An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; Legions of angels can't conjiae me there ! vn THE- TRUE CRITIC. But where's the man who counsel can bestow, Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know; Unbiased, or by favor, or by spite j Not dully prepossessed, nor blindly right; Though learned, well-bred; and, though well-bred, sincere; Modestly bold and humanely severe ; Who to a friend his faults can freely show. And gladly praise the merit of a foe j Blest with a taste exact, but unconfined ; A knowledge both of books and human-kind ? * See Note on Young, Exercise CXXXVI. t See Exercise CXLVIII. 13* R 298 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. VIII. CHIVALRY AND PURITANISM. BANCROFT* 1. Historians have loved to eulogize the manners and virtues, the glory and the benefits of Chivalry. Puritanism accomplished for mankind far more. If it had the sectarian crime of intoler- ance, chivalry had the vices of dissoluteness. The Knights wore brave from gallantry of spirit; the Puritans from the fear of God. The Knights were proud of loyalty j the Puritans of liberty. The Knights did homage to monarchs, in whose smile they beheld honor, whose rebuke was the wound of disgrace ; the Puritans, disdaining ceremony, would not bow at the name of Jesus. 2. Chivalry delighted in outward show, favored pleasure, mul- tiplied amusement, and degraded the human race by an exclu- sive respect for the privileged classes ; Puritanism bridled the passions, commanded the virtues of self-denial, and rescued the name of man from dishonor. The former valued courtesy; the latter, justice. The former adorned society by graceful refine- ments; the latter founded national grandeur on universal educa- tion. The institutions of Chivalry were subverted by the gra- dually-increasing weight, and knowledge, and opulence of the industrious classes; the Puritans, rallying upon those classes, planted in their hearts the undying principles of democratic liberty. IX. HOMER AND VIRGIL. POPJS. Homer was the greater genius; Virgil, the better artist. In one we most admire the man ; in the other, the work. Homer hurries and transports us with a commanding impetuosity ; Virgil leads us with an attractive majesty : Homer scatters with a generous profusion ; Virgil bestows with a careful magnificence : Homer, like the Nile, pours out his riches with a boundless over- flow; Virgil, like a river in its banks, with a gentle and constant stream. When we behold their battles, methinks the two poets * See Note on Exercise CXXXIII. r*HETORICAL READER. 29v resemble the lieroes they celebrate : Homer, boundless and irre- sistible as Achilles, bears all before him, and shines more and more as the tumult increases; Virgil, calmly daring like ^Eneas, appears undisturbed in the midst of the action; disposes all about him, and conquers with tranquillity. And when we look upon their macl ines, Homer seems like his own Jupiter in his terrors, shaking Olympus, scattering the lightnings, and firing the heavens; Virgil, like the same power in his benevolence, counseling with the gods, laying plans for empires, and regu- larly ordering his whole creation. EXERCISE LXXXIII. WAR SONG. VK WAXTIS BOOR* I. Wheel the wild dance While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. Our airy feet. So light and fleet. They do not bend the rye That sinks its head when whirlwinds rave, And swells again in eddying wave, As each wild gust blows by. But still the corn, At dawn of morn, Our fatal steps that bore. At eve lies waste, A trampled paste Of blackening mud and gore. * See Exercise LXXV. B<^0 SANDERS' UNION SEBIEg II. Wheel the wild dance While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. Wheel the wild dance 1 Brave sons of France, For you our ring makes room j Make space full wide For martial pride. For banner, spear, and plume. Approach, draw near, Proud cuirassier ! Room for the men of steel I Through crest and plate The broadsword's weight Both head and heart shall feel in. Wheel the wild dance While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave. To sleep without a shroud. Burst, ye clouds, in tempest show>n Redder rain shall soon be ours — See the east grows wan — Yield we place to sterner game, Ere deadlier bolts and direr flame Shall the welkin^s thunders shame : Elemental rage is tame To the wrath of man. RHETORICAL READER. 301 EXERCISE LXXXIV. HUNTING SONG. BIB WALTER SOOTT 1. Waken, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day. All the jolly chase is here. With hawk and horse and hunting spear : Hounds are in their couples yelling, Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, Merrily, merrily, mingle they. Waken, lords and ladies gay I II. Waken, lords and ladies gay. The mist has left the mountain gray ; Springlets in the dawn are streaming, Diamonds on the brake are gleaming, And foresters have busy been To tarack the buck in thicket green ; Now we come to chant our lay. Waken, lords and ladies gay I ni. Waken, lords and ladies gay. To the greenwood haste away j We can show you where he lies, Fleet of foot and tall of size ; We can show the marks he made. When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed j You shall see him brought to bay, Waken, lords and ladies gay I IV. Louder, louder chant the lay, Waken lords and ladies gay • SOV SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Tell them youth and mirth and glee, l\un a course as well as we. Time, stern huntsman ! who can balk, *^tanch as hound, and fleet as hawk ? Think of this, and rise with day, Gentle lords and ladies gay ! EXERCISE LXXXV. SONG OF PEACE. I. No longer I follow a sound ; No longer a dream I pursue j Happiness ! not to be found, Unattainable treasure, adieu I I have sought thee in splendor and dress, In the regions of pleasure and taste, I have sought thee, and seemed to possess, But have proved thee a vision at last. III. A humble ambition and hope The voice of true wisdom inspires j *Tis sufficient, if Peace be the scope And the summit of all our desires. IV. Peace may be the lot of the mind That seeks it in meekness and love; But rapture and bliss are confined To the glorified spirits above. * See sketch in Exercise XVIII. RHETORICAL READER. 303 EXERCISE LXXXVl. Daniel Webster, the great American orator and statesman, was bom in Salisbury, New Hampshire, January 18th, 1782. He died at Marshfield, Massachusetts, October 24th, 1852. Edwin P, Whipple, author of the following fine, discriminative sketch, is one of the best of American essayists. He is, also, distinguished as an able and interesting lecturer : few excelling him either in the power to sway the feelings of an audience or to repay with instructive discourse an attentive hearing. He was born in Gloucester, Massachusetts, March 8th, 1819. SKETCH OF WEBSTER. E. P. WHIPPLE. 1. Earnestness, solidity of judgment, elevation of sentiment, broad and generous views of national policy, and a massive strength of expression, characterize all his works. We feel, in reading them, that he is a man of principles, not a man of exptiients; that he never adopts opinions without subjecting them to stern tests ; and that he recedes from them only at the bidding of reason and experience. He never seems to be play- ing a part, but always acting a life. 2. The ponderous strength of his powers strikes us not more forcibly than the broad individuality of the man. Were we unacquainted with the history of his life, we could almost infer it from his works. Everything, in his productions, indi- cates the character of a person who has struggled fiercely against obstacles, who has developed his faculties by strenuous labor, who has been a keen and active observer of man and nature, and who has been disciplined in the affairs of the world. There is a manly simplicity and clearness in his mind, and a rugged energy in his feelings, which preserve him from all the affecta- tions of literature and society. 3. He is great by original constitution. What nature origi- nally gave to him, nature has to some extent developed, strength- ened, and stamped with her own signature. We never consider him as a mere debater, a mere scholar, or a mere statesman; but as a strong, sturdy, earnest man. The school and the col- lege could not fashion him into any foreign shape, because they 304 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. worked on materials too hard to yield easily to conventional molds. 4. The impression of power we obtain from Webster's pro- ductions, — a power not merely of the brain, but of the heart and physical temperament, a power resulting from the mental and bodily constitution of the whole man, — is the source of his hold upon our respect and admiration. We feel thaft, under any circumstan jes, in any condition of social life, and, at almost any period ol time, his great capacity would have been felt and acknowledged. 5. A large majority of those who are called educated men have been surrounded by all the implements and processes of instruction ; but Webster won his education by battling against difficulties. "A dwarf behind a steam-engine can remove moun- tains ; but no dwarf can hew them down with a pick-ax, and he must be a Titan that hurls them abroad with his arms." Every step in that long journey, by which the son of the New Hampshire farmer has obtained the highest rank in social and political life, has been one of strenuous effort. The space is crowded with incidents, and tells of obstacles sturdily met and fairly overthrown. His life and his writings seem to bear testi- mony, that he can perform whatever he strenuously attempts. 6. His words never seem disproportioned to his strength. Indeed, he rather gives the impression that he has powers and impulses in reserve, to be employed when the occasion for their exercise may arise. In many of his speeches, not especially pervaded by passion, we perceive strength, indeed, but strength ' half-leaning on his own right arm." He has never yet been placed in circumstances where the full might of his nature, in all its depth of understanding, fiery vehemence of sensibility, and adamantine strength of will, have been brought to bear on any one object, and strained to their utmost. 7. We have referred to Webster's productions as being emi- nently national. Every one familiar with them will bear out the statement. In fact, the most hurried glance at his life would prove, that, surrounded as he has been from his youth by American influences, it could hardly be otherwise. His RHETORICAL READER. 306 earliest recollections must extend n'^nrly to the feelings and in- cidents of the Revolution. His whole life, since that period, has been passed in the country of his birth, and his fame and honors are all closely connected with American feelings and institutions 8. His works all refer to the history, the policy, the laws, the srovernment, the social life, and the destiny, of his own land They bear little resemblance, in their tone and spirit, to productions of the same class on the other side of the At- lantic. They have come from the heart and understanding of one into whose very nature the life of his country has passed. Without takim, into view the influences to which his youth and early manhood were subjected, so well calculated to inspire a love for the very soil of his nativity, and to mold his mind into accordance with what is best and noblest in the spirit of our institutions, his position has been such as to lead him to survey objects from an American point of view. 9. His patriotism has become part of his being. Deny him that, and you deny the authorship of his works. It has prompted the most majestic flights of his eloquence. It has given inten- sity to his purposes, and lent the richest glow to his genius. It has made his eloquence a language of the heart, felt and understood over every portion of the land it consecrates. Oa Plymouth Rock, on Bunker's Hill, at Mount Vernon, by the tombs of Hamilton, and Adams, and Jefferson, and Jay, we are reminded of Daniel Webster 10. He has done what no national poet has yet succeeded in doing, — associated his own great genius with all in our country's history and scenery which makes us rejoice that we are Americans. Over all those events in our history which are heroical, he has cast the hues of strong feeling and vivid imj»- gination. He can not stand on one spot of ground, hallowed by liberty or religion, without being kindled by the genius of the place; he can not mention a name, consecrated by self- devotion and patriotism, without doing it eloquent homage. Seeing clearly, and feeling deeply, he makes us see and feei with him. 306 8ANDERS' UNION SERIES. 11. That scene of the landing of the Pilgrims, in which his imagination conjures up the forms and emotions of our New England ancestry, will ever live in the national memory. We see, with him, the '' little bark, with the interesting group on its deck, make its slow progress to the shore." We feel, with him, *' the cold which benumbed," and listen, with him, " to the winds which pierced them." Carver, and Bradford, and Stan- di? h, and Brewster, and Allerton, look out upon us from the pictured page, in all the dignity with which virtue and freedom invest their martyrs ; and we see, too, " chilled and shivering childhood, houseless but for a mother's arms, couchless but for a mother's breast," till our own blood almost freezes. 12. The readiness with which the orator compels our sympa thies to follow his own, i? again illustrated in the orations at Bunker Hill, and in the discourse in honor of Adams and Jef- ferson. In reading them, we feel a new pride in our country, and in the great men and great principles it has cherished. The mind feels an unwonted elevation, and the heart is stirred with emotions of more than common depth, by their majesty and power. 13. Some passages are so graphic and true that they seem gifted with a voice, and to speak to us from the page they illu- mine. The intensity of feeling with which they are pervaded, rises, at times, from confident hope to prophecy, and lifts the soul as with wings. In that splendid close to a remarkable passage in the oration on Adams and Jefferson, what American does not feel assured, with the orator, that their fame will be immortal ? 14. "Although no sculptured marble should rise to their memory, nor engraved stout bear record to their deeds, yet will their remembrance be as lasting as the land they honored. Marble columns may, indeed, molder into dust, time may erase all impress from the crumbling stone, but their fame remains ; for with American Liberty it rose, and with American Liberty only can it perish. It was the last swelling peal of yonder choir, 'Their bodies are buried in peace, but their MA ME livetb EVERMORE.' I catch the solcmu song, I echo RHETORICAL READER. 307 that lofty strain of funeral triumph, 'Their name liveth evermore/ " 15. Throughout the speeches of Mr, Webster wc perceive this national spirit. He has meditated so deeply on the history, the formation, and the tendencies of our institutions ; he is so well acquainted with the conduct and opinions of every states- mfin who has affected the policy of the government ; and has become so thoroughly imbued with the national character, that his sympathies naturally flow in national channels, and have their end and object in the land of his birth and culture. His motto is, — " Our country, our whole country, and nothing but our country.^' It is the alpha and omega of his political alpha- bet. It is felt in his blood, and " felt along his heart." It is twined with all his early recollections, with the acts of his life, with his hopes, his ambition, and his fame. EXERCISE LXXXVII. IMPORTANCE OF THE UNION. WEB8TEB. 1. I profess, sir, in my career hitherto to have kept steadily in view the prosperity and honor of the whole country, and the preservation of our federal union. It is to that union we owe our safety at home, and our consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that union that we are chiefly indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our country. That union we reached only by the discipline of our virtues, in the severe school of adversity. It had its origin in the necessities of disordered finance, prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. 2. Under its benign influences, these great interests imme- diately awoke, as from the dead, and sprang forth with newness of life. Every year of its duration has teemed with fresh proofs of its utility and its blessings j and, although our territory has stretched out wider and wider, and our population spread farthei and farther, they have not outrun its protection or its benefits 308 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. It has been to us all a copious fountain of national, social, and personal happiness. 3. I have not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the "anion, to see what might lie hidden in the dark recess behind. I have not coolly weighed the chances of preserving liberty, when the bonds that unite us together shall be broken asunder. I have not accustomed myself to hang over the precipice of disunion to see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the depth of the abyss below ; nor could I regard him as a safe counselor in the affairs of this government, whose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how the union should be best preserved, but how tolerable might be the condition of the people, when it shall be broken up and destroyed. 4. While the union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the vail. God grant that, in my day, at least, that curtain may not rise. God grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies behind. When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the last time, the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored frag- ments of a once glorious union ; on states dissevered, discordant, belligerent ; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood I 5. Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known and honored throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its arms and tro- phies streaming in their original luster, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star obscured — bearing for its motto no such miserable interrogatory as — What is all this worth ? Nor those other words of delusion and folly — liberty first, and union afterward — but everywhere, spread all over in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds as they float Dver the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment dear to every true American heart — liberty and union, NOW and forever, one and inseparable ! RHETORICAL READER. 309 EXERCISE LXXXVIII. Leo. H. Geindon, who is Lecturer on Botany at the Royal School of Medicine, Manchester, is the author of several works of considerable literary and scientific worth. Among these is one entitled "•Life: its Nature, Varieties, and Phenomena," which — for sober, thoughtful speculation, occasional vigor and beauty of diction, for variety and felicity of illustration, for good sense and timely truth, for rare, if not altogether origi- nal views of life, in all its various manifestations — is seldom surpassed in these days of rapid book-making. The following is a good example of his manner. LIFE INTENDED TO BE HAPPY. GBINDON. 1. How inestimable a prerogative is human life ! And what ingratitude to misuse it. Life may be misu&ed without being abused. It is misused, if it be not so employed as to be enjoyed, that iS) by making the most of its opportunities; in other words, devoting it to honorable deeds, affectional as well as intellectual. The more strenuously we enact such deeds, the more genuine, because practical, is our acknowledgment of the Divine good- ness in bestowing life, and the keener becomes our aptitude for sucking the honey of existence. 2. Work or activity, of whatever kind it be, uprightly and earnestly pursued, is a living hymn of praise. It is truest obe- dience, also, for it is God's great law that whatever powers and aptitudes he has given us, shall be honorably and zealously em- ployed. The energy of life, when fairly brought out, is immense; immense beyond what any one who has not tried it can imagine. Too often neglected, and allowed to lapse into weakness; trained and exercised, it will quicken into grandeur. It is better to wear out than to rust out, says a homely proverb, with more meaning than people commonly suppose. Rust consumes faster than use. To " wear out" implies life and its pleasures ; to i *' rust," the stagnation of death. 3. Life, rightly realized, is embosomed in light and beauty. The world is not necessarily a " vale of tears." God never intended it to be so to any one. All his arrangements are with an opposite design, and to be fulfilled, only need man's response and cooperation. True, in his all-wise providence, he sends troubles upon men, and grievous ones ; but they are never so 810. Sanders' union series. great as those they bring upon themselves, and willingly suffer. What shall be our experience of life, rests mainly with our- selves. The world may render us unfortunate, but it cannot make us miserable ; if we are so, the fault lies in our own bosoms. It is not only the great who order their own circum- stances. 4. On the wide, wild sea of human life, as on that where go the ships, the winds and the waves are always on the side of the clever sailor. Though one breast prove unfaithful, there are plenty of others that do not. It is still our own to rejoice in the belief of the good and beautiful, and to weave out of this belief a perennial happiness. If we take precautions to form and pre- serve a sound estimate of what is past, the joyful experience and the sori'owful alike, we rarely have cause for regret, and always abundance for hope and thankfulness ; for that which spoils life, is seldom so much the occurrence of certain events, as the per- verted recollection of them, and of this, happy events no less than unhappy ones may be the subject. 5. Even if a man make no effort of himself — if he be so neg- jectful as not to realize the brilliant opportunities permitted to him, so fully as he may, still is life crowded with pleasures. When there is shadow, it is because there is sunshine not far off. Its weeds and thorns are known by contrast with surrounding flowers, and, though upon many even of the latter there may be rain-drops, those that are without are yet more abounding. There are more smiles in the world than there are tears ; there is more love than hate, more constancy than forsaking : those that murmur the contrary, choose not for thy companions. 6. When the mist rolls away from the mountains, and the landscape stands suddenly revealed, we find that Nature always has beauty for her end. However long and dreary may be the •winter, we are always indemnified by the spring — not merely by the enjoyment of it when it comes, but by the anticipation. So with the mists and wintry days of life ; while they last, they are painful, but their clearing away is glorious, and we find that they are only veils and forerunners of something bright. Nature never forgets her sestivalia,* nor Divine love its compensations. RHETORICAL READER. 311 The common course of things, says Paley, is uniformly in favor of happiness. Happiness is the rule, misery the exception. Else would our attention be called to examples of wealth and comfort, instead ol' disease and want. v. Giving full, fair play to the intellect and affections, we not only discover what it is to live, and how easy to live happily; but the period of our existence upon earth ceases to be short, and becomes immensely long. It is only the life of the body which is short, or need be so. Real, human life, is immeasura- ble, if we will have it so. Each day, remarks Goethe in his autobiography, is a vessel into which a great deal may be poured, if we will actually fill it up ; that is, with thoughts and feelings, and their expression into deeds, as elevated and amiable as we can reach to. 8. It needs little reflection to perceive that life truly consists only in such exercises. "The mere lapse of years is not life. To eat, and drink, and sleep, to be exposed to the darkness and the light, to pace round the mill of habit, and turn the wheel of wealth ; to make reason our book-keeper, and convert thought into an implement of trade ; this is not life. In all this but a poor fraction of the consciousness of humanity is awakened, and the sanctities still slumbor which make it most worth while to be. Knowledge, truth, love, beauty, goodness, faith, alone give vitality to the mechanism of existence." 9. Grandly expressed in " Festus :" — Life's more than breath, and the quick round of blood ; 'Tis a great spirit and a busy heart. We live in deeds, not years ; in thoughts, not breaths ; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives. Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best. 10. IF the expanding intellect and affections be affixed, under kindly guidance, to what is truthful and good, youth spreads its * uEsli valla {pas ti va li a), summer seasons. 3i2 SANDERS* UNION SERIES. wings, and goes on growing in everlasting life; if they be affixed, under vicious or repressing influences, to what is base or ignoble, the beautiful progression is arrested, and the spirit relapses into its original vacant old age. EXERCISE LXXXIX. Joseph Rodman Drake was born in New York city, August 7th, 1795, uni died September 21st, 1820. He wrote well in verse from early boyhtrod. His most finished eflFort is a poem entitled *• The Culprit Fay," which justly ranks him among the most gifted of poets. THE AMERICAN FLAG. When Freedom, from her mountain hight, Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there. She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure, celestial white. With streakings of the morning light j Then, from his mansion in the sun. She called her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The eymbol of her chosen land. IT. Majestic monarch of the cloua, Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest trumpings loud And see the lightning lances driven. When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, Child of the sun ! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free, RHETORICAL READER. 818 To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle-stroke, And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory ! III. Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high, "When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on. Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet. Each soldier eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn ; And, as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance. And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud, And gory sabers rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall; Then shall thy meteor glances glow. And cowering foes shall sink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave } When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee. And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye 6R 314 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Flag of the free heart's hope and home I By angel hands to valor given ; Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet ! Where breathes the foe but falls before U8, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us Y EXERCISE XC. WORDS FROM HOLY WRIT. WHENCE COMETH WISDOM? JOB xxvin. But where shall wisdom be found ? and where is the place of understanding ? Man knoweth not the price thereof; neither is it found in the laud of the living. The depth saith, It is not in me : and the sea saith, It is not with me. It can not be gotten for gold, neither shall silver be weighed for the price thereof. It cannot be valued with the gold of Ophir, with the precious onyx, or the sapphire. The gold and the crystal cannot equal it: and the exchange of it shall not be for jewels of fine gold. No mention shall be made of coral, or of pearls : for the price of wisdom is above rubies. The topaz of Ethiopia shall not equal it, neither shall it be valued with pure gold. Whence then Cometh wisdom? and where is the place of understanding? Behold, the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil is understanding. RHETORICAL READER. 315 II CONFIDENCE IN GOD. >8ALH XXni. The Lord is ray shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures : he leadeth me beside the stiU water" He rostoreth my soul ; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through tjhe valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil : for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life : and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. III. MAXIMS AND OBSERVATIONS. PROVERBS XXVn. Boast not thyself of to-morrow ; for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth. Let another man praise thee, and not thine own mouth ; a stranger, and not thine own lips. A stone is heavy, and the sand weighty ; but a fool's wrath is heavier than them both. Wrath is cruel, and anger is outrageous ; but who is able to stand before envy ? Open rebuke is better than secret love. Faithful are the wounds of a friend ; but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful. IV. CALL TO FAITH AND REPENTANCE. ISAIAH LY. Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money; come ye, buy, and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without money and without price. Wherefore do ye spend money for that which is not bread ? and your labor for that which satisfieth not? hearken diligently unto me, and eat ye that which is good, and let your soul delight itself in fatness. Incline your ear, and come unto me : hear and your soul shall live ; and I will make an everlasting covenant with you, even the sure mercies of David. B16 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. DEEDS, NOT WORDS. JZBSHIAB Wa. Trust ye not in lying words, saying, The temple of the Lord, The temple of the Lord, The temple of the Lord, are these. For if ye thoroughly amend your ways and your doings; if ye thoroughly execute judgment between a man and his neighbor; if ye oppress not the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow, and shed not innocent blood in this place, neither walk after other gods to your hurt ; then will I cause you to dwell in this place, in the land that I gave to your fathers, forever and ever. VI. SEEK FIRST THE KINGDOM OP GOD. MATTHBW TI. Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns ; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better thau they? And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the -lilies of the field how they grow ; they toil not, neither do they spin ; and yet I say unto you. That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, ye of little faith ? Therefore take no thought, saying. What shall we eat? or. What shall we drink ? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed ? but seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you. VII. DUTIES ENJOINED. ROMANS Xn. Let love be without dissimulation. Abhor that which is evil, eleave to that which is good. Be kindly afi"ectioned one to an- other with brotherly love; in honor preferring one another; not slothful in business ; fervent in spirit ; serving the Lord ; re* joicing in hope ; patient in tribulation ; continuing instant in prayer ; distributing to the necessity of saints ; given to hospi- RtlETOKlCAL READER. 317 tality. Bless them which persecute you; bless, aud curse not Rejoice with them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep. Be of the same mind one toward another. Mind not high things, but condescend to men of low estate. Be not wise in your own conceits. Recompense to no man evil for evil. Provide things honest in the sight of all men. If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men. viri. GENERAL EXHORTATION. PHILIP. IV. Liet your moderation be known unto all men. The Lord is at hand. Be careful for nothing ; but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God. And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatso- ever thmgs are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report ; if there be any virtue, aud if there be any praise, think on these things. IX. THE TONGUE AN UNRULY MEMBER. JAMES m. For every kind of beasts, and of birds, and of serpents, and of things in the sea, is tamed, and hath been tamed, of man- kind : but the tongue can no man tame ; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison. Therewith bless we God, even the Father; and therewith curse we men, which are made after the simili- tude of God. Out of the same mouth proceedeth blessing and cursing. My brethren, these things ought not so to be. Doth a fountain hend forth at the same place sweet water and bitter? Can the fig-tree, my brethren, bear olive-berries? either a vine, figs ? so can no fountain both yield salt water and fresh. Who is a wise man and endued with knowledge among you ? let him show out of H good conversation his works with meekness of wisdom. JJ18 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. EXERCISE XCI. Ma DAM R JcNOT (Juuo), DucHESS OP Abrantes, wife of the celebrated Junot, one of Napoleon's generals, was born at Montpelier, in the year 1784, and died near Paris in 1838. Her father was born in Corsica, and had been an early friend of the Bonaparte family. Her own family connections and Junot's interest with Bonaparte brought her into the highest Parisian circles, for which she was well fitted by her superior manners and education, Af er the fall of Napoleon, and the death of her husband, she was obliged to fc'bw literature as a means of living. She died very poor. Her chief work L entitled " Mcmoirn of the Duchess of Abrantes," from which comes the following interesting extract. CORONATION OF NAPOLEON. MADAME JCNOT. 1. Before day-break, on the ^d of December, 1804, all Paris was alive and in motion; indeed, hundreds of persons had remained up the whole of the night. Many ladies had the courage to get their hair dressed at two o'clock in the morning, and then sat quietly in their chairs, until the time arrived for arranging the other parts of their toilette. We were all very much hurried, for it was necessary to be at our posts before the procession moved from the Tuileries,* for which nine o'clock was the appointed hour. 2. Who that saw Notre-Dame on that memorable day can ever forget it ? I have witnessed in that venerable pile the celebration of sumptuous and solemn festivals, but never did I see anything at all approximating to the splendor exhibited at Napoleon's coronation. The vaulted roof re-echoed the sacred chanting of the priests, who invoked the blessing of the Almighty on the ceremony about to be celebrated, while they awaited the arrival of the Vicar of Christ, whose throne was prepared jiear the altar. 3. Along the ancient walls of tapestry were ranged, according to their ranks, the diflFerent bodies of the state, the deputies frcra every city, in short, the Representatives of all France, assembled to implore the benediction of Heaven on the sovereign of the * Tuiler'es ( TweeL^re), residence of the French monarchs, on the Seine. RHETORICAL READER. 319 people's choice. The waving plumes which adorned tl e hats of the senators, counselors of state, and tribunes — the splendid unitbrnis of the military — the clergy, in all their ecclesiastical pomp — and the multitude of young and beautiful women, glit- tering in jewels, and arrayed in that style of grace and elegance which is to be seen only in Paris — altogether presented a picture which has, perhaps, rarely been equaled, and certainly never excelled. 4. The Pope arrived first; and, at the moment of his entering the cathedral, the anthem, Tu es Petrus* was commenced. His Holiness advanced from the door with an air at once majestic and humble. Ere long, the firing of cannon announced the departure of the procession from the palace. From an early hour in the morning, the weather had been exceedingly unfavorable. It was cold and rainy, and appearances seemed to indicate that the procession would be anything but agreeable to those who joined in it. But, as if by the especial favor of Providence, of which so many instances are observable in the career of Napo- leon, the clouds suddenly dispersed, the sky brightened up, and the multitudes who lined the streets from the Tuileries to the cathedral, enjoyed the sight of the piocession without being, as they anticipated, drenched by a December rain. Napoleon, as he passed along, was greeted by heartfelt expressions of enthu- siastic love and attachment. 5. On his arrival at Notre-Dame, Napoleon ascended the throne, which was erected in front of the grand altar. Josephine took her place beside him, surrounded by the assembled sove- reigns of Europe. Napoleon appeared singularly calm. I watched him narrowly, with the view of discovering whether his hear., beat more highly beneath the imperial trappings than under the uniform of the Guards ; but I could observe no differ- ence, and yet I was at the distance of only ten paces from him. The length of the ceremony, however, seemed to weary him ; and I saw him several times check a yawn. Nevertheless, he did everything he was required to do, and did it with propriety * Thou art Peter. 320 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. 6. When the Pope anoiDted him with the triple unctict, on the head and both hands, I fancied, from the direction of his eyes, that he was thinkiug of wiping ofiF the oil, rather than of anything else ; and I was so perfectly acquainted with the work- ings of his countenance, that I have no hesitation in saying that was really the thought that crossed his mind at the moment. During the ceremony of anointing, the holy father delivered that impressive prayer which concludes with these words : — Diffuse^ oh Lord., hy my hands., the treasures of your grace aiid benediction on your servant.. Napoleon., whom, in spite of our person 2I unworthiness, we this day anoint Emperor, in your name. 7. Napoleon listened to this prayer with an air of pious devo- tion. But, just as the Pope was about to take the crown, called the crown of Charlemagne, from the altar, Napoleon seized it and placed it on his own head ! At that moment, he was really handsome, and his countenance was lighted up with an expres- sion of which no words can convey an idea. He had removed the wreath of laurel which he wore on entering the church, and which encircles his brow in the fine picture of Gerard. The crown was, perhaps, in itself, less becoming to him ; but the expression excited by the act of putting it on, rendered him perfectly handsome. 8. When the moment arrived for Josephine to take an active part in the grand drama, she descended from the throne, and advanced towards the altar, where the Emperor awaited hftr, followed by her retinue of court ladies, and having her train borne by the princesses, Caroline, Julie, Eliza, and Louise. One of the chief beauties of the Empress Josephine, was not merely her fine figure, but the elegant turn of her neck, and the way in which she carried her head ; indeed, her deportment, alto- gether, was conspicuous for dignity and grace. I have had the honor of being presented to many rea/ princesses, but I never saw one, who, to my eyes, presented so perfect a personification of elegance and majesty. 9. In Napoleon's countenance I could read the conviction of all I have just said. He looked with an air of complacency at RHETORICAL READER. 821 fche Empress, as she advanced towards him; and, when she knelt down — when the tears, which she could not repress, fell upon her clasped hands, as they were raised to heaven, or rather to Napoleon — both then appeared to enjoy one of those fleeting moments of pure felicity, which are unique in a lifetime, and serve to fill up a vacuum of years. The Emperor performed, with peculiar grace, every action required of him during the ceremony; but his manner of crowning Josephine was most remarkable. 10. After receiv:_.^ the small crown surmounted by the crf«s, he had first to place it on his own head, and then to transfer it to that of the Empress ; when the moment arrived for placing the crown on the head of the woman whom popular superstition regarded as his good genius, his manner was almost playful. He took great pains to arrange this little crown, which was placed over Josephine's tiara of diamonds; he put it on, then took it off, and, finally, put it on again, as if to promise her she should wear it gracefully and lightly. EXERCISE XCII. Charles Phillips, a distinguished Irish barrister, was born in Sligo In the year 1789, and died in London in 1859. As an author, he is best known Jt»y his " Recollections of Curran and some of his Contemporaries." The following is from one of his occasional addresses. SKETCH OF BONAPARTE. CHARLES PHIU^Pa. 1. He is fallen ! We may now pause before that splendid pro- digy, which towered amongst us like some ancient ruin, whose frown terrified the glance its magnificence attracted. Grand, gloomy, and peculiar, he sat upon the throne, a sceptered hermit, wrapt in the solitude of his own originality. A mind, bold, independent, and decisive — a will, despotic in its dictates — an energy that distanced expedition, and a co^rfcience pliable to every touch of interest, marked the outline of this extraordinary 14* R 322 SANDERS' UNION SERIES character — the most extraordinary, perhaps, that, in the annals of this world, ever rose, or reigned, or fell. 2. Flung into life in the midst of a revolution that quickened every energy of a people who acknowledge no superior, he com- nenced his course, a stranger by birth, and a scholar by charity ! W'^ith no friend but his sword, and no fortune but his talents, he rushed in the iis^where rank, and wealth, and genius had arrayed themselves, and competition fled from him as from the glance of destiny. He knew no~ motive but interest — he acknowledged no criterion but success — he worshiped no God but ambition, and, with an eastern devotion, he knelt at the fchrine of his idolatry. 3 Subsidiary to this, there was no creed that he did not pro- fess, there was no opinion that he did not promulgate ; in the hope of a dynasty, he upheld the Crescent ; for the sake of a divorce, he bowed before the Cross ; the orphan of St. Louis, he became the adopted child of the Republic; and, with a parricidal ingratitude, on the ruins both of the throne and tribune, he reared the throne of his despotism. A professed Catholic, he imprisoned the Pope j a pretended patriot, he impoverished the country ; and, in the name of Brutus, he grasped without re- morse, and wore without shame, the diadem of the Caesars ! Through this pantomime of policy, fortune played the clown to his caprices. At his touch, crowns crumbled, beggars reigned, systems vanished, the wildest theories took the color of his whim, and all that was venerable, and all that was novel, changed places with the rapidity of a drama. 4. Even apparent defeat assumed the appearance of victory— his flight from Egypt coimmied his destiny — ruin itself only elevated him to empire. But, if his fortune was great, his genius was transcendent; decision flashed upon his counsels; and it was the same to decide and to perform. To inferior intellects his combinations appeared perfectly impossible, his plans perfectly impracticable; but, in his hands, simplicity marked their develop- ment, and success vindicated their adoption. His person partook the chai;acter of his mind — if tl e one never yielded in the ?abinet, the other never bent in the field. Nature had no RHETORICAL READER. oZa obstacle that he did not surmount — space no opposition that he did not spurn ; and whether amid Alpine rocks, Arabian sands, or Polar snows, he seemed proof against peril, and empowered with ubiquity ! f The whole continent trembled at beholding the audacity of Ms designs, and the miracle of their execution. Skepticism bowed to the prodigies of his performance ; romance assumed the air of history ; nor was there aught too incredible for belief, or .00 fanciful for expectation, when the world saw a subaltern of Corsica waving his imperial flag over her most ancient capitals. All the visions of antiquity became common-places in his con- templation; kings were his people — nations were his outposts j and he disposed of courts, and crowns, and camps, and churches^ and cabinets, as if they were titular dignitaries of the chess- board ! Amid all these changes, he stood immutable as adamant. 6. It mattered little whether in the field or in the drawing- room — with the mob or the levee — wearing the Jacobin* bonnet or the iron, crown — banishing a Braganza, or espousing a Haps- burg — dictating peace on a raft to the Czar of Russia, or con- templating defeat at the gallows of Leipsic — he was still the same military despot ! 7. In this wonderful combination, his affectations of literature must not be omitted. The jailer of the press, he affected the patronage of letters — the proscriber of books, he encouraged philosophy — the persecutor of authors and the murderer of printers, he yet pretended to the protection of learning I Such a medley of contradictions, and, at the same time, such an indi- vidual consistency, were never united in the same character. A royalist — a republican and an emperor — a Mohammedan — a Catholic and a patron of the synagogue — a subaltern and a sove- reign — ft traitor and a tyrant — a Christian and an infidel — he was, through all his vicissitudes, the same stern, impatient, in- flexible original — the same mysterious, incomprehensible self— the man without a model, and without a shadow. * See a Note on the Jacobins, Exercise CI. 824 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. EXERCISE XCm. Mir 4 BEAU, the celebrated French orator and publicist, so remarkable foi personal deformity, for the hardships endured during the season of his youth, for the fierce passions that swayed his manhood, for the fiery and impetuous eloquence wherewith he moved, as by a miracle, the men of his times, wa* born near Sens, March 9th, 1749, and died in Paris, April 2d, 1791. Th« following eulogy was delivered, in June, 1790, before the National Assemllj of France, '^f which he was then a member. EULOGY ON FRANKLIN.* HIBABEAU. 1. Franklin is dead I Tiie genius, that freed America and poured a flood of light over Europe, has returned to the bosom of Divinity. 2. The sage whom two worlds claim as their own, the man for whom the history of science and the history of empires con- ♦.•^nd with each other, held, without doubt, a high rank in the human race. 3. Too long have political cabinets taken formal note of the death of those who were great only in their funeral panegyrics. Too long has the etiquette of courts prescribed hypocritical mourning. Nations should wear mourning only for their bene- factors. The Representatives of nations should recommend to their homage none but the heroes of humanity. 4. The Congress has ordained, throughout the United States, a mourning of one month for the death of Franklin ; and, at this moment, America is paying this tribute of veneration and grati- tude to one of the fathers of her Constitution. 5. Would it not become us, gentlemen, to join in this religioujs act, to bear a part in this homage, rendered, in the face of the world, both to the rights of man and to the philosopher who has most contributed to extend their sway over the whole earth / -Antiquity would have raised altars to this mighty genius, who, to the advantage of mankind, compassing in his mind the heavens and earth, was able to restrain alike thunderbolts and tyrants. Europe, enlightened and free, owes at least a token * See Exercise CXXXIII. RHETOKICAL READER. 325 of remembrance and regret to one of the greatest men who have ever been engaged in the service of philosophy and of Uberty EXERCISE XCIV. Richard Baxtkr, an eminent English divine, was born in Shropshire, in ino ytar 1615. He died in 1691. In the civil wars, he took part with the Parliament, though he had no sympathy with those who compassed the death of Charles I. He denounced Cromwell's assumption of supreme power, and advocated the return of Charles II. He received, consequently, considerable favor from the king, though always harassed by persecuting enemies. After the accession of James II., in 1685, he was arrested and brought before the merciless Jeffreys, where occurred the shocking scene described in the piece following. It should be added that he was, also, a voluminous writer, chiefly on religious subjects. He is best known, however, by his " Sainta' Everlast- ing Rest" and his "Call to the Unconverted." blEORGE Jeffreys, an English judge, whose brutality has condemned his name to immortal infamy, was born in Wales, in the year 1648, and died in the Tower of London in 1689. James II., whose tool he was, made him a peer in 1685, and soon after, in the same year, lord high chancellor: these offices being among the rewards of his infamous services. James Stephen, author of the following graphic sketch, is one of. the ablest of English critics and reviewers. The extract, given below, is from an article published in the Edinburgh Review in 1839. TRIAL OF RICHARD BAXTER. JAMES STEPHEN. 1. The judge entered the court with his face flaming : " he snorted and squeaked, blew his nose and clenched his hands, and lifted up his eyes, mimicking their manner, and running on furiously, as he said they used to pray." The ermined buffoon extorted a smile from the Nonconformists themselves. Pollex- fen, the leading counsel for the defense, gave into the humor, and attempted to gain attention for his argument by a jest " My lord," he said, " some will think it a hard measure to stop these men's mouths, and not to let them speak through theii f OSes." 2. " Pollexfen," said Jeffreys, " I know you well. You are 326 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. the patron of the faction; this is an old rogue who has poisoned the world with his Kidderminster doctrine. He encouraged all the women to bring their bodkins and thimbles, to carry on the war against their king, of ever blessed memory. An old schis- matical knave — a hypocritical villain." " My lord," replied the counsel, " Mr. Baxter's loyal and peaceable spirit King Charles would have rewarded with a bishopric, when he came in, if he would have conformed." " Ay," said the judge, " we know that; but what ailed the old blockhead, the unthankful Til lain, that he would not conform ? Is he wiser or better than jther men ? He hath been, ever since, the spring of the faction, I am sure he hath poisoned the world with his linsey-wolsey doctrine, a conceited, stubborn, fanatical dog." 3. After one counsel and another had been overborne by the fury of Jeffreys, Baxter himself took up the argument. " My lord," he said, " I have been so moderate with respect to the Ohurch of England, that I have incurred the censure of many 3f the Dissenters on that account." " Baxter for bishops !" exclaimed the judge, " is a merry conceit, indeed. Turn to it, turn to it !" On this one of the counsel turned to a passage in the libel, which stated that " great respect is due to those truly •Jailed bishops amongst us." 4. "Ay," said Jeffreys, "this is your Presbyterian cant; truly called to be bishops ; that is of himself and such rascals, called the bishops of Kidderminster, and other such places. The bishops set apart by such factious, sniveling Presbyterians as himself; a Kidderminster bishop he means, according to the saying of a late learned author, every parish shall maintain a tithe-pig metropolitan." 5. Baxter offering to speak again, Jeffreys exploded in the following apostrophe : " Richard ! Richard ! dost thou think here to poison the court ? Richard, thou art an old fellow — an old knave ; thou hast written books enough to load a cart, every one as full of sedition, I might say treason, as an Q^g is full of meat. Hadst thou been whipped out of thy writing trade forty years ago, it had been happy. I know that thou hast a mighty party, and I see a great many of the brotherhood in corners EHETORICAL READER. 327 waiting to see what will become of their mighty don, and a doctor of your party at your elbow ; but I will crush you all Come, what do you say for yourself, you old knave — come, speak up ; what doth he say? I am not afraid of him, or of all the sniv^eling calves you have got about you," — alluding to some persons who were in tears at this scene. 6 " Your lordship need not," said Baxter, " for I'll not hurt 50U But these things will surely be understood one day; what fools one sort of Protestants are made, to prosecute the othei " Then lifting up his eyes to heaven, he said, — " I am not concerned to answer such stuff, but am ready to produce my writings, in confutation .of all this; and my life and conversation are known to many in this nation." 7. The jury returned a verdict of guilty, and but for the resistance of other judges, Jeffreys would have added whipping through the city to the sentence of imprisonment. It was to continue until the prisoner should have paid five hundred marks. Baxter was at that time in his 70th year. A childless widower, groaning under the agonies of bodily pain, and reduced by former persecutions to sell all that he possessed ; he entered the King's Bench prison in utter poverty, and remained there for nearly two years, hopeless of any other abode on earth. 8. But the hope of a mansion of eternal peace and love raised him beyond the reach of human tyranny. He possessed his soul in patience. Wise and good men resorted to his prison, and brought back greetings to his distant friends, and maxims of piety and prudence. Happy in the review of a well spent life, and still happier in the prospect of its early close, his spirit enjoyed a calm for which his enemies might have well exchanged their miters and their thrones. The altered policy of the court .'estored him for awhile to the questionable advantage of bodily freedom. But age, sickness, and persecution had done their work. In profound lowliness, with a settled reliance on the Divine mercy, and })reathing out benedictions on those who encircled his dying bed, he soon passed away from a life of almost unequaled toil and suffering tc a new condition of existence 328 SANDEES' UNION SERIES, EXERCISE XCV. KiCHARD Brinsley Sheridan, ail English dramatist and politician, WM born in Dublin in 1751, and died in 1816. As a dramatist, hia most brilliant ind popular works are ''^ The Rivals'''' and '■^ The School for Scandal,^^— two 2omedies of almos' unrivaled excellence. In 1780 he was elected a member of Parliament. His first attempt, as a speaker, in Parliament, was considered a falure ; but lie afterward shone as a Parliamentary orator. In 1787, he Vrought forward the charge against the celebrated "Warren Hastings in respect to tbe spoliation of the princesses of Oude. This he did in a speech which ia regarded by some as tl e best of his life. From this we take the followLig boautiful extract. FILIAL PIETY. '' SHERIDAN. Filial piety ! — It is the primal boad of society — it is that iiv^tinctive principle which, panting for its proper good, soothes, unbidden, each sense and sensibility of man ! — it now quivers on every lip ! — it now beams from every eye ! — it is an emana- tion of that gratitude, which, softening under the sense of recollected good, is eager to own the vast, countless debt it ne'er, alas ! can pay, for so many long years of unceasing solicitudes, honorable self-denials, life-preserving cares ! — it is that part of our practice where duty drops its awe ! — where reverence refines into love ! — it asks no aid of memory ! — it needs not the deduc- tions of reason ! — pre-existing, paramount over all, whether law, or human rule, few arguments can increase, and none can diminish it ! — it is the sacrament of our nature ! — not only the duty — but the indulgence of a man — it is his first great privi- lege — it is among his last, most endearing delights ! — it causes the bosom to glow with reverberated love ! — it requites the visi- tations of nature, and returns the blessings that have been received! — it fires emotion into vital principle — it renders habituated instinct into a master passion — sways all the sweetest energies of man — hangs over each vicissitude of all that must pash away — aids the melancholy virtues in their last sad tasks of life, to cheer the languors of decrepitude and age — explores the thought — elucidates the aching eye ! — and breathes jawpat. consolation even in the awful moment of dissolution I RHETORICAL READER. J529 EXERCISE XCVI. Enigma is derived from a Greek word signifying to speak darkly, tbat is, to hint at. It is, therefore, applied to all compositions in -which tha language is designedly obscure and ambiguous, and is left to the reader to be made out by conjecture. The following are beautiful specimenfi of thxa kind of composition. ENIGMA. 1088 VAirSB^WB. I. 'Twas whispered in heaven, and muttered in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell ; On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed ; 'Twas seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder; 'Twill be found in the spheres, when riv-en asunder; 'Twas given to man with his earliest breath, Assists at his birth, and attends him in death j Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health, Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth. II. It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, And though unassuming, with monarchs is crowned. In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care. But is sure to be lost in his prodigal heir. Without it the soldier and sailor may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home. In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'er in the whirlwind of passion be drowned. It softens the heart; and, though deaf to the ear. It will make it acutely and instantly hear. But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower — 0, breathe on it softly ; it dies in an hour.* * The letter H. 330 SANDICUS' UNION SERIES. ANOTHER ENIGMA. Where Nature wears her wildest dress, In colors all her own, Wliere howling winds rage merciless, I spread my stormy throne : And loud and angry, wild and rude, I reign in dreary solitude. II. When summer skies are clear to view, And sunbeams dance around, I wear a robe of purest blue, With silvery fringes bound j And blush and sparkle, smile and play, Like beauty on a festal day. in. Sweet evening sets her earliest star Upon my peaceful breast, And I restore the gems afar. To deck Aurora's vest; The host of heaven, in bright array, To me, by turns, their homage pay. IV. The silent cave, the sparkling grot, In unknown realms, I ween. Where foot of mortal enters not, Nor vulture's eye hath seen-^ *Tis there I love to steal along, And pour ray evei lasting song. * See Note on Exercise XVII. JANB TATLOB.* EHETORICAL READEH. 331 V. And there, with pearl and amber crowned, I hold my gentler court, While freshest breezes play around. And merry mermaids sport ; And thousand graceful Naiads stand, With streaming urns in either hand. EXERCISE XCVII. Ltdia Huntlet Sigoubney was born at Norwich, Connecticut, ia the 7ear 1791. Early in the field of authorship and assiduous in its culture, £ho has continued to labor till some fifty or more volumes, it is said, stand forth to attest her claims to deserved distinction. She is known chiefly as a poetess; but she has written much in prose, and, thu-;, has richly earned the praise of having ministered gracefully and successfully to the well-being and well-doing of her fellow-creatures. E PHEM'' E RAL (Ep, Oil, and Hkmeral, pertaining to a day) is a Greek word, rnQsmin^ periaining to, or lasting for a day; transitory; short- lived. THE CORAL-INSECT. ma. BKOUKNEI. I. Toil on ! toil on ! ye ephemeral train, Who build on the tossing and treacherous main ; Toil on ! — for the wisdom of man ye mock, With your sand-based structures and domes of rock ; Your columns the fathomless fountains lave. And your arches spring up to the crested wave j Ye're a puuy race, thus to boldly rear A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear. II. Xe bind the deep with your secret zone. The ocean is sealed, and the surge a stone; 332 SANDERS' JNION SERIES. Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring, Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king; The turf looks green where the breakers rolled ; O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold ; The sea- snatched isle is the home of men, And the mountains exult where the wave hath been III. But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark The wrecking reef for the gallant bark ? There are snares enough on the tented field, Mid the blossomed sweets that the valleys yield ; There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up j There's a poison drop in the man's purest cup j There are foes that watch for his cradle breath ; And why need ye sow the floods with death ? IV. With moldering bones the deeps are white, From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright ; The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold, And the gods of ocean have frowned to see The mariner's bed in their halls of glee ; Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must spread The boundless sea for the thronging dead ? V. Ye build — ye build -but ye enter not in. Like the tribes whom the desert devoured in their sin j From the land of promise ye fade and die. Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye; As the kings of the cloud-crowned pyramid, Their noteless bones in oblivion hid. Ye slumber unmarked 'mid the desolate main, While the wonder and pride of your works remain. RHETORICAL READER 333 EXERCISE XCVIIl. George Ticknor was born in Boston, Massachusetts?, August Ist, 1791. After ample study and travel abroad, he entered, in 1820, upon the Profes- sorship of Modern Languages and Literature in Harvard University. In tbif position, he achieved a reputation for richness, variety, and depth of learning, and for extraordinary power and polish of diction, such as belongs only to merit of the highest order. For fifteen years he continued his labors In this connection. Then again he visited Europe. Nine years after his return, in 1840, he published his great work—*' The History of Spaniah Literature," which, with his other contributions to literature, immediately fixed 1:18 claims to distinction on the most enduring foundation. THE ALM OF DON QUIXOTE. GEORGE TICKNOE. 1. At the very beginning of his great work, Cervantes announces it to be his sole purpose to break down the vogue and authority of books of chivalry, and at the end of the whole, he declares anew, in his own person, that " he had no other desire than to render abhorred of men the false and absurd stories con- tained in books of chivalry;" exulting in his success, as an achievement of no small moment. And such, in fact, it was ; for we have abundant proof that the fanaticism for these romances was so great in Spain, during the sixteenth century, as to have become matter of alarm to the more judicious. 2. To destroy a passion that had struck its roots so deeply in the character of all classes of men, to break up the only reading which, at that time, could be considered widely popular and fashionable, was certainly a bold undertaking, and one that marks anything rather than a scornful or broken spirit, or a want of faith in what is most to be valued in our common nature. The great wonder is, that Cervantes succeeded. But that he did, there is no question. No book of chivalry was written after the appearance of Don Quixote in 1605 ; and from that date, even those already enjoying the greatest favor ceased, with one 01 two unimportant exceptions, to be reprinted : so that, from that time to the present, they have been constantly disappearing, until they are now among the rarest of literary curiosities. - 3. The general plan Cervantes adopted to accomplish this object, without, perhaps, foreseeing its whole course, and still 334 SANDERS' UNION SERIE3 .ess all its results, was simple as well as original. In 1605, lie published the First Part of Don Quixote, in which a country gentleman of La Mancha — full of genuine Castilian honor and enthusiasm, gentle and dignified in his character, trusted by his friends, and loved by his dependents — is represented as so com- pletely crazed by long reading the most famous books of chivalry, that he believes them to be true, and feels himself called on to become the impossible knight-errant they describe, — nay, actually goes forth into the world to defend the oppressed and avenge the injured, like the heroes of his romances. 4. To complete his chivalrous equipment, — which he had begun by fitting up for himself a suit of armor strange to his century, — he took an esquire out of his neighborhood ; a middle- aged peasant, ignorant and credulous to excess, but of great good-nature j a glutton and a liar j selfish and gross, yet attached to his master j shrewd enough occasionally to see the folly of their position, but always amusing, and sometimes mischievous in his interpretations of it. 5. These two sally forth from their native village, in search of adventures of which the excited imagination of the knight, turning windmills into giants, solitary inns into castles, and galley-slaves into oppressed gentlemen, finds abundance wherever he goes ; while the esquire translates them all into the plain prose of truth with an admirable simplicity, quite unconscious of its own humor, and rendered the more striking by its contrast with the lofty and courteous dignity and magnificent illusions of the superior personage. There could, of course, be but one con- sistent termination of adventures like these. The knight and his esquire suffer a series of ridiculous discomfitures, and are, at last, brought home, like madmen, to their native village, where Cervantes leaves them with an intimation that the story of theii adventures is by no means ended. 6. The latter half of Don Quixote is a contradiction of the proverb Cervantes cites in it, — that second parts were never yet good for much. It is, in fact, better than the first. But, throughout both parts, Cervantes shows the impulses and instincts of an original power with most distinctness in his RHETORICAL READER. 335 ilevclopment of the characters of Don Quixote and Sanchoj characters iu whose contrast and opposition is hidden the full spirit of his peculiar humor, and no small part of what is most characteristic of the entire fiction. They are his prominent per sonages. He delights, therefore, to have them as much aft possible in the front of his scene. 7. The knight becomes gradually a detached, separate, anc wholly independent personage into whom is infused so much of a generous and elevated nature, such gentleness and delicacy, such a pure sense of honor, and such a warm love for whatever is noble and good, that we feel almost the same attachment to him that the barber and the curate did, and are almost as ready as his family was, to mourn over his death. 8. The case of Sancho is, again, very similar, and, perhaps, in some respects stronger. At first, he is introduced as the opposite of Don Quixote, and used merely to bring out his master's peculiarities in a more striking relief. It is not until we have gone through nearly half of the First Part that he utters one of those proverbs which form afterwards the staple of his conversa- tion and humor ; and it is not until the opening of the Second Part, and, indeed, not till he comes forth, in all his mingled shrewdness and credulity, as governor of Barataria, that his character is quite developed and completed to the full measure of its grotesque, yet congruous proportions. 9. But, if we would do Cervantes the justice that would have been dearest to his own spirit, and even if we would ourselves fully comprehend and enjoy the whole of his Don Quixote, we fhould, as we read it, bear in mind that this deli^,htful romance was not the result of a youthful exuberance of feeling, and a happy external condition, nor composed in his best years, when the spirits of its author were light and his hopes high : but that, with all its unquenchable and irresistible humor, with its bright views of the world, and its cheerful trust in goodness and virtue, il was written in his old age, at the conclusion of a life nearly every step of which had been marked with disappointed eypecta- tions, disheartening struggles, and sore calamities; that he began it in a prison, and that it was finished when he felt the hand of *36 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. death pressing heavy and cold upon his heart. If this b6 remembered as we read, we may feel, as we ought to feel, what admiration and reverence are due, not only to the living power of Don Quixote, but to the character and genius of Cervantes; if it be forgotten or underrated, we shall fail in regard to both. EXERCISE XCIX. MiauEL DB Saavedra Cbrvaktes was born in the vicinity of Madrid, in Spain, in October, 1547. He died in April, 1616. In early life he was much given to poetry, but wrote largely afterwards both in verse and prose. His chief work, however, is the celebrated romance called " Don Quixote." For the aim of this famous production and a further account of its author, see Exercise XCVIII. preceding. In the extract which follows, Sancho Panza is represented as receiving instructions from Don Quixote, respecting hia new olBce, as governor of an island, which had long been promised him as the reward of faithful service to his master. DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA. OBBVAinXS. 1. Don Quixote, hearing how soon Sancho was to depart to his new government, took him by the hand, and led him to his chamber, in order to give him some advice, respecting his con- duct in oflfice : — " First, my son, fear Grod : for, to fear him is wisdom; and being wise, thou canst net err. Secondly, con- sider what thou art, and endeavor to know thyself, which is the most difficult study of all. The knowledge of thyself will pre- serve thee from vanity, and the fate of the frog who foolishly vied with the ox, will serve thee as a caution : the recollection, too, of having been formerly a swineherd, in thine own country, will be to thee, in the loftiness of thy pride, like the ugly feet of the peacock." 2. " It is true," said Sancho, " that I once did keep swine, but I was only a hoi/ then ; when I grew towards manhood^ I looked after geese^ and not hoys. But this, methinks, is nothing to the purpose ; for all governors are not descended from kings." " That I grant," replied Don Quixote : " and, therefore, those RHETORICAL READER. ' 837 who have not the advantage of noble descent, shculd fail not to grace the dignity of the office they bear, with gentleness and modesty, which, when accompanied with discretion, will silence those murmurs which few situations in life can escape. 3. "Conceal not the meanness of thy family, nor think it disgraceful to be descended from peasants : for, when it is seen that thou art not thyself ashamed, none will endeavor to make thee so ; and deem it more meritorious to be a virtuous humble man than a lofty sinner. Infinite is the number of those who, born low of extraction, have risen to the highest dignities, both in church and state ; and of this truth I could tire thee with examples. 4. " Remember, Sancho, if thou takest virtue for the rule of life, and vainest thyself upon acting in all things conformably thereto, thou wilt have no cause to envy lords and princes ; for blood is inherited, but virtue is a common property, and may be acquired by all; it has, moreover, an intrinsic worth which blood has not. This being so, if, peradventure, any one of thy kindred visit thee in thy government, do not slight^ nor affront him J but receive, cherish, and make much of him ; for, in so doing, thou wilt please God, who allows none of his creatures to be despised; and thou, also, wilt manifest therein a well- disposed nature. 5. " Be not under the dominion of thine own will ; it is the vice of the ignorant, who vainly presume on their own under- standing. Let the tears of the poor find more compassion, but not more justice from thee, than the applications of the wealthy. Be equally solicitous to sift out the truth amidst the presents and promises of the rich, and the sighs and entreaties of the pool. Whenever equity may justly temper the rigor of the law, let not the whole force of it bear upon the delinquent ; for it is better that a judge should lean on the side of compassion than severity. If, perchance, the scales of justice be not cor- rectly balanced, let the error be imputable to pity, not to gold. If, perchance, the cause of thine enemy come before thee, forget thy injuries, and think only on the merits of the case. Let not private afi"ection blind thee in another man's cause; for the 15 6 K 838 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. errors thou shalt thereby commit, are often without remedy, ani at the expense of both thy reputation and fortune. 6. When a beautiful woman comes before thee to demand justice, consider maturely the nature of her claim, without re- garding either her tears or her s/^Aa, unless thou wouldst expose thy judgment to the danger of being lost in the one, and thy integrity in the other. Revile not with words him whom thou hast to correct with deeds : the punishment which the unhappy wretch is doomed to suffer is sufficient, without the addition of abusive language. When the criminal stands before thee, re- collect the frail and depraved nature of man, and, as much as thou canst, without injustice to the suffering party, show pity and clemency ; for, though all the attributes of God are equally adorable, yet his mercy is more shining and attractive in our eyes than his justice. 7. " If, Sancho, thou observest these precepts, thy days wiL be long and thy fame eternal : thy recompense full and thy felicity unspeakable. Thou shalt marry thy children to thy heart's content, and they and thy grandchildren shall want neither honors nor titles. Beloved by all men, thy days shall pass in peace and tranquillity ; and when the inevitable period comes, death shall steal on thee in a good and venerable old age, and thy grandchildren's children, with their tender and piouA hands, shall close thine eyes. 8. " But here let it rest, Sancho, for, if thou governest ill, though the fault will be thine, the shame will be mine. How- ever, I am comforted in having given the best counsel in my power ; and, therein having done my duty, I am acquitted both of my obligation and my promise ; so God speed thee, Sancho, and govern thee in thy government, and deliver me from the fears I entertain, that thou wilt turn the whole island topsy- turvy !" &. " Look you, sir," replied Sancho, " if your worship thinks I am not fit for this government, I renounce it from this time j for I have more regard for a single nail's breadth of my soul^ than for my whole body; and plain Sancho can live a.s well upon bread and onions, as governor Sancho upon capon and partridge RHETORTCAL READER. OSV Besides, sleep makes us all alike, great and small, rich and poor Call to mind, too, who first put this whim of governing into my head — who was it but yourself? for, alack, I know no more about governing islands than a bustard; and, if you fancy that, in case I should be a governor, the devil will have me — in God'a name, let me rather go to Heaven plain Sancho, than a governor to Hell " 10. " Before God, Sancho," quoth Pon Quixote, " for those .ast words of thine, I think that thou deservest to be governor of a thousand islands ! Thou hast a good disposition, without which knowledge is of no value. Pray to God, and endeavor not to err in thy intention; I mean, let it ever be thy unshaken pur- pose and design to do right in whatever business occurs; foi Heaven constantly favors a good intention." EXERCISE G. Uhapman and Shirley were contemporary English dramatists in the early part of the seventeenth century. The former was much the older man, and is distinguished as being the earliest English translator of Homer» Tha subject of the following extract, which is given by Charles Lamb, as theii joint production, is explained in the note below. Philip Chabot (Chabo), Admiral of France, being accused of treason, a criminal process is instituted against him, and his faithful servant Allegro is put on the rack to make him discover. His innocence is at length established by the confession of his enemies ; but the disgrace of having been suspected for a traitor by his Royal Master, sinks a%. deep into his heart, that he falls into a mortal sickness. THE FATAL CHARGE. OHAPMAN AND SmSLKT Admi RAL, and Allegre, supported between two persons. Adm. Welcome, my injured servant; what a misery Have they made on thee I AUeg. Though some change appear Upon my body whose severe affliction S40 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Hafh brought it thus to be sustained by others, My heart is still the same in faith to you, Not broken with their rage. Adm. Alas, poor man ! Were all my joys essential, and so mighty, A.S the aflfected world believes I taste, This object were enough t' unsweeten all. Though in thy absence, I had suflfering, And fel* within me a strong sympathy, While, lor my sake, their cruelty did vex, And fright thy nerves, with horror of thy sense, Fet in this spectacle I apprehend More grief, than all my imagination Could let before into me. Didst not curse me Upon the torture ? Alleg. Good my lord, let not That thought of what I suffered dwell upon Tour memory ; they could not punish more Than what my duty did oblige to bear For you and justice : but there's something, in Your looks, presents more fear, than all the malice Of my tormentors could affect my soul with. That paleness, and the other forms you wear, Would well become a guilty admiral, one Lost to his hopes and honor, not the man Upon whose life the fury of injustice. Armed with fierce lightning and the power of thunder, Can make no breach. I was not racked till now. There's more death in that falling eye, than all Rage ever yet brought forth. What accident, sir, can blast,- Can be so black and fatal, to distract The calm, the triumph, that should sit upon Your noble brow : misfortune could have no rime to conspire with fate, since you were rescued By the great arm of Providence ; nor can Those garlands, that now grow about your forehead, With all the poison of the world, be blasted. RHETORICAL READER. 341 Adm. Allegre, thou dost bear thy wounds upon thee In wide and spacious characters; but, in The volume of my sadness, thou dost want An eye to read. An open force hath torn Thy manly sinews, which some time may cure. The engine is not seen, that wounds thy master, — Past all the remedy of art, or time. The flatteries of court, of fame or honors. Thus, in the summer, a tall flouri.shing tree, Transplanted by strong hand, with all her leaves And blooming pride upon her, makes a show Of spring, tempting the eye with wanton blossoms; But not the sun with all her amorous smiles, The dews of morning, or the tears of night. Can root her fibers in the earth again ; Or make her bosom kind, to growth and bearing : But the tree withers ; and those very beams. That once were natural warmth to her soft verdure, Dry up her sap, and shoot a fever through The bark and rind, till she becomes a burden To that which gave her life : so Chabot, Chabot — Alley. Wander in apprehension ! I must Suspect your health, indeed. Adm. No, no, thou shalt not Be troubled : I but stirred thee with a moral That's empty, — contains nothing. I am well : See, I can walk ; poor man, thou hast not strength yet. {TTie father of the Admiral makes known ike condition hit son is in to the King.) Father. King. King. Say, how is my admiral */ The truth, upon thy life. Fafh. To secure his, I would you had. King. Ha ! who durst oppose him ? Fith. One that hath power enough, hath practiced on him, And made his great heart stoop. 342 SANDEBS' UNION SERIES. King. I will revenge ii With crushing, crushing that rebellious power To nothing. Name him 1 Fath. He was his friend. King. What mischief hath engendered New storms ? Fath. 'Tis the old tempest King. Did not we Appease all horrors that looked wild upon him ? Fath. You dressed his wounds, I must confess, but made No cure ; they bleed afresh : pardon me, sir ; Although your conscience have closed too soon, He is in danger, and doth want new surgery : Though he be right in fame, and your opinion, He thinks you were unkind. King. Alas ! poor Chabot I Doth that afflict him ? Fath. So much, though he strive With most resolved and adamantine nerves, As ever human fire in flesh and blood Forged for example, to bear all ; so killing The arrows that you shot, were (still, your pardon I) No Centaur's blood could rankle so. King. If this Be all, I'll cure him. Kings retain More balsam in their souls, than hurt in anger. Fath. Far short, sir j with one breath they uncreate; And kings, with only words, more wounds can make Than all their kingdom, made in balm, can heal. 'Tis dangerous to play too wild a descant On numerous virtue ; though it become princes To assure their adventures made in everything. Goodness confined within poor flesh and blood, Hath but a queasy and still sickly state ; A musical hand should only play on her, F'uent as air, yet every touch coiimand. King. No more : RHETORICAL READER. 84S Commend us to the admiral, and say The king will visit him, and bring him health. Fath. I will not doubt that blessing, and shall move Nimbly with this command. (^The King visits the Admiral.) King. Admiral. His Wife and Father. King. No ceremonial knees : (3 ive me thy heart, my dear, my honest Chabot ; And yet in vain I challenge that ; 'tis here Already in my own, and shall be cherished With care of my best life : no violence Shall ravish it from my possession ; Not those distempers that infirm my blood And spirits, shall betray it to a fear ; When time and nature join to dispossess My body of a cold and languishing breath, — No stroke in all my arteries, but silence In every faculty, — yet dissect me then, And, in my heart, the world shall read thee living; And, by the virtue of thy name writ there, That part of me shall never putrefy. When I am lost in all my other dust. Adm. You too much honor your poor servant, sir; My heart despairs so rich a monument. But when it dies — King. I would not hear a sound Of anything that trenched upon death. He speaks the funeral of my crown, that prophesies So unkind a fate : we'll live and die together. And by that duty, which hath taught you hitherto ,A11 loyal and just services, I charge thee. Preserve thy heart for me, and thy reward Which now shall crown thy merits. Adm. I have found A glorious harvest in your favor, sir ; And, by this ovei-flow of royal grace, 344 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. All my deserts are shadows and fly from me ; I have not in the wealth of my desires Enough to pay you now — King. Express it in some joy, then. Adm. I will strive To show that pious gratitude to you, but — King. But what? Adm. My frame hath lately, sir, been ta*en apieces. And but now put together ; the least force Of mirth will shake and unjoint all my reason. Your patience, royal sir. King. I'll have no patience, Tf thou forget the courage of a man. Adm. My strength would flatter me. King. Physicians, Now I begin to fear his apprehension. Why, how is Chabot's spirit fallen ! Adm. Who would not wish to live to serve your goodneecj f Stand from me. You betray me with your fears. The plummets may fall oflF that hang upon My heart; they were but thoughts at first; or, if They weigh me down to death, let not my eyes Close with another object than the king. Ki7ig. In a prince What a swift executioner is a frown, Especially, of great and noble souls 1 How is it with my Philip ? Adm. I must beg One other boon. King, Upon condition My Chabot will collect his scattered spirits, And be himself again, he shall divide My kingdom with me. Adm. I observe A fierce and killing wrath engendered in you; For my sake, as you wish me strength to serve you, Forgive your chancellor ; let not the story RHETORICAL READER. tJttS Of Philip Chabot, read hereafter, draw A tear from any family ; I beseech Your royal mercy on his life, and free Remission of all seizure upon his state. I have no comfort else. King. Endeavor ]Jit thy own health; and pronounce general pardon Td al' through France. Adm. Sir, I must kneel to thank you ] It is not sealed else. Your blest hand ; live happy, May all your trust have no less faith than Chabot. Oh !— Wife. His heart is broken. Father. And kneeling, sir; As his ambition were, in death, to show The truth of his obedience. EXERCISE CI. Thomas Babington Macaxjlay was born in Leicester, England, October 25th, 1800, and died in London, December 28th, 1859. His career, in college, was but the brilliant harbinger of a far more brilliant one in the world. In 1825 appeared his first contribution to the Edinburgh Review, with which periodical he held connection for twenty years; during which he came to be universally regarded as the very prince of essayists : showing such depth and extent of research, such fullness of detail, such rare felicity of illustration, such singular power in reproducing the past, such beauty and brilliancy of style, and such exhaustive treatment and general mastery of his topics, as utterly eclipsed the glory of all his rivals in that line of compositio . Fe \\'a^ distinguished, also, as a statesman : having shown himself, in aflfairs of state and in public oflBce, quite equal to the expectations that had been formed of him from his writings. As a historian, moreover, he acquired, by the publication of his " History of England from the Accession of James the Second," such popularity as seldom falls to the lot of even the most admired cf novelists. In 1857 he was made a peer of England, with the title of Baron Macaulay, of Rothley. ' Jacobins is the name under which passed the most famous of all the political clubs that agitated France during the first Revolution. In that club, consisting of all the violent leaders of the day, were discussed all the motions and questions that were to come before the National 15* K 346 SANDEES* UNION SERIES. Assembly; so that the Jacobin Club, which, with its twelve Ltmdred branches, extended all over France, came, at last, to be the ruling force in the nation. What was the character of that rule, the following vivid sketch sufficiently shows. THE REIGN OF TERROR. HACAVLAT. 1. JNow began that strange period known by the name of the Reign of Terror. The Jacobins * had prevailed. This was their hour and the power of darkness. The convention was sub- jugated, and reduced to profound silence on the highest ques- tions of state. The sovereignty passed to the Committee of Pubjic Safety. To the edicts framed by that Committee, the representative assembly did not venture to offer even the species of opposition which the ancient Parliament had frequently offered to the mandates of the ancient kings. 2. Then came those days, when the most barbarous of all codes was administered by the most barbarous of all tribunals ; when no man could greet his neighbors, or say his prayers, or dress his hair, without danger of committing a capital crime ; when spies lurked in every corner; when the guillotine* was long and hard at work every morning; when the jails were filled as close as the hold of a slave ship ; and the gutters ran foaming with blood into the Seine. 3. No mercy was shown to sex or age. The number of young lads and of girls of seventeen who were murdered by that execrable government, is to be reckoned by hundreds. Babies, torn from the breast, were t-^ssed from pike to pike along the Jacobin ranks. One champion of liberty had his pockets well stuffed with ears. Another swaggered about with the finger of a little child in his hat. A few months had sufl&ced to degrade France below the level of New Zealand. 4. It is absurd to say, that any amount of public danger can justify a system like this. It is true that great emergencies call for activity and vigilance ; it is true that they justify severity which, in ordinary times, would deserve the name of cruelty * Guillotine {giV lo teen), a machine for beheading persons at a single stroke ; so ca. 'ed, it is said, from the name of its inventor. RHETORICAL READER. 347 But indiscriminate severity can never, under any circumstances, be useful. It is plain that the whole efficacy of punishment depends on the care with wnich the guilty are distinguished Punishment which strikes the guilty and the innocent promiscu- ous ly, operates merely like a pestilence or a great convulsion of naturs, and has no more tendency to prevent offenses, than the cholera or an earthquake, like that of Lisbon, would have. 5. The great Queen who so long held her own against foreign and domestic enemies, against temporal and spiritual arms ; the great Protector who governed with more than regal power, in despite both of royalists and republicans ; the great King who, with a beaten army and an exhausted treasury, defended his little dominions to the last against the united efforts of Russia, Austria, and France ; with what scorn would they have heard that it was impossible for them to strike a salutary terror into the disaffected, without sending school-boys and school-girls to death by cart>loads and boat-loads ! 6. To behead people by scores, without caring whether they are guilty or innocent ; to wring money out of the rich by the help of jailers and executioners; to rob the public creditor, and put him to death, if he remonstrates ; to take loaves by force out jf the bakers' shops ; to clothe and mount soldiers by seizing on one man's wool and linen, and on another man's horses and saddles, without compensation, is of all modes of governing the simplest and most obvious. Of its morality we, at present, say nothing. But, surely, it requires no capacity beyond that of a barbarian or a child. 7. By means like those which we have described, the Com- mittee of Public Safety undoubtedly succeeded, for a short time, in enforcing profound submission, and in raising immense funds. But to enforce submission by butchery, and to raise funds by spoliation, is not statesmanship. The real statesman is he who, in troubled times, keeps down the turbulent without unnecessarily harassing the well-affected; and who, when great pecuniary resources are needed, provides for the public exigencies without violating the security of property, and drying up the sources of future prosperity. 848 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. EXERCISE CIl. ULTIMATE TRIUMPH OF PUBLIC OPINION. WEB8TEB • 1. The PUBLIC OPINION of the civilized world is rapidly gaining an ascendency over mere brute force. It may be silenced by military power, but it cannot be conquered. It is elastic, irrepressible, and invulnerable to the weapons of ordinary war- fare. It is that impassible, unextinguishable enemy of mere violence and arbitrary rule, which, like Milton's angels, •'Vital in every part, Can not, but by annihilating, die I" 2. Until this be propitiated or satisfied, it is vain for power to talk of triumphs or repose. No matter what fields are deso- lated, what fortresses surrendered, what armies subdued, or what provinces overrun. In the history of the year that has passed by us, and in the instance of unhappy Spain, we have seen the vanity of all triumphs in a cause which violates the general sense of justice of the civilized world. It is nothing that the troops of France have passed from the Pyrenees to Cadiz ; it is nothing that an unhappy and prostrate nation has fallen before them ; it is nothing that arrests, and confiscation, and execution, sweep away the little remnant of national resistance. 3. There is an enemy that still exists to check the glory of these triumphs. It follows the conqueror back to the very scene of his ovations j it calls upon him to take notice that Europe, though silent, is indignant; it shows him that the scepter of his victory is a barren scepter ; that it shall confer neither joy nor honor, but shall molder to dry ashes in his grasp. In the midst of his exultation, it pierces his ear with the cry of in- jured justice; it denounces against him the indignation of an enlightened and civilized age ; it turns to bitterness the cup of his rejoicing, and wounds him with the sting which belongs to the consciousness of having outraged the opinion op man- kind ! * See Exercise LXXXVL RHETORICAL READER. 849 EXERCISE cm. CharIjBS Dickens was born at Portsmouth, in England, February 7th, 1812. His father intended him for the legal profession, ani, for that reason, kept him for some time in the office of an attorney. But he found far more congenial occupation in the business of a newspaper critic and reporter. What first brought him into notice was a series of sketches of London char- acter, in the lower walks of life, published in the " Morning Chronicle," under the title of " Boz." Following these, and, in the same vein, though with a far wider range and variety of resource, came the celebrated '* Pick- wick Papers," which gave him at once a popularity exceeding that of any other living writer. These papers discovered such genial humor, such genuine wit, such graphic description, such felicity of expression, and, withal, such pathos, everywhere mingled with comic scenes and circumstances, that, in spite of certain defects prominent enough to artistic eyes, his sway over the reader was perfectly absolute. Mr. Dickens has written much since, and secured for himself a permanent place in the temple of fame. In the following scene, Mr. Pickwick, an amiable, unsophisticated gentle- man, is presented in the unlucky circumstances which afterwards led, in the main, to a trial for a breach of promise of marriage, in a suit brought by Mrs. Bardell. SCENE FROM PICKWICK :— MR. PICKWICK'S DILEMMA. CHARLES DICKENS. 1. Mr. Pickwick's apartments on Goswell street, although on a limited scale, were not only of a very neat and comfortable description, but peculiarly adapted for the residence of a man of his genius and observation. His sitting-room was the first floor front, his bed-room the second floor front; and thus, whether he were sitting at his desk in the pai-lor, (t standing before the dressing-glass in his dormitory, he had an equal opportunity of contemplating human nature in all the numerous phases it exhibits, in that not more populous than popular thoroughfare. 2. His landlady, Mrs. Bardell — the relict and sole executrix of a deceased custom-house ofiicer — was a comely woman of bustling manners and agreeable appearance, with a natural genius for cooking, improved by study and long practice into an exquisite talent. There were no children, no servants, no fowls. The only other inmates of the house were a large man and a small boy — the first a lodger^ the second a son of Mrs. Bardell. The large man was always at home precisely at ten o'clock at night, at which hour he regularly condensed himself into the limita 850 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. of a dwarfish Freuch bedstead in the back parlor; and the infantine Sports and gymnastic exercises of Master Bardell were exclusively confined to the neighboring pavements and gutters. Cleanliness and quiet reigned throughout the house ; and in it Mr. Pickwick's will was law. 3. To any one acquainted with these points of the donr.estic economy of the establishment, and conversant with the admirable regulation of Mr. Pickwick's mind, his appearance and behavior, on the morning previous to that which had been fixed upon for the journey to Eatanswill, would have been most mysterious and 01 accountable. He paced the room to and fro with hurried steps, popped his head out of the window at intervals of about three minutes each, constantly referred to his watch, and exhib- ited many other manifestations of impatience, very unusual with him. It was evident that something of great importance was in contemplation, but what that something was, not even Mrf. Bardell herself had been enabled to discover. 4. " Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that amiable female approached the termination of a prolonged dusting of the apartment. " Sir," said Mrs. Bardell. " Your little boy is a very long time ;.one." " Why, it's a good long way to the Borough, sir," remonstrated Mrs. Bardell. " Ah," said Mr. Pickwick, " very true ; so it is." Mr. Pickwick relapsed into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting. " Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few minutes. " Sir," said Mrs. Bardell again. " Do you think it's a much greater expense to keep two people, than to keep one ?" " La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, coloring up to the very border of her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her lodger ; " La, Mr. Pick- wick, what a question !" 5. "Well, but do you?" inquired Mr. Pickwick. RHETORICAL READER. 351 *f which, by the former, appeared in 1776. Notwithstanding the pungent portrait which follows, we think with a recent writer that " he could not have oeen the most contemptible of men, and the affection with which he inspired some of the greatest wits of his time, obliges us to believe that there was in him a vein of good sense and good fellowship." PORTRAIT OF JAMES BOSWELL. MACADLAT.* 1. Mauy of the jreatest men that ever lived, have written biography. Boswell was one of the smallest men that ever lived ; and he has beaten thorn all. He was, if we are to give any credit to his own account, or to the united testimony of all who knew him, a man of the meanest and feeblest intellect. Johnson described him as a fellow who had missed his only chance of immortality, by not having been alive when the Dunciadf was written. Beauclerk used his name as a proverbial expression for a bore. He was the laughing-stock of the whole of that brilliant society which has owed to him the greater part of its fame. He was always laying himself at the feet of some eminent man, and begging to be spit upon and trampled upon. ' 2. He was always earning some ridiculous nickname, and then " binding it as a crown unto him," — not merely in meta- phor, but literally. He exhibited himself at the Shakspeare Jubilee, to all the crowd which filled Stratford-oo-Avon, with a placard around his hat bearing the inscription of " Corsica BosWEiiL." In his Tour, he proclaimed to all the world, that * See Note on Macaulay, over Exercise CI. f The Dunciad is a celebrated satirical work by Alexander Pope See Exercise CXLVIIL RHETORICAL READER. 395 at Edinburgh he was known by the appellation of " Paoli BOSWELL." 3. Servile and impertinent — shallow and pedantic — a bigot and a sot — bloated with family pride, and eternally blustering about the dignity of a born gentleman, yet stooping to be a tale- bearer, and eaves-dropper, a common butt in the taverns of 1 iundon — so curious to know everybody who was talked ab( ut, that, Tory and High Churchman as he was, he maneuvered, we have been told, for an introduction to Tom Paine — so vain of tht most childish distinctions, that, when he had been to court, he drove to the office where his book was being printed, without changing his clothes, aud summoned all the printer's devils to admire his new ruffles and sword ; — such was this man : and such he was content and proud to be. Everything which another man would have hidden — everything, the publication of which would have made another man hang himself, was matter of gay and clamorous exultation to his weak and diseased mind. 4. What silly things he said — what bitter retorts he pro- voked — how at one place he was troubled with evil presentiments which came to nothing — how at another place, on waking from a drunken doze, he read the Prayer-book, and took a hair of the dog that had bitten him — how he went to see men hanged, and came away maudlin — how he added five hundred pounds to the fortune of one of his babies, because she was not frightened at Johnson's ugly face — ^how he was frightened out of his wits at sea — aod how the sailors quieted him as they would have quieted k child— how tipsy he was at Lady Cork's one evening, and how much his merriment annoyed the ladies — how impertinent he was to the Duchess of Argyle, and with what stately contempt she put down his impertinence — how Colonel Macleod sneered 'iO his face at his impudent obtrusiveness — how his father a\id .,he very wife of his bosom laughed and fretted at his fooleries — ah these things he proclaimed to all the world, as if they had been subjects for pride and ostentatious rejoicing. 5. All the caprices of his temper, all the illusions of his vanity, all the hypochondriac whimsies, all his castles in the 390 SANPERS' UNION SERIES. nir, he displayed with a cool self-complacency, a perfect uncon- sciousoess that he was making a fool of himself, to which it is impossible to find a parallel in the whole history of mankind. He has used many people ill, but assuredly he has used nobody so ill as himself. 6. That such a man should have written one of the best books in the world, is strange enough. But this is not all. Many persons who have conducted themselves foolishly in active life, and whose conversation has indicated no superior powers of mind, have written valuable books. Goldsmith was very justly described by one of his contemporaries, as an inspired idiot, and by another as a being ♦• Who wrote like an angel, and talked like poor Poll." 7. Without all the qualities which made him the jest and the torment of those among whom he lived — without the officious- ness, the inquisitiveness, the effrontery, the toad-eating, the insensibility to all reproof, he never could have produced so excellent a book. He was a slave, proud of his servitude ; a Paul Pry, convinced that his own curiosity and garrulity were virtues ; an unsafe companion, who never scrupled to repay th« most liberal hospitality by the basest violation of confidence; a man without delicacy, without shame, without sense enough to know when he was hurting the feelings of others, or when he was exposing himself to derision j and because he was all this^ he has, in an important department of literature, immeasurabl} surpassed such writers as Tacitus, Clarendon, Alfieri, and hi.s own idol Johnson. 8. Those weaknesses which most men keep covered up in the most secret places of the mind, not to be disclosed to the eye of friendship or of love, were precisely the weaknesses which Bos- well paraded before all the world. He was perfectly frank, because the weakness of his understanding and the tumult of his spirit, prevented him from knowing when he made himself ridiculous. 9. His fame is great, and it will, no doubt, be lasting; but it RHETORICAL REALER. 397 is a fame of a peculiar kind, and, indeed, marvelously resembles infamy. We remember no other case in which the world has made so great a distinction between a book and its author. In general, the book and the author are considered as one. To admire the book is to admire the author. The ease of Bosweh is an exception, we think the onlt/ exception to this rule. Hii work is universally allowed to be interesting, instructive, emi- nently original; yet it has brought him nothing but contempt. All the world reads it, all the world delights in it; yet we do DDt remember ever to have read or even to have heard any ex- prc3sion of respect and admiration for the man to whom we .w<* so much instruction and amusement. EXERCISE CXIX. The passages below are taken almost at random from Boswell's cele- brated biography; the object being merely to show the general cast of the book, and to afford a good exercise in this kind of reading. PASSAGES FROM BOSWELL'S LIFE OF JOHNSON. 1. Mr. Ogilvie was unlucky enough to choose for the topic of his conversation the praises of his native country. He began with saying, that there was very rich land around Edinburgh. Goldsmith, who had studied physic there, contradicted this very untruly with a sneering laugh. Disconcerted a little by this, Mr. Ogilvie then took a new ground, where, I suppose, he thought himself perfectly safe ; for he observed, that Scotland had a great many noble wild prospects. Johnson : " I believe, sir you have a great many. Norway, too, has ' nohle wild pros- pcrts ;' and Lapland is remarkable for prodigious ' noble ^cild l^ospectsl' Uut, sir, let me tell you, the noblest prospect which a Scotchman ever sees, is the high-road that leadq him to England !" This unexpected and pointed sally produced a roar of applause. 2. On the 14th, we had another evening by ourselves, at tho ^98 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Miter. It happened to be a very rainy night. I made some common-place observations on the relaxation of nerves and de- pression of spirits which such weather occasioned, adding, how- ever, that it was good for the vegetable creation. Johnson, who denied that the temperature of the air had any influence on tlie human frame, answered, with a smile of ridicule, — " Why, yes. sir J it is good for vegefablea, and for the animals who eat those vegetables, and for the animals who eat those animals." This observation of his aptly enough introduced a good supper, and I soon forgot, in Johnson's company, the influence of a moist atmosphere. 3. When a gentleman had told him he had bought a suit of lace for his lady, he said : — " Well, sir; you have done a good thing and a wise thing." " I have done a good thing," said the gentleman, " but I do not know that I have done a loise thing." Johnson: "Yes, sir; no money is better spent than what is laid out for domestic satisfaction. A man is pleased that his wife is dressed as well as other people^ and a wife is pleased that she is dressed." 4. This evening, while some of the tunes of ordinary compo- sitions were played with no great skill, my frame was agitated, and I was conscious of a generous attachment to Dr. Johnson, as my preceptor and friend, mixed with an affectionate regret that he was an old man. whom I should probably lose in a short time. I thought I could defend him at the point of my sword. My reverence and afi^ection for him were in full glow. I said to him, " My dear sir, we must meet every year, if you don't quarrel with me." Johnson : " Nay, sir, you are more likely to quarrel with me, than T with you. My regard for you is greater than words can express ; but I do not choose to bo always repeating it; write it down in the first leaf of your pocket-book, and never doubt of it again." 5. Next morning, while we were at breakfast, Johnson gave a very earnest recommendation of what he himself practiced with the utmost conscientiousness: T mean strict attention to truth, even in the most minute particulars. " Accustom your ctiildren," said he, "constantly to this; if a thing happened at RHETORICAL READER. 399 one window, and they, when relating it, say that it happened at another, do not let it pass, but instantly check them ; you do not know where the deviation from truth will end." Boswell: " It may come to the door : and, when, at once, an account is at all varied in one circumstance, it may by degrees be varied 80 as to be totally different from what really happened/' Our lively l ostess, whose fancy was impatient of the rein, fidgeted at this and ventured to say, — " this is too much. If Mr. Jolin- jou should forbid me to drink tea, I should comply, as I should feel the restraint only twice a day; but little variations in nar- ratives must happen a thousand times a day, if one is rot p'^r petually watching." Johnson : " Well, madam, and you ought to be perpetually watching ! It is more from carelessness about truth than from intentional lying, that there is so much false- hood in the world." 6. On Friday, May 8, I dined with him at Mr. Langton's. I was reserved and silent, which I suppose he perceived, and might recollect the cause. After dinner, when Mr. Lang ton was called out of the room, and we were by ourselves, he drew his chair near to mine, and said, in a tone of conciliating cour- tesy, — " Well, how have you done?" Boswell: "Sir, you have made me very uneasy by your behavior to me when we were last at Sir Joshua Reynolds's. You know, my dear sir, no man has a greater respect and affection for you, or would sooner go to the end of the world to serve you. Now, to treat me so — ." He insisted that I had interrupted him, which I assured him was not the case; and proceeded, — " But why treat me so before people who neither love you nor me?" Johnson: " V/ell, I am sorry for it. I'll make it up to you twenty dif ferent ways, as you please." Boswell : " I said to-day to Sir Joshua, when he observed that you tossed me sometimes, I deu'l care how often, or how high he tosses me, when only friends aie present, for then I fall upon soft ground; but I do not .iKe falling on stones, which is the case when enemies are present I think this is a pretty good image, sir." Johnson : " Sir, it 18 one of the happiest I have ever heard." 7. Johnson called the East Indians barbarians. Boswell: 100 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. ''You will except the Chinese, sir?" Johnson: "No, sir i" BoswELL : " Have they not arts ?" Johnson : " They havo pottery." Bo swell : " What do you say to the written cha- racters of their language?" Johnson: "Sir, they have not an alphabet. They have not been able to form what all other nations have formed." Boswell : " There is more learning in their language than in any other, from the immense number of their characters." Johnson : " It is only more diflScult from its rudeness ; as there is more labor in hewing down a tree with a stone than with an ox." 8. I reminded him how heartily he and I used to drink wine together, when we were first acquainted ; and how I used to have a headache after sitting up with him. He did not like to have this recalled, or, j)erliaps, thinking that I lu)asted improp- erly, resolved to have a witty stroke at me; "Nay, sir, it was not the wine that made your head ache, but the sense I put into it." Boswell : " What, sir, will sense make the head ache ?" Johnson : " Yes, sir (with a smile), when it is not used to it." EXERCISE CXX. Thomas Nuttall, author of the following splendid description of tor Mocking-Bird, was born in Yorkshire, England, in 1786, and died in Lanca- shire, September 10th, 1869. He came to this country about the beginning of the present century, and commenced a series of researches, in natural history, which obliged him to visit and explore nearly every state in the Union. From 1822 to 1834, he held the Professorship of Natural History in Harvard College. The extract below is from his " Manual of the Ornithologv* of the United States and Canada." THE MOCKING-BIRD. THOMAS NUTIAIX. 1. With the dawn of morning, while yet the sun lingers leloiir the blushing horizon, our sublime songster, in his native wild.«, mc anted on the topmost branch of a tall bush or tree in the forest, pours out his admirable song, which, amidst the multi * For an analysis of this word, see Exercise LXXX. RHETOBTOAL READER. 401 tudes of Dotes from all the warbling host, still rises pre-einiDent, 80 that his solo is heard alone, and all the rest of the musical ehoir appear employed in mere accompaniments to this grand actor in the sublime opera of nature. 2. As if conscious of his unrivaled powers of song, and ani- mated by the harmony of his own voice, his music is, as it were, accompanied by chromatic dancing and expressive gestures; he spreads and closes his light and fanning wings, expands his iilvered tail, and, with buoyant gayety and enthusiastic ecstasy, h-) sweeps around, and mounts and descends into the air from his lofty spray, as his song swells to loudness, or dies away in sinking whispers. 3. While thus engaged, so various is his talent, that it might be supposed a trial of skill from all the assembled birds of the country ; and so perfect are his imitations, that even the sports- man is at times deceived, and sent in quest of birds that have no existence around. The feathered tribes themselves are decoyed by the fancied call of their mates j or dive with fear into the close thicket, at the well-feigned scream of the hawk. 4. Soon reconciled to the usurping fancy of man, the mocking- bird often becomes familiar with bis master ; playfully attacks him through the bars of his cage, or at large in a room ; restless and capricious, he seems to try every expedient of a lively imagination, that may conduce to his amusement. Nothing escapes his discerning and intelligent eye or faithful ear. 5. He whistles, perhaps, for the dog, who, deceived, runs to meet his master ; the cries of the chicken in distress bring out the clucking mother to the protection of her brood. The barking of the dog, the piteous wailing of the puppy, the mewing of the cat, the action of a saw, or the creaking of a wheelbarrow, quickly follow with exactness. He repeats a tune of considerable length ; imitates the warbling of the Canary, the lisping of the Indigo-bird, and the mellow whistle of the Cardinal, in a manner so superior to the originals, that, mortified and astonished, they withdraw from his presence, or listen in silence, as he continues to triumph by renewing his efforts. 2C t02 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. EXERCISE CXXI. The Lady of the Lake, the finest, perhaps, of all Scott's poetical efforts, has for the theater of its action the country surrounding the beautiful Loch Katrine. The feuds between the civilized Lowlands and the mountain districts inhabited by the Celtic tribes furnish the main matter of the poem. The plot is exceedingly interesting : con- sisting, in part, of the romantic adventures of King James V. (here passing under the title Fitz-James), "who delighted to traverse the ricinage of his several palaces, in various disguises," and who, in the BCene below, having lost his way, suddenly encounters Roderick Dhu, the chief of a Highland clan that had long set at defiance the Lowland monarch. SCENE FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE. SIB WAtTKR 800TT.* I. With cautious step, and ear awake, He climbs the crag and threads the brake j And not the summer solstice there Tempered the midnight mountain air, But every breeze that swept the wold Benumbed his drenched limbs with cold. In dread, in danger, and alone, Famished and chilled, through ways unknown, Tangled and steep, he journeyed on ; Till, as a rock's huge point he turned, A watch-fire close before him burned. II. Beside its embers red and clear, Basked, in his plaid, a mountaineer; And up he sprung, with sword in hand, — " Thy name and purpose \ Saxon, stand V — " A stranger." — " What dost thou require?" " Rest and a guide, and food and fire. My life's beset, my path is lost, The gale has chilled my limbs with frost." Sec Exercise LXXV. for a comparison of Scott with Chateaubriand RHETORICAL READER. 403 III. "Art thou a friend to Roderick ?"— " No."— " Thou darest not call thyself a foe ?" — " I dare ! to him and all the band He brings to aid his murderous hand.'' " Bold words ! — ^but though the beast of game The privilege of chase may claim. Though space and law the stag we lend, Ere hound we slip, or bow we bend, Who ever recked, where, how, or when, , The prowling fox was trapped and slain ? Thus treacherous scouts, — yet sure they lie, Who say thou cam'st a secret spy V IV. ''■ They do, by Heaven ! — Come Roderick Dhu, And of his clan the boldest too, And let me but till morning rest, I'll write the falsehood on their crest." " If by the blaze I mark aright, Thou bear'st the belt and spur of knight/' " Then by these tokens may'st thou know Each proud oppressor's mortal foe." V. " Enough, enough j sit down and share A soldier's couch, a soldier's fare." He gave him of his highland cheer, The hardened flesh of mountain deer; Dry fuel on the fire he laid. And bade the Saxon share his plaid ; He tended him like welcome guest. Then thus his further speech addressed ;— " Stranger, I am to Roderick Dhu A clansman born, a kinsman true ; Each word against his honor spoke Demands of me avenging stroke ; 104 SAlfDERS' UNION SERIES. Yet more, — upon thy fate, 'tis said, A mighty augury is laid. VI. , "It rests with me to wind my horn,— Thou art with numbers overborne ; It rests with me, here, brand to brand, Worn as thou art, to bid thee stand ; But, nor for clan nor kindred's cause Will I depart from honor's laws : To assail a wearied man were shame, And stranger is a holy name ; Guidance and rest, and food and fire, In vain he never must require. Then rest thee here till dawn of day, Myself will guide thee on the way, O'er stock and stone, through watch and ward. Till past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard, As far as Coilantogle's ford ; From thence thy warrant is thy sword." VII. "I take thy courtesy, by Heaven, As freely as 'tis nobly given !" " Well rest thee ; for the bittern's cry Sings us the lake's wild lullaby." With that he shook the gathered heath, And spread his plaid upon the wreath j And the brave foemen, side by side, Lay peaceful down, like brothers tried. And dlept until the dawning beam Purpled the mountain and the stream. VIII; That early beam, so fair and sheen, Was twinkling through the hazel screen, When, rousing at its glimmer red, The warriors left their lowly bed, RHETORICAL READER. 405 Looked out upon the dappled sky, Muttered their soldier matins by, And then awaked their fire, to steal. As short and rude, their soldier meal. IX. That o'er, the Grael * around him threw His gravjeful plaid of varied hue. And, true to promise, led the way, By thicket green and mountain gray. 'Twas oft ^0 steep, the foot was fain Assistance from tke hand to gain : So tangled oft, that bureting through, Each hawthorn shed her showers of dew,— That diamond dew, so pure and clear, It rivals all but beauty's tear I At length, they came where, stern and steep The hill sinks down upon the deep ; So toilsome was the road to trace, The guide, abating of his pace. Led slowly through the pass's jaws. And asked Fitz- James by what strange cause He sought these wilds, — traversed by few, Without a pass from Roderick Dhu ? XI. "Brave Gael, my pass, in danger tried, Hangs in my belt, and by my side ; Yet, sooth .to tell," the Saxon said, " I dreamed not now to claim its aid j When here, but three days' since, I came, Bewildered in pursuit of game, * The Scottish Highlander calls himself Gad^ and term* tilie Low lander, Saxon, 406 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. All seemed as peaceful, and as still, As tlie mist slumbering on yon hill ; Thy dangerous chief was then afar, Nor soon expected back from war ; Thus said, at least, my mountain guide, Though deep, perchance, the villain lied." XII. " Yet why a second venture try V* " A warrior thou, and ask me why I Enough I sought to drive away The lazy hours of peaceful day; Slight cause will then suflSce to guide A knight's free footsteps far and wide j A falcon flown, a greyhound strayed, The merry glance of mountain maid : Or, if a path be dangerous known. The danger's self is lure alone." xin. " Thy secret keep; I urge thee not; Yet, ere again ye sought this spot, Say, heard ye naught of lowland war, Against Clan-Alpine raised by Mar ?" " No, by my word j — of bands prepared To guard King James's sports I heard ; Nor doubt I aught, but when they hear This muster of the mountaineer, Their pennons will abroad be flung, Which else in Doune had peaceful hung." XIV. " Free be they flung ! — for we were loth Their silken folds should feast the moth. Free be they flung ! — as free shall wave Clan-Alpine's pine in banner brave. But, stranger, peaceful since you came, Bewildered in the mountain game, RHETORICAL READER. 407 Whence the bold boast by which you show Vich- Alpine's vowed and mortal foe ?" XV. " Warrior, but yester-morn, I knew Naught of thy chieftain, Roderick Dhu, Save as an exiled, desperate man, The chief of a rebellious clan, Who, in the regent's court and sight, With ruffian dagger stabbed a knight ; Yet this alone might from his part Sever each true and loyal heart." XVI. A space he paused, then sternly said, " And heardst thou why he drew his blade ? Heardst thou that shameful word and blow Brought Roderick's vengeance on his foe ? What recked the chieftain, if he stood On highland heath, or Holy-Rood ? He rights such wrong where it is given, If it were in the court of Heaven I" XVII. " But then thy chieftain's robber life- Winning mean prey by causeless strife, Wrenching from ruined lowland swain His herds and harvests reared in vain — Methinks a soul like thine should scorn The spoils from such foul foray borne 1" XVIII. The Gael beheld him grim the while, And answered with disdainful smile, — " Saxon, from yonder mountain high, I marked thee send delighted eye Far to the south and east, where lay, Extended in succession gay, l''» SANTEHS' UNION SERIES. Deep waving fields and pastures green^ With gentle slopes and groves between* XIX. These fertile plains, that softened vale, Were once the birthright of the Gael ; The stranger came with iron hand, And from our fathers reft the land. Where dwell we now ? See rudely swell Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell. Where live the mountain chiefs who hold That plundering lowland field and fold Is aught but retribution due ? Seek other cause 'gainst Roderick Dhu." XX. Answered Fitz-James, — " And, if I sought, Think'st thou no other could be brought ? What deem ye of my path waylaid, My life given o'er to ambuscade ?" " As of a meed to rashness due : Hadst thou sent warning fair and true,— I seek my hound, or falcon strayed, I seek, good faith, a highland maid, — Free hadst thou been to come and go f JBut secret path marks secret foe. XXI. " Nor yet for this, e'en as a spy, Hadst thou unheard been doomed to die. Save to fulfill an augury." " Well, let it pass ; nor will I now Fresh cause of enmity avow, To chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow. Enough, I am by promise tied To match me with this man of pride : Twice have I sought Clan-Alpine's glen In peace; but, when I come again, RHETORICAL RE VDER. 4ll9 I coiae with banner, brand, and bow, As leader seeks his mortal foe ; For lovelorn swain, in lady's bower, Ne'er panted for the appointed houi, As I, until before me stand This rebel chieftain and his band." XXII. '^ Have then thy wish !" He whistled shrill, And he was answered from the hill ; That whistle garrisoned the glen At once with full five hundred men, As if the yawning hill to heaven A subterranean host had given ; Watching their leader's beck and will, All silent there they stood, and still. The mountaineer cast glance of pride Along Benledi's living side. Then fixed his eye and sable brow Full on Fitz- JameS; — " How say'st thou now ? These are Clan- Alpine's warriors true: And, Saxon, — I am Roderick Dhu !" XXIII. Fitz-James was brave : — though to his heart The life-blood thrilled with sudden start, He manned himself with dauntless air, Returned the chief his haughty stare. His back against a rock he bore. And firmly placed his foot before : " Come one. come all ! this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I." Sir Roderick marked — and in his eyes Respect was mingled with surprise, And the stern joy which warriors feel In foemen worthy of their steel. '' 6R *10 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. XXIV. Short space he stood — then waved his handj Down sunk the disappearing band ; Each warrior vanished where he stood, In broom or bracken, heath or wood ; Sunk brand and spear and bended bow In osiers pale and copses low ; It seemed as if their mother earth Had swallowed up her warlike birth. XXV. Fitz-James looked round — yet scarce believed The witness that his sight received ; Such apparition well might seem Delusion of a dreadful dream. Sir Roderick in suspense he eyed, And to his look the chief replied, — " Fear naught — nay, that I need not say — But — doubt not aught from mine array. Thou art my guest ; I pledged my word As far as Coilantogie ford : Nor would I call a clansman's brand For aid against one valiant hand. Though on our strife lay every vale Rent by the Saxon from the Gael. XXVI. So move we on ; I only meant To show the reed on which you leant, Deeming this path you might pursue Without a pass from Roderick Dhu.'' The chief in silence strode before. And reached the torrent's sounding shore. And here his course the chieftain stayed, Threw down his target and his plaid, And to the lowland waiTior said : — RHETORirAL READER. 411 ' Bold Saxon ! to his promise just, Vich- Alpine has discharged his trust; This murderous chief, this ruthless man, This head of a rebellious clan, Hath led thee safe, through watch and ward. Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard. Now, man to man, and steel to steel, A chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel. See, here all vantageless I stand. Armed, like thyself, with single brand ; For this is Coilantogle ford, And thou must keep thee with thy sword. XXVII. The Saxon paused : — " I ne'er delayed, When foeman bade me draw my blade ; Nay, more, brave chief, I vowed thy death; Yet sure thy fair and generous faith, And my deep debt for life preserved, A better meed have well deserved : Can naught but blood our feud atone ? A.re there no means ?" — " No, stranger, none ! And here, — to fire thy flagging zeal, — The Saxon cause rests on thy steel j For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bred Between the living and the dead : ' Who spills the foremost foeman's life, His party conquers in the strife.' " " Then, by my word," the Saxon said, " The riddle is already read ; Seek yonder brake beneath the cliflF, — There lies Bed Murdoch,* stark and stiflF. Thus Fate hath solved her prophecy, Then yield to Fate, and not to me ; * Red Murdoch was a faithless guide whom Fitz-James had juti before slain. 112 SANDERS' UNION SEllIES. To James, at Stirling, let us go, When, if thou wilt, be still his foe j Or, if the king shall not agree To grant thee grace and favor free, I plight mine honor, oath, and word. That, to thy native strength restored. With each advantage shalt thou stand That aids thee now to guard thy land/ XXVIII. Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye- " Soars thy presumption, then, so high Because a wretched kern ye slew, Homage to name to Roderick Dhu ? He yields not, he," to man nor Fate ! Thou add'st but fuel to my hate. — My clansman's blood demands revenge ! — Not yet prepared ? — By Heaven I change My thought, and hold thy valor light, As that of some vain carpet knight, Who ill deserved my courteous care, And whose best boast is but to wear A braid of his fair lady's hair I" XXIX. " I thank thee, Roderick, for the word I It nerves my heart, it steels my sword ; For I have sworn this braid to stain In the best blood that warms thy vein. Now, truce, farewell ! and ruth, begone ! — Yet think not that by thee alone, Proud chief ! can courtesy be shown. Though not from copse, or heath, or cairD, Start at my whistle clansmen stern, Of this small horn one feeble blast Would fearful odds against thee cast; RHETORICAL READER. 413 But fear not — doubt not — which thou wilt, We try this quarrel hilt to hilt." XXX. Then each, at once, his falchion drew, Each on the ground his scabbard threw, Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain, As what they ne'er might see again ; Then, foot, and point, and eye opposed, In dubious strife they darkly closed. Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu That on the field his targe he threw, Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide Had death so often dashed aside ; For, trained abroad his arms to wield, Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield. He practiced every pass and ward, To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard ; While less expert, though stronger far. The Gael maintained unequal war. Three times in closing strife they stood. And thrice the Saxon sword drank blood. XXXI. Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain. And showered his blows like wint'ry rain, And, as firm rock, or castle roof, Against the winter shower is proof, The foe, invulnerable still. Foiled his wild rage by steady skill j rill, at advantage ta'en, his brand Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand, And, backwards borne upon the lea, Brought the proud chieftain to his kuee U-} SANDERS UNION SERIES. XXXII. " Now yield theo, or, by Him who made The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade !" " Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy ! Let recreant yield who fears to die." Like adder darting from his coil, Like wolf that dashes through the toil. Like mountain-cat who guards her young, Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung. Received, but recked not of a wound, And locked hrs arms his foeman round. XXXIII. Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own ! No maiden's hand is round thee thrown ! That desperate grasp thy frame might feel Through bars of brass and triple steel I They tug, they strain ; — down, down they go, The Gael above, Fitz-James below. The chieftain's gripe his throat compressed, His knee was planted on his breast; His clotted locks he backward threw, Across his brow his hand he drew. From blood and mist to clear his sight. Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright ! But hate and fury ill supplied The stream of life's exhausted tide, And all too late the advantage came. To turn the odds of deadly game ; For, while the dagger gleamed on high. Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eyej Down came the blow ! but in the heath The erring blade found bloodless sheath. Unwounded from the dreadful close, But breathless all, Fitz-James arose. RRETORICAL READER ilft EXERCISE CXXII. William Docglas Jerrold was born in London, January 3d, 1803, and died there January 8th, 1857. At the age of ten he got a midshipman's com- mis^ion, and went to sea. In that service he spent two years. He then entered a printing-office, as an apprentice. His leisure hours, during the apprenticeship, were devoted to reading and study. His first literary elFort was a comedy called " More Frightened than Hurt." Though written when he was but fifteen years old, it turned out to be a great success. After this he came to be a regular writer of dramatic pieces, chiefly humorous, for the stage. His reputation for ability, in this line, was a source of great profit. His articles in the magazines tended still further to increase his popularity Those that he contributed to "Blackwood" and the "New Monthly," after- wards appeared together in a volume under the title of " Men of Character." The " Caudle Lectures," whence the following extract, appeared originally in the London " Punch." His writings, in the matter of wit, humor, ready retort, and keen satire, are said to be but a fair representation of the styl* and character of the man in ordinary conversation. THE BORROWED UMBRELLA. DOUaiAS JERROLD. 1. Bah! that's the third umbrella gone since Christmas. What were you to do? Why, let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I'm very certain there was nothing about him that could spoil ! Take cold, indeed ! lie doesn't look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd have better taken cold, than taken our umbrella. Do you hear th£ rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear the rain ? Do you hear it against the windows ? Nonsense : you don't impose upon me ; you can't be asleep with such a shower as that ! Do you hear it, I say ? Oh ! you do hear it ! Well, that 's a pretty flood, I think, to last for six weeks; and no stirring all the time out of the house. Pooh! don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle; don't insult me; he return the umbrella ? Anybody would think you were born yesterday. Ai it" anybody ever did return au umbrella ! 2. There : do jou hear it ? Worse and worse. Cats and dogs I and for six weeks ; always six weeks ; and no umbrella I I should like to know how the children are to go to school to- morrow. They sha'n't go through such weather; I am deter- mined. No ; they shall stop at home and never learn anything, (the blessed creatures I) sooner than go and get wet! And »«rhen they grow up, I wonder whom they '11 have to thank for 416 SANDERS' UMON SERIES. . knowing nothing; whom, indeed, but their father? People who can't feel for their own children, ought never to be fathers, 3. But I know why you lent the umbrella : oh, yes, I know very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow : you knew that, and you did it on purpose. Don't tell me j you hate to have me to go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle ; no, sir ; if it comes down in buckets full, I '11 go all the more. No ; and I '11 not have a cab ! Where do you think the money 's to come from? You've got nice, high notions at that club of yours. A cab, indeed ! Cost me sixteen-pence, at least ; sixteen-pence ! two-and-eight-pence ; for there 's back again. Cabs, indeed ! I should like to know who 's to pay for 'em ; for I am sure you can't, if you go on as you do, throwing away your property, and beggaring your children, buying umbrellas ! 4. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle ? I say, do you hear it? But I don't care; I'll go to mother's to-morrow; I will; and what 's more I '11 walk every step of the way ; and you know that will give me my death. Don't call me a foolish woman ; 'tis you that 's the foolish man. You know I can't wear clogs ; and, with no umbrella, the wet 's sure to give me a cold : it always does : but what do you care for that ? Nothing at all. . I may be laid up for what you care, as I dare say I shall ; and a pretty doctor's bill there '11 be. . I hope there will. It will teach you to lend your umbrellas again. I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death : yes, and that 's what you lent the umbrella for. Of course ! 5. Nice clothes I get, too, tramping through weather like this. My gown and bonnet will be spoiled quite. Needn't I wear 'em then? Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I shall wear 'em. No, sir; I'm not going out a dowdy to please you or anybody else. Gracious knows! it isn't often that I step over the threshold; indeed, I might as well be a slave at once : better, I should say; but when I do go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose to go as a lady. Oh ! that rain ! if it isn't enough to break in the windows. Ugh ! I look forward with dread for to-morrow ! How I am to go to mother's, I 'm sure I can't tell, but if I die, I '11 do it. No, , RHETORICAL READER. 417 mr; I'll not borrow an umbrella: no; and you slia'n't buy one. Mr. Caudle, if you bring home another umbrella, I '11 throw it in the street. 6. Ha ! And it was only last week I had a new nozzle put on that umbrella. I'm sure if I 'd known as much as I do now, it might have gone without one. Paying for new nozzles for other people to laugh at you ! Oh ! 'tis all very well for you. Yoxjl 've no thought of your poor, patient wife, and your own deal children; you think of nothing but lending umbrellas! Men, indeed ! call themselves lords of the creation ! pretty lords, when thej can't even take care of an umbrella ! 7. I know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me, but that 's what you want : then you may go to your club, and do as you like; and then, nicely my poor, dear childrien will be used; but then, sir, then you '11 be happy. Oh ! don't tell me ! I know you will : else you 'd never have lent the umbrella ! You have to go on Thursday about that summons; and, of course, you can't go. No, indeed : you don't go without the umbrella. You may lose the debt for what I care ; 'tis not so bad as spoiling your clothes; better lose it; people deserve to lose debts who lend umbrellas ! 8. And I should like to know how I 'm to go to mother's with- out the umbrella. Oh! don't tell me that I said I tcow7c? go; that's nothing to do with it: nothing at all. She'll think I'm neglecting her ; and the little money we 're to have, we sha'n't have at all : because we've no umbrella. The cliildren too ! (dear things!) they'll be sopping wet; for they sha'n't stay at home; they sha'n't lose their learning; 'tis all thtir father will leave them, I 'm sure. But they shall go to school. Don't tell me they should'nt (you are so aggravating. Caudle, you 'd spoil the temper of an angel)) they shall go to school; mark that; and if they get their deaths of cold, 'tis not my fault; I Udn't lend the umbrella 18 418 UANDERS' UNION SERIES. EXERCISE CXXIIl. SKETCH OF ADDISON.* NEW AM. CYCLOP^l'IA. 1. The life of Addison may be divided into three periods: the first, that of a student, during which he acquired a high reputation for learning and facility in composition, both I^atin ftnd English, while a resident graduate and fellow at Oxford ; the second, a long and, on the whole, fortunate official career as an employe f of the government; and the third, an interrupted, yet congenial and prosperous course of authorship. These several phases of a life, memorable for its dignified and urbane tenor, were sometimes interwoven and coincident ; but, together, they represent the sum of Addison's public labors. 2. The integrity, good taste, and amiable feeling which char- acterized the man, both in office and authorship, as a represent tative of political authority and a devotee of letters, endeared him to his friends, when living, and have hallowed his memory and writings to succeeding generations. The example of kindly humor, in an age of sarcastic wit, of friendly association, in one of political auimosity, of purity of sentiment and correctness of diction, in one of coarse and careless expression, was invaluable, and, with the modest and benevolent traits of Addison and his delightful conversation, adequately explain the remarkable esteem and affection in which he was held. 3. For maliy years his circumstances were dependent on that fluctuating element, called ''the state of parties;" but he escaped the more painful drudgery which cramped the genius of an earlier race of English authors ; and carried on the literary fame of his country from the death of Dryden to the days of Johnson and Groldsmith. Few names are more cherished on that noble roil, and few writings have exercised a more promi- Dent and pleasing influence on taste and social character than those of Addison. * See Note on Exercise II. f Employ^ [em ploy a), one employed. RHETORICAL READER 419 4. According to our present mode of estimating verse, his muse is academic rather than spiritual^ correct rather than earnest; and, accordingly, in this regard, his fame is n»ore his- torical than absolute. Tt is by the graces of his prose — the absence of exaggeration — the clear, easy, yet refined style — the moral purpose — the social charm, and the delicate humor of his essays, that Addison made himself a household favorite, wherever the English tongue is spoken or read. He was in many respects a pioneer in these excellencies, and initialed the higher class of periodicals, which, in our age, rank as essential organs of public sentiment, and mediums of literary triumph or pleasure. 5. A Christian spirit informs the pages, as it did the life and death of Addison, and has greatly tended to consecrate his fame. The taste of our day is 'for a more intense school, a more dashing rhetoric and deeper insight ; compared with the essayists now in vogue, Addison seems to lack fire, breadth of purpose, and sympathy with great interests. Yet it is conceded by the judi- cious, that his serenity, evenness, self-possession, and quiet grace — and, especially, his unaifected English, and unexaggerated tone, might be copied, with eminent advantage, by the ambitious writers of tcr-day. Of his pre-eminent services to good taste and social amelioration, and of his high *and permanent claim to standard authority in English literature, there, however, has been no question amid all the vicissitudes of style and taste since his time. 6. x\lthough political disappointment, an injudicious marriage, and declining health, threw a cloud over the last days of tliis accomplished and beloved writer, one of his last works was a perspicuous and able treatise on the " Evidences of Christianity,'"' since superseded by more complete expositions, but of great utility at the period of its publication. The fortitude and faith which attei.ded his tranquil departure, have been celebrated, as appropriate to the closing scene of one who, living, had been so delightful a censor and genial an oracle in letters, manners, '.nd opinions : — " He taught us how to live — and, oh ! too high The price of knowledge — taught us how to ^/* '' 420 SANDERS' UN ION 'SEH J E g EXERCISE CXXIV. DISCRETION, NOT CUNNING. ADM80S 1. 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, numberkss 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, how- 3ver, has no place in private conversajtion " between intimate friends. On such occasions, the wisest men very often talk like the weakest; for, indeed, the talking with a friend, is nothing else but thin/dng aloud. 2. Tuily* lins, therefore, very justly exposed a precept deliv- 2red by some ancient writers, that a man should live with his euemy in such a manner, as might leave him room to become his friend ; and with his friend, in such a manner, that, if ho become his enemy, it, should not be in his power to hurt him. The first part of this rule, which regards our behavior toward an enemy, is, indeed, very reasonable, as well as very prudential; but the latter part of it, which regards our behavior toward a friend, savors more of cunning than of discretion, and would cut a man off from the greatest pleasures of life, which are the free- doms of conversation with a bosom friend. Beside that, when a friend is turned into an enemy, and, as the son of Sirach calls him,f " a hewrayer 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. 3. Discretion does not only show itself in words, but in all the circumstances of action, and is like an under-agent of Provi- * This is merely an abbreviation of the middle name of Cicero hlf full name being Marcus Tullius Cicero. See Exercise LXX. f Eccles. vi. 9. xxviii. 17. EHETTDRICAL READER. 421 dence, to gaide and direct us in the ordinary concerns oF life. There are many more shining quaHties in the mind of man, but there is none so useful as 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 lb pedantry, and wit impertinence; virtue itself looks like weak- ness : the best parts only qualify a man to be more sprightly in errors, and active to his own prejudice. 4. 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 ajply 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 society. 5. 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 situation of life. At the same time that I think discretion the most useful talent a man can be master of, I look upon cunning 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 shortsightedness, which discovers the minutest objects which are near at hand, but is not able to discern things at a distance. 6. Discretion, the more it is discovered, gives a greater autho- rity 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 inter t22 SANDERS' UNiON SERIES. ests and welfare. Discretion is only found in men of strong sense and good understandings : 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 miniic of discretion, and may pass upon weak men, in the same manner as vivacity is often mistaken for wit. and gravity for wisdom 7. The cast of mind which is natural to a discreet man, mjikrs 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 are reserved for him in another world, lose nothing of their reality by being at 80 great 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 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. l*\)r this reason, he is careful to secure to himself that which is the proper happiness of hia nature, and the ultimate design of his being. He carries his thoughts to the end of every action, and considers the most dis- tant, 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 a here- after. In a word, his hopes are full of immortality, his schemes are large and glorious, and his conduct suitable to one who knows his true interest, and how to pursue it by proper methods. EXERCISE CXXV. Thomas Moore was born in iJublin, in the year 1779, and died in Wilt- ihire, England, February 26th, 1852. Like many others of the sons of song, he found it impossible to remember when he first began to rhyme. Some of hia earlier productions were so deficient in moral purity, as to provoke the severest castigation from critics and reviewers. But of these, it ought to be said to his credit, he was afterwards deeply ashamed. He was a voluminous writer both in prose and poetry. As a poet, in which character he holds a most elevated rank, his merit is well uioiusured in the following extract. RHETORICAL READER. 123 MOORI AS A POET. ROBERT CHAMBERS.* 1. When time shall has'^c destroyed the attractive charm of Moore's personal qualities, and removed his works to a distance, to be judged of by their fruit alone, the want most deeply felt will be that of simplicity and genuine passion. He has worked littb in the durable and prrmanent materials of poetry, but has spent his prime in enriching the stately structure with exquisite ornaments, foliage, flovieij., and gems. He has preferred the niyrt'e to the olive or thr oak. His longer poems want human interest. Tenderness and pathos he undoubtedly possesses ; but they are fleeting and evanescent — not embodied in his verse in any tale of melancholy grandeur, or strain of affecting morality or sentiment. 2. He often throws into his gay and festive verses, and his fanciful descriptions, touches of pensive and mournful reflection which strike by tbiir truth and beauty, and by the force of contrast. Indeed, ono effect of the genius of Moore has beeli, to elevate the feelings and occurrences of ordinary life intt poetry, rather than dealing with the lofty abstract elements of the art. His wit answers to the definition of Pope : it if "Nature to advantage dressed, What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed." 3. Its combinations are, however, wonderful. Quick, subtle, and varied, ever suggesting new thoughts or images, or unex- pected turns of expression — now drawing resources from classical literature or the ancient fathers — now diving into the human heart, and now skimming the fields of fancy — the wit or imagi- nation of Moore (for they are compounded together) is a true Ariel, " a creature of the elements," that is ever buoyant and full of life and spirit. His very satires * give delight, and hurt not." They are never coarse, and always witty. 4. When stung by ah act of oppression or intolerance, he can be bitter or sarcastic enough ; but some lively thought or sportive image soon crosses his path, and he instantly follows it into the * See Note on Exercise CVIII. 424 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. open and genial region where he loves mo^t to indulge. Ele never dips his pen in malignity. 5. For an author who has written so much as Mr. Moore has, done on the subject of love and the gay delights of good fellow- ship, it was scarce possible to be always natural and ( riginal. Some of his lyrics and occasional poems, accordingly, present fai retched metaphors and conceits, with which they often con- clude, like the final flourish or pirouette* of a stage-dancer. Ilo has pretty well exhausted the vocabulary of rosy lips and spark ling eyes, forgetting that true passion is ever direct and simple — ever concenttated and intense, whether bright or melancholy. This df.fect, however, pervades only part of liis songs, and those mostly written in his youth. 6, The " Irish Melodies" are full of true feeling and delicacy. By universal consent, and by the sure test of memory, these national strains are the most popular and the most likely to be immortal of all Moore's works. They are musical almost beyond parallel in words — graceful in thought and sentiment — often tender, pathetic, and heroic — and they blend poetical and ro- mantic feelings with the objects and sympathies of common life in language chastened and refined, yet apparently so simple that every trace of art has disappeared. EXERCISE CXXVl. . SPECIMENS FROiM THOMAS MOOKE. THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.f 1. There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet. O, the last rays of feeling and life must depart. Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. * Pirouette (pir oo et^), a quick turning on the toes in dancing f The rivers Avon and Avoca. RHfiTORTCAL READER. 425 II. Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 'Twa<= not her soft magic of streamlet or hill ; O, no ; it was something more exquisite still. 111. 'TwdS that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were neai, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love. IV. Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best, When the storms that we feel in this cold world shall cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in poaee ! there's nothing true but heaven. I. This world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given ; The smiles of joy, the tears of woe. Deceitful shine, deceitful flow — There 's nothing true but Heaven. II. And false the light on glory's plume. As fading hues of even ; And love, and hope, and beauty's blooE Are blossoms gathered for the tomb — There 's nothing bright but Heaven. III. Poor wanderers of a stormy day. From wave to wave we 're driven ; And fancy's flash, and reason's ray. Serve but to light the troubled way — There 's nothing culm but Heaven. 426 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. IhE LAK.E OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.* I. * They made her a grave, too cold and damp For a soul so warm and true ; And sh< ''s gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp, She paddles her white canoe !" n. " And L 3r fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, And her paddle I soon shall hear j Long and loving our life shall be, And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree, When the footstep of death is near I" III. Away to tlie Dismal Swamp he speeds — His piith was rugged and sore, Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds. And man never trod before ! IV. AndjWhea on the earth he sunk to sleep. If slumber his eyelids knew. He lay, where the deadly vine doth weep Its venomous tear, and nightly steep The flesh with blistering dew ! * * They tell of a young man who lost his mind upon the death of a gin he loved, and who suddenly disappearing from his friends, was Qever afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses." — Anon. RHETORICAL READER 427 V. And near him the she wolf stirred the brake, And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, " Oh, when shall I see the dusky lake,* And the white canoe of my dear V VT He saw the lake, and a meteor bright Quick over its surface played — *' Welcome," he said, " my dear one's light," And the dim shore echoed, for many a night, The name of the death-cold maid ! vn. Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark, Which carried him off from shore ; Far, far he followed the meteor spark, The wind was high and the clouds were dark. And the boat returned no more. VIII. But oft from the Indian hunter's camp, This lover and maid so true Are seen, at the hour of midnight damp. To cross the lake by a fire fly lamp. And paddle their white canoe ! * The Dismal Swamp is an immense marshy tract of land, com mencing near Norfolk, Virginia, and extending far into North Caro- lina: being about thirty miles in length and ten in width. In th€ midst of the Swamp is the lake here referred to — Lake Drummond, — fifteen miles in circumference. 128 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. EXERCISE CXXVII. David IIume, the celebrated historian, was born in Edinburgh, April 26th, 1711, and died August 25th, 1776. Though designed for the law, he found greater attractions in literary pursuits than in legal studies, and so gave himself up to literature for life. He wrote on various subjects with various degrees of success ; but in nothing did he succeed so well as in the writing of history. And even here, though powerful in the portraiture of chaiacter, exceedingly interesting in narrative, and all but perfect in styiC, he is oflet deficient in accuracy of detail, profoundness of reaearch, and in the ability 18 resist the dominion of prejudice. As a man, though amiable in temper and exemplary in manners, he lived, as he died, a skeptic in religion. Charles I., king of England and Scotland, whose trial and execution are 80 touchingly narrated in the following piece, was born in Scotland in the year 1600. His life was little else than a fierce struggle between king and people, in relation to the rights and privileges tf each, and was terminated by his execution on the 30th of January, 1649. TRIAL AND EXECUTION OF CHARLES L HDMB. 1. Three times was Charles produced before the court, and as often declined their jurisdiction. On the fourth, the judges having examined some witnesses, by whom it was proved that the king had appeared in arms against the forces commissioned by the parliament, they pronounced sentence against him. Ife seemed very anxious at this time to be admitted to a conference with the two houses ; and it was supposed that he intended to resign the crown to his son : but the court refused compliance, and considered that request as nothing but a delay of justice. 2. It is confessed, that the king's behavior during the last scene of his life does honor to his memory; and that, in all appearances before his judges, he never forgot his part, either as a prince or as a man. Firm and intrepid, he maintained, in each reply, the utmost perspicuity and justness both of thcught and expression ; mild and equable, he rose into no passion at that unusual authority which was assumed over him. His soul, without effort or affectation, seemed only to remain in the situa- tion familiar to it, and to look down with contempt on all the efforts of human malice and iniquity. 3 The soldiers, instigated by their superiors, were brought. RHETORICAL READER. 129 though with diflBculty, to cry aloud for justice. " Pooi soals I" said the king to one of his attendants, " for a little money they would do as much against their commanders." Some of them were allowed to go the utmost length of brutal insolence, and to spit in his face, as he was conducted along the passage to the court. To excite a sentiment of pity was the only effect which this inhuman insult was able to produce upon him. 4. The people, though under the rod of lawless, unlimited power, could not forbear, with the most ardent prayers, pouring forth their wishes for his preservation ; and, in his present dis- tress, they avowed him, by their generous tears, for their monarch, whom, in (heir misguided fury, they had before so violently rejected. The king was softened at this moving scene, and expressed his gratitude for their dutiful affection. One soldier, too, seized by contagious sympathy, demanded from Heaven a blessing on oppressed and fallen majesty : his ofl&cer, overhearing the prayer, beat him to the ground in the king's presence. " The punishment, methinks, exceeds the offense :'* this was the reflection which Charles formed on that occasion 5. ,As soon as the intention of trying the king was known in foreign countries, so enormous an action was exclaimed against by the general voice of reason and humanity; and all the men, under whatever form of government they were born, rejected this ex- ample, as the utmost effor* of undisguised usurpation, and the most heinous insult on law and justice. The French ambassador, by orders from his court, interposed in the king's behalf: the Dutch employed their good offices : the Scots exclaimed and protested against the violence : the queen, the prince, wrote pathetic letters to the parliament. All solicitations were found fruitless with men whose resolutions were fixed and irrevocable. 6 Three days were allowed the king between his sentence and his execution. This interval he passed with great tran- quillity, chiefly in reading and devotion. All his family that remained in England, were allowed access to him. It consisted only of the Princess Elizabeth and the Duke of Gloucester ; for the Duke of York had made his escape. Grloucester was little more than an infant ; the princess, notwithstanding her tender 430 SANDERS UNION SERIEb. years, showed an advanced judgment; and the calamities ot her family had made a deep impression upon her. After many pious consolations and advices, the king gave her in charge to tell the queen, that, during the whole course of his life, he had never once, even in thought, failed in his fidelity towards her ; and that his conjugal tenderness and his life should have an equal duration. 7. To the young duke, too, he could not forbear giving some advice, in order to season his mind with early principles of loyalty and obedience towards his brother, who was so soon to be his sovereign. Holding him on his knee, he said : " Now they will cut off thy father's head." At t;liese words the child looked very steadfastly upon him. '' Mark, child ! what I say : they will cut off my head ! and, perhaps, make thee a king : but mark what I say; thou must not be a king as long as thy brothers Charles and James are alive. They will cut off thy brothers' heads, when they can catch them ! And thy head, too, they will cut off at last ! Therefore, I charge thee, do not be made a king by them !" The duke sighing, replied : " I will be torn in pieces first V So determined an answer from one of so tender years, filled the king's eyes with tears of joy and admiration. 8. Every night during this interval the king slept as sound as usual ; though the noise of workmen employed in framing the scaffold, and other preparations for his execution, continually resounded in his ears. The morning of the fatal day he rose early, and, calling Herbert, one of his attendants, he bade him employ more than usual care in dressing him, and preparing him for so great and so joyful a solemnity. Bishop Juxon, a man endowed with the same mild and steady virtues by which the king himself was so much distinguished, assisted him in his devotions, and paid the last melancholy duties to his friend and sovereign. 9. The street before Whitehall was the place destined for th« execution 5 for it was intended, by choosing that very place, in sight of his own palace, to display more evidently the triumph of popular justice over royal majesty. When the king, came RHETORICAL READER. 431 Upon the scaffold, he found it so surrounded with soldiers tuaf he could not expect to be heard by any of the people : he addressed, therefore, his discourse to the few persons who were about him; particularly Colonel Tomlinson, to whose 2are he had lately been committed, and upon whom, as upon others, his amiabls deportment wrought an entire conversion. 10. He justified his own innocence in the late fatal wars; and observed that he had not taken arms till after the parliament had enlisted forces : nor had he any other object, in his warlike operations, than to preserve that authority entire which his predecessors had transmitted to him. He threw not, however, the blame upon the parliament, but was more inclined to think that ill instruments had interposed, and raised in them fears and jealousies with regard to his intentions. Though innocent towards his peo})le, he acknowledged the equity of his execution in the eyes of his Maker ; and observed that an unjust sentence which he had suffered to take effect, was now punished by an unjust sentence upon himself 11. He forgave all his enemies, even the chief instruments of his death ; but exhorted them and the whole nation to return to the ways of peace, by paying obedience to their lawful sovereign, his son and successor. When he was preparing himself for the block, Bishop Juxon* called to him : " There is, sir, but one stage more, which, though turbulent and troublesome, is yet a very short one. Consider, it will soon carry you a great way ; it will carry you from earth to Heaven ; and there you shall find, to your great joy, the prize to which you hasten, a crown of glory." " I go," replied the king, " from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown ; where no disturbance can have place." At one blow was his head severed from his body. A man in a visor performed the ofl&ce of executioner; another, in a like dis> guise, held up to the spectators the head streaming with blood, and cried aloud : " This is the head of a traitor !" * This learned and pious prelate was, after the execution of the king, to whom he was devotodly attached, deprived of his bishopric and imprisoned, because he would not diisclose his last conversation with the king 432 SANDERS' UNION SERIES EXERCISE CXXVllI. Thomas Campbell wag born in Glasgow, Scotland, July 15th, 1777, and died in Boulogne, France, June, 1844. He was, even in early life, a devoted student; being specially distinguished as a classical scholar. He was a poet, also, from his very boyhood. In 1799 he published his splendid poem, entitled "The Pleasuuks of Hope;" a work which at once gave him the highest literary distinction. After this, he traveled about for some years: Winging out, every now and then, one of those famous smaller pieces, as "The. Exile of Erin," '< LochieVs Warninr/," Ac, which are now familiar to all tho eading world. For a long time after this, he seems to have been principally engaged in writing by contract for booksellers : living, for that purpose, in or near the city of London. He was an ardent patriot, and shared largely the enthusiasm of the times. To his exertions, mainly, the London Univer- sity owes its foundation ; and it is no mean proof of the estimation in which he was held, as a judicious friend of learning, that he was twice or three times elected (first in 1826) Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow. Towards the lasfc, however, many circumstances conspired to embitter his life, and we read the nature of his grief in his own melancholy words, — " J/y wife 18 dead, mi/ 8on ia mad, and my harp unstrung." Still, however, he continued to write and to travel, till 1843 ; when, settling down in France, he there spent the short and sad remainder of his life. His poems are still 10 well known, so popular, and so duly appreciated, that any specification >f their leading characteristics would seem almost superfluous, PASSAGES FROM "THE PLEASURES OF HOPE." THOMAS CAMPBUX. I. HOPE KINDLED BY DISTANT OBJECTS. At summer eve, when heaven's ethereal bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sun-bright summit mingles with the sky? Why do those cliflFs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near ? — 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue. Thus, with delight we linger to survey The promised joys of life's unmeasured way, Thus, from afar, each dim-discover'd scene More pleasing seems than all the past have been, And every form that fancy can repair From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. RHETORICAL READER. 488 II. HOPE LINGERED WHEN ALL ELSE HAD FLED. Primeval Hope, the Aonian* Muses say, When Man and Nature mourned their first decaj- j When every form of death, and every woe, Shot from malignant stars to earth below ; When Murder bared her arm, and rampant War Yoked the red dragons of her iron car, When Peace and Mercy, banished from the plain, Sprung on the viewless winds to Heaven again; All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind, "But Hope, the charmer, linger'd still behind. ITT. HOPE ANIMATES THE HERO. Friend of the brave ! in peril's darkest hour, Intrepid Virtue looks to thee for power; To thee the heart its trembling homage yields, On stormy floods, and carnage-covered fields, When front to front the bannered hosts combine, Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line. When all is still on Death's devoted soil, The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil I As rings his glittering tube, he lifts on high The dauntless brow, and spirit-speaking eye. Hails in his heart the triumph yet to come, And hears thy stormy music in the drum I IV. HOPE INVOKED TO CHEER THE HOME OF POVERTY. Propitious Power ! when rankling cares annoy The sacred home of Hymenean joy ; * Aonian, that is, Grecian ; Aonia being the earlier name of Boeotia, in which wag situated Mount Helicon, the fabled abode of the Muses 19 QK 434 SANDERS' UNION- SERIES. When doomed to Poverty's sequestered dell, The wedded pair of love and virtue dwell, Unpitied by the world, unknown to fame, Their woes, their wishes, and their hearts the &ame — Oh, there, prophetic Hope ! thy smile bestow, And chase the pangs that worth should never know — There, as the parent deals his scanty store To friendless babes, and weeps to give no more, Tell, that his manly race shall yet assuage Their father's wrongs, and shield his latter age. V. HOPE, THE mother's INSPIRATION. Lo ! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps, Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps ', She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes. And weaves a song of melancholy joy : — " Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy j No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine ; No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine ; Bright as his manly sire the son shall be In form and soul ; but ah ! more blest than he ' Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love at last. Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past — With many a smile my solitude repay, And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away. " And say, when summoned from the world and thee, I lay my head beneath the willow tree. Wilt thou, sweet mourner ! at my stone appear, And soothe my parted spirit lingering near? Oh, wilt thou come at evening hour to shed The tears of Memory o'er my narrow bed ; With aching temples on thy hand reclined, Muse on the last farewell I leave behind, Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low, And think on all my love, and all my woe V* RHETORICAL READER. 435 VI. HOPE SOOTHES EVEN THE POOR MANIAC. Hark ! the "wild maniac sings, to chide the gale That wafts so slow her lover's distant sail; She, sad spectatress, on the wintry shore, Watched the rude surge his shroudless corse that bore. Knew the pale form, and shrieking in amaze, Clasped her cold hands, and fixed her maddening gaze j Poor widowed wretch ! 'twas there she wept in vain, Till Memory fled her agonizing brain ; — But Mercy gave, to charm the sense of woe, Ideal peace, that Truth could ne'er bestow; Warm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam, And aimless Hope delights her darkest dream. VII. HOPE GIVES PLEDGE OP PROGRESS Come, bright Improvement ! on the car of Time, And rule the spacious world from clime to clime; Thy handmaid Arts shall every wild explore, Trace every wave, and culture every shore. On Erie's banks, where tigers steal along. And the dread Indian chants a dismal song, Where human fiends on midnight errands walk, And bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk, There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray, And shepherds dance at summer's opening day vin. NO HOPE OP HAPPINESS WITHOUT WOMABi Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy bower ! In vain the viewless seraph lingering there. At starry midnight, charmed the silent air : 436 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Ill vain the wild-bird caroled on the steep, To hail the sun, slow wheeling from the deep In vain, to soothe the solitary shade, Aerial notes in mingling measure played; The summer wind that shook the spangled tree, The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee ; — Still slowly passed the melancholy day. And still the stranger wist not where to stray. The world was sad ! — the garden was a wild ! And man, the hermit, sighed — till woman smiled IX. LIFE WITHOUT CHRISTIAN HOPE. Oh ! lives there, Heaven, beneath thy dread expanse. One hopeless, dark idolater of Chance, Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined, The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind j Who, moldering earthward 'reft of every trust, In joyless union wedded to the dust. Could all his parting energy dismiss. And call this world sufficient bliss ? — Ah, me ! the laureled wreath that murder rears, Blood-nursed, and watered by the widoVs tears, Seems not so foul, so tainted and so dread ' As waves the nightshade round the skeptic head. What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain ? I smile on death, if heavenward Hope remain I X. HOPE THE SOLE SOLACE IN THE DYING HOUR. Unfading Hope ! when life's last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return ! Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour ! Oh ! then, thy kingdom comes ! Immortal Power I RHETORICAL READER. 437 What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye ! Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life's eternal day — Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin, And all the phoenix-spirit burns within ! Hark ! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze, The dawn of Heaven undazzled by the blaze, On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, Float the sweet tones of star-born melody. XI. HOPE OF FUTURE HAPPINESS INSPIRING. Inspiring thought of rapture yet to be, The tears of Love were hopeless, but for thee ! If in that frame no deathless spirit dwell, If that faint murmur be the last farewell, If Fate unite the faithful but to part. Why is their memory sacred to the heart ? Why does the brother of my childhood seem Restored awhile in every pleasing dream ? Why do 1 joy the lonely spot to view, By artless friendship blessed when life was new ? XII. HOPE ETERNAL. Eternal Hope ! when yonder spheres sublime Pealed their first notes to sound the march of Time, Thy joyous youth began — but not to fade, — When all the sister planets have decayed ; When rapt in fire the realms of ether glow, And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below; Thou, undismayed, shalt o er the ruins smile, And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile ! I(/wse/'' What! must the bowels of Great Britain be torn out — her best blood be spilled — her treasure wasted — that you may make an experiment f Put yourselves, oh ! that you would put yourselves in the field of battle, and 488 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. learn to judge of the sort of horrors that you excite ! In forinei wars, a man might, at least, have some feeling, some interest, that served to balance, in his mind, the impressions which a scene of carnage and of death must inflict. 4. If a man had been present at the battle of Blenheim,* for instance, and had inquired the motive of the battle, there was not a soldier engaged who could not have satisfied his curiosity, and even, perhaps, allayed his feelings. They were fighting, they knew, to repress the uncontrolled ambition of the Grand Monarch. 5. But, if a man were present now at a field of slaughter, and were to inquire for what they were fighting — ^^ Fighting !" would be the answer; " they are not fighting; they are pausing." " Why is that man expiring? Why is the other writhing with agony? What means this implacable fury?" The answer must be, — " You are quite wrong, sir ; you deceive yourself — they are not fighting — do not disturb them — they are merely pausing ! 6. *' This man is not expiring with agony — that man is not dead — he is only pausing ! Lord help you, sir ! they are not angry with one another; they have now no cause of quarrel, but their country thinks there should be a pause! All that you see, sir, is nothing like fighting — there is no harm, nor bloodshed in it whatever : it is nothing more than a political pause I It is merely to try an experiment — to see whether Bonaparte will not behave himself better than heretofore ; and, in the meantime, we have agreed to a. pause in pure friendship!" 7. And is this the way, sir, that you are to show yourselves the advocates of order ? You take up a system calculated to utcivilize the world — to destroy order — to trample on religion — to stifle, in the heart, not merely the generosity of noble senti- ment, but the affections of social nature ; and, in the prosecu" tion of this system, you spread terror and devastation all around you. * See Note on the next Exercise. RHETORICAL READER. 489 EXERCISE CXLVI. Blenheim {Blen' hlme) is a village in Bavaria, where was fought a great battle, August 13th, 1704, between the English and the Austrians on the one side, under the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, and the French and the Bavarians on the other, under Marshal Tallard, Margin, and the Elector of Bavaria. The French and the Bavarians were defeated ; but the loss on both sides was immense. This defeat gare a decided check to the ambition of Louis XIV. THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. It was on a summer evening, Old Kasper's work was done, And he, before his cottage door, Was sitting in the sun. And by him sported on the green, His little grandchild Wilhelmine. II. 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. III. Old Kasper took it from the boy. Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, — " 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, " Who fell in the great victory. * See Exercise VII. 21* R SOUTHM.* 190 SANDERS' UNION SEEIE8. IV. " I find them in the garden , For there's many here about ; And often when I go to plow, The plowshare turns them out . For many thousand men," said he, " Were slain in that great victory." V. " Now tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin, he cries ; While little Wilhelmine looks up, With wonder-waiting eyes ; " Now tell us all about the war. And what they killed each other for." VI. " It was the English," Kasper 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. VII. *' My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream, hard by; They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly; So, with his wife and little child, he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head. VIII. " With fire and sword, the country round Was wasted, far and wide ; And many a nursing mother then. And new-born baby died ; But things like that, you know must be At every famous victory. EHETORICAL READEK. 491 IX. " 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. X. " Great praise the Duke of Marlbrough won^ . And our young prince, Eugene." " Why, 'twas a very wicked thing I" Said little Wilhelmine. *' Nay, nay, my little girl,'' quoth he, " It was a famous victory. XI. " And every body praised the Duke Who this great fight did win." " But what good came of it, at last T' Quoth little Peterkin. " Why, that I can not tell," said he, " But 'twas a glorious victory !" EXERCISE CXLVII. Thomas Gkat was born in London, December 26th, 1716, and died July 24th. 1771. After his college course, during which he was supported with difficulty by the private earnings of his mother, his father, a selfish man, utterly refusing to maintain him, he set out (in 1739) on a tour over the continent. Two months after his return to London, in September, 1741, his father, having squandered what money he had, died. His mother, who, with a neai relative, had carried on a small business, and had now amassed a moderate competence, retired to Stoke Pogis, in Buckinghamshire. Here, it ta said, he conceived the design of his immortal Elegy, while visiting the beautiful churchyard in that place. The Elegy was finished in 1749 ; having been begun just seven years before. "Almost every line" [of it], it has been well remarked, "has fixed itself upon the popular mind, is repeated every year and every day by the cultivated and the unlearned, and has a vital truthfulness that is never old." Gray is the author of several other poems of remarkable merit, but is, and always will be, best known, as the author 492 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. of this matchless performance. He was a person of small stature, handsome features, stufiiously nice in dress, and remarkably res'jrved in company, though known to be a man of almost universal culture. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YAED. THOMAS 0&> I The curfew tolls tne Knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way. And leaves the world to darkness and to me II. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : III. 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. ly. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. V. 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. VI. 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. RHETORICAL READER. 493 VII. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; How jocund did they drive their team a-field I How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! VIII. JiCt not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grrandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. IX. 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. X. 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. XI. 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 ? XII. 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 : XIII. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Kich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll j 394 SANDERS' UNION SERIES. Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. XTV. Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear : Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, A nd waste its sweetness on the desert air. XV. Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breap-t The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. XVI. 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, XVII. Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confinea j Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind : XVIII. 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. XIX. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; Along the cool, sequestered vale of life Thay kept the noiseless tenor of their way. RHETORICAL READER. 495 XX. Yet e'en 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. XXI. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered mise, The place of fame and elegy supply : And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. XXII. 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 ? XXIII. On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. XXIV. l^'or 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 ; XXV. 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. XXVI. There at the foot of yonder nodding beech. That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 196 SANDERS* UNION SERIES. His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. XXVII. Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ; Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. XXVIII. One morn I missed him on the 'customed 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. XXIX. The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne j Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'' THE EPITAPH. I. 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. II. 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 fnenct III. 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 Grod. RHETORICAL READER. 497 EXERCISE CXLVIII. John Dryden was born in Northamptonshire, England, August 9tb, 1631, and died May 1st, 1700. He discovered remarkable talent, while yet a1 school, in his translations from some of the classics. His character, as a writer, in later life, is sufficiently marked in the following parallel ; as a man though amiable in temper, domestic in turn, and virtuous in life, he lacked firmness and consistency, looking rather to the fleeting interests of the ta.iment than to the more durable rewards of solid reputation. Alexander Pope was born in London, May 21st, 1688, and died at Twickenham, May 30th, 1744. Deformed in body, and sickly in constitution, his early education, to use his own words, was ♦' extremely loose and discon- certed." He was always, however, a diligent student, and a yet more diligent corrector of his own works ; and hence his peculiar claims to excellence, as a polished composer. As Dryden gave us, in English, the great epic poem of the Latins, the ^Eneid of Virgil, so Pope, in smoother verse, but not in truer translation, has given us the great epic of the Greeks, the Iliad of Homer. PARALLEL BETWEEN DRYDEN AND POPE. SAMUEL JOHNSON.* 1. Integrity of understanding and nicety of discernment were not allotted in a less proportion to Dryden than to Pope. The rectitude of Dryden's mind was sufficiently shown by the dis- mission of his poetical prejudices, and the rejection of unnatural thoughts and rugged numbers. But Dryden never desired to apply all the judgment that he had. He wrote, and professed to write, merely for the people ; and when he pleased others he contented himself. He spent no time in struggles to rouse latent powers; he never attempted to make that better which was already good, nor often to mend what he must have known to be faulty. He wrote, as he tells us, with very little considera- tion; when occasion or necessity called upon him, he poured out what the present moment happened to supply, and, when once it had passed the press, ejected it from his mind; for when he had no pecuniary interest, he had no further solicitude. 2. Pope was not content to satisfy : he desired to excel, and, therejfore, always endeavored to do his best : he did not court the candor, but dared the judgment of his reader, and, expect- ing no indulgence from others, he showed none to himself. He * See Exercise CXVI. 21 498 bANDERS' UNION SERIES. examined lines and words with minute and punctilious observa- tion, and ivitouched every part with indefatigable diligence, till he had left nothing to be forgiven. 3. Pope had, perhaps, the judgment of Dry den, but Dryden certainly wanted the diligence of Pope. In acquired knowledge, the superiority must be allowed to Dryden, whose education was more scholastic, and who, before he became an author, had been sillf wed more time for study, with better means of information. His mind has a larger range, and he collects his images and illustrations from a more extensive circumference of science. Dryden knew more of man, in his general nature, and Pope in his local manners. The notions of Dryden were formed by com- prehensive speculation, and those of Pope by minute attention. There is more dignity in the knowledge of Dryden, and more certainty in that of Pope. 4. Poetry was not the sole praise of either ; for both excelled likewise in prose ; but Pope did not borrow his prose from his pre- decessor. The style of Dryden is capricious and varied j that of Pope is cautious and uniform. Dryden obeys the motions of his own mind ; Pope constrains his mind to his own rules of composition. Dryden is sometimes vehement and rapid ; Pope is always smooth, uniform, and gentle. DrydenV page is a natural field, rising into inequalities, and diversified by the varied exuberance of abundant vegetation j Pope's is a velvet lawn, shaven by the scythe, and leveled by the roller. 5. Of genius, that power which constitutes a poet, that quality without which judgment is cold and knowledge is inert, that energy which collects, combines, amplifies, and animates, the superiority must, with some hesitation, be allowed to Dryden. It is not to be inferred that of this poetical vigor Pope had only a little, because Dryden had more ; for every other writer since Milton must give place to Pope j and even of Dryden it must be said, that, if he has brighter paragraphs, he has not better poems. 6. Dry den's performances were always hasty, either excited "'by some external occasion, or extorted by domestic necessity; he composed without consideration, and publisb