THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA GIFT OF Mrs. E. Ott Egleston hSiJ 'i0MU^ r~i^\ THE / • 7 J ^^'^yi^Jij^A SIXTH READER; C: jE an: CONS^TTING dvUhnzl EXTRACTS IN PROSE AND VERSE, WITH BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES OF, THE AUTHORS. A FOB THE n i^r^cU IN PUBLIC AND PRIVATE SCHOOLS, G. S. HILLAED. AN INTRODUCTORY TREATISE ON ELOCUTION, ' By prof, mark BAILEY. school- BOSTON": >iigh life. BRETVER AINrr) TILES T itroductory PHILADELPHIA : MARTIN AND RANDALI 1863. jbd to most Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by G. 8. HILLARD, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. Education GIFT stereotyped and Printed by J. E. FARWKLI, and COMPAWr. 87 Congress Street, Boston. ?9i PREPACE. Ur. ' The "Sixth Reader" corresponds to the " Fiest Class Reader " in the compiler's former series, and, like that, is in- tended for the most advanced classes in our public and private schools. The main object of all reading books is to teach the art of reading, and this has been constantly borne in mind in preparing this compilation. With this view, a wide range of selections has been made, so that the pupils using it may be trained to give proper force and due expression to every form of style, whether grave or gay, humorous or pathetic, elevated or familiar, declamatory or simple. The pieces, as a general rule, are of moderate length, and care has been taken to admit nothing which young persons would be likely to pronounce dull or tame. Several of the most approved pieces in the ''First Class Reader*' have been retained, but a large proportion of the con- tents is new. As compared with the former work, it will be seen that there is a greater number of declamatory and animated pieces ; and this change has been advisedly made. As far as was consistent with the end of preparing a good reading book, the compiler has endeavored to make his young readers acquainted with the treasures of English and American literature, and thus to aid them in forming a good literary taste. No one who recalls his own youth need be told how lasting are the impressions made by the pieces habitually read in tlie school- room, and how they shape and color the mind through life. With this view much care has been given to the introductory aotices, biographical, critical, and explanatory, prefixed to most 3f the selections. 435 IV PREFACE. The compiler has taken several pieces which have long been familiar to all persons acquainted with English literature, and which may to some extent be pronounced hackneyed ; such as Col- lins's "Ode to the Passions" and Gray's "Elegy." But the perma- nent popularity of such pieces is due to their intrinsic merit, and it seemed to the compiler that they ought not to be displaced to make room for productions which, it is true, are now commended by the gloss of novelty, but will not be likely to wear so well as those on which time has set its lasting seal of approval. Several pieces will also be found here wliich were first made generally known in Pierpont's " American First Class Book," an admirable work, which, in many respects, has never been surpassed by any of the many similar compilations which have since appeared. In doing this the compiler has been guided not only by his own judgment but by the express wishes of several teachers who were desirous that selections should be retained which have so long borne the sharp test of daily use. In the preparation of the work the compiler has been aided by the judgment and experience of many practical teachers, espe- cially several masters of grammar schools in this city, whose ser- vices and interest are gratefully remembered. And at every step he has had the valuable assistance of his publisher and friend, Dr. T. M. Brewer, to whose taste and judgment no small por- tion of whatever merit the work may be found to possess is to be ascribed. The introductory portion, on reading and the training of the vocal organs, has been prepared expressly for this work by Prof. Mark Bailey, of Yale College, a gentleman of large experience in the teaching of elocution; and it is confidently believed that teachers will find it of great .practical service, and that it will add much to the value of the work. CONTENTS. INTEODUCTORY TREATISE. Paob Pbeface xv Part I xvii Method of Analysis xvii Different Kinds or Classes of Emotion xix Vocal Expression xx Elements of Vocal Expression I xx PART II. Principles and Illustrations of the Elements of Vocal Expression xxii Force xxii Time xx v iii The Slides xxxiii Pitch xli V Volume xlvi Stress xlvii Quality of Voice Iviii Mixed Emotions Ixxiv Physical Culture , Ixxix Vocal Culture... Ixxx Natural Expression Ixxx DIDACTIC. PROSE. Lesson Page 1. The Contrast: or Peace and "War Athenmum. 1 3. The Discontented Pendulum Jane Taylor. 8 15. Excuses for Neglect of Keligion Budcminster . 47 16. Same Subject, concluded " 51 34. The Miseries of War Hall. 113 40. The Progress of Society Channing. 131 VI CONTENTS. Lesson Page 42, Eternity of God Greenwood. 139 59. True Honesty Fallen. 184 63. Voices of the Dead Gumming. 200 65. Incentives to Duty Sumner. 20S 70. On the Pleasure of Acquiring Knowledge Alison. 216 73. The Bible 222 75 . The Introduction of Christianity into Europe Ide. 227 81. The Roman Empire a Preparation for Christianity Wayland. 24» 82. Wonders of Astronomy 0. M. Mitchell. 245 84. The Uses of the Ocean Swain. 250 115. True Greatness Channing. 339 139. The World of Beauty around us Horace Mann. 402 POETKY. 4. The Old Clock on the Stairs Longfellow. 12 6. ToaWater Fowl Bryant. 22 The Good Great Man Coleridge. 107 69. All Things are of God Moore. 214 71. Hymn at the Consecration of a Cemetery Newell. 218 72. The Conqueror's Grave Bryant. 220 74. God Derzhavin. 223 83. Thanatopsis Bryant. 247 107. Lines to a Child, on his Voyage to JEYance, to meet his Father, Ware. 319 141. Elegy vv^ritten in a Country Church-yard Gray. 405 NAEKATIVE AND DESCKIPTIVE. PROSE. 2. Grace Darling Chambers^s Miscellany. 3 7. Morning in the Highlands of Scotland. . .' Sir Walter Scott. 24 14. The Blind Preacher Wirt. 44 18. The Last Days of Sir Walter Scott Loclchart. 58 22. Autumn H. W. Beecher. 74 24. The Prairies 82 30. The Death of Chatham Belsham. 101 3;{. The Falls of Niagara Hoivison. 108 35. The Voyage Irving. 1 1 6 .'59. Dialogue from Ivanhoe Sir Walter Scott. 12G 45. Character of Washington London Courier. 149 54 The Battle of Bunker Hill Bancroft. 173 1 . Washington at Mount Vernon Irving. 191 8(i. John Hampden Macaulay. 255 93. Execution of Mary Queen of Scots Lingard. 278 iM). Webster's Greatest Parliamentary Effort Everett. 288 105. John Quincy Adams «.t..t. i Scioard. 312 CONTENTS. Vll Lesson Paoe lOG. Trial of Warren Hastings Macaulay. 315 124. The First Predicted Eclipse O. M. Mitchell. 358 127. Summer D. G.Mitchell. 364 136. Canning and Brougham 390 POETRY. 20. The Battle of Flodden Field Sir Walter Scott. 67 21. Same Subject, concluded " 71 44. Home Montgomery. 147 56. Ginevra Rogers. 177 60. PaulRevere's Ride Longfellow. 187 64. The Rainbow 203 79. The Burial of Sir John More Wolfe. 239 85. Scene after a Summer Shower Norton. 2^i 92. The Execution of Montrose Aytoun. 275 94. The Shipwreck Wilson. 282 95. The Contrasts of Alpine Scenery Byron. 285 138. The Skeleton in Armor Longfellow. 397 AForest Scene *' 413 HUMOEOUS AND PATHETIC. PROSE. 6. Rip Van Winkle Irving. 15 26. The Captive Sterne. 87 49. Death and Burial of Little Nell Dickens. 159 53. Fashionable Parties in New Netherlands Irving. 170 111. Mrs. Caudle urging the need of Spring Clothing Jerrold. 328 POETRY. 13. Give me Three Grains of Corn, Mother Miss Edwards. 42 23. The Deacon's Masterpiece; or, The Wonderful «' One-horse Shay," Holmes. 77 25. Helvellyn 'S'**' Walter Scott. 85 50. Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Exhibition, London, Horace Smith. 1C5 58. Over the River Miss Priest. 183 67. The Burial of Arnold Willis. 210 102. The Angels of Buena Vista Whittier. 305 109. The Indians Sprague. 323 112. The Bridge of Sighs I^ood. 331 123. A Parental Ode to my Infant Son Hood. 356 Vm CONTENTS. DECLAMATORY. PROSE. Lesson Page 8. The Slave Trade Webster. 28 12. Obligations of America to England Everett. 39 29. Speech on the American War Chatham. 9? 31. Character of Chatham Grattan. 103 47. Imaginary Speech in Opposition to the Declaration of Independence, Webster. 154 48. Mr. Adams's Reply to the above Speech , «' 156 57. The "Western Posts , Ames. 180 68. The Future of America Webster. 212 100. Loss of Union Irreparable «< 30o 103. American Nationality Choate. 307 108. The Death of Hamilton Notf. 321 110. American Laborers NaT/lor. 326 113. Spartacusto the Gladiators e. Kellogg. 334 117. The Last Hours of "Webster Everett. 345 134. Speech of Ringan Gilhaize Gait. 382 140. The Reform Bill Sidney Smith. 404 142. The Cause of the Union Winthrop. 410 145. Vindication of Ireland. ., , .Shell. 420 POETRY. 9. Hohenlinden Campbett. 31 10. The Husker's Song WMttier. 33 17. The Fall of Poland Campbell. 55 28. Napoleon's Return Miss Wallace. 94 32. The Pilgrim Fathers Pierpont. 105 36. Slavery Cowper. 120 37. Charge of the Light Brigade Tennyson. 122 38. Union and Liberty Holmes. 125 51. Spanish War Song...* Mrs. Hemans. 167 52. Hallowed Ground Campbell. 168 55. Warren's Address before the Battle of Bunker Hill Pierpont. 176 66. Address to the Sun Ossian. 209 80. The Launching of the Ship .....Longfellow'. 240 89. Greece in 1809 Byron. 266 97. The Widow of Glencoe Aytoun. 290 104. Lines on the Entry of the Austrians into Naples Moore. 311 114. The Battle Hymn of the Berlin Landsturm Kbrner. 338 118. Hymn before Sunrise, in the Valley of Chamouni, Switzerland, Coleridge. 347 119. Old Ironsides Holmes. 349 122. Song of the Greeks Campbell. 355 126. Apostrophe to the Ocean Byron. 363 128. Extract from Rienzi Miss Mit ford. 368 129. The Passions Collins. 369 CONTENTS. IX Lesson Page 132. The Forging of the Anchor Ferguson. 376 133. The Raven Poe. 378 144. Antony's Address to the Romans • Shakspeare. 417 146. The EiBing Of the Vendue Croly, 422 MISCELLANEOUS. PROSE. 11. Parallel between Pope and Dryden Johnson, 35 19. Character of Su- Walter Scott Prescott. 63 27. Character of Samuel Adams Tudor. 90 43. A Flower for the Window Leigh Hunt. 143 78. Female Education Everett. 235 88. The Intellectual Influence of Greece Felton. 263 90. The Influence of Athens Macaulay. 270 120. Character of Lafayette Adams. .350 125. Character of Columbus Irving. 301 131, Tact and Talent London Atlas. 374 147. The Awaking of a Great Nation Milton. 424 POETRY. 46. Breathings of Spring Mrs. Hemans. 152 77. The Deaf Man's Grave Wordsworth. 232 87. The Pilgrim Fathers Sprague. 259 101. The Antiquity of Freedom Bryant. 303 121. Hymn of Praise by Adam and Eve Milton, 353 DEAMATIC. 41. Hubert and Arthur ShaTcspeare. 133 62. The Alderman's Funeral Southey. 195 76. Wolsey and Cromwell Shakspeare. 228 91. Lochiel's Warning Campbell. 272 98. The Swiss Patriot Knowles. 292 99. Same Subject, concluded « 296 116. Prisoners' Evening Service ; a Scene of the French Revolution, Mrs. Hemans. 341 130. The Church-yard .'. Karamsin. 372 135. Alcestis and Pheres Alfieri. 385 137. Scene from King Henry IV Shakspeare. 394 143. Richelieu's Vindication Bvlwer, 414 INDEX OP AUTHOES. Pagb Adams, XQ 350 Alfieri 385 Alison, Archibald 216 Ames, Fisher 180 Anonymous 82, 149, 203, 222, 390 Athenaeum 1 Aytoun, William E 275, 290 Bancroft, George 173 Beecher, H. W 74 Belsham, William 101 Bryant, William C. . . .22, 220, 247, 303 Buckmmster, Joseph S 47 Bulwer .414 Byron, Lord 266,285,363 Campbell, Thomas, 31, 55, 168, 272, 355 Chambers's Miscellany 3 Channing, William E 131, 339 Chatham, Lord 97 Choate,Rufus 307 Coleridge, S. T 107, 347 Collins, William 369 Cowper, William 120 Croly, George 422 Cumming-, John 200 Derzhavin 223 Dickens, Charles 159 Edwards, Miss 42 Everett, Edward 39, 235, 288, 345 Eelton, C. C 263 Ferguson, S 376 Follen, Charles 184 .^ Gait, John 382 Grattan, Henry 103 Gray, Thomas 405 Greenwood, F. W. P... 139 Hall, Robert 113 Hemans, Mrs 152, 167,341 Holmes, O, W 77, 125, 349 Hood, Thomas 331, 356 Howison, John 108 Hunt, Leigh 143 Ide, George B 227 Irving, W 15,116,170,191,361 Jerrold, Douglas 328 Johnson, Samuel ^... 35 Karamsin 372 Kellogg, Elijah 334 Korner, Karl Theodor 338 Knowles, Sheridan 293 Page Lingardi Johnii • 1 1 1 • • i • • • • 278 Lockhart, J. G 58 London Atlas 374 London Courier 149 Longfellow, H. W..12, 187, 240, 397,413 Macaulay, T. B 255, 270, 315 Mann, Horace 402 Milton, John 353 Mitchell, D. G 364 Mitchell, O.M 245, 358 Mitford, Miss 368 Montgomery, James 147 Moore, Thomas 214, 311 Naylor, C. C 326 Newell, William 218 Norton, Andrews 254 Nott,E 321 Ossian , 209 Pierpont, John 105, 176 Poe, E.A 378 Prescott, W. H 63 Priest, Miss 183 Rogers, Samuel 177 Scott, Sir Walter 24, 67, 86, 126 Seward, William H 312 Shakspeare 133, 228, 394, 417 Shell, R. L 420 Smith, Horace 165 Smith, Sidney 404 Southey, Robert 195 Sprague, Charles 259, 323 Sterne, Lawrence 87 Sumner, Charles 205 Swain, Leonard 250 Taylor, Jane 8 Tennyson, Alfred 122 Tudor, William 90 Wallace, Miss 94 Ware, Henry 319 Wayland, Erancis 243 Webster, Daniel. . .28, 154, 156, 212, 300 Whittier, J. G 33,305 Willis, N.P 210 Wilson, John 282 Winthrop, R. C 410 Wirt, William 44 Wolfe, Charles 239 Worasworth, William 232 TABLE OF VOWEL SOUNDS. A Vowel is a letter which represents a free and uninterrupted sound of the human voice. An Equivalent is a letter or combination of letters used to represent an elementary sound more appropriately represented by another letter or letters. The Equivalents given in these tables are those of more common occurraace. A long A short A Italian A broad B long E short I long I short O long short Example. Fate Fat Far Fan Mete Mgt Pine Pin Note N5t Element. a a e i i 6 5 Example. Element. long and close U long Tube U short Tub U middle or obtuse U short and i -r,.. obtuse ) 01 andOY Boil OUandOW Bound M6ve Full m oa EQUIVALENTS. J short and Obtuse, i I like ii in Fiir j like E long < short and obtuse, I like ii in Fiir like A broad like U short Her e U like in Move Rtlle t Machine i Y like I long Type f Sir Nor 1 Y like I short V j short and obtuse, ^ \ likeuinFUr symbol j Myrtle Sin 6 EW like U long New ew The following vowel sounds cannot be easily pronounced alone, as distinct elements, so as to be distinguished from some of the other sounds. Name. Examples. A long before R . . . . Fire, piir. A intermediate .... FSst, brinch. A slight or obscure . . Liair, palgKje. E Uke A long before R Hgir, thgre. E slight or obscure . . Brier, fu§l. Name. Examples. I slight or obscure . Ruju, abiljty. O slight or obscure . Actor, cpnfess. U slight or obscure . Sulphur, famous. Y slight or obscure . Truly, envy. TABLE OF CONSONANT SOUNDS. A Consonant is a letter which cannot be Bounded, or but imperfectly, with- out the aid of a vowel ; or, it represents a sound that is modified by some interruption during its passage through the organs of speech. Vocal Consonants are those uttered with a slight degree of vocality, but less than that of a vowel. They are formed with a vibration of the vocal cords. Aspirate Consonants are those in which the pure breath alone is heard. They are formed without any vibration of the vocal cords. VOCAL CONSONANTS.i Name. Example. ] Blsmxnt. Name. Example. El EMENT B Babe b R (trilled) Rap r D Did d R (untrilled) Nor r Ghard Gag g TH soft Thine th J Joy j V Valve V L Lull 1 W Wine w M Maim m Y Yes y N Nun n Z Zeal z NG Sing ng ZH (or Z) Azure zh ASPIEATE C ONSONANTS. •> CH Church ch T Tent t F Mfe f S Seal s H^ Hold h SH Shine sh K Kirk k TH sharp Thin th P Pipe P EQUITY LLENTS. C soft, like B ^ease S S soft, like z Muse 9 C hard, like k jBake £ S like zh Vision s Ch hard, like k JBhasm ch Q like k Coquette q Ch soft, like sh ghaise 9h X likeks Tax X G soft, like j <^iant g X like gz Exalt ? Ph like f Seraph ph Q has the sound of h, and is always followed by ?*, which, in this position, com- monly has the sound ofio, but is sometimes silent. WH is an aspirated w, pronounced as if written hw. 1 Sometimes called Subvocals, or Subtonics. 2 H sounded before a vowel, is an expulsion of the breath after the organs are in a position to sovind the vowel. AN INTRODUCTORY TREATISE ELOCUTION; PRINCIPLES AND ILLUSTRATIONS, ARRANGED FOR TEACHING AND PRACTICE. PROF. MARK BAILEY, INSTRUCTOR OF ELOCUTION IN YALE COLLEGE. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by Mark BAILET, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Connecticut. PREFACE Good Eeading includes that mastery of the dements of language and elocution, which teachers and scholars so rarely attain. Articulation and pronunciation must be not only dis- tinct and accurate, but expressive. This last excellence can- not be attained by merely enunciating meaningless sounds and syllables. Too many such mechanical exercises kill the instinctive use and recognition of expressive tones which the child brings to school, and in the end completely divorce his elocution from the spirit and sense to which it should be inseparably wedded, and which alone can inspire natural expression. The child feels and thinks before he talks. Na- ture, in her teaching, begins with the idea, and in her repeated efforts to express the idea more perfectly, perfects the elemen- tary parts of language and elocution. Let us enlist Nature into our service by following her teachings. Let even the earliest lesson in reading be enlivened by the aid of some idea famil- iar and interesting to the child. He knows the thing, the idea, ''man," or *' sun," he has spoken the word a thousand times, and he is pleased to learn that the mysterious art of reading is only conscious talking, — that he is but analyzing, and sounding, and naming the unknown parts of a familiar whole. But especially with the advanced classes, (which are XVI PREFACE. expected to use the following work on elocution,) would the author commend this practical method of improving the parts, with the immediate purpose of giving better expression to the whole, — of practising and perfecting the execution of the dead elements of elocution, in the life-giving light of inspiring ideas. " There is in souls a sympathy with sounds." This analogy in Nature between tones and sentiments is the central source from which the author has drawn the simple principles and hints which are giVen to aid teachers in their laudable efforts to cultivate in the school-room, and thus everywhere, a more natural and expressive elocution. The art, embracing the expression of the whole range of human thoughts and feelings, from the earliest lispings of the child to the most impassioned and finished utterance of a G-ar- rick or Siddons, covers too wide a field, and reaches too high a point in human culture, it is evident, to be all compressed into these few introductory pages ; nor would the highest re- finements of the art be practicable in the school-room if they could be here given. Yet, such initial steps have been taken, and clearly marked out in the right direction toward the high- est art, it is hoped, as will tempt many to go on further in this interesting study of nature and art, till they see for them- selves to what " rich ends" our "most poor matters point." PART I ELOCUTION is the vocal expression of ideas with the speaking tones, as distinguished from the singing. Good Elocution, in reading or speaking, is the expression of ideas with their appropriate or natural speaking tones of the voice. But how can we, intelligently, even attempt to give correct vocal expression to what is not first clearly understood and APPRECIATED ? Hence arises at the very outset, as a prerequisite to any possible excellence in elocution, the necessity of a thorough ANALYSIS and study of the ideas or the thoughts and feelings to be read. Let, then, each lesson in reading begin with \h\^ prepara- tory work of " Logical Analysis.''* method of analysis. In any other art, if we wish to conceive and express things clearly, we inquire, first, for the genus, or the general kind ; secondly, for the species, or the individuals, under that kind. If, for example, we were asked to paint a group of animals or flowers, — 1. We should ascertain what kind of animals or flowers is meant, — the horse, or the lion ; the rose, or the lily. 2. We should determine i^iQ peculiarities of the individuals, 3. We should feel obliged to learn something of the general colors we are to paint with, their various shades, and how to blend these into expressive lights and shades. Then only should we feel prepared to take \hQ first step successfully in the art of painting. JO XVlll INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. Let US, in the kindred art of elocution, adopt the same natural method and order of inquiry. Let us determine, — 1. The general spirit or hind of the piece to be read. 2. The important individual ideas. 3. The relative importance of the ideas. 1. We must determine the kind or general spirit, that we may know what general or standard force, and time, &c., of voice we should read with. There must be some stand- ard to guide us, or we cannot tell how much emphasis to give to any idea. " Eead the emphatic words louder,'' says the teacher. Louder than what ? " Louder than the unemphatic words." 'S>Mihow loud are they, the unemphatic words? This question must be answered Jirst, or we have no standard to go by ; and the answer to this question is determined always by the general spirit of the piece. If that is unemotional, the standard force required is moderate ; if bold, the stand- ard force is hold, or loud; if subdued or pathetic, the stand- ard force is subdued, or soft, 2. We must determine the important individual ideas, that we may know what words need extra force or emphasis. 3. We must determine the relative importance of these ideas, that we may know how much emphatic force we must give to each respectively, so as to bring out in our reading, clearly, the exact Sind full meaning of the author. But it may be objected that this method of catching the spirit of the author, first, is too difficult for the school-room, because there are so many emotions not easily distinguished or remem- bered. Yet, since this natural order of inquiry, if it can be made practicable, will make all our after progress so much more intelligent and rapid, and since the chief charm of all the best pieces for expressive reading, lies in the emotional part, let us see if we cannot sufficiently simplify these difficulties, by grouping nearly all the emotions into a few representative INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. XIX classes, which will be definite enough for all ordinary purposes in teaching elocution, and which can be easily recognized by any one who can distinguish joy from sorrow, or a mere matter-of-fact idea from impassioned sentiment. As appropriate answers to our first question in analysis, let pupils become familiar with some such simple and comprehen- sive classes as the following : — DIFFERENT KINDS OR CLASSES OF EMOTIONS. 1. ^Unemotional,'' or matter-of-fact, (whether didactic, narrative, or descriptive). 2. 'Bold,' (including the very emphatic passages in the first class, and all declamatory pieces). 3. * Animated or joyous,' (including all lively, happy, or beautiful ideas). 4. * Subdued or pathetic,' (including all gentle, tender, or sad ideas). 5. *M)ble,' (including all ideas that are great, grand, sublime, or heroic). 6. * Grave,' (including the deep feelings of solemnity, reverence, &c.). 7. 'Ludicrous or sarcastic,' (including jest, raillery, ridicule, mockery, irony, scorn, or contempt). 8. 'Impassioned,' (including all very bold pieces and such violent passions as anger, defiance, revenge, &c.). "When selections are of a mixed character, — some passages 'matter-of-fact,' some 'bold,' some* noble,' &c., — the first question must be asked as often as there is a marked change. Having clearly analyzed any given example, we are ready intelligently to ask and answer the first elocutionary question, viz., How can we read the same so as to express with the voice the * general spirit ' and the * individual ideas ' with the 'relative importance' of each? This brings us to the subject of, — XX INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. VOCAL EXPRESSION. Before analyzing the elements of vocal expression, let pupils be made to understand, as clearly as possible, this broad, gen- eral principle, viz., that expression in Nature or Art depends on some kinds of lights and shades, as of color, or form, or sound. Let them see that the clean white wall or the blackboard, has no expression, just because it has but one shade of one color, while the painted map on the wall expresses something, because it has different shades of various colors. They will then the more clearly understand that the true expression of thoughts and feelings in reading depends on using the right lights and shades of the voice. That a monot- onous to7ie gives no more expression to the ear than the one monotonous color does to the eye. All our lights and shades of expression in elocution are to be made out of the following : — ELEMENTS OF VOCAL EXPRESSION. 1. * Force,^ with all its natural variety, from moderate to louder or softer. 2. * Time,' with its changes from moderate to faster or slow- er movement, also with its longer or shorter quantity 2bndpauses. 3. * Slides,' * rising' and 'falling,' 2t,n(l 'circumflex,' vmdi all these as moderate, or longer or shorter. 4. 'Pitch,' with its variety of 'hey -note' 'compass,' and 5. ' Volume,' with more or less 'fulness ' of tone. 6. * Stress,' or the different kinds of force, as * abrupt,' or 'smooth,' or as given to diSevent parts of a syllable. 7. * Quality,' as 'pure' and resonant, or 'impure' and aspirated. Let us now study and practice the principles for the right use of each one of these elements of vocal expression, in Part II. PART II PEINCIPLES AND ILLUSTKATIONS OF THE ELE- MENTS OE VOCAL EXPEESSION. FORCE. As in our analysis of the spirit and sense of each passage, we have always two quite diflferent questions to ask, viz., What is the general spirit, and what the relative importance of the individual ideas f so in our analysis of each one of the elements of vocal expression, we have the same general and individual inquiries to make : 1. What general degree of force will best express the * general spirit ' of the piece ? 2. Taking this general force as our ' standard ' degree of loudness or softness to he given to the unemphatic words, how much additional force must we give to the emphatic words, in order to bring out, in our reading, the relative importance of the diflferent ideas ? PRINCIPLE FOR STANDARD FORCE. Determine the * standard force ' for the unemphatlc words by the * kind ' or * general spirit ' of the piece. If the kind is * unemotional,' the standard force is * moderate,^ If the kind is < bold,' the standard force Is * loudJ' If the kind is * pathetic or subdued,' the standard force Is < soft J' XXU INTRODUCTOKY TREATISE. PRINCIPLE FOR RELATIVE OR EMPHATIC FORCE. Taking the ' standard force ' for the unemphatic words, give additional force to the emphatic ideas, according to their relative importance. " Learning is better than wealth ; Culture is better than learning ; Wisdom is better than culture." ANALYSIS. The 'general spirit' or 'kind* is ' unemotionaU The * standard force' is, therefore, * moderate.' The words ''better" and "wealth " in the first line must have just enough addi- tional {orce to distinguish them from the unemphatic words "is" and "than." "Learning" is more important than " wealth," and must have enough more force than " wealth " to express its relative importance. " Culture " is more impor- tant than "learning," and must therefore be read with more force. " Wisdom " is still more important than " culture," and must be read with still more force, to distinguish it as the most important of all. Hence, to read this simple paragraph naturally, that is, to express distinctly the general spirit and the relative importance of the different ideas, we need five distinct de- grees of force. Let us mark the lea^t degree of emphatic force by italics, the second by small capitals, the third by large capitals, the fourth by larger capitals, and express the same in reading. " Learning is better than wealth ; * CULTUEE is better than learning ; ^^^ISDOM is better than CULTUEE." ' Unemotional' examples for ' moderate ' standard force, 1. " I am charged with amUtion. The charge is true, and I GLORY in its truth. Who ever achieved anything great in letters, arts, or armSf who was not ambitious ? Ocesar was " INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. XXlll not more ambitious than Cicero. It was but in another way. All greatness is born of ambition. Let the ambition be a NOBLE one, and who shall blame it ? " 2. " TYiQ plumage of the mocking-bird, though none of the hmneliest, has nothing gaudy or brilliant in it ; and had he nothing else to recommend him, would scarcely entitle him to notice ; but his figure is well-proportioned, and even handsome. The ease, elegance, and rapidity of his movements, the anima- tion of his eye, and the intelligence he displays in listening, and laying up lessons from almost every species of the feath- ered creation within his hearing, are really surprising, and mark the peculiarity of his genius." 8. ** HhxQQ poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn : The first in majesty of thought surpassed ; The next in gracefulness ; in BOTH, the last." [Unmarked Examples.*] 4. *' Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way ; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us further than to-day. ** Let us, then, be up and doing. With a heart for any fate ; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait." 5. " In every period of life, the acquisition of knowledge is one of the most pleasing employments of the human mind. But in youth, there are circumstances which make it produc- * Some examples under Force, Time, and Slides are given without elo- cutionary marks, that teachers and pupils may exercise their own judgment and taste in analyzing and reading them according to the principles. XXIV INTKODUCTORY TREATISE. tive of higher enjoyment. It is then, that everything has the charm of novelty; that curiosity and fancy are awake, and that the heart swells with the anticipations of future eminence and utility." ' Bold ' examples for * loud* standard force. 1. " Sir, we have done everything that could be done, to avert the storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned ; we have remonstrated ; we have supplicated ; we have pros- trated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its inter- position to ARREST the tyrannical hands of the ministry and parliament. Our petitions have been slighted ; our remon- strances have produced additional violence and insult ; our supplications have been disregarded; and we have been SPURNED, with contempt, from the foot of the throne ! " 2. ** My friends, our country must be free ! The land Is never lost, that has a son to right her. And here are troops of sons, and loyal ones ! Strong in her children should a mother be : Shall ours be helpless, that has sons like us ? God SAVE our NATIVE land, whoever pays The ransom that redeems her ! Now what wait we ? For Alfred's word to move upon theybe .^ Upon him then ! Now think ye on the things You most do love ! Husbands diudi fathers, on Their wives and children ; lovers on their beloved ; I ' And ALL upon their COUNTEY ! " 3. " The gentleman, sir, has misconceived the spirit and tendency of Northern institutions. He is ignorant of North- ern character. He has forgotten the history of his country. Preach insurrection to the Northern laborers ? Who are the Northern laborers ? The history of your country is their history. The renown of your country is their renown. The brightness of their doings is emblazoned on its every page. INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. XXV Where is Concord, and Lexington, and Princeton, and Tren- ton, and Saratoga, and Bunker Hill, but in the North ? And what, sir, has shed an imperishable renown on the names of those hallowed spots, but the blood, and the struggles, the high daring, and patriotism, and sublime courage of Northern laborers ? The whole North is an everlasting monument of the freedom, virtue, intelligence, and indomitable indepen- dence of Northern laborers ? Go, sir, go preach insurrection to men like these ! " 4. " Our Fatherland is in danger ! Citizens ! to arms ! to arms ! Unless the whole Nation rise up, as one man, to de- fend itself, all the noble blood already shed is in vain ; and, on the ground where the ashes of our ancestors repose, the Kussian knout will rule over an enslaved People ! We have nothing to rest our hopes upon, but a righteous God, and our own strength. And if we do not put forth that strength, God will also forsake us. Hungary's struggle is no longer our struggle alone. It is the struggle of popular freedom against tyranny. In the wake of our victory, will follow liberty to the Italians, Germans, Poles. With our fall, goes down the star of freedom over all." Examples of the ' subdued or pathetic ' hind for ' soft ' standard force. 1. " Little Nell was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life ; not one who had lived and suffered death. Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter-ber- ries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. * When I die, put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always.' Those were her words." 2. " But Bozzarts fell, Bleeding at every vein.^ XXVI INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. " His few surviving comrades saw His smile, when rang their proud hubrah, And the red field was won : Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose, ILike powers at set of sun." 3. ** I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to ye, I had a brother once, a gracious boy, Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope, — Of sweet and quiet joy, — there was the look Of Heaven upon his face, which limners give To the beloved disciple. How I loved That gracious boy ! Younger by fifteen years. Brother at once, and son ! He left my side, A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, — a smile Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour. The pretty, harmless boy was slain ! " 4. " There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found ; They softly lie and sweetly sleep, Low in the ground. " The storm that sweeps the wintry sky, No more disturbs their deep repose, Than summer evening's latest sigh, That shuts the rose." * Soft force ' is also appropriate for the ' grave ' kind of sen- timents, and 'loud force' for the 'joyous' and 'noble,' and ' very loud force ' for the ' impassioned ; ' but since other ele- ments of the voice, such as 'time,' 'slides,' 'quality' &c., have more characteristic prominence than 'force ' in the finished expression of these classes, we shall be more likely to secure naturalness in the end, if we call attention first to the most characteristic elements. INTKODUCTORY TREATISE. XXVU TIME. * Time^ has the same general and relative use as * Force.' PRINCIPLE FOR STANDARD TIME. Determine the ' standard time ' by the * general spirit' of the piece. If the general spirit is * unemotional,' the standard time is naturally * moderate.^ If the general spirit is * animated or joyous,' the standard time is ^ fast J If the general spirit is ' grave,' * subdued or pa- thetic,' or ' noble,' the standard time is < slow J PRINCIPLE FOR RELATIVE OR EMPHATIC TIME. Taking the * standard time ' for the unemphatic words, give additional time to the emphatic ideas, according to their relative importance. EXPLANATION. 'Emphatic time^ has two forms. 1. That of actual sound, or 'quantity.^ 2. That of rest, or 'pause.* When an emphatic idea is found in a word whose accented syllable is long, give most of the emphatic time in long quan- tity, with only a short pause after the word. When the sylla- ble to be emphasized is short, give to it only so much quantity as good taste in pronunciation will allow, and the residue of the required time in a pause after the word ; thus holding the attention of the mind on the idea for the full time demanded by the principle. When extraordinary emphasis of time is required, long pauses must be added to long quantity. Thus far, * time ' harmonizes with * force ' in principle and practice. But ' time ' is of additional value to us. It furnishes one of the primary requisites to all intelligible reading, viz: XXVUl INTRODUCTORY TREATISE, APPROPRIATE PAUSES. The first and great use of * pauses ' is to separate the ideas from each other, so as to preserve distinctly to the eye on the Written page, and to the ear in reading, the individuality of each, together with its relation to those before and after it. Second, pauses are necessary to give the reader frequent opportunities for inhaling. The grammatical pauses only imperfectly answer these pur- poses. But the additional elocutionary pauses which the spirit and sense may demand, are anticipated by our •' Principle for relative or emphatic time," which makes jpawses a natural j^ar^ of expressive emphasis in reading. PRINCIPLE FOR STANDARD PAUSES. Determine the ' standard pause' by the ' general spir- it ' of the piece. If the general spirit is * unemotional/ the standard pause is * moderate,'' If the general spirit is * animated or joyous,' the standard pause is * short. ^ If the general spirit is ' grave,' or * subdued or pa- thetic,' the standard pause is * longJ* PRINCIPLE FOR RELATIVE PAUSES. Give the ' standard pause ' after each distinct, un- emphatlc idea, and give additional time to the pauses after the empJiatic and independent Ideas, according to their relative importance and independence. EXPLANATION. As the ' standard time ' for the movement and pauses is usually the same, let one perpendicular line | be the mark for both. Let any additional number of lines indicate addi- tional time, or emphatic * quantity ' or ^ pauses.^ Let the half line ' indicate a time less than the standard. This time is needed in reading properly all parenthetical clauses, INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. XXlX whicli are, from their very nature, less important even than the unemphatic parts of the principal sentences. * Unemotional ' examples for ' moderate ' standard time. 1. " The young man, | it is often said, ' has genius \ \ enough, | if he would only study. \ \ Now the truth is, | as I shall take the liberty to state it, ' that the genius \\ will ||| study ; \\ it is that I in the mind | which does \\ study: | that is the very nature || of it. | I care not to say | that it will always use hooks. II All study \\ is not reading, \\ any more than all reading \\ is study. \\ Attention ||| it is, — || though other qualities belong to this transcendent power,— i ATTENTION || 1 1 it is, I that is the very soul ||| oi genius ; || not the fixed eye, || not the poring over a hooh, || but the fixed thought." ||| ANALYSIS. The piece is 'unemotional,^ and should be read, therefore, with * moderate^ ' standard time ' for * movement' and ' pausesJ* " The young man " is unemphatic, and should be marked and read with the * standard time.' The clause, " it is often said," is really parenthetical : it forms no essential part of the sense or construction of the principal sentence. It is for that reason of less importance than the unemphatic words of the principal sentence. It should therefore be read with less than 'moderate' or 'standard time.' The idea in "genius" is emphatic, and should be read with enough more time (as well as force) than " young man" to express its greater rela- tive importance. The accented syllable is long in "genius." The emphatic time may be given, therefore, mostly in quan- tity, with a short pause after the word. "Enough" needs only the moderate pause after it, to separate it from the con- ditional idea, "if he would only study." " Study" is as em- phatic as " genius," but the accented syllable is short ; hence, the emphatic time on this word must be given in short quan- tity, and a longer pause after it to fill out the time. " Now the truth is," requires 'moderate' time, as it is unemphatic. " As I shall take the liberty to state it," requires less than moderate time and force, as it is of less importance, being parenthetical. " That the genius " is emphatic, and demands more than moderate time. "Will" is still more important. XXX INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. and demands three lines to mark its relative time in reading. «• Study " is emphatic in the first degree, and needs only two lines to mark its time. — Thus analyze all the following ideas and selections ; and mark, in reading them, the relative im- portance or emphasis of each, by the ' time ' as well as by the ' force ' of the voice. Further on in the piece above, we come to the great positive idea, ** attention," which must be doubly emphasized ; and as it is repeated for emphasis, it then demands /owr lines to mark its superlative importance. There are few readers or speakers who make as good use of * time ' as of * force.' Yet ' time ' gives as expressive lights and shades as ' force,' and should be varied as much, according to the same principle. In reading 'grave,' ' subdued or pa- thetic,' and ' noble ' sentiments, time is far more prominent than/orce, and is thus a nobler element of emphasis. Let the example be read many times, to fix in the reader's mind the principle, and the habit of applying it correctly. 2. " What polish is to the diamond, manner is to the indi- vidual. It heightens the value and the charm. The manner is, in some sense, the mirror of the mind. It pictures and represents the thoughts and emotions within. We cannot always be engaged in expressive action. But even when we are silent, even when we are not in action, there is something in our air and manner, which expresses what is elevated, or what is low ; what is human and benignant, or what is coarse and harsh. " The charm of manner consists in its simplicity, its grace, and its sincerity. How important the study of manner ! " This example demands * slower ' standard time than the one above, because the 'general spirit' is nobler. The emphatic quantity zxA pauses are proportionately longer. 3. " Such I was Grace Darling, 1 1 — one of the heroines | | | of humanity, — 1 1 whose name | is destined to live \ \ as long as the sympathies || and affections || of humanity ||| endure. || Such calm | heroism ||| as hers, || — so generously || exerted for the good | of others, — 1 1 is one of the noblest | | | attributes of the soul II of man. | It had no alloy of blind | aniinal ]J INTEODUCTORY TREATISE. XXXI passion, | like the bravery of the soldier \\ on the field of battle, II but it was spiritual, || celestial, ||| and we may reverently add, | GODLIKE." |||| Examples of the ' animated or joyous ' kind, for ^fast ' ^standard time, and ' short ' standard pauses. [" The Voice of Spring."] 1. " I come ! II I come ! ||| ye have called me | long! || I come I o'er the mountains || with light | and song! || Ye may trace | my step | o'er the wakening | earth, || By the winds || which tell | of the violet's || birth, | By the primrose stars 1 1 in the shadowy grass, 1 1 By the green leaves || opening || as I pass. || " From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain, They are sweeping on to the silvery main, They are flashing down from the mountain brows, They are flinging spray o'er the forest-boughs. They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves ; And the earth resounds with the joy of waves ! " 2. " Then fancy || her magical j pinions | spread wide, || And bade the young dreamer | in ecstacy || rise; || Now, far, | far behind him 1 1 the green waters 1 1 glide, | And the cot i of his forefathers || blesses || his eyes, j " The jessamine || clambers | in flower | o'er the thatch, | And the swallow 1 1 sings sweet 1 1 from her nest | in the wall ; j All trembling | with transport, || he raises the latch, | And the voices | of loved ones || reply to his call." || 3. "Everyone is doubtful what course to take, — every one 1 1 but Caesar 1 1 1 He || causes the banner 1 1 to be erected, 1 1 the charge 1 1 to be sounded, | the soldiers at a distance | to be recalled, — 1| all in a moment. | He runs | from place to XXXll INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. place ; 1 1 his whole frame 1 1 1 is in action ; 1 1 his words, 1 1 his looks, II his motions, || his gestures, || exhort his men | to remember | their former valor. || He draws them up, | and causes the signal to be given, — | all in a moment. | He seizes a buckler j from one of the private men, — | puts himself 1 1 at the head | of his broken troops, — 1 1 darts into the thick 1 1 of the battle, — || rescues || his legions, || and overthrows ||| the enemy!" || Grave ' examples for * slow ' standard time. 1. " But where, || thought I, | is the crew? || Their strug- gle I has long been over; — 1| they have gone down | amidst the roar of the tempest ; — 1 1 their bones lie whitening | in the caverns of the deep. 1 1 Silence — ||| oblivion — 1 1 1 1 like the waves, 1 1 have closed over them ; 1 1 and no one can tell 1 1 the story of their end. 1 1 1 " What sighs || have been wafted after that ship! || What prayers j | oflFered up | at the deserted fireside of home ! 1 1 How often I has the mistress, || the wife, || and the mother || pored over the daily news, || to catch some casual intelligence | of this rover of the deep ! 1 1 How has expectation 1 1 darkened | into anxiety, — 1| anxiety | into dread, — ||| and dread || into despair! |{|j Alas! || not one | memento | shall ever return | for love 1 1 to cherish. 1 1 All that shall ever be known, | is, j that she sailed from her port, || and was never || heard of || more." 1 1 II * Grave ' example for very * slow time * and very " It must II be so. II Plato, || thou reasonest well ! || Else I whence | this pleasing hope, 1 1 this fond desire, Thisl onging 1 1 1 after immortality ? 1 1 1| Or whence | this secret dread ||| and inward horror ||| Of falling into naught? |||| Why | shrinks the soul Back I on herself, || and startles || at destruction? |||i INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. XXXUl 'Tis the Divinity ||| that stirs | within us: || 'T is Heaven || itself ||| that points out an hereafter, |[ And intimates | Eternity 1 1 1 to man. 1 1 Eternity ! — { 1 1 1 thou pleasing, — 1 1 dreadful thought ! " 1 1 1 ( * Pathetic ' example for ' slow ' standard time, 3. ** Alas ! II my noble boy! ||| that thou | shouldst die! ||| Thou, II who wert made | so beautifully fair! ||| That death 1 1 should settle | in thy glorious eye, 1 1 1 And leave his || stillness ||| in thy clustering hair! ||| How could he || mark thee |||| for the silent tomb, ||{ My proud | boy, || Absalom !" |||| THE SLIDES. In perfectly natural speech, the voice rises or falls on each unemphatic syllable through the interval of one tone only, but on the accented syllable of an emphatic word it rises or falls MORE THAN ONE TONE. This last is called the inflection or * slide ' of the Voice. The ' slides ' are thus a part of emphasis, and as they give the right direction and limit to * force' and * time,' they are the crownhig part of perfect emphasis. When contrasted ideas, of equal importance, are coupled, nothing but the ' contrasted slides ' can give the proper dis- tinctive emphasis. The slides also furnish to elocution its most ample and varied lights and shades of emotional expres- sion. These slides are 'rising,' marked thus (/) ; or 'falling,' marked thus (N) ; or both of these blended, in the 'rising' circumflex and the ' falling ' circumflex, marked respectively thus (^) and thus (^). The ' rising ' and ' falling ' slides separate the great mass of ideas into two distinct classes ; the frst comprising all the subordinate, or incomplete, or as we prefer to name them, the negative ideas ; the second comprising all the principal, or complete, or as we shall call them, the positive ideas. The most important parts of what is spoken or written are those which affirm something positively, such as the facts and truths asserted, ihQ principles, sentiments, and actions enjoined^ XXXIV IiVTRODUCTORY TREATISE. with the illustrations, and reascms, and appeals which enforce them. All these may properly be grouped into one class, because they all should have the same kind of slide in reading. This class we call • positive ideas.' So all the other ideas which do not affirm or enjoin any- thing positively/, which are circumstantial and incomplete, or in open contrast with the positive, all these ideas may be prop- erly grouped into another single class, because they all should have the same kind of slide. This class we call ' negative ideas.' Grant to the words ' positive ' and * negative ' the compre- hensive meaning here given to them, and let the distinction between the two classes be clearly made in the preparatory analysis, and it will be vastly easier to understand and teach this most complicated and difficult part of elocution, the right use of the rising and falling slides. For, then, the one simple principle which follows will take the place, and preclude the use of, all the usual perplexing rules, with their many suicidal exceptions. PRIIfCIPLE FOR RISING OR FALLING SLIDES. Positive ideas should have the * falling * slide ; ! NEGATIVE ideas should have the ' rising ' slide. Examples for the rising and falling slides. "The war must go on. We must fight it thr6ugh. And if the war must go on, why put off longer the declaration of inde- pendence ? That measure will strengthen us. It will give us character abroad. ** The cause will raise up armies ; the cause will create navies. The people, the people, if we are true to them, will carry lis, and will carry themselves, gloriously through this struggle. Sir, the declaration will inspire the people with increased cotirage. Instead of a long and bloody war for restoration of privileges, for redress of grievances, for chartered immuni- ties, held under a British king, set before them the glorious object of entire independence, and it will breathe into them anew the breath of life. INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. XXXV " Through the thick gloom of the present, I see the bright- ness of the future, as the sun in heaven. We shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When we are in our graves, our children will honor it. They will celebrate it with thanksgiv- ing, with festivity, with bonfires, and illuminations. On its annual return, they will shed tears, copious, gushing tears, not of subjection and slavery, not of agony and distress, but of exultation, of gratitude, and of joy." QUESTIONS. Questions, like other ideas, are negative, or positive, or compound, having one negative and one positive idea. DIRECT QUESTIONS. The direct question for information affirms nothing. Hence it is read with the rising slide, not because it may be answered by yes or no, but because it is in its nature negative. The answer is positive, and, for that reason, is read with the falling slide. '* Do you see that beautiful stdr ? " ** Yes ; " "Is n't it splendid?" The speaker is positive, in the last question, that his friend will agree with him. This, and all such, must be read, there- fore, with the falling slide. '* I said an elder soldier, not a better. Did I say better ? " " He hath brought many captives home to Kome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill ; Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?" ** You all did see, that, that on the Liipercal, I thrice presented him a kingly crown ; Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition ? " " Tell me, ye who tread the sods of yon sacred height, is Warren dead ? Can you not still see him, not pale and pros- XXXVl INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. trate, the blood of his gallant heart pouring out of his ghastly wound, but moving resplendent over the field of honor, with the rose of heaven upon his cheek, and the fire of liberty in his eye ? ** But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year?" This reading, with the falling slide on ''year," changes the sense, as it makes one idea positive, and the answer must be "next week," or ''next year." But both ideas are negative in Henry's speech ; both must have the rising slide, then, according to the principle. "Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every hoiise ? " " Is this a time to be gloomy and sad, When our mother Nature laughs around ; When even the deep blue heavens look glad, And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground ? " " * Will you ride, in the carriage, or on hdrseback ? ' * I pre- fer to walk.' " " * Will you read to us, a piece of prose, or poetry ? ' 'Allow me to sing instead.' " " Will you study music, or French? " All the ideas are negative in the last questions. Change the sense, and make one idesb positive in each question, and we have one falling slide in each. " Will you ride in the carriage, or on horseback ? " " Will you read to us a piece of pr6se, or poetry ? " ** Will you study music, or French ? " INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. XXXVU INDIRECT QUESTIONS. . " When are you going to Europe ? " The prominent idea in this, is not the real interrogative, the idea of time in "when," but the positive idea, *'You are going to Europe." Hence this, and all such questions must be read with the falling slide. But if the interrogative is made the prominent and em- phatic idea, (as when, the answer not being heard, the ques- tion is repeated,) the rising slide must be given. " When are you going to Europe? " ** Why is the E6rum crowded? What means this stir in Eome? " ADDRESS. The address also is positive or negative. It is negative, and read with the rising slide or suspension of the voice, when it is only formal and unemphatiCf as " Friends, I come not here to talk." When emphatic it is positive and demands the falling slide, as in the respectful opening address to any deliberative body or public assembly. *' Mr. President," " Ladies and Gentle- men." POSITIVE ADDRESS AND QUESTIONS. ** Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were the Pilgrims all swept off by the thirty savage tribes, enumerated within the early limits of New England ? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions and treaties had not smiiled, languish on the distant coast ? Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the abandoned adventures of other times, and find a parallel of this." *' Was it the winter's storm beating upon the houseless heads of women and children ; was it hard labor and spare meals ; — was it disease, — was it the tomahawk, — was it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken d XXXVlll INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. heart, aching in its last moments at the recollection of the loved, and left beyond the sea ; was it some or all of these united that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate ? " These questions must be read with the 'falling ' slide, to give the idea positively that each one of the enumerated cases was sufficient to produce the supposed result. The surprise is thus made all the great&r in the next sentence, which must be read as an earnest negative with the long * rising ' slide. " And is it possible that neither of these causes, that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope ? Is it possible that from the beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so w5nderful, an expansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise yet to be fulfilled, so glorious ! " When surprise thus deepens into astonishment, as it fre- quently does in its climax, the interrogative form should be changed to the exclamatory, which demands the falling slide. " Partakers in every peril, in the glory shall we not be per- mitted to participate ? And shall we be told as a requital that we are estranged from the noble country for whose salvation our life-blood was poured out ! " CONTRASTED SLIDES. When ideas are contrasted in couples, the rising and falling slides must be contrasted in reading them. Contrasted slides may also sometimes be used for greater variety or melody. EXAMPLE. 1. " Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and heart to this vote." " But, whatever may be our fate, be assured, be assured that this declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, and it may cost blood; but it will stand, and it will richly compensate for both." " Suppose that you see, at once, all the hours of the day INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. XXXIX and all the seasons of the year, a morning of spring, and a morning of autumn, a night brilliant with stars, and a night obscure with clouds ; — you will then have a more just notion of the spectacle of the universe. Is it not wondrous, that while you are admiring the sun plunging beneath the vault of the west, another observer is beholding him as he quits the region of the east, — in the same instant reposing, weary, from the dust of the evening, and awaking fresh and youthful, in the dews of morn ! " CIRCUMFLEX SLIDES. straight means right, crooked means wrong : hence right ideas demand the right or straight slides, while wrong or crooked ideas demand the crooked or * circumjlex slides.^ PRINCIPLE. All sincere and earnest, or, in other words, all upright and downright ideas demand the straight, or upright and downright slides. All ideas which are not sincere or earnest, but are used in jest, or irony, in ridicule, sarcasm, or mockery, in insinuation or double-meaning, demand the crooked or ' circumflex slides.^ The last part of the circumflex is usually the longer, and always the more characteristic part. Hence when the last part of this double slide rises it is called the * risijig cir- cumflex ; ' when the last part falls, it is called the 'falling circumflex.' The ' rising circumflex ' should be given to the negative, the * falling circumflex' to the positive ideas of jest, irony, &c. When these ideas are coupled, in contrast the circumflex slides must be in contrast also to express them. Example of jest. Marullus. You, sir ; what trade are you ? 2d Citizen. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler. xl INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. Mar. But what trade art thou ? Answer me directly. 2d Cit. a trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience ; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles. Mar. What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what trade ? 2d Cit. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me : yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you. Mar. AVhat mean'st thou by thkt ? Mend me, thou saucy fellow ? 2d Cit. Why, sir, cobble you. Flavius. Thou art a cobbler, art thou ? 2d Cit. Truly sir, all that I live by is with the aVl. Flav. But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets ? 2d Cit. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But, indeed, sir, we make holiday, to see C«CE^5ar, and to rejoice in his triumph." In the last sentence, the citizen drops his Jesting, and speaks in earnest: and therefore with the straight slides. Examples of sarcasm and irony, 2. " Now, sir, what was the conduct of your own allies to Poland ? Is there a single atrocity of the French in Italy, in Switzerland, in Egypt if you please, more unprincipled and inhuman than that of Russia, Austria, and Prussia, in Poland ? **0, but you 'regretted the partition of Poland!' Yes, regretted! — you regretted the violence, and that is kll you did." 3. They bo'ast 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 pro- tection ! yes, such protection as vultures give to lambs — cover- ing and devouring them ! Tell your invaders we seek no change — and least of all such change as they WQuld bring us ! " INTEODUCTOKY TREATISE. xli 4. ** Good Lord ! when one man dies who wears a Crown, How the earth trembles, — how the nations gape, Amazed and awed ! — but when that one man's victims, Poor worms, unclothed in purple, daily die In the grim cell, or on the groaning gibbet, Or on the civil field, ye pitying souls Drop not one tear from your indifferent eyes!" 5. Cassius. Urge me no more! I shall forget myself; Have mind upon your health ; tempt me no further. BrtTJTUS. Away, slight man ! Cas. Is 't possible ? Bku. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler ? Shall I be frightened when a madman stares ? Cas. ye gods ! ye gods ! Must I endure all this ? Brtj. All this? Ay, more. Fret till your proud heart break ; Go show your slaves how choleric you are. And make your bondmen tremble ! Must I budge ? Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humor ? You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you ; for, from this day forth, I'll use you for my mirth, — yea, for my laughter, When you are waspish ! Cas. Is it come to this ! Bru. You say you are a better soldier : Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well. For mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of nobler men. LENGTH OF SLIDES. The length of the slides depends on the * general spirit * or * kind ' of what is read. d^ xlii INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. PRINCIPLE. If the general spirit is ' unemotional,' the slides are ' moderate.* If the general spirit is * bold,' 'joyous,' or 'noble,' the slides are ' long.* If the general spirit is ' subdued or pathetic ' or ' grave,' the sHdes are ' short.* Examples for the * moderate * slide, or in the definite language of music, the " Third.''* ** Can I speak with you a mdment ? " ** Certainly." " The ancient Spartans were not less remarkable for their bravery in the field of battle, than for brevity and wit in their answers. We have a memorable instance of their national spirit, in the reply of the old warrior, who was told that the arrows of the Persian host flew so thick as to darken the sun. * So much the better,' was his answer ; * we shall enjoy the_ advantage of fighting in the shade.' " Examples for the * long* slide or the " Fifth.** " What but liberty Through the famed course of thirteen hundred years, Aloof hath held invasion from your hills. And sanctified their name ? And will ye, will ye Shrink from the hopes of the expecting world, Bid your high honors stoop to foreign insult, And in one hour give up to infamy The harvest of a thousand years of glory ? Die — all first ! Yes, die by piecemeal ! Leave not a limb o'er which a Dane can triumph I " True courage but from opposition grows ; And what are fifty what a thousand slaves. Matched to the virtue of a single arm That strikes for liberty ? that strikes to save INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. xlui His fields from fire, his infants from the sword, And his large honors from eternal infamy ? " " Ye men of Sweden, wherefore are ye come ? See ye not yonder, how the locusts swarm, To drink the fountains of your honor up, And leave your hills a desert ? Wretched men I Why came ye forth ? Is this a time for sport ? Or are ye met with song and jovial feast, To welcome your new guests, your Danish visitants ? To stretch your supple necks beneath their feet And fawning lick the dust ? Go, go, my countrymen, Each to your several mansions, trim them out, Cull all the tedious earnings of your toil. To purchase bondage. — 0, Swedes ! Swedes ! Heavens ! are ye men and will ye suffer this ? — There was a time, my friends, a glorious time ! When, had a single man of your forefathers Upon the frontier met a host in arms, His courage scarce had turned ; himself had stood, Alone had stood, the bulwark of his country." Example for the ^ short* slide, or the " Minor Third** " Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird,' — a poor, slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed, — was stirring nimbly in its cage, and the strong heart of its child-mistress was mute and motionless forever ! "Sorrow was dead, indeed, in her; but peace and perfect happiness were born, — imaged — in her tranquil beauty and profound repose. •* Waking, she never wandered in her mind but once, and that was at beautiful music, which, she said, was in the air ! God knows. It may have been. " Opening her eyes at last from a very quiet sleep, she begged that they would kiss her once again. That done, she turned to the old man, with a lovely smile upon her face, — such, they said, as they had never seen, and never could for- xllv INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. get — and clung, with both her arms, about his neck. She had never murmured or complained ; but with a qiiiet mind, and manner quite unaltered, — save that she every day became more earnest and more grateful to them, — faded like the light upon the summer's evening." PITCH. 1. The * standard pitch' or 'key-note,* 2. The 'relative pitch ' or ' melody.' The middle pitch is the natural key-note for * unemotional,' * bold,' and ' noble ' pieces. A higher pitch is the natural key- note for * animated and joyous,' * subdued or pathetic,' and ' im- passioned ' pieces. A lower pitch is required for 'grave ' pieces. The middle or conversational pitch must be used for all 'kinds ' when pupils have not the requisite compass or cultiva- tion of voice to read naturally on a hiyher or lower ' key.' But appropriate variety of pitch on the successive words and syllables, is one of the most essential and beautiful parts of good reading. In perfect elocution, it adds to the eloquence oi expressive emphasis, the musical charm of ' natural melody.* NATURAL MELODY Is produced in part by that agreeable modulation of all the elements of expression, which the varied sense and feeling demand, yet it chiefly depends on a pleasing variation of the radical or opening pitch, on successive syllables. PRINCIPLE. 1. Not more than two or three consecutive syllables should be given on the same tone of the ** musical scale." 2. Natural melody demands that this frequent change of pitch on the unemphatic syllables shall be only one tone at a time. The unemphatic syllables for-m a kind of flexihle ladder connecting the emphatic ideas, up and down which we must glide tone by tone, so as to be in the right place to give the longer slides on the emphatic words without an unmelodious break in the natural current of the voice, which should flow on smoothly through all changes, (ualess there is an abrupt break INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. XIV in the ideas,) just as a good road runs on over ever- varying hills and vales without once losing its smooth continuity. Melody demands that the pitch on consecutive emphatic words also be agreeably varied. . Our limited space will not allow us to mark the many possible permutations of pitch, which may constitute natural melody. We will only repeat, the important general principles. Avoid monotony, by giving at most only two or three consecutive syllables, on the same tone. Avoid making unnatural changes of pitch, of more than one tone at a time. COMPASS. Turn up the melody on the negative ideas, so that you will have room above the key-note, to slide down easily on the positive ideas. The compass of voice which should be used also depends on the * spirit ' of the piece. The most 'joyous' and most 'impassioned' demands the widest range of pitch, and the greatest natural variety. The ' unemotional ' demands only moderate compass. • The * grave ' demands still less variety and compass. And when the ' grave ' deepens into snpernaturcd aive or horror, by the same analogy, we may infer that natural variety or melody gives place to an unnatural sameness of utterance, with just that little variety of all the vocal elements which is necessary to express the sense at all. Example for ' middle pitch ' and * moderate compass.^ "It is these which I love and venerate in England. I should feel ashamed of an enthusiasm for Italy and Greece, did I not also feel it for a land like this. In an American, it would seem to me degenerate and ungrateful, to hang with passion upon the traces of Homer and Virgil, and follow with- out emotion, the nearer and plainer footsteps of Shakspeare and Milton." * Joyous ' example for * higher pitch ' and wider compass.* ** There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Xlvi INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. Her beauty and her chivalry ; and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men. A thousand hearts beat happily, and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell." Grave* example for ' lower pitch* and less than * moderate compass.* "And, — when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, — say I taught thee ; Say, "Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in, A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition : By that sin fell the angels ; how can man then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't ? Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's. Thy God's, and truth's: then, if thou fall'st, Cromwell ! Thou fall'st a blessed martyr ! " VOLUME. * Full volume ' is the most essential element in the truthful expression of ' noble ' sentiment. 1. ** Mind is the noblest part of man; and of mind, vir- tue is the NOBLEST distinction. Honest man, in the ear of Wisdom, is a grander name, is a more high-sounding title, than peer of the realm, or prince of the blood. According to the eternal rules of celestial precedency, in the immortal heraldry of Nature and of Heaven, virtue takes place of all things. It is the nobility of angels 1 It is the majesty of GOD 1 " INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. xlvll In addition to 'full volume,' 'noble' pieces demand slow time, or long quantity and pauses, long slides, and loud but smooth- swelling force on the emphatic words. Full volume distinguishes manly sentiments from the thin or Jine tone of childlike emotions. 2. " But strew his ashes to the wind. Whose sword or voice has served mankind. And is he dead whose glorious mind Lifts thine on high ? To live in hearts we leave behind, Is not to die. " Is 't death to fall for Freedom's right? He *s dead alone that lacks her light I And murder sullies in Heaven's sight The sword he draws : — What can alone ennoble fight ? A noble cause ! " STRESS. Stress is not the degree but the kind of emphatic force we use. The same degree of loudness may be given to a syllable abruptly and suddtnly, as in sharp command, or smoothly and gradually, as in the noble examples given above. This sudden and harsh kind of force we will call ' abrupt stress ; ' the other * smooth stress. ' PRINCIPLE. * Abrupt stress ' should be given to all abrupt or harsh ideas, and pleasant or ^smooth stress' to all good or pleasant ideas. Mere command is abrupt ; indignation, anger, defiance, revenge, &c., are all abrupt in their very nature ; and, there- fore, must be read with the * abrupt stress.' xlviii INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. ABRUPT STRESS. 1. Impatient command. ** Hence! home you idle creatures, get you home. You Uocks, you stones, you WOESE than senseless things I Be ffone ! Kun to your houses, fall upon your knees, Pray to the gods to intermit the plXgue That needs must light on this ingratitude.^* The force must be thrown with an abrupt jerk on the emphatic syllables. 2. Anger. {Loud as well as ' abrupt ' force and * long slides.*) •* Cassius. That you have wronged me doth appear in this ; You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella, For taking bribes here of the Sardians ; "Wherein, my letter, praying on his side, Because I knew the man, was slighted off. Brutus. You wronged yourself to write in such a case. Cas. In such a time as this is it not meet That every nice offence should bear its comment ? Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemned to have an itching palm ; To sell and mart your offices for gold To undeservers. Cas. I an itching palm ? You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption, And chastisement does therefore hide his head. Cas. Chastisement ? Bru. Eemember March, the ides of March remember. Did not great Julius bleed for justice's sake ? What villain touched his body, that did stab, And not for justice? What! shall one of us, INTRODUCTOKY TREATISE. xllx That struck the foremost man of all this world, But for supporting robbers, — shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honors, Tor so much trash as may be grasped thus ? 1 had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Eoman." 3. Defiance. {Very 'abrupt' and * loud,' with* long slides.') *' I have returned, not as the right honorable member has said, to raise another storm, — 1 have returned to protect that constitution, of which I was the parent and the founder, from the assassination of such men as the honorable gentle- man and his unworthy associates. They are corrupt — they are sedItious — and they, at this very moment, are in a con- spiracy against their country ! Here I stand for impeachment, or trial ! I dare accusation ! I defy the honorable gentle- man ! I defy the government ! I defy their whole PHA- LANX ! Let them come forth! I tell the ministers I will neither give them quarter, nor take it ! " 4. Indignation. " Who is the man, that, in addition to the disgraces and mischiefs of the war, has dared to authorize and associate to our arms the tomahawk and scalping-knife of the savage ? — to call into civilized alliance the wild and inhuman inhabitant of the woods? — to delegate to the merciless Indian the defence of disputed rights, and to wage the horrors of his barbarous war against our brethren ? ]\Iy lords, we are called upon as members of this house, as men, as Christian men, to protest against such horrible barbarity." SMOOTH STRESS. All pleasant and good ideas demand ' smooth stress ' or force, free from all abruptness. 1 INTilODUCTOKY TREATISE. In 'joyous' pieces, when the time is fast, the stress must be given with a lively, springing swell of the voice, which throws the force smoothly on the middle of the sound. Hence it is called the ' median ' stress. * Animated and joyous' examples for smooth stress, 1. '* His cares flew away, And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. " He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers, And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ; While memory each scene gayly covered with flowers, And restored every rose, but secreted its th5rn." In the following example of ' noble,' manly joy, the happy median stress swells with the same smooth, springing force as above, but with more fulness and longer quantity and -pauses. 2. " Fellow Citizens, — I congratulate you, — I give you joy, on the return of this anniversary. I see, before and around me, a mass of faces, glowing with cheerfulness and patriotic pride. This anniversary animates and gladdens and unites all American hearts. Every man's heart swells within him, — every man's port and bearing becomes some- what more proud and lofty, as he remembers that seventy-five years have rolled away, and that the great inheritance of liberty is still his ; his, undiminished and unimpaired ; his, in all its original glory ; his to enjoy, his to protect, and his to transmit to future generations." * Subdued ' example for gentle but happy median or smooth stress. "At last, Malibran came ; and the child sat with his glance riveted upon her glorious face. Could he believe that the grand lady, all blazing with jewels, and whom everybody seemed to worship, would really sing his little song? Breath- INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. li less he waited; — the band, the whole band, struck up a little plaintive melody. He knew it, and clapped his hands for joy. " And oh ! how she sung it ! It was so simple, so mourn- ful, so soul-subduing ; — many a bright eye dimmed with tears ; and naught could be heard but the touching words of that little song, — oh ! so touching ! ♦' Little Pierre walked home as if he were moving on the air. What cared he for money now? The greatest singer in all Europe had sung his little song, and thousands had wept at his grief. " Thus she, who was the idol of England's nobility, went about doing good. And in her early, happy death, when the grave-damps gathered over her brow, and her eyes grew dim, he who stood by her bed, his bright face clothed in the mourn- ing of sighs and tears, and smoothed her pillow, and lightened her last moments by his undying affection, was the little Pierre of former days, — now rich, accomplished, and the most talented composer of his day." * Nohle ' example for prolonged, full-swelling median or smooth stress. ** We must forget all feelings save the one ; We must behold no object save our country ; — And only look on death as beautiful, So that the sacrifice ascend to Heaven, And draw down freedom on her evermore. * But if we fail ? ' They never fail, who die In a great cause ! The block may soak their gore ; Their heads may sodden in the sun ; their limbs Be strung to city gates and castle walls ; — But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years Elapse, and others share as dark a doom. They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts W^hich overpower all others, and conduct The world, at last, to freedom ! " Hi INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. Examples for the longest * quantity ' and 'fullest sioelV of the median or smooth stress. " liberty ! sound once delightful to every Eoman ear ! sacred privilege of Eoman citizenship ! once sacred, — now itrampled on ! " •* Ye crags and peaks, I 'm with you once again I sacred forms, how proud you look ! How high you lift your heads into the sky ! How huge you are ! how mighty and how free I " Ye guards of liberty, 1 'm with you once again." ♦* The land that bore you — I Do honor to her ! Let her glory in Your breeding." ** These are Thy glorious works, Parent of ©ood. Almighty ! Thine this universal frame. Thus wondrous fair ! Thyself how wondrous, then ! " Example for ' noble ' but happy median stress. ** The Lord is my shepherd ; I shall not want. " He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restore th my soul." The fullest swell of the median stress can be given only on the hng syllables. On the short syllables, as in the word " liberty," this stress is but partially felt. Sometimes the short syllables may be repeated in the form of the ' tremor,' or trill, so as really to give the effect of a long syllable, as in the fervent reverential joy of the following line: " God ! thou hast blest me ; — I ask for no more." So, too, in reading Colerid|fe's sublime " Hymn to Mont Blanc." the word " (xod," as it is repeated with cumulating praise, may be given by a skilful vocalist with a tremulous INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. lili swell on the short vowel, which very much ennobles the expression. Yet as this is too difl&cult a point for readers in general to execute well, all that should he insisted on, is, that the short syllable be spoken with as much fulness as its quan- tity will allow, and * smooth stress ' though it cannot be pro- longed. ** Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven, Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows ? Who with lovely flowers Of living blue spread garlands at your feet ? — God ! God ! the torrents like a shout of nations Utter : the ice-plain bursts and answers, God ! God ! sing the meadow streams with gladsome voice, And pine-groves with their soft and soul-like sound." When this general distinction between ' abrupt ' and 'smooth' stress is mastered, we may analyze 'abrupt' stress, and make finer distinctions. Dr. Eush, Prof. William Kussell, and many of our best later writers on elocution, call the Jirst part of every sound the " radical,'' as it is the radix or root from which the other parts grow. The last part of a sound they call the "vanish.'^ Let scholars remember this fact, and the technical terms for Stress explain themselves. The ' radical stress ' is that em- phatic force given to the *' radical" ov Jirst part of a sound. The 'vanishing stress' is that given to the '' vanish'' or last part. The ' compound stress ' is that given to both the 'Jirst ' and * last ' parts. The * thorough stress ' is that given tlwroughly to the whole of the sound. The * median stress ' is that given to the middle part. Now, all of these but the last, the * median,' belong to ' abrupt stress.' The * median ' alone is smooth and pleasing. When scholars are ready for more definite terms than ' abrupt,' let them study and heed in practice the following principles : — The * radical stress,' or abrupt force on the very opening of a syllable, is used naturally on ' commanding ideas,' such as hold statements and arguments, and in a greater degree on * indignation,' and with impassioned, explosive force on * anger .^ liv INTKODUCTOKY TREATISE. The 'vanisliing stress,' that abrupt force which is given with a sudden yer^ of the voice, on the very last of a syllable, is used in nature, to express * impatience,' ' defiance,' ' revenge,^ ' contempt,' ' scorn,' &c. The ' compound stress,' with abruptness on both the evening and closing parts, is necessary to give emphatic ' ridicule,' * sarcasm,' 'insinuation,' 'irony,' &c. The * thorough stress,' which sustains the opening boldness throughout, is appropriate in ' hold, marshal command.' The * tremor ' of the voice adds nervous intensity to the * abrupt stress ; ' but it is most effective, when inspired by strong feeling, with the ' smooth ' or ' median ' stress. The ' soft 2iTi6. slow ivtmox' expresses *j9%'and 'feebleness'; the sinooth, ' rapid tremor,' exi^resses fervent 'joy' or ' tenderness' Examples of ' long quantity ' and ' abrupt force ' on the very opening of the emphatic tone or the ' radical' stress, 1. " Come one, come all ! — this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I." 2. " There is, however, one man, who distinctly and au-^ daciously tells the Irish people that they are not entitled to the same privileges as Englishmen, and pronounces them, in race, identity, and religion, to be aliens, — to be aliens in race, to be aliens in country, to be aliens in religion ! Aliens? Good God ! was Arthur, Duke of Wellington, in the House of Lords, and did he not start up and exclaim, ' Hold ! I have seen the aliens do their duty ? ' " Examples of very ' long quantity,' with very loud ' vanishing stress ' or * abrupt force ' on the very last part of the emphatic tone. 1. ** Shame ! shame ! that in such a proud moment of life, AVorth ages of history, — when had you but hurled One bolt at your bloody invader, that strife Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world, That then, — oh ! disgrace upon manhood ! — e'en then INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. Iv You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath, — Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men, And prefer a slave's life to a glorious death ! " 2. *' I saw The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried Tor vengeance ! Eouse, ye Komans ! Bouse, ye slaves ! " Painful earnestness, anxiety, or entreaty, also demand the * vanishing stress^ 3. "I never heard entreaties for life poured forth with such agony of spirit. He prayed but for life, — for life he would give all he had in the world. It was but life he asked, life, if it were to be prolonged under tortures and privations." Examples of * compound stress ' or ' 4i^rupt force ' on both the very first and very last parts of a syllable. This double stress is only used with the double or circumflex slides. 1. " What has there been in the conduct of the British ministry to j ustify these hopes ? Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received? Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation ? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled, that force must be called in to win back our love ? " 2. " Sir, — the atrocious crime of being a young man, which the honorable gentleman has, with such spirit and decency, charged upon me, I shall neither attempt to palliate nor deny ; — but content myself with hoping that I may be one of those whose follies cease with their youth, and not of that number, who, as they have advanced in age, have receded from virtue, and become more wicked with less temptation." 3. '* They planted by your care ? No, your oppressions planted them in America. They nourished up by your indul- IvI INTRODUCTOr.Y TREATISE. gence ? They grew by your neglect of them. They protected by your arms ! They have nobly taken up arms in your defence." Examples of * thorough stress,' with a sustained hold force on the whole tone. 1. " Strike — till the last arm'd foe expires, Strike — for your altars and your fires, Strike — for the green graves of your sires, God — and your native land ! " 2. Biit if ye are men, then follow me ! Strike down yon sentinel, and gain the mountain passes ; and then do bloody work as did your sires at old Thermopylae ! " Examples for the ' median stress' with a smooth tremulous swell. First, the ' slow tremor,' — as in the feeble, pathetic plead- ing of the dying child, — 'very short slides,' and very * soft force.' ' 1. ** Give me three grains of corn, mother, Only three grains of corn ; It will keep the little life I have, Till the coming of the morn. I am dying of hunger and cold, mother, Dying of hunger and cold, And half the agony of such a death My lips have never told." 2. "I tell you that which you yourselves do know ; Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, — poor, poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me." Second, ' rapid tremor ' of joy, tenderness, rapture, or fer- vor. 1. ** The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast ; Joy quickens his pulses, — his hardships seem o'er, INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. Ivli And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest, — G-od ! thou hast blest me ; I ask for no more." 2. "On board, we hailed the lad beloved, With many a manly shout : The father drew with silent joy Those wet arms round his neck, And folded to his heart his boy, — Then fainted on the deck." In fervent admiration the median stress may be given with the ' tremulous swell.' Examples of full and lively * median stress.* ,1. ■** young Lochinvar is come out of the west. Through all the wide border his steed was the best, And save his good broadsword he weapon had none, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar." 2. " But thou, Hope ! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure ? Still it whispered promised pleasure. And bade the lovely scenes at distance — haiL Still would her touch the strain prolong ; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, . She called on Echo still through all her song I And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair." Eapturous joy, like Eomeo's, should have the longest and smoothest and happiest * tremulous median stress.' " But soft ! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun ! Ivlii INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. " She speaks; 0, speak again, bright angel ! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, As is a winged messenger of Heaven Unto the white-upturned, wond'ring eyes Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him, When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds. And sails upon the bosom of the air." ** blessed, blessed night ! I am afear'd. Being in night, all this is but a dream Too flattering-sweet to be substantial" With very * long slides,' and ' loud force,' and * high pitch,' the * tremvlous vanishing stress ' is natural and most effective in the following example of impassioned fear and entreaty. ** Oh ! save me, Hubert, save me ! my eyes are out Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men! Alas ! what need you be so boist'rous-rough ? I will not struggle ; I will stand stone-still. Tor Heaven's sake, Hubert ! let me not be bound ! Nay, hear me, Hubert ! drive these men away And I will sit as quiet as a lamb ; I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word. Nor look upon the irons angerly ; Thrust but these men away, and I '11 forgive you, Whatever torment you do put me to." QUALITY OP VOICE. Quality of voice is ^ pure ' or * impure.^ It is ' pure ' when all the breath used is vocalized. It is * impure ' or aspirated when only a part of the breath is vocalized. PRINCIPLE. * Pure quality ' should be used to express all pure ideas ; that is, all good and agreeable ideas. INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. lix * Impure quality,^ or aspirated , should be used to ex- press all impure ideas; that is, all had or disagreeable ideas. Examples of impure quality.* Painful earnestness or anxiety demands this * aspirated quality ' with ' abrupt vanishing stress.' 1. " Take care ! your very life is endangered ! " 2. " Oh ! 't was a fearsome sight ! Ah me ! A deed to shudder ait, — not to see." 3. " While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips, ** The foe ! they come, they come ! " 4. " He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck, — Amazement confronts him with images dire, — Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck : The masts fly in splinters, l^e shrouds are on fire ! " Like mountains the billows tremendously swell : In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to sa.ve ; Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell. And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave." Extreme aspiration should mark the fear and horror in the following words of Macbeth. 5. "I '11 go no more: I am afraid to think what I have done ; Look on 't again I dare not." Strong aspiration and ' abrupt radical stress.' 6. ** I am astonished, shocked, to hear such principles confessed, — to hear them avowed in this house, or in this iX INTKODUCTORY TEEATISE. country ; — principles equally unconstitutional, inhuman, and unchristian ! " * Sold' and * impassioned* examples for very * abrupt stress * and * aspirated quality ' on the emphatic words. 7. "It was the act of a coward, who raises his arm to strike, but has not the courage to give the blow ! I will not call him villain, because it would be unparliamentary, and he is a privy councillor. I will not call him fool, because he happens to be chancellor of the exchequer. But I say he is one who has abused the privilege of parliament and freedom of debate, to the uttering of language which, if spoken out of the house, I should answer only with a blow ! I care not how high his situation, how low his character, or how contemptible his speech ; whether a privy councillor or a parasite, my answer would be a blow ! " 8. ** The wretch, who, after having seen the consequences of a thousand errors, continues still to blunder, and whose age has only added obstinacy to stupidity, is surely the object of either abhorrence or contempt, and deserves not that his gray hairs should secure him from insult." 9. " If ye are beasts, then stand here like fat oxen waiting for the butcher's knife." This quality of voice demands that the aspirates and the less resonant consonants be made very prominent in the enun- ciation, while the purer vowels and the liquid, pleasant conso- nants reserve their prominence till pure tone is required. All examples of ' aspirated quality ' require abrupt stress. * Contemptuous and ironical ' example. 10. ** But base ignoble slaves, — slaves to a horde Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords Kich in some dozen paltry villages, — Strong in some hundred spearmen, — only great In that strange spell — a name." INTRODUCTOEY TREATISE. kl * Compound ' abrupt stress, with the * circumflex slide,* 11. " But ere we could arrive the point proposed, Caesar cried, * Help me, Cassius, or I sink ! ' '* And this man Is now become a g6d ; and Cassius is A wretched creature, and must bend his body, If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain, And, when the fit was on him, I did mark How he did shake : 't is true, this god did shake : His coward lips did from their color fly ; And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world, Did lose its lustre. I did hear him groan ; A^, and that tongue of his, that bade the Komans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, Alas ! it cried, * Give me some drink, Titinius,' As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world And bear the palm alone ! " The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars. But in ourselves, that we are underlings." The malignant feelings of Cataline in the following example call for the most 'abrupt' 'vanishing' and ' compound stress^ with intensely ' aspirated quality' 12. "■ What is Kome now ? Degenerate, gross, defiled, The tainted haunt, the gorged receptacle. Of every slave and vagabond of earth : A mighty grave that Luxury has dug To rid the other realms of pestilence ! " I had no chance ; wherefore should I be consul ? No ; Cicero still is master of the crowd. / IXU INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. Why not ? He 's made for them, and they for him ; They want a sycophant, and he wants slaves. " But here I stand and scoff you ! here, I fling Hatred and full defiance in your face ! Your consul 's merciful : — for this, all thanks. He dares not touch a hair of Cataline ! " But when fear and secresy are blended with malignity, the * impure quality ' is so marked as to be all but a whisper on the emphatic words. Example from " King John.'* " King John. Good Hubert ! Hubert ! Hubert ! throw thine eye On yon young boy. I '11 tell thee what, my friend. He is a very serpent in my way ; And wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread, He lies before me. Dost thou understand me ? Thou art his keeper. Hubert. And I will keep him so. That he shall not offend your Majesty. K. John. Death. Hub. My lord ? K. John. A grave. Hub. He shall not live. K. John. Enough. I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee ; Well, I '11 not say what I intend for thee : Kemember ! " Examples of * pure quality,'' 1. " That which befits us, imbosomed in beauty and won- der as we are, is cheerfulness and courage, and the endeavor to realize our aspirations " INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. Ixiii Example of ^ pure tone,'' with lively, median stress. 2. "It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the Dauphiness, at Versailles, and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. " I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in, glittering like the morning-star, full of life, and splendor, and joy.'* * Lower pitch ' and ' slower time.' ' Long quantity,' and prolonged median stress. 3. " ! what a revolution ! and what a heart must I have to contemplate without emotion, that elevation and that fall ! Little did I dreapi that I should have lived to see such dis- asters fallen upon her, in a Nation of gallant men, in a Nation of men of honor, and of cavaliers ! I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards, to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. " But the age of chivalry is gone, and the glory of Europe ifi extinguished forever." The following selection from Shelley's '* To a Skylark," is full of rapturous beauty, and requires the 'purest tone ' and the smoothest and happiest 'median stress,' prolonged with swelling fulness on the emphatic words : — 4. ** Hail to thee, blithe spirit, — Bird thou never wert, — That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. " Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest ; Like a cloud of fire. Ixiv INTllODUCTOEY TEEATISE. The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest " In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run. Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. " All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. " What thou art, we know not ; What is most like thee ? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. '* Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Eain-awakened flowers. All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. " Teach us, sprite or bird, ' What sweet thoughts are thine ; I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. ** Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures INTRODUCTORY TEEATISE. Ixv That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scomer of the ground I " Teacn me half the gladness ' That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now." * Noble ' example for 'pure tone^ to he given also with full median stress. " We wish that this column, rising towards heaven among the pointed spires of so many temples dedicated to God, may contribute also to produce, in all minds, a pious feeling of dependence and gratitude. We wish, finally, that the last object on the sight of him who leaves his native shore, ar>d the first to gladden him who revisits it, may be something which shall remind him of the liberty and glory of his coun- try. Let it rise till it meet the sun in his coming ; let the earliest light of morning gild it, and parting day linger and play upon its summit." Example of * subdued beauty,^ with the same 'pure quality* but with ' slower time,* 'softer force,' and less lively ' median stress.* " How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears ! soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. " Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ! There 's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st, But in his motion like an angel sings ; Such harmony is in immortal souls ! " Ixvi INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. Subdued and pathetic ' example for 'pure quality,* * soft force,' 'short slides,' and gentle 'median stress.' ** There's another, — not a sister, — in the happy days gone by, You 'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Tell her the last night of my life, (for ere the morn be risen, My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison,) — I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Khine ! I saw the blue Khine sweep along, — I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear ; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill. The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still ; And her glad blue eyes were on me as we passed with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk ; And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine, — But we'll meet no more at Bingen — loved Bingen on the Ehine!" * Subdued example ' for very ' soft force' ' short slides' and gentle 'median stress,' and the 'purest quality.' " I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! To die before the snow-drop came, and now the violet 's here. sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow ; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. Ixvii sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done, The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun — Forever and forever ; all in a blessed home — And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come — To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — And the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest." * Joyous ' example for '"pure quality * and happy * median stress. " And what is so rare as a day in June ? Then, if ever, come perfect days ; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays : Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; Every clod feels a stir of might. An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light. Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves. And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives." A striking example of both qualities may be taken from the dialogue between " Old Shylock" and "Portia." The tones of Shylock' s voice, to express his spite and revenge, must be marked by the most abrupt ' vanishing stress' and 'aspirated or impure quality ; ' while the beautiful sentiments of Portia demand the 'smoothest stress ' and 'purest quality.'' *' Portia. Do you confess the bond? Antonio. I do. PoR. Then must the Jew be merciful. Shylock. On what compulsion must I ? Tell me that. 1. PoR. The quality of mercy is not strained ; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath : it is twice bless'd ; Ixviii IXTRODUCTORY TREATISE. It blesseth him that gives, and liim that takes : *T is mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown : It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself, And earthly power doth then shew likest God*s, When mercy seasons justice." Having thus treated of, and* illustrated with various kinds of pieces, each one of the elements of elocution, separately, let us now finish our work by learning how all these separate elements unite together and blend in the natural expression of ea£h ' kind ' of sentiment. « Unemotional ' pieces should have * moderate ' ' standard force' and 'time' and 'slides' and 'volume,' 'middle pitch,* ' smooth stress,' and ' pure quality ' of voice. Unemotional Example, ** There is something nobly simple and pure in a taste for the cultivation of forest trees. It argues, I think, a sweet and generous nature, to have a strong relish for the beauties of vegetation, and a friendship for the hardy and glorious sons of the forest. He, who plants an oak, looks forward to future ages, and plants for posterity. Nothing can be less selfish than this. He cannot expect to sit in its shade and enjoy its shelter; tut he exults in the idea that the acorn which he has buried in the earth shall grow up into a lofty pile, and shall keep on flourishing and increasing and benefiting mankind, long after he shall have ceased to tread his paternal fields." ' Bold ' pieces should have ' loud ' ' standard force,' * long slides,' 'moderate time,' with long quantity on the emphatio syllables, ' middle pitch,' ' abrupt stress,' and slightly ' aspi- rated quality.' Sold Example. " Who, then, caused the strife That crimsoned Naseby's field, and Marston's Moor? It was the Stuart ; — so the Stuart fell ! INTKODUCTOKY TREATISE. Ixix A victim, in the pit himself had digged ! He died not, sirs, as hated kings have died, In secret and in shade, — no eye to trace The one step from their prison to their pall : He died in the eyes of Europe, — in the face Of the broad Heaven ; amidst the sons of England, Whom he had outraged ; by a solemn sentence, Passed by a solemn Court. Does this seem guilt ? You pity Charles ! 't is well ; but pity more The tens of thousand honest humble men, Who, by the tyranny of Charles compelled To draw the sword, fell, butchered in the field! " 'Animated or joyous' pieces should have 'fast time, 'lively, springing 'median stress,' 'pure quality,' 'long slides,' 'high pitch,' and ' loud force.' Joyous Example. " You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear. To-morrow '11 be the happiest time of all the glad New- Year ; Of all the glad New- Year, mother, the maddest, merriest day ; Eor I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. ** I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake. If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay. For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May." * Subdued or pathetic' pieces should have ' soft force,' ' short (or minor) slides,' ' slow time,' gentle 'median stress,' 'pure quality,' 'high pitch,' and less than 'moderate volume.' Subdued or Pathetic Example. ," If you 're waking call me early, call me early mother dear Eor I would see the sun rise upon the glad New- Year. It is the last New-Year that I shall ever see, Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me. Lxx INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. ** To-night I saw the sun set ! he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind, And the New- Year 's coming up, mother, but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree." * Grave ' pieces should have ' low pitch,' * slow time,' with 'long quantity and pauses,' 'full volume' 'soft force' and * short slides ' — also ' smooth stress ' and ' pure quality ' when the ideas are reverential or solemn merely — but more or less * abrupt stress ' and ' aspirated quality ' when characterized by fear or aversion, as in ' dread,' * awe,' and * horror.' Grave Example. " Come to the bridal chamber, — Death ! Come to the mother, when she feels, For the first time her first-born's breath ; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke ; Come in Consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake shock, the ocean storm, Come when the heart beats high and warm With banquet-song and dance and wine, — And thou are terrible ! the tear, — The groan, — the knell, — the pall, — the bier. And all we know, or dream, or fear, Of agony are thine." * Noble ' pieces should have * full ' swelling * volume ' and * median stress,' with * long quantity ' and * long slides,' ' loud force,' 'pure quality,' and ' middle pitch.' Noble Example. " But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. Ixxi Bozzaris ! with the storied Brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Best thee ! there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. We tell thy doom without a sigh ; For thou art Freedom's now and Fame's, — One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die ! " Both * ludicrous' and 'sarcastic' pieces should have long 'circumflex slides ' and * compound ' * abrupt stress,' 'long quan- tity and pauses ' on the emphatic words ; but punning and raillery, when good-natured, should have a ' higher pitch,' 'faster time,' and 'purer quality' than belongs to sarcasm which should have the ' middle pitch,' ' aspirated quality,' and rather ' slow time.' With both kinds the ' force ' changes from * moderate ' to louder with the boldness of the spirit. In the following example the part of Sir Peter Teazle should be read with strongly ' aspirated quality ' and ' abrupt stress,' while the half-laughing raillery of Lady T. should have the * pure quality ' and ' tremulous stress ' mingled with the ' com- pound,' and * higher pitch and ' less volume.' Ludicrous or sarcastic example. " Sir Peter. Very well, ma'am, very well — so a husband is to have no influence, no authority ? Lady T. Authority ! No, to be sure : — if you wanted authority over me, you should have adopted me, and not married me ; I am sure you were old enough. Sir p. Old enough ! — ay, there it is. Well, well. Lady Teazle, though my life may be made unhappy by your temper I'll not be ruined by your extravagance. Lady T. Vij extravagance! Sir Peter, am I to blame because flowers are dear in cold weather? You should find fault with the climate, and not with me. For my part, I 'm sure, I wish it was spring all the year round, and that roses grew under our feet ! Sir P. Zounds! madam — if you had been born to this, I should n't wonder at your talking thus ; but you forget what your situation was when I married you. Lxxll IXTKODUCTORY TREATISE. Lady T. No, no, I don't ; 't was a very disagreeable one, or I should never have married you. Sir Peter I would you have me be out of the fashion ? Sir p. The fashion, indeed ! What had you to do with the fashion before you married me ? Lady T. Por my part, I should think you would like to have your wife thought a woman of taste. Sir p. Ay, there again — taste. Zounds ! madam, you had no taste when you married me ! Lady T. That 's very true, indeed. Sir Peter ; and after having married you I should never pretend to taste again, I allow. But now, Sir Peter, since we have finished our daily jangle, I presume I may go to my e'ngagement at* Lady Sneer- well's. Sir p. Ay, there 's another precious circumstance — a charming set of acquaintance you have made there." Example of hitter irony and sarcasm dossing with the impassioned kind.^ " I speak not to you, Mr. Eenwick, of your own outcast condition ; — perhaps you delight in the perils of martyrdom : I speak not to those around us, who, in their persons, their substance, and their families, have endured the torture, poverty, and irremediable dishonor. They may be meek and hallowed men, willing to endure ; and as for my wife — what was she to you ? Ye cannot be greatly disturbed that she is in her grave. No, ye are quiet, calm, prudent persons ; it would be a most indiscreet thing of you, you who have suffered no wrongs yourselves, to stir on her account " In truth, friends, Mr. Eenwick is quite right. This feeling of indignation against our oppressors is a most imprudent thing. If we desire to enjoy our own contempt, to deserve the derision of men, and to merit the abhorrence of Heaven, let us yield ourselves to all that Charles Stuart and his sect require. We can do nothing better, nothing so meritorious, — nothing by which we can so reasonably hope for punishment here and INTllODUCTORY TREATISE. Ixxlil' condemnation hereafter. But if there is one man at this meeting, — I am speaking not of shapes and forms, but of feelings, — if there is one here that feels as men were wont to feel, he will draw his sword, and say with me, Woe to the house of Stuart ! woe to the oppressors ! " * Impassioned ' pieces, such as the last of the example above and the following, should have ' very loud force,' * very long slides,' 'very abrupt stress.' Time accelerating as the pas- sion cumulates, from ' moderate ' to ' faster,' with * very long quantity ' on the emphatic words, * middle and higher pitch * and 'quality,' (where the passion is not malignant,) only slightly * aspirated.' Impassioned example. " * My castles are my king's alone, From turret to foundation stone ; The hand of Douglas is his own, And never shall in friendly grasp The hand of such as Marmion clasp ! ' Burned Marmion' s swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire, And * This to me ! ' he said ; * An 't were not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion' s had not spared To cleave the Douglas's head! And, Douglas, more I tell thee here E'en in thy pitch of pride, Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near, I tell thee, thou 'rt defied ! And if thou saidst I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowknd or highland, far or near, Lord x^ngus, thou hast lied ! ' On the earl's cheek the fiush of rage O'ercame the ashen hue of age ; Tierce he broke forth : * And dar'st thou, then, ff Ixxiv INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. To beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall ? And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go ? No ! by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no ! Up drawbridge, groom ! What, warder, ho I Let the portcullis fall ! ' " MIXED EMOTIONS. When the elements of expression for each separate * kind * are clearly understood and readily employed in practice, it will be comparatively easy to teach the natural expression of mixed sentiments. W^hcn two different emotions are mixed, the most charac- teristic elements in the expression of each must be, as far as possible, preserved in the reading of the compound. If these elements are opposed to each other, as 'loud' and 'soft' ' force,* or 'fast' and 'slow' 'time,' there must be a compromise, to suit the mixture of ideas. Examples. " God, thou hast blessed me, I ask for no more." In this line we have the grave sentiment of reverence blend- ed with the lively feeling of joy. Keverence alone demands 'low pitch' and 'slow time,' — joy alone demands 'high pitch ' and ' fast time.' The reverential joy, therefore, of the line quoted must be expressed by a natural compromise. The mixed emotions will be somewhat ' lower in pitch ' and * slower in time' than mere joy, and somewhat 'higher' and 'faster* than mere reverence. The degree' in which either simple feeling must give way to the other, depends, of course, on the relative prominence of each. In Kienzi's speech we find the opposite feelings of sorrow and joy blended in the lines which recall the beauty of his slain brother : ** He left my side, A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, — a smile Parting his innocent lips." The most characteristic element in the expression of pathos, is the ' short' or ' minor slide.' This must be retained, then, in reading this " sad-joy." The most characteristic element in the expression of joy, is the lively, springing 'median stress ; * this must in a great measure be retained therefore. INTEODUCTORY TREATISE. Ixxv The * time ' and ' force ' are opposite, and must be compro- mised, — that is, a mean between the two opposites must be given. The proper reading will not be so loud or fast as mere joy, nor so slow and soft as mere sadness. In manly pathos, we have often what is bold or noble in feeling blended with tenderness and pathos. Sufficient loudness of force, and length of slide, and fulness of volume must he preserved in reading the compound, to express the manly or noble part, while the force is softened enough, and the slide shortened by a semitone, to express also the pathetic part. *'0 my son Absalom ! my son, my son Absalom! Would God I had died for thee, Absalom, my son, my son ! " ANALYSIS OF EXAMPLES, INCLUDING VARIED 'KINDS* AND 'MIXED EMOTIONS.' ' Unemotional.' I. ** 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. * Bold ' and * animated.' "It is to that Union we owe our safety at home and our consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that Union we are chiefly indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our country. Every year of its duration has teemed with fresh proofs of its utility and its blessings. It has been to us all a copious fountain of national, social, personal happiness. *' While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and for our children. * Grave' " Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil. 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 ! IXXVI INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. '^ ^ ^ / /^ * Grave and bold.' The ideas are also ' harsh^ and 'nega- tive' demanding * abrupt stress ' and * rising slides.' ** 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 fragments 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 'Noble,' 'positive.' "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 trophies streaming in their original lustre, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star obscured, — 'Bold,' 'negative,' and 'harsh,* "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 afterwards,' — 'Bold' and ' noble* 'positive ' and 'good,' demanding ' loud* and ' smooth ' 'force' 'full volume,* ' long falling slides' and 'pure quality' " but everywhere, spread all over,in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over 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 ! " * Unemotional' and 'grave.* 2. "Friends, I come not here to talk. Ye know too well The story of our thraldom. We are slaves ! The bright sun rises to his course, and lights f- A race of slaves ! He sets, and his last beam / Falls on a slave." INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. kxvil * Bold'' and ' nolle,'' ' negative.^ " Not such as, swept along By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads To crimson glory and undying fame." * Sarcastic,^ (contempt, scorn, and irony.) These mixed ideas ^ being ' harsh ' and * impure,' demand * abrupt stress ' and ' aspi- rated quality,' with the ' circumflex slides.^ ** But base, ignoble slaves, — slaves to a horde Of petty tyrants, feudal despots ; lords, Kich in some dozen paltry villages, — Strong in some hundred spearmen, — only great In that strange spell, — a name. Each hour, dark fraud. Or open rapine, or protected murder, Cries out against them. But this very day, An honest man, my neighbor, — there he stands, — Was struck, — struck like a dog, by one who wore The badge of Ursini ; because, forsooth, He tossed not high his ready cap in air, Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts, At sight of that great rufl&an. * Impassioned,' (' negative') "Be we men, And suffer such dishonor ? Men, and wash not The stain away in blood? Such shames are common." ' Subdusd' pathos and Joy blended. \ " I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to ye, I had a brother once, a gracious boy, Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope, — Of sweet and quiet joy, — there was the look Of heaven upon his face, which limners give To the beloved disciple.' How I loved That gracious boy ! Younger by fifteen years, 9'' Ixxviii INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. Brother, at once, and son ! " He left my side, A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, — a smile Parting his innocent lips." ' Pathetic ' and ' hold,' with * abrupt ' and * tremvlous 'force. " In one short hour The pretty, harmless boy was slain ! I saw The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried For vengeance ! ^Impassioned' and * sarcastic.* ** Kouse, ye Romans I Rouse, ye slaves! Have ye brave sons ? Look in the next fierce brawl To see them die. Have ye fair daughters ? Look To see them live, torn from your arms, distained, Dishonored ; and, if ye dare call for justice, Be answered by the lash." * Animated.* «* Yet, this is Rome That sat on her seven hills, and from her throne Of beauty ruled the world ! Yet we are Romans." ^MhleJ «• Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman Was greater than a king ! And once again, — Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread Of either Brutus I Once again I swear. The eternal city shall be free ! " POETRY. Good reading of Poetry demands, in addition to the elements of elocution which belong to all emotional expression, as such, that just enough special attention be given to quantity and accent to fill out the time equably in each " bar" of the poet- ical " measure," and mark its rhythm perceptibly. In good INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. Ixxix poetry the rhythm always harmonizes with the sense and spirit, so that the rhythmical accent falls naturally just where emphatic force is needed to give the author s true meaning. The relative degree of force which should mark the rhythm, agrees with the relative or emphatic force with which the ideas should be read. It is better, therefore, to study and read poetry as emotional prose, without any thought of poetical measure, than to fall into the greater fault of marking the metre too prominently and mechanically, with an offensive " sing-song," or " scanning." The aim should be to mark the poetical measure but deli- cately, so that we may perceive, if we choose to think of it, that the reader is giving it happily, but not so that we must think of its mechanical structure instead of the worth and beauty of the ideas. Poetical rhythm and quantity belong not so much to the form as to the spirit of poetry, for they are essential elements in the natural expression of all beautiful and tender and noble sentiments, whether in verse or prose. PHYSICAL CULTUKE. To make the exercises in reading as conducive to health as to elocutionary improvement, let teachers see that the follow- ing necessary physical conditions of healthful vocal expression be carefully observed, viz : 1. Position. Pupils must stand or sit uprightly and easily, so that the larger organs of speech may act with perfect free- dom. 2. Breathing. Pupils must inhale fully at the outset, and as frequently as the natural pauses will allow, so as to keep the lungs at all times well supplied with fresh air. 3. Expulsion. Pupils must learn, if they would read with force and ease, to expel the emphatic tones from the throat, by contracting the expulsory muscles of the waist, so as to lift up and throw out the vocalized breath with the utmost required force, without unnaturally exercising and irritating the throat. IXXX INTRODUCTORY TREATISE. VOCAL GULTUEE. The organic divisions of quality of voice, such as "head- tone," " chest-tone," and " orotund," vs^e have not given in this manual for schools, for the practical reason that there are so few, even among professional vocalists, who have naturally both the tenor and bass qualities, or the ' head ' and ' chest ' tones, — so few who can ever learn to use both expressively/. Instead of trying, — in most cases in vain, — to make the reader, whose natural quality of voice is * head-tone ' or tenor, culti- vate the * chest-tone ' or bass, and * vice versa,' let the lower natural tones of the high pitched voices, and the uppernatural tones of the low pitched voices, be cultivated and rounded into the full, noble, orotund quality on the tones of the middle pitch. This has the advantage of being practicable and of preserving, amid all the manifold improvements of vocal cul- ture, the natural quality of each voice, which is always the most expressive and pleasing. The many examples we have given for daily exercise in the diflferent kinds of vocal expriession, if thoroughly practiced, furnish the most natural means and method of vocal culture. Exercise in the right way and earnestly what voice the pupil has, and he will soon acquire additional force, volume, com- pass, flexibility, and expression of voice. NATUKAL EXPKESSION. Let pupils practice carefully and thoroughly the examples for the right use of each one of the ' elements ' of expression, and the examples for rightly blending all these elements in the natural expression of each 'kind' of sentiment, till the appropriate 'force,' 'time,' 'slides,' &c., for reading any given *kind' become inseparably associated in the reader's mind with the sentiment itself. Then the idea, the feeling, will spontaneously inspire its own best expresssion ; and so, at last, IMPEBFECT Art may ripen into PERFECT NATUEE. HILLARD'S SIXTH READER. I.— -THE C^NTEAST: #K PEACE AND WAK. [ATHEN.^iUM.] Lovely art thou, Peace ! and lovely are thy children, and lovely are the prints of thy footsteps in the green valleys. ^ . J^'W-{Z£ Blue wreaths of smoke ascend through the trees, and o 5 betray the half-hidden cottage ; the eye contemplates well- - thatched ricks, and barns bursting with plenty : the peas- / ^' ant laughs at the approach of winter. White houses peep through the trees ; cattle stand cool- ing in the pool ; the casement of the farm-house is covered 10 with jessamine and honeysuckle ; the stately greenhouse exhales the perfume of summer climates. Children climb the green mound of the rampart, and ivy holds together the half-demolished buttress. The old men sit at their doors ; the gossip leans over 15 her counter; the children shout and frolic in the streets. The housewife's stores of bleached linen, whiter than snow, are laid up with fragrant herbs ; they are the pride of the matron, the toil of many a winter's night. The wares of the merchant are spread abroad in the 20 shops, or stored in the high-piled warehouses ; the labor of each, profits all ; the inhabitant of the north drinks the fragrant herb of China; the peasant's child wears the webs of Hindostan. The lame, the blind, and the aged repose in hospitals ; » i hillard's sixth readee. \^ the rich, softened by prosperity, pity the poor ; the poor, V disciplined into order, respect the rich. Justice is dispensed to alL Law sits steady on her throne, and the sword is her servant. WAR, 6 They have rushed through like a hurricane; like an army of locusts they have devoured the earth ; the war has fallen like a water-spout, and deluged the land with blood. The smoke rises not through the trees, for the honoraj; 10 of the grove are fallen, and the hearth of the cottager is | jj^, cold ; but it rises from villages burned with fire, and froml'' warm ruins spread over the now naked plain. The ear is filled with the confused bellowing of oxen, and sad bleating of overdriven sheep ; they are swept from 15 their peaceful plains; with shouting and goading are they driven away : the peasant folds his arms, and resigns his faithful fellow-laborers. The farmer weeps over his barns consumed by fire, and his demolished roof, and anticipates the driving of the 20 winter snows. On that rising ground, where the green turf looks black with fire, yesterday stood a noble mansion ; the owner had said in his heart: ** Here will I spend the evening of my days, and enjoy the fruit of my years of toil ; my name 25 shall descend with mine inheritance, and my children's children shall sport under the trees which I. have planted." The fruit of his years of toil is swept away in a moment ; wasted, not enjoyed; and the evening of his days is left desolate. 30 The temples are profaned ; the soldier's curse resounds in the house of Grod ; the marble pavement is trampled by iron hoofs ; horses neigh beside the altar. Law and order are forgotten ; violence and rapine are abroad ; the golden cords of society are loosed. hillaed's sixth reader. 3 Here are the sliriek of woe and the cry of anguishj and there is suppressed indignation bursting the heart with silent despair. The groans of the wounded are in the hospitals, and by 5 the roadside, and in every thicket; and the housewife's web, whiter than snow, is scarcely sufficient to stanch the blood of her husband and children. Look at that youth, the first-born of her strength ; yesterday he bounded as / the roebuck ; was glowing as the summer- fruits ; active in 10 sports, strong to labor; he has passed in one moment from youth to age ; his comeliness is departed ; helplessness is his portion for the days of future years. He is more de- crepit than his grandsire, on whose head are the snows of eighty winters; but those were the snows of nature; this 15 is the desolation of man. Everything unholy and unclean comes abroad from its lurking-place, and deeds of darkness are done beneath the eye of day. The villagers no longer start at horrible sights ; the soothing rights of burial are denied, and hu- 20 man bones are tossed by human hands. No one careth for another ; every one, hardened by mis- ery, careth for himself alone. Lo these are what God has set before thee, child of rea- son I son of woman ! unto which does thine heart incline ? IL — GEACE DAKLING. [This account of Grace Darling' is mainly an abridgment of a sketch in " Chambers's Miscellany of Useful and Entertaining Tracts." Northumberland is a county in the north-easterly corner of England, bordering on Scotland.] Opposite the northern part of the coast of the county of Northumberland, in England, at a short distance from the shore, is a group of small islands, twenty-five in number at low tide, called the Fame Islands. Their aspect is wild and desolate in the extreme. Composed of rock, with 4 HILLAED S SIXTH READER. a slight covering of herbage, and in many places ending in sheer precipices, they are the residence of little else than wild fowl. Between the smaller islets the sea runs with great force, and many a goodly ship, in times past, 5 has laid her bones upon the pitiless rocks which every ebb tide exposes to view. Upon Longstone, one of these islands, there . stands a light-house, which, at the time of the incident about to be related, was kept by William Darling, a worthy and intel- 10 ligent man, of quiet manners, with resources of mind and character sufficient to turn to profitable use the many lonely hours which his position necessarily entailed upon him. He had a numerous family of children ; among them a 15 daughter, Grace, who had reached the age of twenty- two years when the incident occurred which has made her name so famous. She had passed most of her life upon the little island of Longstone, and is described as having been of a retiring and somewhat reserved disposition. In per- 20 sonal appearance, she was about the middle size, of a fair complexion and pleasing countenance ; with nothing mas- culine in her aspect, but gentle and feminine, and, as might be supposed, with a winning expression of benevo- lence in her face. Her smile was particularly sweet. She 25 had a good understanding, and had been respectably educated. On Wednesday evening, September 5, 1838, the Forfar- shire steamer, of about three hundred tons burden, under the command of Captain John Humble, sailed from Hull 80 on a voyage to Dundee, in Scotland. She had a valuable cargo of bale goods and sheet-iron ; and her company, including twenty- two cabin and nineteen steerage passen- gers, comprised sixty-three persons. On the evening of the next day, when in the neighbor- 35 hood of the Fame Islands, she encountered a severe storm of wind, attended with heavy rain and a dense fog. She hillakd's sixth eeader. 5 leaked to such a degree that the fires could not he kept burning, and her engines soon ceased to work. She he- came wholly unmanageable, and drifting violently, at the mercy of the winds and waves, struck on one of the 5 reefs of Longstone Island, about four o'clock on Friday morning. As too often happens in such fearful emergencies, the master lost his self-possession, order and discipline ceased, and nothing but self-preservation was thought of. A por- 10 tion of the crew, including the first mate, lowered one of the boats and left the ship. With them was a single cabin passenger, who threw himself into the boat by means of a rope. These men were picked up after some hours, and carried into the port of Shields. 15 The scene on board was of a most fearful description — men paralyzed by despair — women wringing their hands and shrieking with anguish — and among them the help- less and bewildered master, whose wife, clinging to him, frantically besought the protection he could no longer give. 20 The vessel struck aft the paddle-boxes; and not above three minutes after the passengers (most of whom had been below, and many of them in their berths) had rushed upon the deck, a second shock broke her into two pieces. The after-part, with most of the passengers and the cap- 25 tain and his wife, was swept away through a tremendous current, and all upon it were lost. The fore-part, on which were five of the crew and four passengers, stuck fast to the rock. These few survivors remained in their dread- ful situation till daybreak, with a fearful sea running 30 around them, and expecting every moment to be swept into the deep. With what anxious eyes did they wait for the morning light ! And yet what could mortal help avail them even then ? Craggy and dangerous rocky islets lay between them and the nearest land, and around these 35 rocks a sea was raging in which no boat was likely to live. But, through the providence of God, a deliverance was in 1* 6 hillard's sixth eeadek. store for tliem — a deliverance wrought "by the strong heart of an heroic girl. As soon as day broke on the morning of the 7th, they were descried from the Longstone light, hy the Darlings, 6 at nearly a mile's distance. None of the family were at home, except Mr. and Mrs. Darling and Grace. Although the wind had somewhat abated, the sea — never calm among these jagged rocks — was still fiercely raging; an(i to have braved its perils would have done the highest 10 honor to the strong muscles and well-tried nerves of the stoutest of the male sex. But what shall be said of the errand of mercy having been undertaken and accomplished mainly through a female heart and arm ! Mr. Darling, it is said, was reluctant to expose himself 15 to what seemed certain destruction ; but the earnest en- treaties of his daughter determined him to make the at- tempt. At her solicitation the boat was launched, with the mother's assistance ; and father and daughter entered it, each taking an oar. It is worthy of being noticed that 20 Grace never had occasion to assist in the boat previous to the wreck of the Forfarshire, others of the family being always at hand. It was only by the exertion of great muscular strength, as well as by the utmost coolness and resolution, that the father and daughter rowed the boat up 25 to the rock. And when there, a greater danger arose from the difficulty of so managing it as to prevent its being . dashed to pieces upon the sharp ridge which had proved fatal to the steamer. With much difficulty and danger, the father scrambled upon the rock, and the boat was left 30 for awhile to the unaided strength and skill of the daugh- ter. However, the nine sufferers were safely rescued. The delight, with which the boat was first seen, was converted into amazement when they perceived that it was guided and impelled by an old man and a young woman. 35 Owing to the violence of the storm, the rescued persons were obliged to remain at the light-house of the Darlings HILLAED'S SIXTH READER. 7 from Friday morning till Sunday, during whicli time Grace was most assiduous in her kind attentions to the suffer- ers, giving up her bed to one of them, a poor woman, who had seen her two children perish in her arms, while on the 5 wreck. This heroic deed of Grace Darling shot a thrill of sympathy and admiration through all Great Britain, and indeed through all Christendom. The Humane Society sent her a flattering vote of thanks and a piece of plate, 10 and a considerable sum of money was raised for her from the voluntary contributions of an admiring public. The lonely light-house became the centre of attraction to thou- sands of curious and sympathizing travellers ; and Grace was pursued, questioned, and stared at to an extent that 15 became a serious annoyance to her gentle and retiring spirit. But in all this hot blaze of admiration, and in her im- proved fortunes, she preserved unimpaired the simplicity and modesty of her nature. Her head was not in the 20 least turned by the world-wide fame she had earned, or by the flattering caresses of the wealthy, the fashionable, and the distinguished, which were lavished upon her. The meekness with which she bore her honors equalled the courage which had won them. She resumed her former 25 way of life, and her accustomed duties, as quietly as if nothing had happened. Several advantageous offers of marriage were made to her, but she declined them all; usually alleging her determination not to leave her parents while they lived. 30 But she was not long destined to enjoy the applause she had earned, or the more substantial tokens of regard which had been bestowed upon her. She began to show symp- toms of consumption towards the latter part of 1841; and, although all the means of restoration which the most affec- 35 tionate care and the best medical advice could suggest were resorted to, she gradually declined, and breathed her 8 hillard's sixth reader. last, in calm submission to the will of God, October 20, 1842. Her funeral was very numerously attended, and a monument has been erected to her memory in Bambor- ough church-yard, where she was buried. 5 Such was Grace Darling — one of the heroines of hu- manity — whose name is destined to live as long as the sympathies and affections of humanity endure. Such calm heroism as hers — so generously exerted for the good of others — is one of the noblest attributes of the soul of 10 man. It had no alloy of blind animal passion, like the bravery of the soldier on the field of battle, but it was spiritual, celestial, and we may reverently add, godlike. Never does man appear more distinctly in the image of his Maker than when, like the noble-hearted Grace Dar- 15 ling, he deliberately exposes his own life to save the lives of others. III.— THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM. Jane Taylor. [Jane Taylor was bom in London, September 23, 1783, and died April 12, 1824. Her father was a writer of books, and one of lier brothers is the cel- ebrated author of " The Natural History of Enthusiasm," " Saturday Even- ing," &c. She wrote "Display," a tale, "Essays in Rhyme on Morals and Manners," " Original Poems for Infant Minds," (a favorite book with cliil- dren, and deseryedly so,) and " Rhymes for the Nursery." She also contrib- uted many artMes^o the "Youth's Magazine," under the signature of Q. Q., conveying sound moral and religious instruction in an attractive style. These were collected and published after her death, and they have been republished in this country. Her writings are all excellent in their tone and spirit, and possess much literary merit. "The Discontented Pendulum " — which first appeared in the "Youth's Magazine "—is an admirable specimen of the allegory ; a form of composition in which the real interest, or primary object, is communicated by a discourse which has also a secondary or subordinate meaning. Here we have a sup- posed conversation between the several portions of a kitchen clock ; but this would have no interest or value but for the moral truth intended to be con- veyed ; and this latter forms the primary subject. The first conception of this particular instrument, or medium, is very ingenious and happy, because it permits the analogy to be carried along to the end in the most natural manner possible. Once starting with the clock, all the rest seems to suggest itself. The moral lesson taught is of much practical value ; and the duties of life would be lightened if we could all come to the same cheerful state of mind ■nTifli +T10 -ncinfliiliiTn 1 hillard's sixth reader. 9 An old clock, that had stood for fifty years in a farmer's kitchen without giving its owner any cause of complaint, early one summer's morning, before the family was stir- ring, suddenly stopped. 5 Upon this the dial-plate, (if we may credit the fable,) changed countenance with alarm; the hands made an ineflfectual effort to continue their course ; the wheels remained motionless with surprise; the weights hung speechless; each member felt disposed to lay the blame 10 on the others. At length the dial instituted a formal inquiry as to the cause of the stagnation ; when hands, wheels, weights, with one voice, protested their innocence. But now a faint tick was heard below, from the pendulum, who thus spoke : — 15 "I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present stoppage, and am willing, for the general satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth is, that I am tired of tick- ing:" Upon hearing this, the old clock became so en- raged that it was on the point of striking. 20 " Lazy wire ! " exclaimed the dial-plate, holding up its hands. V ^ « Very good," replied the pendulum ; " it is vastly easy for you. Mistress Dial, who have always, as everybody knows, set yourself up above me, — it is vastly easy for 25 you, I say, to accuse other people of laziness ; you, who have had nothing to do all the days of your life but to stare people in the face, and to amuse yourself with watch- ing all that goes on in the kitchen. Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life in this dark 30 closet, and wag backwards and forwards, year after year, as I do." ''As to that," said the dial, " is there not a window in your house on purpose for you to look through ? " " For all that," resumed the pendulum, " it is very dark 35 here ; and although there is a window, I dare not stop, even for an instant, to look out. Besides, I am really 10 hillard's sixth reader. weary of my way of life ; and if you please, I '11 tell you how I took this disgust at my employment. This morn- ing I happened to be calculating how many times I should have to tick in the course only of the next twenty-four 5 hours : perhaps some of you, above there, can give me the exact sum." The minute-hand, being quick at figures, instantly re- plied, " eighty-six thousand four hundred times." " Exactly so," replied the pendulum. «* Well, I appeal 10 to you all if the thought of this was not enough to fatigue one. And when I began to multiply the strokes of one day by those of months and years, really it is no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect : so, after a great deal of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I to myself, I'll stop." 15 The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during this harangue ; but, resuming its gravity, thus replied : — " Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that so useful and industrious a person as you are should have been overcome by this sudden suggestion. It is true you 20 have done a great deal of work in your time. So have we all, and are likely to do ; and, although this may fatigue us to think of, the question is, whether it will fatigue us to do. Would you, now, do me the favor to give about half-a-dozen strokes, to illustrate my argument?" 25 The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its usual pace. "Now," resumed the dial, **mayl be al- lowed to inquire, if that exertion was at all fatiguing or disagreeable to you? " "Not in the least," replied the pendulum ; "it is not 30 of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, but of mil- lions." "Very good," replied the dial; "but recollect that al- though you may think of a million strokes in an instant, you are required to execute but one; and that, however 35 often you may hereafter have to swing, a moment will always be given you to swing in." hillard's sixth keadek. 11 <'Tliat consideration staggers me, I confess," said the pendulum. "Then I hope," resumed the dial-plate, "we shall all immediately return to our duty ; for the maids will lie in 5 bed till noon if we stand idling thus." Upon this, the weights, who had never been accused of light conduct, used all their influence in urging him to proceed ; when, as with one consent, the wheels began to turn, the hands began to move, the pendulum began to 10 wag, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever; and a beam of the rising sun that streamed through a hole in the kitchen shutter, shining full upon the dial-plate, it bright- ened up as if nothing had been the matter. When the farmer came down to breakfast that morning, 15 upon looking at the clock he declared that his watch had gained half an hour in the night. Moral. — It is said by a celebrated modern writer, " Take care of the minutes, and the hours will take care of themselves." This is an admirable hint, and might be 20 very seasonably recollected when we begin to be " weary in well-doing," from the thought of having a great deal to do. The present is all we have to manage : the past is irrecoverable ; the future is uncertain ; nor is it fair to bur- den one moment with the weight of the next. Sufficient 25 unto the moment is the trouble thereof If we had to walk a hundred miles, we still need set but one step at a time, and this process, continued, would infallibly bring us to our journey's end. Fatigue generally begins, and is always increased, by calculating in a minute the exertion of hours. 30 Thus, in looking forward to future life, let us recollect that we have not to sustain all its toil, to endure all its sufferings, or encounter all its crosses, at once. One mo- Inent comes laden with its own little burden, then flies, and is succeeded by another no heavier than the last : if one could be sustained, so can another, and another. 12 hillaed's sixth reader. Even in looking forward to a single day, the spirit may sometimes faint from an anticipation of the duties, the labors, the trials to temper and patience, that may he ex- pected. Now, this is unjustly laying the burden of many 5 thousand moments upon one. Let any one resolve to do right now, leaving then to do as it cai^ and if he were to live to the age of Methuselah, he would never err. But the common error is, to resolve to act right to-morrow, or next time ; but now, just this once, we must go on the 10 same as ever. It seems easier to do right to-morrow than to-day, merely because we forget that when to-morrow comes, then will be now. Thus life passes, with many, in resolutions for the future which the present never fulfils. 15 It is not thus with those who, "by patient continuance in well-doing, seek for glory, honor, and immortality." Day by day, minute by minute, they execute the appointed task to which the requisite measure of time and strength is proportioned; and thus, having worked while it was 20 called day, they at length rest from their labors, and their works " follow them." Let us then, " whatever our hands find to do, do it with all our might," recollecting that now is the proper and the accepted time. IV. — THE <^LD CL^CK ON THE STAIKS. Longfellow. [Henry Wadswortii Longfellow is a native of Portland, Maine, and was graduated at Bowdoin College in 1825. Soon after leaving college he went to Europe, and remained there till 1829. He then returned home and assumed the duties of professor of modern languages at Bowdoin College. He re- signed his post in 1835, and visited Europe again, and upon his return in 1836, was appointed to a similar professorship in the University at Cambridge. Here he has resided ever since, but he resigned his professorship in 1854. Mr. I(.ongfellow holds a very high rank among the authors of America, and is one of the most popular of living poets. He has written " Evangeline," " The Golden Legend," " The Song of Hiawatha," and ♦' The Courtship w hillard's sixth reader. 13 of Miles Standish," narrative poems of considerable length; "The Spanish Student," a play ; and a great number of smaller pieces. He has a fruitful imagination, under the control of the most perfect taste, and a remarkable power of illustrating moods of mind and states of feeling by material forms. He has a great command of beautiful diction, and equal skill in the structure of his verse. His poetry is marked by tenderness of feeling, purity of sen- timent, elevation of tliought, and healthiness of tone. He understands and can express all the affections of the human heart. The happy delight in his poems ; and they fall with soothing and sympathizing touch upon those who have suffered. His readers are more than admirers ; tliey become friends. And over all that he has written there hangs a beautiful ideal light,— the atmosphere of poetry, — which illuminates his page as the sunsliine does the natural landscape. Mr. Longfellow has also won enduring praise as a prose writer. His ** Outre-mer," a collection of travelling sketches and miscellaneous essays, his " Hyperion," a romance, and his " Kavanagh," a domestic story, are marked by the same traits as his poetry. He is a "warbler of poetic prose;" and would be entitled to the honors of a poet had he never written a line of verse. His " Hyperion," especially, is full of beautiful description, rich fancy, and sweet and pensive thought. He is also a man of extensive literary attain- ments, familiar with the languages of modern Europe, and a great master in the difficult art of translation.] 1 Somewhat back from the village street Stands the old-fashioned country-seat ; Across its antique portico. Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw ; And from its station in the hall, An ancient timepiece says to all, — "Forever — never! Never — forever I " Halfway up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands From its case of massive oak, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! With sorrowful voice to all that pass, — ' ' Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " By day its voice is low and light ; But in the silent dead of night, 2 14 hillard's sixth reader. Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, It echoes along the vacant hall, Along the ceiling, along the floor. And seems to say, at each chamber door, -— ** Forever — never ! Never — forever. * * 4 Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, And as if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of awe, — ** Forever — never ! Never — forever!" 5 In that mansion used to be Free-hearted hospitality ; His great fires up the chimney roared; The stranger feasted at his board ; But, like the skeleton at the feast. That warning timepiece never ceased, — ** Forever — never ! . Never — forever ! ' ' 6 There groups of merry children played ; There youths and maidens dreaming strayed. precious hours ! golden prime, And affluence of love and time ! Even as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — " Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " 7 From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding night ; hillard's sixth reader. 15 There, in that silent room below, The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; And in the hush that followed prayer, Was heard the old clock on the stair, — *' Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " All are scattered now and fled, Some are married, some are dead ; And when I ask, with throbs of pain, *' Ah ! when shall they all meet again ? " As in the days long since gone by, The ancient timepiece makes reply, — "Forever — never! Never — forever ! " Never here, forever there. Where all parting, pain, and care, And death and time shall disappear, — Forever there, but never here ! The horologe of eternity Sayeth this incessantly, — ** Forever — never ! Never — forever I " v. — KIP VAN WINKLE/ Irving. [Washington Irving, the most popular of American authors, and one of the most popular writers in the English language during his time, was born in New York, April 8, 1783, and died November 28, 1859. His numerous works are too well known to need enumeration ; and his countrymen are so familiar Avith the graces of his style and the charm of his delightful genius, that any extended criticism would be superfluous. His writings are remarkable for their combination of rich and original humor with great refinement of feeling and delicacy of sentiment. His humor is unstained by coarseness, and his sentiment is neither mawkish nor morbid. His style is carefully finished, and 16 hillard's sixth reader. in hifi most elaborate productions the uniform music of his cadences approaches monotony. He is an accurate observer, and his descriptions are correct, an- imated, and beautiful. In his biographical and historical works his style is flowing, easy, and transparent. His personal character was aflTectionate and amiable, and these traits penetrate his writings, and constitute no small portion of their charm. Few writers have ever awakened in their readers a stronger personal interest than Irving ; and the sternest critic could not deal harshly with an author who showed himself to be so gentle and kindly a man. The following extract is from " Rip Van Winkle," one of the papers in <' The Sketch Book." Hip is an indolent, good-humored fellow, living in a village on the Hudson River. While shooting among the Catskill Mountains, he meets with a mysterious party engaged in rolling ninepins, drinks deeply of the liquor they furnish him, and falls into a sleep which lasts twenty years, during which our Revolutionary War takes place. After waking, he returns to the village, which he finds busied with an election.] He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn — but it too was gone. A large, rick- ety wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken, and mended with 5 old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, " The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with something on top that looked like a red nightcap, and 10 from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular as- semblage of stars and stripes — all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a 15 peaceful pipe ; but even this was singularly metamor- phosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff", a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters. General Washington. 20 There was, as usual, a crowd about the door, but none that Eip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputa- tious tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with hillaed's sixth reader. 17 his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering* clouds of tobacco smoke instead of idle speeches ; or Van- Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious look- 5 ing fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was har- ranguing vehemently about rights of citizens — elections — members of congress — liberty — Bunker's hill — heroes of seventy-six — and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. 10 The appearance of Eip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity. 15 The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired " on which side he voted ? " Eip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, " whether he was Federal or Demo- 20 crat?" Kip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question ; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with 25 one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone, " what brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the 30 village?" "Alas! gentlemen," cried Kip, somewhat dismayed, " I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the King, God bless him ! " Here a general shout burst from the by-standers — "A 35 tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with him ! " It was with great difficulty that the self-impor- 2» 18 hillard's sixth reader. tant man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking. 5 The poor man humhly assured him that he meant no harm, hut merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. "Well — who are they? — name them." Eip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's 10 Nicholas Vedder?" There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder ! why, he 's dead and gone these eighteen years ! There was a wooden tombstone in the church-yard that used to tell all 15 about him, but that's rotten and gone too." " Where 's Brom Butcher ? " ** Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war ; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony- Point — others say he was drowned in a squall at the 20 foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know — he never came back again." "Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" " He went off to the wars too, was a great militia gen- eral, and is now in Congress." 25 Eip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand : war — congress — Stony-Point ; -j- 30 he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, " Does nobody here know Eip Van Winkle?" " Oh, Eip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or three, " Oh, to be sure ! that 's Eip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against 35 the tree." Eip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself hillard's sixth reader. 19 as he went up tlie mountain, apparently as lazy, and cer- tainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his hewil- 6 derment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name ? "God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm not myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — ' no — that's somebody else got into my shoes — I was 10 myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they 've changed my gun, and every thing 's changed, and I 'm changed, and I can't tell what 's my name, or who I am!" The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, 15 wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their fore- heads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. 20 At this critical moment a fresh comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, Kip," cried she, "hush, you little fool ; the old man won't hurt you." The name 25 of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. " What is your name, my good woman? " asked he. " Judith Gardenier." " And your father's name ? " 30 " Ah, poor man, Eip Van Winkle was his name ; but it 's twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since. — His dog came home without him ; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a 35 little girl." The honest man could contain himself no longer. He 20 hillard's sixth eeader. caught his daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your father! " cried he, — "young Eip A^an Winkle once, old Eip Van Winkle now ! — Does nobody know poor Kip Van Winkle?" 5 All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, "Sure enough I it is Bip Van Winkle — it is himself ! Welcome home again, old neighbor. — Why, where have you 10 been these twenty long years? " Kip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard- it ; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks : and the self-impor- 15 tant man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down the cor- ners of his mouth, and shook his head — upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assem- blage. 20 It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who -wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and 25 well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected Kip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the 30 historian, that the Kaatskill Mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon ; being permitted in this 35 way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river, and the great city called by hillard's sixth reader. 21 his name. That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in a hollow of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of 5 thunder. To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more important concerns of the election. Eip's daughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for 10 a husband, whom Eip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Eip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm ; but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to anything, 15 else but his business. Eip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he soon found many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time ; and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon 20 grew into great favor. Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place once more on the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, 25 and a chronicle of the old times " before the war.'' It was some time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had taken place during his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war — that the 30 country had thrown off the yoke of old England — a^d that, instead of being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the 'United States. Eip, in fact, was no politician ; the changes of states and empires made but little impression on him. 35 He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to 22 hillard's sixth reader. vary on some points every time he told it, whicli was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood, but 5 knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Kip had been out of his head, and that this was one point on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full credit. 10 Even to this day they never hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hen- drick Hudson and his crew are at their game of ninepins ; and it is a common wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that 15 they might have a quieting draught out of Kip Van Win- kle's flagon. VI. — T^ A WATER-r«WL. Bryant. [William Cullen Bryant was born in Cummington, Massachusetts, November 3, 17&4. He was admitted to the bar, but soon left the profession of the law, and has for many years resided in or near the city of New York, as one of the editors and proprietors of the "New York Evening Post," a daily paper which has a wide circulation and much influence. It is not neces- sary to point out, at any length, the merits of a poet whose productions were the delight of his own countrymen, and were well known abroad, long before the young persons, for whose use this work is intended, were born. It is enough to say that his poems are distinguished by the perfect iinish of their style, their elevated tone, their dignity of sentiment, and their lovely pictures of American scenery. He is, at once, the most truthful and the most delight- ful of painters. "We find in his pages all the most obvious and all the most retiring graces of our native landscapes, but nothing borrowed from books — nothing transplanted from a foreign soU.J 1 Whither, midst falling dew. While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far through their rosy depths dost thou pursue Thy solitary way ? hillard's sixth reader. 23 2 Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. 3 Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side ? 4 There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — The desert and illimitable air, — Lone wandering, but not lost. 5 All day thy wings have fanned. At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere. Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. 6 And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. 7 Thou 'rt gone ; the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. 8 He who, from zone to zone. Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone Will lead my steps aright hillard's sixth reader. VII. — MORNING IN THE HIGHLANDS OF SCf>TLAND. EXECUTION OF A HOSTAGE FfeR BREACH ^F FAITH. Scott. [Walter Scott was born in Edinburg-h, August 15, 1771, and died at Ab- botsford, September 21, 1832. In 1792 he was called to the Scotch bar as an \ advocate ; but he made little progress in his profession, and was soon allured from it by the higher attractions of literati^re. After having written and pub- lished a few fugitive pieces, and edited a collection of border ballads, he broke Upon the world, in 1805, with his "l.ay of the Last Minstrel," which was re- ceived with a burst of admiration almbst without parallel in literary history. This was followed by " Marmion," and " The Lady of\he Lake," which added to the author's reputation, and by " Rokeby," and " The Lord of the Isles," which fairly sustaine?! it. These poems were unlike anything that had pre-. \ ceded them. Their versification was easy and graceful, though sometimes careless ; their style was energetic and condensed ; their pictures were glow- ing and faithful ; the characters and incidents were fresh and startling ; and in the battle scenes there was a power of painting which rivaj^led the pages of Homer. The whole civilized world rose up to greet with admiration the poet who transported them to the lakes and mountains of Scotland, introduced them to knights and moss-troopers, and thrilled them with scenes of wild adveuture and lawless violence. Scott held excli^sive possession of the poeti- cal t^irone until Lord Byron disputed it with him^ and won a popularity more Intense, if not more wide. N But these briUiant and successful poems were hardly more than an intro- duction to Scott's literary career. In 1814, there appeared, without any pj;e- liminary announcement, and anonymously, a novel called " Waverley," which soon attracted great attention, and gave rise to much speculation as to its au- thorship. This was ilie beginning of that splendid serics\)f works of fiction commonly called the Waverley novels, which continued to be poured fortlTin rapid succession till 1827. From the first, there was very little doubt that Scott was the author of these works, althougli they were published without any name ; and when the avowal was made, in 1827, it took nobody by surprise. Of the great powers put fort^ in these novels — of their immense popularity — and of the influence they have exerted, and are still exerting, upon literature, it is not necessary to speak, nor could such a subject be discussed in a notice like this. Admirable as the whole series is, there is a power, a freshness, and an originality in the earlier ones, such as " Guy Mannering," and " The Anti- quary, ""^whcre the scenery and characters are Scotch, which give them a marked superiority overlhcir younger brethren. Besides his "poems and novels, Scott wrote a Life of Napoleon, various other biographies, and many works besides. He was a man of immense literary in-^ dustPy, and his writings fill eighty-eight volumes of small octavo size. All tCis did not prevent his discharging faithfully the duties of a citizen, a fatlier of a family, and (for many years) of a magistrate. Scott's life has been written by his son-in-law, Lockhart ; and it is a truth- ful record of what he was and what he did. His was a noble nature, with much to love and mucli to admire. He was a warm friend, most affectionate in his domestic relations, and ever ready to do kind acts to those who stood in need of them. After, his first literary successes, he lived before the public eye ; and since his death, his whole life and being have been exposed to iiillard's sixth reader. 25 the general gaze, and there are few lives on record that would bear such an •rdeal better. In consequence of an unwise secret partnership with a printer and pub- lisher, Scott became a bankrupt at the age of fifty-five. He met this blow with an heroic spirit, and addressed himself to the task of discharging' the liabili- ties against him, with a moral energy which was nothing less than sublime. The amount of work he performed between this date and that of his death is fearful to contemplate. His life was shortened by his excessive toils ; but he act-omplished what he proposed to himself. His debts, materially diminished before his death, have since been entirely discharged by the profits on his col- lected works. In the portion of his life, from his bankruptcy to his death, Scott's character shines with a moral grandeur far above mere literary fame. Scott was made a baronet in 1820. This extract is from " liob Roy," one of the most spirited and popular of the Waverley novels, originally published in 1S17. Kob Roy, a Highland chieftain, had been taken prisoner, Morris, an Englishman, had been sent as a hostage to guarantee the personal safety of Rob Roy. The violation of this pledge called down upon his head the vengeance of the wife of Rob Roy, I SHALL never forget the delightful sensation with which I exchanged the dark, smoky, smothering atmos- phere of the Highland hut, in which we had passed the night so uncomfortably, for the refreshing fragrance of 5 the morning air, and the glorious beams of the rising sun, which, from a tabernacle of purple and golden clouds, were darted full on such a scene of natural romance and beauty as had never before greeted my eyes. To the left lay the valley, down which the Forth wandered on its 10 easterly course, surrounding the beautiful detached hill, with all its garland of woods. On the right, amid a pro- fusion of thickets, knolls, and crags, lay the bed of a broad mountain lake, lightly curled into tiny waves by the breath of the morning breeze, each glittering in its 15 course under the influence of the sunbeams. High hills, rocks, and banks, waving with natural forests of birch and oak, formed the borders of this enchanting sheet of water ; and, as their leaves rustled to the wind and twin- kled in the sun, gave to the depth of solitude a sort of 20 life and vivacity. Man alone seemed to be placed in a state of inferiority, in a scene where all the ordinary feat- ures of nature were raised and exalted. 3 26 hillaed's sixth reader."^ It was under the Iburning influence of revenge that the wife of MacGregor commanded that the hostage, exchanged for her husband's safety, should be brought into her pres- ence. I believe her sons had kept this unfortunate wretch 5 out of her sight, for fear of the consequences ; but if it was so, their humane precaution only postponed his fate. They dragged forward, at her summons, a wretch, already half dead with terror, in whose agonized features I recog- nized, to my horror and astonishment, my old acquaint- 10 ance Morris. He fell prostrate before the female chief with an effort to clasp her knees, from which she drew back, as if his touclThad been pollution, so that all he could do in token of the extremity of his humiliation, was to kiss the hem 15 of her plaid. I never heard entreaties for life poured forth with such agony of spirit. The ecstasy of fear was such, that, instead of paralyzing his tongue, as on ordi- nary occasions, it even rendered him eloquent, and, with cheeks as pale as ashes, hands compressed in agony, eyes 20 that seemed to be taking their last look of all mortal objects, he protested, with the deepest oaths, his total ignorance of any design on the life of Eob Eoy, whom he swore he loved and honored as his own soul. — In the inconsistency of his terror, he said, he was but the agent 25 of others, and he muttered the name of Eashleigh. — He prayed but for life — for life he would give all he had in the world ; — it was but life he asked — life, if it were to be prolonged under tortures and privations ; — he asked only breath, though it should be drawn in the damps of 30 the lowest caverns of their hills. It is impossible to describe the scorn, the loathing, and contempt, with which the wife of MacGregor regarded this wretched petitioner for the poor boon of existence. "I could have bid you live," she said, "had life been 35 to you the same weary and wasting burden that it is to me — that it is to every noble and generous mind. — But hillard's sixth reader. 27 you — wretch ! you could creep through the world unaf- fected by its various disgraces, its ineffable miseries, its constantly acccumulating masses of crime and sorrow ; — you could live and enjoy yourself, while the noble-minded 5 are betrayed, — while nameless and birthlcss villains tread on the neck of the brave and long-descended ; — you could enjoy yourself, like a butcher's dog in the shambles, fattening on garbage, while the slaughter of the brave went on around you ! This enjoyment you shall not live 10 to partake of; you shall die, base dog, and that before yon cloud has passed over the sun ! " She gave a brief command, in Gaelic, to her attendants, two of whom seized upon the prostrate suppliant, and hur- ried him to the brink of a cliff which overhung the flood. 15 He set up the most piercing and dreadful cries that fear ever uttered — I may well term them dreadful, for they haunted my sleep for years afterwards. As the mur- derers, or executioners, call them as you will, dragged him along, he recognized me even in that moment of hor- 20 ror, and exclaimed, in the last articulate words I ever heard him utter, " 0, Mr. Osbaldistone, save me ! — save me I was so much moved by this horrid spectacle, that, although in momentary expectation of sharing his fate, I 25 did attempt to speak in his behalf, but, as might have been expected, my interference was sternly disregarded. The victim was held fast by some, while others, binding a large heavy stone in a plaid, tied it round his neck, and others again eagerly stripped him of some part of his 30 dress. Half naked, and thus manacled, they hurried him into the lake, there about twelve feet deep, drowning his last death-shriek with a loud halloo of vindictive triumph, over which, however, the yell of mortal agony was dis- tinctly heard. The heavy burden splashed in the dark 35 blue waters of the lake, and the Highlanders, with their pole-axes and swords, watched an instant, to guard, lest, 28 hillard's sixth header. extricating himself from tlie load to which he was at- tached, he might have struggled to regain the shore. But N^ the knot had been securely bound ; the victim sunk with- out effort ; the waters, which his fall had disturbed, set- 5 tied calmly over him, and the unit of that life, for which he had pleaded so strongly, was forever withdrawn from the sum of human existence. VIII. — THE SLAVE-TKADE. W^EBSTER. [Daniel "Webster was born at Salisbury, New Hampshire, January 18, 1782, and clied at Marshfielcl, Massachusetts, October 24, 1852. He was grad- uutod at Dartmouth College in 1801, was admitted to the bar in 1805, and set- tled in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, in 1807. He was a member of the House of Representatives from New Hampshire from 1813 to 1817. In the latter part of 1810 he removed to Boston, and resided in that city, or at Marshfield, dur- ing the remainder of his life. He was chosen to the House of Representatives from the district of Boston in 1822, and was a member of that body till 1827, when he was elected to the United States Senate by the Legislature of Mas- sachusetts. He continued there during the remainder of his life, with the ex- ception of two intervals, when he held the office of Secretary of State, first under the administrations of Presidents Harrison and Tyler, and secondly under that of President Fillmore. For the last twenty-five years of his hfe, Mr. Webster's biography is iden- tified with the history of his country. Having been a leader of one of its great political parties, the time has hardly yet come for a calm and unbiased judg- ment to be passed uix)n his services ; but no candid mind will ever question the sincerity and comprehensiveness of his patriotism, still less the splendor of his intellectual powers. He was a great lawyer, a great statesman, a great debater, and a great writer. As a writer — in which point of view alone we have now to regard him — he stands among the very first of his class. No style can be found more suited for the subjects of which it treats than his. It is strong, simple, and dignified ; vehement and impassioned when necessary ; readily rising into eloquence, and occasionally touched with high imaginative beauty. He excels in the statement of a case or the exposition of a principle ; and in his occasional discourses there are passages of a lofty moral grandeur by which the heart and mind are alike affected. Some of his state papers may fairly challenge comparison with the best productions of the kind which the past has transmitted to us. The following passage is taken from a discourse, pronounced at Plymouth, December 22, 1820, in commemoration of the first settlement of New England.] If the blessings of our political and social condition have not now been too highly estimated, we cannot well overrate the responsibility which they impose upon us. hillakd's sixth reader. 29 We hold these institutions of government, religion, and learning, to be transmitted as well enjoyed. We are in the line of conveyance through which whatever has been obtained by the spirit and eflforts of our ancestors, is to be 5 communicated to our children. We are bound to maintain public liberty, and, by the example of our own systems, to convince the world that order and law, religion and morality, the rights of con- science, the rights of persons, and the rights of property, 10 may all be preserved and secured in the most perfect man- ner, by a government entirely and purely elective. If we fail in this, our disaster will be signal, and will furnish an argument, stronger than has yet been found, in support of those opinions which maintain that government can rest 15 safely on nothing but power and coercion. As far as experience may show errors in our establish- ments, we are bound to correct them ; and if any practices exist contrary to the principles of justice and humanity, within the reach of our laws or our influence, we are inex- 20 cusable if we do not exert ourselves to restrain and abolish them. I deem it my duty on this occasion to suggest that the land is not yet wholly free from the contamination of a traffic at which every feeling of humanity must revolt — I 25 mean the African slave-trade. Neither public sentiment nor the law has yet been able entirely to put an end to this odious and abominable trade. At the moment when God in his mercy has blessed the world with a universal peace, there is reason to fear, that, to the disgrace of the Chris- 30 tian name and character, new efforts are making for the extension of this trade, by subjects and citizens of Chris- tian states, in whose hearts no sentiment of justice inhab- its, and over whom neither the fear of God nor the fear of man exercises a control. 35 In the sight of our law, the African slave-trader is a pirate and a felon ; and in the sight of Heaven, an offender 3* 30 hillaed's sixth reader. far beyond the ordinary depth of human guilt. There is no brighter part of our history than that which records the measures which have been adopted by the government, at an early day, and at diflferent times since, for the sup- 6 pression of this traffic ; and I would call upon all the true sons of New England to co-operate with the laws of man and the justice of Heaven. If there be, within the extent of our knowledge or influ- ence, any participation in this traffic, let us pledge our- 10 selves here, upon the Kock of Plymouth, to extirpate and destroy it. It is not fit that the land of the Pilgrims should bear the shame longer. I hear the sound of the hammer — I see the smoke of the furnaces where manacles and fetters are still forged for human limbs. I see the 16 visages of those, who by stealth, and at midnight, labor in this work of hell, foul and dark, as may become the artifi- ' cers of such instruments of misery and torture. Let that spot be purified, or let it cease to be of New England. Let it be purified, or let it be set aside from the Christian 20 world ; let it be put out of the circle of human sympathies and human regards ; and let civilized man henceforth have no communion with it. I would invoke those who fill the seats of justice, and all who minister at her altar, that they execute the whole- 25 some and necessary severity of the law. I invoke the ministers of our religion, that they proclaim its denuncia- tion of these crimes, and add its solemn sanctions to the authority of human laws. If the pulpit be silent, when- ever or wherever there may be a sinner, bloody with this 30 guilt, within the hearing of its voice, the pulpit is false to its trust. I call on the fair merchant, who has reaped his harvest upon the seas, that he assist in scourging from those seas the worst pirates that ever infested them. That ocean 35 which seems to wave with a gentle magnificence, to waft the burdens of an honest commerce, and to roll its treas- i HILLARD^S SIXTH READER. 31 ures with a conscious pride; that ocean which hardy '\ industry regards, even when the winds have ruffled its sur- face, as a field of grateful toil, — what is it to the victim of this oppression when he is brought to its shores, and looks 6 forth upon it for the first time from beneath chains, and bleeding with stripes? — AVhat is it to him, but a wide- spread prospect of sufiering, anguish, and death? Nor do the skies smile longer; nor is the air fragrant to him. The sun is cast down from heaven. An inhuman and 10 cursed traffic has cut him off in his manhood, or in hia youth, from every enjoyment belonging to his being, and every blessing which his Creator intended for him. IX. — H®HENLINDEN. Campbell. [Thomas Campbell was bom in Glasgow, July 27, 1777, and died in Bou-'' logne, France, June 15, 1844. His first poem, " The Pleasures of Hope," was published in 1799, and was universally read and admired. His " Gertrude of Wyoming " was published in 1809, and was received with equal favor. It contains passages of great descriptive beauty, and the concluding portions are full of pathos ; but the story moves languidly, and there is a want of truth in the costume, and of probability in the incidents. His genius is seen to greater advantage in his shorter poems, such as '* O'Connor's Child," " Lo- chiel's Warning," " Hohenlinden," "The Battle of the Baltic," and "Ye Mariners of England." These are matchless poems, — with a ring and power that stir the blood, and at the same time a magic of expression which fastens the words forever to the memory. f No other poet of our times has contributed so much, in proportion to the ex- tent of his writings, to that stock of established quotations which pass from lip to lip, and from pen to pen, without any thought as to their origin. Campbell lived, during the greater part of his life, after early manhood, in London or its neighborhood, and was for some years editor of the " New Monthly 3Iaga- zine." He wrote in prose with grace and animation. The preliminary essay prefixed to his Specimens of the British Poets (first published in 1819) is an admirable piece of criticism, and is earnestly commended to all who wish to comprehend the wealth of the poetical literature of England. Campbell's dig- nity of character was hardly equal to his intellectual gifts j and shadows of infirmity sometimes darkened the bright disk of his genius. He was much tried in his domestic relations. His wife, whom he tenderly loved, died many years before him ; and of two sons, his whole family, one died in child- hood, and the other, who survived his father, was of infirm mind from his birth. ' More detailed accounts of Campbell's life and writings may be found in his Life and Letters, by Dr. William Seattle, and in a good biographical sketch d2 HILLARD'S SIXTH READER. by Mr. Epes Sargent, prefixed to an edition of his poems published by Phil-' lips, Sampson and Co., of Boston, in 1854. Hohenliuden (two German words meaning high lime-trees) is the name of a village in Bavaria n«ar which the Austrians, under the Archduke John, were defeated by the French and Bavarians, under General Moreau, December 3, 1800. A snow-storm had fallen in the night before the battle, and had hardly ceased when its first movements began. It is only by virtue of a poetical license that the river Iser (pronounced e'zer) is made a part of the scenery of the contest as, in point of fact, it is several miles distant.] 1 On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;' And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 2 But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. 3 By torch and trumpet fast arrayed. Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neighed To join the dreadful revelry. 4 Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of Heaven Ear flashed the red artillery. 5 But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 6 'T is morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun. Where furious Erank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulphurous canopy. hillakd's sixth keader. 33 7 The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Wbo msli to glory, or the grave ! Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry ! 8 Tew, few shall part where many meet I The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. X. — THE HUSKEE'S SONG. Whittiek. [John Greenleaf Whittier was born in Haverhill, Massachusetts, in 1808. He has written much in prose and verse ; and his writings are charac- terized by earnestness of tone, high moral purpose, and energy of expression. His spirit is that of a sincere and fearless reformer ; and his fervant appeals are the true utterances of a bravo and loving heart. The themes of his poetry have been drawn, in a great measure, from the history, traditions, manners, and scenery of New England ; and he has found the elements of poetical inter- est among them without doing any violence to truth. He describes natural scenery correctly and beautifully; and a vein of genuine tenderness rims through his writings.] 1 Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard I Heap high the golden corn ! No richer gift has Autumn poured Erom out her lavish horn. Let other lands, exulting, glean The apple from the pine, The orange from its glossy green, The cluster from the vine : — We better love the hardy gift Our rugged vales bestow, To cheer us when the storm shall drift Our harvest-fields with snow. 34 hillaed's sixth eeader. 4 Through vales of grass and meads of flowers, Our ploughs their furrows made, While on the hills the sun and showers Of changeful April played. 6 We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain, Beneath the sun of May, And frightened, from our sprouting grain, '\^K The robber-crows away. < I f "'' gi 6 All through the long, bright days of Junt, Its leaves grew green and fair. And waved in hot midsummer's noon Its soft and yellow hair. 7 And now, with Autumn's moonlit eves, Its harvest-time has come ; We pluck away the frosted leaves. And bear the treasure home. 8 There, richer than the fabled gift, Apollo showered of old, Fair hands the broken grain shall sift. And knead its meal of gold, 9 Let vapid idlers loll in silk Around their costly board ; Give us the bowl of samp and milk. By homespun beauty poured ! 10 Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth Sends up its smoky curls, Who will not thank the kindly earth, And bless our farmer girls ? HILLARD^S SIXTH READER. 35 11 Then shame on all the proud and vain, Whose folly laughs to scorn The blessing of our hardy grain, .- Our wealth of golden corn. 12 Let earth withhold her goodly root, Let mildew blight the rye, Give to the worm the orchard's fruit, The wheat-field to the fly : 13 But let the good old crop adorn The hills our fathers trod ; Still let us, for his golden corn. Send up our thanks to God ! XL — PAKALLEL BETWEEN P#PE AND DKYDEN. Johnson. [Samuel Johnson was born in Litchfield, England, September 18, 1709, and died December 13, 1784. Besides his great work, the " Dictionary of the Eng- lish Language," which occupied many laborious years, he wrote " Irene," a tragedy ; " London," and " The Vanity of Human Wishes," poems in imita- tion of Juvenal ; " Kasselas," a tale ; " The Rambler," a periodical paper ; " A Tour to the Hebrides ;" *' The Lives of the Poets ;" various other biogra- phies ; and many reviews, miscellanies, pamphlets, and contributions to peri- odical literature. The peculiarities of Dr. Johnson's style are well known. It is artificial, elaborate, delighting in antithesis and in words of Latin origin, and fre- quently pompous and heavy. Its defects are redeemed by essential vigor of mind, but it is very easily imitated, and when adopted by men of com- monplace understanding, it is like Saul's armor upon the limbs of David. His diction grew simpler, as he grew older, and his " Lives of the Poets," his latest work, is also his best. His carefully poised periods, also, had a sensible effect upon the general structure of the language as it has since been written. Dr. Johnson's character was a singular compound of strength and weak- ness. He was very religious, but bigoted and superstitious. His judgment was generally sound, but he was full of the most unreasonable prejudices. He was charitable and benevolent, but impetuous, and most impatient of con- tradiction. His conversation was rich in sense and wit, but his manners were intolerable. He was capable of great application, though not habitually in- dustrious. He was of a morbid temperameat, and his spirit was often dark- 36 hillard's sixth reader. ened by constitutional melancholy. For a long period, too, he had to struggle against poverty, and to live in a state of literary slavery most galling to hie haughty and independent spirit. Dr. Johnson's life and character have been painted to us — as those of no man of letters were ever before painted — in his biography by Boswell, a most instructive and delightful book, which has done quite as much for John- son's fame as his own writings have done. It is not merely a biography of Johnson, but a record of the social and literary life of England, during the period of which it treats, such as is nowhere else to be found. Till the pub- lication of "Lockhart's Life of Scott," there was no other such work in the language ; and these two are not proper subjects of comparison, but each stands alone in its peculiar and unrivalled excellence ; both full of dramatic in- terest, possessing the highest charm of fiction, and yet richly freighted with the fruits of wisdom, observation, and experience. Two of the greatest writers of our age — Macaulay and Carlyle — have writ- ten essays upon the life and writings of Johnson. Each is characteristic of its author, and they are therefore unlike j but both are excellent, and deserve an attentive reading. The following extract is from the life of Pope in " The Lives of the Poets," and is an excellent specimen of Johnson's peculiar style.] Pope professed to have learned his poetry from Dryden, whom, whenever an opportunity was presented, he praised through his whole life with unvaried liberality ; and per- haps his character may receive some illustration, if he be 5 compared with his master. 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 dismission of his poetical prejudices, and 10 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 15 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 consid- eration. When occasion or necessity called upon him, he poured out what the present moment happened to supply, 20 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. 37 Pope was not content to satisfy ; he desired to excel, and therefore always endeavored to do his best ; he did not court the candor, but dared the judgment of his reader, and, expecting no indulgence from others, he 5 showed none to himself. He examined lines and words with minute and punctilious observation, and retouched every part with indefatigable diligence, till he had left nothing to be forgiven. For this reason he kept his pieces very long in his 10 hands, while he considered and reconsidered them. The only poems which can be supposed to have been written with such regard to the times as might hasten their pub- lication, were the two satires of " Thirty-eight: " of which Dodsley told me, that they were brought to him by the 15 author, that they might be fairly copied. "Every line," said he, " was then written twice over ; I gave him a clean transcript, which he sent some time afterwards to me for the press, with every line written twice over a sec- ond time." 20 His declaration, that his care for his works ceased at their publication, was not strictly true. His parental at- tention never abandoned them ; what he found amiss in the first edition, he silently corrected in those that fol- lowed. He appears to have revised the " Hiad," and freed 25 it from some of its imperfections , and the " Essay on Crit- icism" received many improvements after its first appear- ance. It will seldom be found that he altered without adding clearness, elegance, or vigor. Pope had perhaps the judgment of Dry den ; but Dry den certainly wanted 30 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 allowed more time for study, with better means of information. His mind 35 has a larger range, and he collects his images and illus- trations from a more extensive circumference of science. 4 do HILLARD'S SIXTH READER. Dryden knew more of man in his general nature, and Pope in his local manners. The notions of Dryden were formed by comprehensive speculation, and those of Pope by minute attention. There is more dignity in the 5 knowledge of Dryden, and more certainty in that of Pope. Poetry was not the sole praise of either ; for both ex- celled likewise in prose; but Pope did not borrow his prose from his predecessor. The style of Dryden is ca- 10 pricious and varied ; that of Pope is cautious and uniform. Dryden obeys the motions of his own mind ; Pope con- strains his mind to his own rules of composition. Dryden is sometimes vehement and rapid ; Pope is always smooth, uniform, and gentle. Dryden' s page is a natural field, 15 rising into inequalities, and diversified by the varied exu- berance of abundant vegetation ; Pope's is a velvet lawn, shaven by the scythe, and levelled by the roller. Of genius, — that power which constitutes a poet, — that quality, without which judgment is cold, and knowl- 20 edge 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 25 Milton must give place to Pope ; and even of Dryden it must be said, that if he has brighter paragraphs, he has not better poems. Dryden' s performances were always hasty, — either ex- cited by some external occasion, or extorted by some do- 30 mestic necessity. He composed without consideration, and published without correction. What his mind could sup- ply at call, or gather in one excursion, was all that he sought, and all that he gave. The dilatory caution of Pope enabled him to condense his sentiments, to multiply 35 his images, and to accumulate all that study might pro- duce, or chance might supply. If the flights of Dryden, hillard's sixth reader. 39 therefore, are higher, Pope continues longer on the wing. If of Dryden's fire the blaze is brighter, of Pope's the heat is more regular and constant. Dryden often sur- passes expectation, and Pope never falls below it. Dryden 5 is read with frequent astonishment, and Pope with perpet- ual delight. This parallel will, I hope, when it is well considered, be found just ; and if the reader should suspect me, as I suspect myself, of some partial fondness for the memory of 10 Dryden, let him not too hastily condemn me ; for medita- tion and inquiry may, perhaps, show him the reasonable- ness of my determination. XII. — OBLIGATIONS ®P AMEEICA T6 ENGLAND. s-V' - Everett. ^*" » " .', i .... J,..„,^ ^ [Edward Everett was born in Dorchester, Massachusetts, April 11, 1794, was graduated at Harvard College in 1811, and was settled over the church in Brattle Street, in Boston, as successor to Mr. Buckminster, in 1813. In 1815, he was appointed professor of Greek literature in Harvard College, and immedi- ately proceeded to Europe, with a view of making an ample preparation for the duties of his new position. He remained in Europe about four and a half years, during which period he went through an extensive course both of travel and study. Upon his return, he assumed the duties of his professor- ship, and also those of editor of the " North American Review," and continued in the discharge of both till his election to the House of Representatives, in 1824. He remained in Congress till 1835, in which year he was chosen gov- ernor of Massachusetts. To this office ho was re-elected for three successive years. In 1841, he was appointed minister plenipotentiary to the court of St. James, and he discharged the duties of that post till 1845. Upon his return to America, he was chosen President of Harvard College, and held that office till 1849. He was secretary of state for a short period, at the close of Mr. Fill> more's administration, and in 1853 was chosen to the Senate of the United States by the legislature of Massachusetts, but resigned his place the next year, on account of ill heath, and has since resided as a private citizen in Boston. The variety of Mr. Everett's life and employments is but a type of the ver- satility of his powers, and the wide range of his cultivation. He is one of the most finished men of our time. His works consist mainly of occasional dis~ courses and speeches, and of contributions to the " North American Review," — the last of which are very numerous, and deal with a great diversity of sub- jects, including Greek and German literature, the fine arts, politics, political economy, history, and American literature. His orations and speeches have been published in two large octavo volumes. His style iu rich and glowing. 40 HILLAKD'S SIXTH READER. but always under the control of sound judgment and good taste. His learning and scholarship are never needlessly obtruded ; they are woven into the web of his discourse, and not embossed upon its surface. He writes under the in- spiration of a generous and comprehensive patriotism, and his speeches are eminently suited to create and sustain a just and high-toned national senti- ment. Whatever he does, is done well 5 and his brilliant natural powers have through life been trained and aided by those habits of vigorous industry which are falsely supposed by many to be found only in connection with dul- ness and mediocrity. The following extract is from an oration delivered at Plymouth, December 22, 1824.J "What citizen of our republic does not feel, what reflect- ing American does not acknowledge, the incalculable ad- vantages derived to this land out of the deep fountains of civil, intellectual, and moral truth, from which we have 5 drawn in England ? What American does not feel proud that his fathers were the countrymen of Bacon, of Newton, and of Locke? Who does not know that, while every pulse of civil liberty in the heart of the British empire beat warm and full in the bosom of our ancestors, the 10 sobriety, the firmness, and the dignity, with which the cause of free principles struggled into existence here, con- stantly found encouragement and countenance from the friends of liberty there ? Who does not remember that, when the pilgrims went 15 over the sea, the prayers of the faithful British confessors, in all the quarters of their dispersion, went over with them, while their aching eyes were strained till the stars of hope should go up in the western skies ? And who will ever forget that, in that eventful struggle which severed these . 20 youthful republics from the British crown, there was not heard, throughout our continent in arms, a voice which spoke louder for the rights of America, than that of Burke or of Chatham within the walls of the British parliament, and at the foot of the British throne ? 25 No : for myself, I can truly say that, after my native land, I feel a tenderness and a reverence for that of my fathers. The pride I take in my own country makes me respect that from which we are sprung. In touching the v^ HILLARD^ SIXTH READER. 41 ^soil of England, I seem to return, like a descendant, to the old family seat ; to come back to the abode of an aged and venerable parent. I acknowledge this great consanguinity of nations. The sound of my native lan- 5 guage, beyond the sea, is as music to my ear, beyond the I richest strains of Tuscan softnesa or Castilian majesty. \^ \^ I am not yet in a land of strangers, while surrounded by the manners, the habits, and the institutions, under which I have been brought up. I wander, delighted, 10 through a thousand scenes which the historians and the poets have made familiar to us, of which the names are interwoven with our earliest associations. I tread with reverence the spots where I can retrace the footsteps of our suffering fathers ; — the pleasant land of their birth 16 has a claim on my heart. It seems to me a classic, yea, a holy land, — rich in the memory of the. great and good, the champions and the martyrs of liberty, the exiled her- alds of truth ; and richer, as the parent of this land of promise in the west. 20 I am not — I need not say I am not — the panegyrist of England. I am not dazzled by her riches, nor awed by her power. The sceptre, the mitre, and the coronet, — stars, garters, and blue ribbons, — seem to me poor things for great men to contend for. Nor is my admira- 25 tion awakened by her armies mustered for the battles of Europe, her navies overshadowing the ocean, nor her empire, grasping the farthest east. It is these, and the price of guilt and blood by which they are too often main- tained, which are the cause why no friend of liberty can 30 salute her with undivided affections. But it is the cradle and the refuge of free principles, though often persecuted ; the school of religious liberty, the more precious for the struggles through which it has passed ; the tombs of those who have reflected honor on 35 all who speak the English tongue ; it is the birthplace of our fathers, the home of the pilgrim. It is these which I 4:2 hillard's sixth reader. love and venerate in England. I should feel ashamed of an enthusiasm for Italy and Greece, did I not also feel it for a land like this. In an American, it would seem to me degenerate and ungrateful to hang with passion upon 5 the traces of Homer and Virgil, and follow without emo- tion the nearer and plainer footsteps of Shakspeare and Milton. I should think him cold in his love for his native land, who felt no melting in his heart for that other native country which holds the ashes of his forefathers. XIIL — "GIVE ME THKEE GKAINS dF C©KN, MOTHER" Miss Edwards. [This powerful and pathetic piece was suggested by one of the many painful incidents of the memorable Irish famine of 1846. The title was the last request of an Irish lad to his mother, as he was dying of starvation. She found three grains in a corner of his ragged jacket, and gave them to him. It was all she had. The whole family were perishing from famine.] 1 Give me three grains of corn, mother, Only three grains of corn ; It will keep the little life I have, Till the coming of the mom. I am dying of hunger and cold, mother, Dying of hunger and cold. And half the agony of such a death My lips have never told. 2 It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother, A wolf that is fierce for blood, — All the livelong day, and the night beside. Gnawing for lack of food. I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother, And the sight was heaven to see, — I awoke with an eager, famishing lip, But you had no bread for me. hillaed's sixth reader. 43 How could I look to you, mother, How could I look to you, For bread to give to your starving boy, When you were starving too ? For I read the famine in your cheek, And in your eye so wild, And I felt it in your bony hand. As you laid it on your child. The queen has lands and gold, mother. The queen has lands and gold, "While you are forced to your empty breast A skeleton babe to hold, — A babe that is dying of want, mother. As I am dying now, With a ghastly look in its sunken eye, And famine upon its brow. What has poor Ireland done, mother, What has poor Ireland done, That the world looks on, and sees us starve. Perishing, one by one ? Do the men of England care not, mother, The great men and the high. For the suffering sons of Erin's isle. Whether they live or die ? There is many a brave heart here, mother, Dying of want and cold, While only across the channel, mother. Are many that roll in gold ; There are rich and proud men there, mother. With wondrous wealth to view. And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night. Would give life to me and you. 44 hillard's sixth eeader. 7 Come nearer to my side, mother, Come nearer to my side, And hold me fondly, as you held My father when he died ; Quick, for I cannot see you, mother, My breath is almost gone ; Mother ! dear mother ! ere I die, Give me three grains of corn. XIV. — THE BLIND PKEACHEK. WlUT. [Wtlltam Wirt waa born in Bladensburg, Maryland, November 8, 1772, and died February 18, 1834. He was early admitted to the bar and became one of the most eminent lawyers in the United States, combining earnest and per- Buasive eloquence as an advocate with thorough professional learning. He was attorney-general of the United States in 1817, which position he held till 1829, and never were the duties of this office more ably discharged than by him. He had a love of literjuure, and frequently wrote for the press in his youth and early manhood. His style is rich and flowing, but marked by an excess of ornament, which was in unison Avith the taste of the times. His ' Letters of a British Spy " first appeared in 1803, in the " Richmond Argus." This has proved a popular book, having passed through several editions. He was the principal author of the " Old Bachelor," a series of papers, which originally appeared in a Richmond newspaper. In 1817 he published a mcnabir of Patrick Henry, a spirited and interesting biography, though somewhat ex- aggerated in tone. In 1827 he pronounced an eulogy on Adams and Jefferson. Mr. Wirt was a man of warm affections, amiable character, and engaging manners. A life of him, by J. P. Kennedy, In two volumes octavo, was pub- lished in 1819. The following passage is from the " Letters of a British Spy."] EiCHMOND, October 10, 1803. I HAVE been, my dear S , on an excursion through the counties which lie along the eastern side of the Blue Kidge. A general description of that country and its in- habitants may form the subject of a future letter. For 5 the present, I must entertain you with an account of a most singular and interesting adventure, which I met with in the course of the tour. It was one Sunday, as I travelled through the county of Orange, that my eye was caught by a cluster of horses tied hillard's sixth keader. 45 near a ruinous, old wooden house, in tlie forest, not far from the roadside. Having frequently seen such objects before, in travelling through these States, I had no diffi- culty in understanding that this was a place of religious 5 worship. Devotion alone should have stopped me, to join in the duties of the congregation ; but I must confess, that curi- osity to hear the preacher of such a wilderness, was not the least of my motives. On entering, I was struck with his 10 preternatural appearance. He was a tall and very spare old man ; his head, which was covered with a white linen cap, his shrivelled hands, and his voice, were all shaking under the influeitce of a palsy ; and a few moments ascer- tained to me that he was perfectly blind. 1 5 The first emotions, which touched my breast, were those of mingled pity and veneration. But how soon were all my feelings changed ! The lips of Plato were never more worthy of a prognostic swarm of bees than were the lips of this holy man ! It was a day of the administration of 20 the sacrament; and his subject, of course, was the passion of our Saviour. I had heard the subject handled a thou- sand times ; I had thought it exhausted long ago. Little did I suppose, that in the wild woods of America, I'was to meet with a man whose eloquence would give to this topic 25 a new and more sublime pathos than I had ever before witnessed. As he descended from the pulpit to distribute the mys- tic symbols, there was a peculiar, a more than human solemnity in his air and manner, which made my blood run 30 cold, and my whole frame shiver. He then drew a picture of the sufiferings of our Saviour ; his trial before Pilate ; his ascent up Calvary ; his cruci- fixion ; and his death. I knew the whole history ; but never until then had I heard the circumstances so selected, 35 so arranged, so colored ! It was all new ; and I seemed to have heard it for the first time in my life. His enun- 46 niLLARD'S SIXTH READER. ciation was so deliberate that his voice trembled on every syllable; and every heart in the assembly trembled in unison. His peculiar phrases had that force of descrip- tion, that the original scene appeared te be, at that moment, 6 acting before our eyes. We saw the very faces of the Jews : the staring, frightful distortions of malice and rage. We saw the buffet : my soul kindled with a flame of indig- nation ; and my hands were involuntarily and convulsively clinched. s 10 But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiv- ing meekness of our Saviour ; when he drew, to the life, his blessed eyes streaming in tears to heaven ; his voice breathing to God, a soft and gentle prayer of pardon on his enemies, " Father, forgive them, for they know not 15 what they do" — the voice of the preacher, which had all along faltered, grew fainter and fainter, until, his ut- terance being entirely obstructed by the force of his feel- ings, he raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and burst inte a loud and irrepressible flood of grief. The effect was 20 inconceivable. The whole house resounded with the min- gled groans and sobs and shrieks of the congregation. It was some time before the tumult had subsided so far as to permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual but fallacious standard of my own weakness, I began 25 to be very uneasy for the situation of the preacher. For I could not conceive how he would be able to let his audi- ence down from the height to which he had wound them, without impairing the solemnity and dignity of his sub- ject, or perhaps shocking them by the abruptness of the 30 fall. But — no; the descent was as beautiful and sub- lime as the elevation had been rapid and enthusiastic. The first sentence, with which he broke the awful silence, was a quotation from Eousseau:"= " Socrates f died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a God.'/ * Rousseau (pronounced R6us-so) was abrilliant and eloquent French writer, who flourished during the middle of the last century. t Socrates was a celebrated philosopher of Athens, in Greece, who was con- demned to death upon false charges of irreligion and impiety b. c. 400. HILLARD'S SIXTH READER. 47 I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced Tby this short sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the whole manner of the man, as well as the peculiar crisis in the discourse. Never before, did I completely under- 5 stand what Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on delivery. You are to bring before you the venerable figure of the preacher, his blindness constantly recalling to your recollection old Homer, Ossian, and Milton ; and, associ- ating with his performance the melancholy grandeur of 10 their genius, you are to imagine that you hear his slow, solemn, well-accented enunciation, and his voice of affect- ing, trembling melody ; you are to remember the pitch of passion and enthusiasm to which the congregation were raised ; and then, the few minutes of portentous, death- 15 like silence which reigned throughout the house : the preacher, removing his white handkerchief from his aged face, (even yet wet from the recent torrent of his tears,) and slowly. stretching forth the palsied hand which holds it, begins the sentence, " Socrates died like a philosopher" 20 — then pausing, raising his other hand, pressing them both, clasped together, with warmth and energy to his breast, lifting his ''sightless balls" to heaven, and pour- ing his whole soul into his tremulous voice — " but Jesus Christ — like a Grod!" If he had been indeed and in 25 truth an angel of light, the effect could scarcely have been more divine. XV. — EXCUSES FQK A NEGLECT OE EELIGION. BUCKMINSTEE. [Joseph Stevens Buckminster was born May 26, 1784, at Portsmouth, New Hampshire ; was graduated at Harvard College in 1800, and was ordained as pastor of the church in Brattle Street in Boston, January 30, 1805 ; and died June 9, 1812. Few men have ever brought higher qualifications to tlie sacred office which he held. His religious faith was deep and fervid, and his life and conversation, from his childhood upward, were of spotless purity. His mind was rich, vigorous, sound, and discriminating ; and his attainments, both iu his own profession and in general literature, were extensive and accurate. 48 hillard's sixth readee. '^w^^^e style of his sermon is graceful, finished, and yet simple — easily rising J '-^into eloquence, and adapting itself to the highest tone of discussion, and at Av/ the same time presenting practical truths with the utmost plainness and dircct- TsJ ness. It is hardly possible to overstate the effect he produced as a preacher, for his admirable discourses were commended by rare personal advantages Lasaspeaker. His countenance was beautiful and expressive, his voice of j^gic) sweetness, and liis manner dignified, persuasive, and natural. Few mennave ever accomplished more in a life of tucnity -eight years, whether we look at the growth of his own powers or his moral and spiritual influence over others. He was social in his tastes, and was regarded by his friends with a peculiar mixture of admiration, reverence, and love. \) Two volumes of Mr. Buckminster's sermons have been published, with an introductory memoir by the Rev. Samuel Cooper Thacher ; and a more ex- tended biography, by his sister, Mrs. Eliza Buckminster Lee, appeared in 1849, from the press of Messrs. Crosby & Nichols, of Boston.] First, it is often said that time is wanted for the duties of religion. The calls of business, the press of occupa- tion, the cares of life, will not suffer me, says one, to give that time to the duties of piety, which otherwise I would 5 gladly bestow. Say you this without a blush? You have no time, then, for the especial service of that great Being, whose goodness alone has drawn out to its present length your cobweb thread of life ; whose care alone has continued you in possession of that unseen property which 10 you call your time. You have no time, then, to devote to that great Being on whose existence the existence of the universe depends ; a being so great that if his attention could for an instant be diverted, you fall never again to rise ; if his promise should fail, your hopes, your expecta- 15 tions vanish into air; if his power should be weakened, man, angel, nature perishes. But for what else can- you find no leisure ? Do you find none for amusement? Or is amusement itself your occupation ? Perhaps pleasure is the pressing business of 20 your life ; perhaps pleasure stands waiting to catch your precious moments as they pass. Do you find none for the pursuit of curious and secular knowledge ? If you find none, then, for religion, it is perhaps because you wish to find none ; it would be, you think, a tasteless occupation, an insipid entertainment. hillard's sixth reader. 49 But this excuse is founded on a most erroneous concep- tion of the nature of religion. It is supposed to be some- thing, which interrupts business, which wastes time, and interferes with all the pleasant and profitable pursuits of 5 life. It is supposed to be something which must be prac- tised apart from everything else, a distinct profession, a peculiar occupation. The means of religion — meditation, reading, and prayer — will, and ought, indeed) to occupy distinct portions of our time ; but religion itself demands 10 not distinct hours. Religion will attend you not as a troublesome, but as a pleasant and useful companion in every proper place, and every temperate occupation of life. It will follow you to the warehouse or to the office ; it will retreat with you to the country, it will dwell with you in 15 town; it will cross the seas, or travel over mountains, or remain with you at home. Without your consent, it will not desert you in prosperity, or forget you in adversity. It will grow up with you in youth, and grow old with you in age ; it will attend you, with peculiar pleasure, to the 20 hovels of the poor, or the chamber of the sick ; it will retire with you to your closet, and watch by your bed, or walk with you in gladsome union to the house of God ; it will follow you beyond the confines of the world, and dwell with you in heaven forever, as its native residence. 25 It is said, religion is dull, unsocial, uncharitable, enthu- siastic, a damper of human joy, a morose intruder upon human pleasure. If this were true, nothing could be more incongruous than the parable which represents it as an entertainment. But if this be the character of relig- 30 ion, it is surely the very reverse of what we should sup- pose it to be, and the reverse, indeed, of what it ought to be. Perhaps, in your distorted vision, you have mistaken sobriety for dulness, equanimity for moroseness, disincli- nation to bad company for aversion to society, abhorrence 35 of vice for uncharitableness, and piety for enthusiasm. No doubt, at the table of boisterous intemperance, relig- 5 50 hillard's sixth reader. ion, if she were admitted as a guest, would wear a very dull countenance. In a revel of debauchery, and amidst the brisk interchange of profanity and folly, religion might appear indeed a dumb, unsocial intruder, ignorant 5 of the rhetoric of oaths, and the ornaments of obscenity. These are scenes, it must be acknowledged, of what is falsely called pleasure, in which religion, if embodied and introduced, would be as unwelcome a guest as the em- blematic coffin which the Egyptians used to introduce in 10 the midst of their entertainments. From such instances, however, to accuse religion of being unfriendly to the en- joyment of life, is as absurd as to interpret unfavorably the silence of a foreigner, who understands not a word of our language. 15 But as long as intemperance is not pleasure, as long as profaneness, impurity, or scandal is not wit, as long as excess is not the perfection of mirth, as long as selfishness is not the surest enjoyment, and as long as gratitude, love, reverence, and resignation are not superstitious affec- 20 tions, so long religion lays not an icy hand on the true joys of life. Without her, all other pleasures become tasteless, and at last painful. To explain to you, indeed, how much she exalts, purifies, and prolongs the pleasures of sense and imagination, and what peculiar sources of 25 consolation, cheerfulness, and contentment she opens to herself, would lead us at present into too wide a range. Excuses for a neglect of religion are suggested by dif- ferent seasons of life. Youth, in the fulness of its spirit, defers it to the sobriety of manhood ; manhood, encum- 30 bered with cares, defers it to the leisure of old age ; old age, weak and hesitating, is unable to enter on an untried mode of life. The excuses of youth are those which are most frequently offered, and most easily admitted. The restrictions of religion, though proper enough for maturer 35 age, are too severe, it is said, for this frolicsome and glad- some period. Its consolations, too, they do not want. 51 Leave them to prop the feeble limbs of old age, or to cheer the sinking spirits of adversity. False and perni- cious maxim ! As if, at the end of a stated number of years, a man could become religious in a moment ! As if 6 the husbandman, at the end of summer, could call up a harvest from the soil which he had never tilled ! As if manhood, too, would have no excuses ! And what are they ? That he has grown too old to amend. That his parents took no pains with his religious education, and 10 therefore his ignorance is not his own fault. That he must be making provision for old age ; and the pressure of cares will allow him no time to attend to the evidences, or learn the rules of religion. Thus, life is spent in framing apologies, in making and breaking resolutions, 15 and protracting amendment, till death places his cold hand on the mouth open to make its last excuse, and one more is added to the crowded congregation of the dead. XYL — SAME SUBJECT, CONCLUDED. The excuses which we have already considered, are trifling, however, compared with the following. It is said, " It is by no means certain, that there is a future state of retribution beyond the limits of the world. 5 Who has ever seen it ? It is not certain, that the religion, which you urge us to embrace, comes from Grod. Many objections may be made to its evidences." Most of the irreligion, which prevails among the ijiore informed classes of society, results from a lurking scepticism, which infests 10 their thoughts, and, in relation to religion, leads them to act in direct opposition to all the maxims which usually govern the conduct of men. It is indeed true, that the existence of a future world is not to us as certain as the existence of the present; 52 hillard's sixth reader. neither can we ever have that intuitive assurance of the "being of a God, that we necessarily possess of our own ex- istence ; neither can the facts of the Gospel history, which happened two thousand years ago. be impressed on our 5 belief with that undoubting conviction, which we have of the reality of scenes which are passing immediately before our eyes. But the question is not, whether the Gospel history can be demonstrated. Few subjects which occupy human 10 contemplation admit strict and mathematical proof. The whole life of man is but a perpetual comparison of evi- dence, and balancing of probabilities. And upon the supposition that religious truths are only probable, the excuse we have mentioned will not relieve irreligion from 15 the charge of presumptuous and consummate folly. But it is said, many objections have been made to the evidences of revelation ; and many of its difficulties re- main yet unexplained. It is true, that objections have been often made, and often answered, and not only an- 20 swered, but refuted.'^ But some difficulties, it is said, yet remain. It is true, they do remain ; and the excuse shall be admitted, when any other subject of equal importance shall be produced, in which difficulties do not remain. The most plausible objections, which have been made to 25 any truth within the circle of human knowledge, are those which have been offered against the existence of a mate- ^ - '.rial world ; but did this ever check an operation in me- chanics, or excuse from his daily task a single laborer ? A man of ingenuity might offer a thousand objections 30 against the probability of your living till the morrow; but would this rob you of a moment's rest, or frustrate a single plan, which you had meditated for the approaching ** day ? If we subtract from the difficulties, which attend revelation, those which have been creeled by the injudi- 35 cious zeal of some of its friends in attempting to prove too much, we shall find, that, in the vast storehouse of facts hillard's sixth reader. 53 whicli history presents, for none can there be produced a greater mass of evidence than for the birth, the death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ — and upon the suppo- sition of their truth, irreligion is nothing better than 5 distraction. Another excuse, however, is offered, which perhaps has greater secret influence in quieting the conscience than any other. We are desired to look at the list of great names, who have been adversaries of Christianity. Can 10 that evidence, it is asked, be satisfactory, which failed to convince such minds as these ? — If the probable truth of revelation is to be ascertained in this manner, the dispute will soon be at an end ; for it would be no difficult task to produce, from among the friends of revelation, a greater 15 number of greater names, within the last hundred years, than all the hosts of infidelity can furnish in eighteen centnries since the birth of Christ. But I believe these instances are not alleged to disprove the truth, but only to weaken the importance of Chris- 20 tianity. They are alleged only to excuse an inattention to religion, and to show that it is not very dangerous to err with such great names on our side. Truths, it is said, which such understandings disbelieved, surely cannot be of infinite importance. Nothing would tend more to re- 25 move such apologies, than a fair, impartial, and full ac- count of the education, the characters, the intellectual processes, and the dying moments .of such men. Then it would be seen, that their tvir^ue^ were the result of the very principles they had assailed, but from whose influ- 30 ence they were unable wholly to escape. Then it would be seen, that they had gained by their scepticism no new pleasures, no tranquillity of mind, no peace of conscience during life, and no consolation in the hour of death. Such are the excuses which irreligion offers. Could you 35 have believed, that they were so empty, so unworthy, so hollow, so absurd ? And shall such excuses be offered to 5* 54 hillard's sixth reader. the God of heaven and earth ? By such apologies shall man insult his Creator ? Shall he hope to flatter the ear of Onu4!potenbe, and beguile the observation of an omnis- cient Spirit ? Think you that such excuses will gain new 5 importance in their ascent to the throne of the Majesty on high ? Will you trust the interests of eternity in the hands of these superficial advocates ? You have pleaded your incessant occupation. Exhibit then the result of your employment. Have you nothing 10 to produce but these bags of gold, these palaces, and farms, these bundles of cares, and heaps of vexations ? Is the eye of Heaven to be dazzled by an exhibition of property, an ostentatious show of treasures ? You surely produce not all these wasted hours, to prove that you had no time 15 for religion. It is an insult to the Majesty of Heaven. Again, you have pleaded your youth, and you have pleaded your age. Which of these do you choose to main- tain at the bar of Heaven ? Such trifling would not be admitted in the intercourse of men, and do you think it 20 will avail more with Almighty God ? It must, however, be acknowledged that the case of the irreligious is not desperate, while excuses are thought proper and necessary. There is some glimmering of hope, that the man who apologizes is willing to amend. God 25 preserve us from that obduracy of wickedness, which dis- dains to palliate a crime ; from that hardihood of unbe- "* lief, which will not give even a weak reason, and which derides the offer of an excuse. But the season of apolo- gies is passing away. All our eloquent defences of our- 30 selves must soon cease. Death stiffens the smooth tongue of flattery, and blots out, with one stroke, all the ingenious excuses, which we have spent our lives in framing. At the marriage-supper, the places of those who refused to come were soon filled by a multitude of delighted 35 guests. The God of Heaven needs not our presence to adorn his table, for whether we accept, or whether we hillard's sixth reader. 55 reject his gracious invitation, whether those who were "bid- den taste or not of his supper, his house shall be filled. Though many are called and few chosen, yet Christ has not died in vain, religion is not without its witnesses, or heaven without its inhabitants. Let us then remember that one thing is needful, and that there is a better part than all the pleasures and selfish pursuits of this world, a part which we are encouraged to secure, and which can never be taken away. XVII. — THE FALL OF POLAND. Campbell. [The following' extract is from the " Pleasures of Hope." The events which it commemorates took place in 1794. Warsaw was captured by the Kus- sians in November of that year. Kosciusko did not literally " fall," that is, die, at that time. He was severely wounded and taken prisoner in a battle shortly before the capture of Warsaw, but he lived till 1817. " Sarmatia " is used poet- ically for Poland, being the name by which the Romans designated that por- tion of Europe. "Prague" is Praga, a suburb of Warsaw, on the opposite side of the Vistula, and joined to the main city by a bridge of boats.] ! SACRED Truth ! thy triumph ceased a while, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression pour'd to Northern wars Her whisker' d pandoors"-' and her fierce hussars, 6 Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Peal'd her loud drum, and twang' d her trumpet horn ; Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man ! Warsaw's last champion from her height survey'd, 10 Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid, — O ! Heaven I he cried, my bleeding country save I — Is there no hand on high to shield the brave ? *Pandoor, one of a body of light Infantry soldiers in the service of Austria ; 8o called because originally raised from the mountainous districts, near the village of Pandur, in Lower Hungary. 5^ hillard's sixth reader. Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, Rise, fellow-men ! our country yet remains ! By that dread name, we wave the sword on high, And swear for her to live — with her to die ! 5 He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd ; Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ; Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, 10 Revenge, or death, — the watchword and reply ; Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin toU'd their last alarm ! — In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few ! From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew : — 15 0, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime ; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe ! Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear, 20 Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career : — Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell. And freedom shriek' d — as Kosciusko fell ! The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there. Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air — 25 On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below ; The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way. Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay ! Hark, as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, 30 A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call ! Earth shook — red meteors flash'd along the sky. And conscious Nature shudder'd at the cry ! ! righteous Heaven ! ere Freedom found a grave, Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save ? 35 Where was thine arm, O Vengeance ! where thy rod, That smote the foes of Zion and of God ; hillard's sixth reader. 57 That crusli'd proud Ammon, when his iron car Was yoked in wrath, and thunder' d from afar ? Where was the storm that slumber' d till the host Of blood-stain'd Pharaoh left their trembling coast, 5 Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, And heaved an ocean on their march below ? Departed spirits of the mighty dead ! Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled ! Triends of the world ! restore your swords to man, 10 Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van ! Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, And make her arm puissant as your own ! • ! once again to Freedom's cause return The patriot Tell — the Bruce of Bannockbum ! 15 Ye fond adorers of departed fame, Who warm at Scipio's worth, or Tully's name I Ye that, in fancied vision, can admire The sword of Brutus, and the Theban lyre ! =••' Rapt in historic ardor, who adore 20 Each classic haunt, and well-remember' d shore. Where valor tuned, amidst her chosen throng, The Thracian trumpet, and the Spartan song ; Or, wandering thence, behold the later charms Of England's glory, and Helvetia's arms ! 25 See Roman fire in Hampden's bosom swell. And fate and freedom in the shaft of Tell ! Say, ye fond zealots to the worth of yore, Hath Valor left the world — to live no more ? No more shall Brutus bid a tyrant die, 30 And sternly smile with vengeance in his eye ? Hampden no more, when suffering Freedom calls. Encounter Fate, and triumph as he falls ? Nor Tell disclose, through peril and alarm, The might that slumbers in a peasant's arm? * " The Theban Lyre." The poetry of Pindar, a celebrated lyric poet, bom in Thebea, 58 hillard's sixth reader. Yes, in that generous cause, forever strong, The patriot's virtue and the poet's song, Still, as the tide of ages rolls away. Shall charm the world, unconscious of decay. 5 Yes, there are hearts, prophetic Hope may trust. That slumber yet in uncreated dust, Ordain'd to fire the adoring sons of earth, AVith every charm of wisdom and of worth ; Ordain'd to light with intellectual day, 10 The mazy wheels of nature as they play, Or, warm with Fancy's energy, to glow, And rival all but Shakspeare's name below. XVIIL — THE LAST DAYS OF SIR WALTEE SCOTT. LOCKHART. [The Life of Scott, by his son-in-law, John Gibson Lockhart, is one of the most delightful books in the language ; in all parts full of interest, which becomes of a melancholy cast towards the close. Lockhart was a man of brilliant literary powers. He wrote " Valerius," "Matthew Wald," "Adam Blair," and " Reginald Dalton," all novels ; " Peter's Letters," a series of sketches of Scotch society and of eminent men in Scotland ; and a volume of translations from the Spanish ballads. He was also a frequent contributor to the earlier numbers of " Blackwood's Magazine." He was born in Glasgow in 1792, and died at Abbotsford, in 1864. He had been for many years editor of the " Quarterly Review." In consequence of Sir Walter Scott's declining health, he had passed the , winter of 1831-2 in Italy ; but with very little benefit. In June, 1832, while on his way home, he had an attack of apoplectic paralysis, from whicli he never rallied. On the 9th of July, he reached Edinburgh, in a state of almost entire insensibility. This extract begins with his removal to his own house at Ab- botsford, about forty miles south-east of Edinburgh, on the Tweed. The Gala flows into the Tweed near by.] At a very early hour on the morning of Wednesday, the 1 llh, we again placed him in his carriage, and he lay in the same torpid state during the first two stages on the road to Tweedside. But as we ascended the vale of the 5 Gala, he began to gaze about him, and by degrees it was obvious that he was recognizing the features of that hillard's sixth reader. 59 familiar landscape. Presently he murmured a name or two — * * Gala Water, surely — Buckholm — Torwoodlee. ' ' '^ As we rounded the hill at Ladhope, and the outlines of the Eildons hurst on him, he became greatly excited ; and 5 when, turning himself on the couch, his eye caught at length his own towers, at the distance of a mile, he sprang up with a cry of delight. The river being in a flood, we had to go round a few miles by Melrose bridge ; and during the time this occu- 10 pied, his woods and house being within prospect, it re- quired occasionally both Dr. Watson's strength and mine, in addition to Nicholson' s,f to keep him in the carriage. After passing the bridge, the road for a couple of miles loses sight of Abbotsford, and he relapsed into his stupor ; 15 but on gaining the bank immediately above it, his excite- ment became ungovernable. Mr. Laidlaw J was waiting at the porch, and assisted us in lifting him into the dining-room, where his bed had been prepared. He sat bewildered for a few moments, 20 and then resting his eye on Laidlaw, said, " Ha, W^illie Laidlaw ! man, how often have I thought of you ! " By this time his dogs had assembled about his chair; they began to fawn upon him, and lick his hands, and he alternately sobbed and smiled over them, until sleep op- 25 pressed him. Dr. Watson, having consulted on all things with Mr. Clarkson§ and his father, resigned the patient to them, and returned to London. None of them could have any hope, but that of soothing irritation. Eecovery was no 30 longer to be thought of And yet something like a ray of hope did break in upon us, next morning. Sir Walter * Torwoodlee is a country seat near Abbotsford. Buckholm is an old tower, t Nicholson was Sir VTalter Scott's servant. X Mr. Laidlaw, a worthy and intelligent man, to whom Scott was much attached, was the manager of his estate. § Mr. Clarksou was a surgeon. 60 hillard's sixth reader. awote perfectly conscious where he was, and expressed an ardent wish to be carried out into his garden. We pro- cured a Bath chair from Huntly Burn/-' and Laidlaw and I wheeled him out before his door, and up and down for 6 some time on the turf, and among the rose-beds, then in full bloom. The grandchildren admired the new vehicle, and would be helping in their way to push it about. He sat in silence, smiling placidly on them, and the dogs, their companions, and now and then admiring the house, 10 the screen of the garden, and the flowers and trees. By- and-by he conversed a little, very composedly, with us ; said he was happy to be at home ; that he felt better than he had ever done since he left it, and would perhaps dis- appoint the doctors, after all. 15 He then desired to be wheeled through his rooms, and we moved him leisurely for an hour or more up and down the hall and the great library. " I have seen much," he kept saying, ** but nothing like my ain house ; give me one turn more." He was gentle as an infant, and allowed 20 himself to be put to bed again the moment we told him that we thought he had had enough for one day. Next morning he was still better. After again enjoy- ing the Bath chair for perhaps a couple of hours, he de- sired to be drawn into the library, and placed by the cen- 25 tral window, that he might look down upon the Tweed. Here he expressed a wish that I should read to him ; and when I asked from what book, he said, " Need you ask? There is but one." I chose the fourteenth chapter of St. John's Gospel ; he listened with mild devotion, and said, 30 when I had done, " Well, this is a great comfort ; I have followed you distinctly, and I feel as if I were yet to be myself again." In this placid frame he was again put to bed, and had many hours of soft slumber. On Monday he remained in bed, and seemed extremely * Huntly Bum is a cottage on the estate of Abbotsford, then occupied by Sir Adam Ferguson, a friend of Scott's. iiillard's sixth reader. 61 feeWe; but after breakfast on Tuesday, the 17tb, he ap- peared revived somewhat, and was again wheeled about on the turf. Presently he fell asleep in his chair, and after dozing for perhaps half an hour, started awake, and shak- 5 ing the plaids, we had put about him, from off his shoul- ders, said, " This is sad idleness. I shall forget what I have been thinking of, if I don't set it down now. Take me into my own room, and fetch the keys of my desk." He repeated this so earnestly that we could not refuse ; 10 his daughters went into his study, opened his writing- desk, and laid paper and pens in the usual order, and I then moxed him through the hall and into the spot where he had always been accustomed to work. When the chair was placed at the desk, and he found himself in the old 15 position, he smiled and thanked us, and said, " Now give me my pen, and leave me for a little to myself." Sophia'-* put the pen into his hand, and he endeavored to close his fingers upon it, but they refused their office — it dropped on the paper. He sank back among his pillows, silent 20 tears rolling down his cheeks ; but composing himself, by- and-by, motioned to me to wheel him out of doors again. Laidlaw met us at the porch, and took his turn of the chair. Sir Walter, after a little while, again dropped into slumber. When he was awaking, Laidlaw said to me, 25 "Sir Walter has had a little repose." "No, Willie," said he, "no repose for Sir AValter but in the grave." The tears again rushed from his eyes. " Friends," said he, " don't let me expose myself; get me to bed — that 's the only place." 30 With this scene ended our glimpse of daylight. Sir Walter never, I think, left his room afterwards, and hardly his bed, except for an hour or two in the middle of the day ; and after another week he was unable even to do this. * Sophia was Mrs. Lockhart, Scott's eldest daughter. 6 62 - hillard's sixth eeader. ^ After this he declined daily, but still there was great strength to be wasted, send the process was long. He seemed, however, to suffer no bodily pain, and his mind, though hopelessly obscured, appeared, when there was 5 any symptom of consciousness, to be dwelling, with rare exceptions, on serious and solemn things ; the accent of the voice, grave, sometimes awful, was never querulous, and very seldom indicative of any angry or resentful thoughts. 10 All this time he continued to recognize his daughters, Laidlaw, and myself, whenever we spoke to him, and received every attention with a most touching thankful- ness. Mr. Clarkson, too, was always saluted with the old courtesy, though the cloud opened but a moment for him 15 to do so. Most truly might it be said that the gentleman survived his genius. As I was dressing on the morning of Monday, the 17th of September, Nicholson came into my room, and told me that his master had wakened in a state of composure and 20 consciousness, and wished to see me immediately. I found him entirely himself, though in the last extreme of fee- bleness. His eye was clear and calm, every trace of the wild fire of delirium extinguished. *' Lockhart," he said, "I may have but a minute to speak with you. 25 My dear, be a good man ; be virtuous ; be religious ; be a good man. Nothing else will give you any comfort when you come to lie here."" He paused, and I said, " Shall I send for Sophia and Anne ? "f " No," said he, "don't disturb them. Poor souls ! I know they were up 30 all night. God bless you all ! " With this he sank into a very tranquil sleep ; and, indeed, he scarcely afterwards * These are remarkable words. Here was a man who had won the highest prizes of life ; had gained the most splendid literary reputation ; had been honored, flattered, and caressed as few men have ever been ; and yet, at the last moment, falls back for support on moral worth and religious faith — that possession which all may earn. t Anne was his second daughter. hillard's sixth reader. 63 gave any sign of consciousness, except for an instant on the arrival of his sons. They, on learning that the scene was about to close, obtained a new leave of absence from their posts, and both reached Abbotsford on the 19th. 5 About half past one P. M., on the 21st of September, Sir Walter breathed his last, in the presence of all his children. It was a beautiful day ; so warm that every window was wide open, and so perfectly still that the sound of all 10 others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt around the bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes. XIX. — THE CHAEACTEE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Fkescott. [William Hickling Prescott was born in Salem, Massachusetts, May 4, 1796, and died in Boston, January 28, 1859. His grandfather was Colonel William Prescott, who commanded in the redoubt at Bunker HUl. He is the author of four historical works — "The History of the Reign of Ferdinand and Isabella," " The History of the Conquest of Mexico," " The History of the Conquest of Peru," and "The History of the Reign of Philip the Second;" which last was left unfinished at the time of his death. These are all produc- tions of great merit, and have received the highest commendations at home and abroad. Among their most conspicuous excellences may be mentioned their thoroughness of investigation and research. Mr. Prescott examined, with untiring industry, all possible sources of information, whether in print or in manuscript, which could throw light upon the subjects of which he treated. This was the more honorable to him, as, in consequence of an accident in col- lege, he was deprived, to a considerable degree, of the use of his eyes, and was constantly obliged to make use of the sight of others in prosecuting his studies. He was also candid in his judgments alike of historical personages and of particular periods. The character of his mind forbade his being a partisan on any side ; and he preferred to state cases rather than to argue them. Besides these substantial merits of learning and sound judgment, his works have an element of attraction in their style and manner, which, more than anything else, has contributed to their great popularity. He describes scenes and narrates events with the greatest beauty and animation ; and the subjects he has chosen — dealing with romantic adventure among the mountains of Spain, or in the splendid scenery of Mexico and Peru — give ample scope to this power. There is a limpid purity and engaging sweetness in his style, 04 hillakd's sixth reader. which lead the reader along from page to page unconsciously, and lend to truth all the charm of fiction. Mr. Prescott was a man of most amiable character and engaging manners, and greatly beloved by all who knew liim. The foUowmg extract is from an article in the " North American Review."] Take it for all and all, it is not too much to say that the character of Sir Walter Scott is probably the most remarkable on record. There is no man of historical celebrity that we now recall, who combined, in so eminent 5 a degree, the highest qualities of the moral, the intellect- ual, and the physical. He united in his own character what hitherto had been found incompatible. Though a poet, and living in an ideal world, he was an exact, me- thodical man of business ; though achieving with the most 10 wonderful facility of genius, he was patient and laborious; a mousing antiquarian, yet with the most active interest in the present and whatever was going on around him ; with a strong turn for a roving life and military adventure, he was yet chained to his desk more hours, at some periods 1 5 of his life, than a monkish recluse ; a man with a heart as capacious as his head ; a Tory, brimful of Jacobitism, yet full of sympathy and unaffected familiarity with all classes, even the humblest; a successful author, without pedantry and without conceit ; one, indeed, at the head of 20 the republic of letters, and yet with a lower estimate of letters, as compared with other intellectual pursuits, than was ever hazarded before. The first quality of his character, or, rather, that which forms the basis of it, as of all great characters, was his 25 energy. We see it, in his early youth, triumphing over the impediments of nature, and, in spite of lameness, making him conspicuous in every sort of athletic exercise — clambering up dizzy precipices, wading through treach- erous fords, and performing feats of pedestrianism that 30 make one's joints ache to read of. As he advanced in life, we see the same force of purpose turned to higher objects. We see the same powerful energies triumphing over HILLARD*S SIXTH READER. 65 disease at a later period, when nothing but a resolution to get the better of it enabled him to do so. " Be assured,'* he remarked to Mr. Gillies, "that if pain could have prevented my application to literary labor, not a page of 5 Ivanhoe would have been written. Now if I had given way to mere feelings, and had ceased to work, it is a ques- tion whether the disorder might not have taken a deeper root, and become incurable." Another quality, which, like the last, seems to have 10 given the tone to his character, was his social or benevolent feelings. His heart was an unfailing fountain, which not merely the distresses, but the joys of his fellow-creatures made to flow like water. Barely indeed is this precious quality found united with 15 the most exalted intellect. Whether it be that Nature, chary of her gifts, does not care to shower too many of them on one head ; or that the public admiration has led the man of intellect to set too high a value on himself, or at least his own pursuits, to take an interest in the infe- 20 rior concerns of others ; or that the fear of compromising his dignity puts him " on points " with those who approach him ; or whether, in truth, the very magnitude of his own reputation throws a freezing shadow over us little people in his neighborhood — whatever be the cause, it is too 25 true that the highest powers of mind are very often de- ficient in the only one which can make the rest of much worth in society — the power of pleasing. Scott was not one of these little great. His was not' one of those dark-lantern visages which concentrate all 80 their light on their own path, and are black as midnight to all about them. He had a ready sympathy, a word of contagious kindness or cordial greeting for all. His man- ners, too, were of a kind to dispel the icy reserve and awe which his great name was calculated to inspire. 35 He relished a good joke, from whatever quarter it came, and was not over-dainty in his manner of testifying his 6* 6Q hillard's sixth reader. satisfaction. " In the full tide of mirth, he did indeed laugh the heart's laugh," says Mr. Adolphus. " Give me an honest laugher," said Scott himself on another occa- sion, when a buckram man of fashion had been paying 5 him a visit at Abbotsford. His manners, free from affectation or artifice of any sort, exhibited the spontaneous movements of a kind disposi- tion, subject to those rules of good breeding which Nature herself might have dictated. In this way he answered his 10 own purpose admirably as a painter of character, by put- ting every man in good humor with himself, in the same manner as a cunning portrait-painter amuses his sitters with such store of fun and anecdote as may throw them off their guard, and call out the happiest expressions of 15 their countenances. The place where his benevolent impulses found their proper theatre for expansion was his own home ; sur- rounded by a happy family, and dispensing all the hospi- talities of a great feudal proprietor. " " There are many 20 good things in life," he says, in one of his letters, " what- ever satirists and misanthropes may say to the contrary ; but probably the best of all, next to a conscience void of offence, (without which, by-the-by, they can hardly exist,) are the quiet exercise and enjoyment of the social feelings, 25 in which we are at once happy ourselves, and the cause of happiness to them who are dearest to us."^ Every page of the work, almost, shows us how intimately he blended himself with the pleasures and the pursuits of his own family, watched over the education of his chil- 30 dren, shared in their rides, their rambles, and sports, losing no opportunity of kindling in their young minds a love of virtue, and honorable principles of action. But Scott's sympathies were not confined to his species, and if he treated them like blood relations, be treated his 35 brute followers like personal friends. ^ Every one remenv bers old Maida and faithful Camp, the ** dear old friend," hillard's sixth reader. 67 whose loss cost him a dinner. Mr. Gillies tells us that he went into his study on one occasion, when he was winding off his *' Vision of Don Eoderick." ** ' Look here,' said the poet, ' I have just begun to copy over the rhymes that you 5 heard to-day and applauded so much. Keturn to supper if you can ; only don't be late, as you perceive we keep early hours, and Wallace will not suffer me to rest after six in the morning. Come, good dog, and help the poet.' ** At this hint, Wallace seated himself upright on a 10 chair next his master, who offered him a newspaper, which he directly seized, looking very wise, and holding it firmly and contently in his mouth. Scott looked at him with great satisfaction, for he was excessively fond of dogs. 'Very well,' said he; 'now we shall get on.' And so I l5 left them abruptly, knowing that my * absence would be the best company.' " XX. — THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN FIELD. Sir Walter Scott. [The following' extract from "Marmion" describes the battle of Flodden' Field, or Flodden, in which the English, under the Earl of Surrey, defeated, with great slaughter, the Scotch, under their king, James IV., September 9, 1513. Flodden Hill, an offshoot of the Cheviot range, is in the county of Northumberland, in England, a few miles from the town of Coldstream. Marmion, an imaginary personage, is an English nobleman of bad character. Blount and Fitz Eustace are his squires. Lady Clare is an English heiress, for whose hand Marmion had been an unsuccessful suitor, and whose lover, Wilton, now fighting on the English side, he had attempted to ruin, but failed. Jeffrey, in his review of " Marmion," in the " Edinburgh Review," says : — "Of all the poetical battles which have been fought, from the days of Homer to those of Mr. Southey, there is none, in our opinion, at all comparable, for interest and animation, for breadth of drawing, and magnificence of effect, with this."] Blount- and Fitz Eustace rested still With Lady Clare upon the hill ; On which (for far the day was spent) The western sunbeams now were bent; ♦Pronounced Blont or Blunt. QS hillakd's sixth reader/ \T The cry they heard, its meaning knew, Could plain their distant comrades view : Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, *' Unworthy office hereto stay ! 5 No hope of gilded spurs to-day. — '^ , But see ! look up — on Flodden bent The Scottish foe has fired his tent." And sudden, as he spoke, From the sharp ridges of the hill, 10 All downward to the banks of Till, Was wreathed in sable smoke. Volumed and fast, and rolling far, The cloud enveloped Scotland's war. As down the hill they broke ; 15 Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, } Announced their march ; their tread alone, At times one warning trumpet blown, At times a stifled hum. Told England, from his mountain-throne 20 King James did rushing come. — Scarce could they hear or see their foes, :jjf. Until at weapon-point they close. — They close, in clouds of smoke and dust, "With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust ; 25 And such a yell was there. Of sudden and portentous birth, ^J As if men fought upon the earth, And fiends in upper air ; life and death were in the shout, 30 Eecoil and rally, charge and rout. And triumph and despair. ^, Long look'd the anxious squires ; their eye • Could in the darkness nought descry. ♦That is, no hope of being advanced to the dignity of knighthood, of which gilded spurs were the badge. HILLARD'S SIXTH READER. 60 At length the freshening western blast Aside the shroud of battle cast ; And, first, the ridge of mingled spears Above the brightening cloud appears ; 5 And in the smoke the pennons flew, As in the storm the white sea-mew. Then mark'd they, dashing broad and far, The broken billows of the war, And plumed crests of chieftains brave, 10 Floating like foam upon the wave ; But nought distinct they see. Wide raged the battle on the plain ; Spears shook, and falchions flash'd amain ; Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ; 15 Crests rose, and stoop' d, and rose again, ^ Wild and disorderly. Far on the left, unseen the while, Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle ; Though there the western mountaineer 20 Eushed with bare bosom on the spear. And flung the feeble targe aside, And with both hands the broadsword plied, 'T was vain : — But Fortune, on the right, With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight. 25 Then fell that spotless banner white. The Howard's lion fell ; Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew With wavering flight, while fiercer grew Around the battle-yell. 30 The Border slogan rent the sky. A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry : Loud were the changing blows ; Advanced, — forced back, — now low, now high. The pennon sunk and rose ; 35 As bends the bark's mast in the gale, When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, It wavered 'mid the foes. 70 hillard's sixth reader. No longer Blount the view could bear : " By Heaven and all its saints ! I swear I will not see it lost ! Fitz Eustace, you, with Lady Clare, 5 May bid your beads, and patter prayer, — I gallop to the host." And to the fray he rode amain, Followed by all the archer train. The fiery youth, with desperate charge, 10 Made, for a spa>^. rl' ' . . ■.:'■- •■■v • How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? And, oh, was it meet that, — no requiem read o'er him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him. And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him, — Unhonored the pilgrim from life should depart ? 4 When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded. The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall ; With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded. And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming ; In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming ; Tar adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. 5 But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature. To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, When, 'wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in stature. And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch, by this desert lake lying, mmLaed's sixth reader . 87 Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam. XXVL — THE CAPTIVE.^ /" • -■; ' "'^ - Stebne. \ ■■■»•"'' -^ " "^ [Laurence Sterne was bom in Clonmell, Ireland, November 24, 1713, and died in London, March 18, 1768. He was educated at the university of Cam- bridge, became a clergyman of the church of England, and in that capacity resided for many years in Sutton, in Yorkshire. He was the author of " Tris- tram Shandy," a novel ; " A Sentimental Journey through France and Italy ; " and of several published sermons. He was a man of peculiar and original genius, i-emarkable alike for pathos and humor, and with an unrivalled power of giving truth and consistency to characters marked by whims and oddities. " Tristram Shandy," his principal story, has little or no story, and fails in inter- est as a continuous narrative ; but the personages are admirably drawn, and it abounds with exquisite scenes and sketches. His writings are defaced by grave offences against decorum, his style is deficient in simplicity, and his sentimentality is often exaggerated and mawkish ; but in his airy, fantastic, and indescribable humor, there is a grace and life over which time has no power. Few persons now read Sterne as a whole, and yet few writers are better known, such is the enduring popularity of portions of his writings, such aa the story of Le Fevre, from " Tristram Shandy," and the following sketch from the " Sentimental Journey."] And as for the Bastile ! " the terror is in the word. Make the most of it you can, said I to myself, the Bastile is but another word for a tower, and a tower is but another word for a house you cannot get out of. Mercy on the 5 gouty ! for they are in it twice a year — but, with nine livres a day, and pen and ink and paper and patience, albeit a man cannot get out, he may do very well within, — at least for a month or six weeks ; at the end of which, if he is a harmless fellow, his innocence appears, and he 10 comes out a better and a wiser man than he went in. . I had some occasion (I forget what) to step into the court-yard, as I settled this account; and remember I ♦The Bastile was a building in Paris, originally a royal castle, and after- wards used as a state prison. It was destroyed by the populace July 14, 1789, and thus was commenced the French Revolution. 88 iiillard's sixth reader. walked down stairs in no small triumph with the conceit of my reasoning. Beshrew the sombre pencil ! said I, Taunt- ingly, for I envy not its power, which paints the evils of life with so hard and deadly a coloring. The mind sits 5 terrified at the objects she has magnified herself, and blackened : reduce them to their proper size and hue, she overlooks them. It is true, said I, correcting the proposi- tion ; the Bastile is not an evil to be despised ; but strip it of its towers — fill up the fosse — unbarricade the doors — 10 call it simply a confinement, and suppose it some tyrant of a distemper — and not of a man — which holds you in it, the evil vanishes, and you bear the other half without complaint. I was interrupted in the heyday of this soliloquy, with 15 a voice which I took to be of a child, which complained " it could not get out." I looked up and down the passage, and seeing neither man, woman, or child, I went out with- out farther attention. In my return back through the passage, I heard the 20 same words repeated twice over ; and looking up, I saw it was a starling hung in a little cage. " I can't get out — I can't get out," said the starling. I stood looking at the bird : and to every person who came through the passage, it ran fluttering to the side 25 towards which they approached it, with the same lamenta- tion of its captivity. " I can't get out," said the starling. God help thee ! said I ; but I will let thee out, cost what it will ; so I turned about the cage, to get the door ; it was twisted, and double twisted so fast with wire, there was no 30 getting it open without pulling the cage to pieces. I took both hands to it. The bird flew to the place where I was attempting his deliverance, and thrusting his head through the trellis, pressed his breast against it, as if impatient. I fear, poor B5 creature! said I, I cannot set thee at liberty. *' No," said theetarling — "I can't get out — 1 can't get out" %- hillard's sixth reader. 89 '^ A -^ I never had my affections more tenderly awakened ; nor ) do I remember an incident in my life, where the dissipated spirits, to which my reason had been a bubble, were so suddenly called home. Mechanical as the notes were, yet 5 so true in tune to nature were they chanted, that in one moment they overthrew all my systematic reasonings upon the Bastile; and I heavily walked up stairs, unsaying every word I had said in going down them. Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery ! said I — 10 still thou art a bitter draught ; and though thousands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account. It is thou, thrice sweet and gra- cious goddess, addressing myself to Liberty, whom all, in public or in private, worship, whose taste is grateful, and 15 ever will be so, till Nature herself shall change — no tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron — with thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art exiled. Gracious heaven ! cried I, 20 kneeling down upon the last step but one in my ascent — grant me but health, thou great Bestower of it ; and give me but this fair goddess as my companion — and shower down thy mitres, if it seems good unto thy divine provi- dence, upon those heads which are aching for them. 25 The bird in his cage pursued me into my room ; I sat down close to my table, and leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself the miseries of confine- ment. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination. 30 I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow- creatures born to no inheritance but slavery ; but finding, however affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it near me, and that the multitudes of sad groups in it did but distract me — I took a single captive, and having first 35 shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture. 8* 90 hillard's sixth reader, I beheld his body half wasted away with long expecta- tion and confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it was which arises from hope deferred. Upon look- ing nearer, I saw him pale and feverish ; in thirty years 5 the western breeze had not once fanned his blood — he had seen no sun, no moon in all that time — nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice: — his children — But here my heart began to bleed, and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait. 10 He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the farthest comer of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed ; a little calendar of small sticks were laid at his bed, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there — he had one of these little 15 sticks in his hand, and with a rusty nail he was etching another day of misery to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down, shook his head, and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his 20 legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle. He gave a deep sigh — I saw the iron enter into his soul — I burst into tears — I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn. XXVII. — CHAKACTER OF SAMUEL ADAMS. Tudor. [WiLLix\M Tudor was born in Boston, January 28, 1779, and died in Rio Janeiro, Marcli 9, 1830. He was graduated at Harvard College in 1790. He was tlie author of " Letters on the Eastern States," a " Life of James Otis," and a volume of " Miscellanies," and contributed many articles to the " Monthly An- thology," and the " North American Review " of which latter he was the lirst editor. He was charge d'affaires for the United States, in Brazil, at the time of his death. An anonymous work published in 1829, called " Gebel Teir," was by him. He was one of the founders of the Boston Athenaeum, and to him the country is indebted for the first suggestion of the Bunker Hill Monument. He was a correct and scholarly writer, and a most estimable and amiable man. The following extract is from the " Life of Jamee Otis."] J *%x #s!^ debate was adjourned. Medical assistance being ob- vC/ tained, his lordship in some degree recovered, and was C conveyed to his favorite villa of Hayes, in Kent, where, after lingering some few weeks, he expired May 11, 1778, in the seventieth year of his age. XXXI. — CHAEACTEE OF CHATHAM. G RATTAN. [Henry Grattan, the celebrated Irish patriot and orator, was born in Dublin, July 3, 1746, and died in London May 14, 1820. lie entered the Irish parliament in 1775, and immediately devoted himself, with great energy and eloquence, to lighten the burdens, political and commercial, under which his country then languished. The ability and courage which he displayed and the results he accomplished, made him the idol of the Irish people. He opposed the Union, but after it had been effected, sat in the imperial parliament, where he maintained the cause and' rights of Ireland with unabated eloquence and spirit. He was a zealous advocate of Boman Catholic emancipation. 104 hillard's sixth reader. His public lifo was honest and nobly consistent and bin private character wag without a blemish. His style of speaking- was vivid, impassioned, »ind epi- grammatic. His eloquence owed nothing to personal ad vantages , for he was below the medium height, and not prepossessing in appearance. This character of Chatham was written by Grattan when quite a young ^P'- man, and published in a newspaper of the day".] L The secretary stood alone. Modern degeneracy had not reached him Original and unaccommodating, the features of his character had the hardihood of antiquity .T His august mind overawea miestyi and one of his sovereigns 5 thought royalty so impaired^ his presence that he con- spired to remove him, in order to be relieved .from his supe- riority. No state chicaneryC no narrow syst^fof vicious politics, sunk him to the vulgar level of ^h^v^reat ; but, overbearing, persuasive, and impracticable, his object was 10 England, his ambition was fame. Without dividing, he destroyed "p^^^tj ; without corrupt- ing, he made a venalage unanimous. France sunk be- neath him. With one hand he smote the house of Bour- bon, and wielded in the other the democracy of England. 15 The sight of his mind was infinite ; and his schemes were to afi'ect, not England, not the present age only, but Europe and posterity:^JvVonderful were the means by which these schemeg.were accomplished, always seasona- ble, always adequlite, the suggestion of an understanjiing 20 animated by ardor and enlightened by prophecy^v^^^^^''^''^^ The ordinary feelings which make life amiable and indo- lent were unknown to him. No domestic difficulties, no domestic weakness reached him ; but aloof from the sordid occurrences of life, and un^llied^.by its intercourse, he 25 came occasionally into our syst^Stn^o counsel and to decide. A character so exalted, so strenuous, so various, so au- thoritative, astonished a corrupt age, and the treasury trembled at the name of Pitt, through all the classes of venality. Corruption imagined, indeed, that she had found 30 defects in this statesman, and talked much of the inconsist- ency of his glory, and much of the ruin of his victories; but / hillard's sixth reader. " 105 the history of his country, and the calamities of the enemy, answered and refuted her. ^ X ^Nor were his political abilities his only talents : his elp- Vj^^quence was an era in the senate, peculiar and spontaiieousj'jj^ .. 5 familiarly expressing gigantic sentiments and instinctive // '^^'^ wisdom ; not like the torrent of Demosthenes, or the splen- ^vv^/j^. did conflagration of Tully ; it resembled sometimes the thunder, and sometimes the music of the spheres. He did not, like Murray, ^"= conduct the understanding 10 through the painful subtlety of argumentation ; nor was he, like Townshend, ''■' forever on the rack of exertion ; but rather lightened upon the subject, and reached the point by the flashings of the mind, which, like those of his eye, were felt, but could not be followed. Upon the whole, there was 15 in this man something that could create, subvert, or re- form ; an understanding, a spirit, and an eloquence to sum- mon mankind to society, or to break the bonds of slavery asunder, and to rule the wilderness of free minds with unbounded authority; something that could establish or 20 overwhelm empire, and strike a blow in the world that should resound through the universe. XXXII. — THE PILGEIM FATHEES. PlERPONT. [John Pikrpont was born in Litchfield, Connecticut, April 6, 1785, and was graduated at Yale College in 1804. He was orig'inally a lawyer, but afterwards studied theology, and in 1819 was ordained minister of the Ilollis Street Church, in Boston, where he remained till 1845. Since then he has been settled over congregations in Troy, New York, and Medford, Massachusetts. He has been an active laborer in behalf of temperance, anti-slavery, the improvement of prison discipline, and other reforms; and many of his poems have been called ♦VTilliam Murray, Earl of Mansfield, held a seat in parliament, and was an orator of most persuasive elegance and subtle powers of argumentation. He was appointed chief justice of the Kings Bench in 175G. Charles To\\Tishend entered parliament in 1747. He held various high oifices during his life. He supported the stamp act and the taxation of the American coloules. He had great parliamentary abilities and oratorical powers. r^ 106 hillabd's sixth header. forth by the moral and religious movements of the day. His poetry is char- acterized by energy of expression, and a generous tone of feeling. The fol- lowing poem was Avritten for the celebration of the anniversary of the Pilgrim Society of Plymouth, in December, 1824.] 1 The Pilgrim Fathers — where are they? The waves that brought them o'er Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray, As they break along the shore ; Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, When the Mayflower moored below, When the sea around was black with storms, And white the shore with snow. 2 The mists, that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep. Still brood upon the tide ; And the rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, To stay its waves of pride. But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale, When the heavens looked dark, is gone ; — As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud. Is seen, and then withdrawn. 3 The Pilgrim exile — sainted name ! — The hill, whose icy brow Kejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, In the morning's flame bums now. And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night On the hill-side and the sea, Still lies where he laid hrs houseless head ; — But the Pilgrim — where is he ? 4 The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest : When Summer 's throned on high. And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed. Go, stand on the hill where they lie. The earliest ray of the golden day On that hallowed spot is cast ; hillard's sixth readek. 107 And th^ evening sun, as he leaves tlie world, Looks kindly on that spot last The Pilgrim spirit has not fled : It walks in noon's broad light; And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, "With the holy stars, by night It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, And shall guard this ice-bound shore. Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay, Shall foam and freeze no more. THE G00D GKEAT MAN. Coleridge.* How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits Honor or wealth, with all his worth and pains I It sounds like stories from the land of spirits, If any man obtain that which he merits, Or any merit that which he obtains. For shame, dear friend ; renounce this canting strain. What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain ? Place, titles, salary, a gilded chain — Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain ? Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends. Hath he not always treasures, always friends. The good great man ? three treasures — love and light, And calm thoughts, regular as infants' breath ; And three firm friends, more sure than day and night — Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. *See page 347 for biographical sketch. 108 hillard's sixth eeader. XXXIIL — THE FALLS «E NIAGAEA. HOWISON. [From " Sketches of Upper Canada," by John Howison, published in Edin- burgh, in 1821.] Now that I propose to attempt a description of tlie Falls of Niagara, I feel myself threatened with a return of those throbs of trembling expectation which agitated me on my first visit to those stupendous cataracts ; and to 5 which every person of the least sensibility is liable, when he is on the eve of seeing anything that has strongly ex- cited his curiosity, or powerfully affected his imagine; i'^. The form of Niagara Falls is that of an irregular semi- circle, about three quarters of a mile in extent. This is di- 10 vided into two distinct cascades by the intervention of Goat Island, the extremity of which is perpendicular, and in a line with the precipice over which the water is projected. The cataract on the Canada side of the river is called the Horseshoe or Great Fall, from its peculiar form, and that 15 next the United States, the American Fall. The Table Eock, from which the Falls of Niagara may be contemplated in all their grandeur, lies on an exact level with the edge of the cataract on the Canada side, and, indeed, forms a part of the precipice over which the 20 water gushes. It derives its name from the circumstance of its projecting beyond the cliffs that support it, like the leaf of a table. To gain this position, it is necessary to descend a steep bank, and to follow a path that winds among shrubbery and trees, which entirely conceal from 25 the eye the scene that awaits him who traverses it. When near the termination of this road, a few steps carried me beyond all these obstructions, and a magnifi- cent amphitheatre of cataracts burst upon my view with appalling suddenness and majesty. However, in a mo- 30 ment the scene was concealed from my eyes by a dense cloud of spray, which involved me so completely that I did ^rs"" hillard's sixth reader. . 109 not dare to extricate myself. A mingled rushing and thundering filled my ears. I could see nothing except when the wind made a chasm in the spray, and then tre- mendous cataracts seemed to encompass me on every side ; 5 while below, a raging and foamy gulf of undiscoverable extent lashed the rocks with its hissing waves, and swal- lowed, under a horrible obscurity, the smoking floods that were precipitated into its bosom. At first the sky was obscured by clouds ; but after a 10 few minutes the sun burst forth, and the breeze subsiding at the same time permitted the spray to ascend perpen- dicularly. A host of pyramidal clouds rose majestically, one after another, from the abyss at the bottom of the fall ; and each, when it had ascended a little above the edge of 15 the cataract, displayed a beautiful rainbow, which in a few moments was gradually transferred into the bosom of the cloud that immediately succeeded. The spray of the Great Fall had extended itself through a wide space di- rectly over me, and receiving the full influence of the sun, 20 exhibited a luminous and magnificent rainbow, which con- tinued to overarch and irradiate the spot on which I stood, while I enthusiastically contemplated the indescribable scene. The body of water which composes the middle part of 25 the Great Fall is so immense that it descends nearly two thirds of the space without being ruffled or broken ; and the solemn calmness with which it rolls over the edge of the precipice is finely contrasted with the perturbed ap- pearance it assumes after having reached the gulf below. .30 But the water towards each side of the fall is shattered the moment it drops over the rock, and loses as it descends, in a great measure, the character of a fluid, being divided into pyramidal- shaped fragments, the bases of which are turned upwards. 35 The surface of the gulf below the cataract presents a very singular aspect ; seeming, as it were, filled with an 10 110 hillard's sixth reader. immense quantity of hoar frost, which is agitated by small and rapid undulations. The particles of water are daz- zlingly white, and do not apparently unite together, as might be supposed, but seem to continue for a time in a 5 state of distinct comminution, and to repel each other with a thrilling and shivering motion which cannot easily be described. The noise made by the Horseshoe Fall, though very great, is far less than might be expected, and varies in 10 loudness according to the state of the atmosphere. When the weather is clear and frosty, it may be distinctly heard at the distance of ten or twelve miles — nay, much far- ther when there is a steady breeze ; but I have frequently stood upon the declivity of the high bank that overlooks 15 the Table Eock, and distinguished a low thundering only, which at times was altogether drowned amid the roaring of iLc rapids above the cataract. In my opinion, the con- cave shape of the Great Fall explains this circumstance. The noise vibrates from one side of the rocky recess to the 20 other, and only a little escapes from its confinement ; and even this is less distinctly heard than it would otherwise be, as the profusion of spray renders the air near the cat- aract a very indifferent conductor of sound. The road to the bottom of the fall presents many more 25 difficulties than that which leads to the Table Eock. After leaving the Table Eock, the traveller must proceed down the river nearly half a mile, where he will come to a small chasm in the bank, in which there is a spiral staircase en- closed in a wooden building. By descending this stair, 30 which is seventy or eighty feet in perpendicular height, he will find himself under the precipice, on the top of which he formerly walked. A high but sloping bank extends from its base to the edge of the river ; and on the summit of this there is a narrow, slippery path, covered with an- 35 gular fragments of rock, which leads to the Great Fall. The impending cliffs, hung with a profusion of trees hillaed's sixth header. Ill and brushwood, overarcli this road, and seem to vibrate with the thunders of the cataract.'^ In some places they rise abruptly to the height of one hundred feet, and dis- play upon their surface fossils, shells, and the organic re- 5 mains of a former world ; thus sublimely leading the mind to contemplate the convulsions which nature has under- gone since the creation. As the traveller advances, he is frightfully stunned by i\vi appalling noise ; for clouds of spray sometimes 10 envelop him, and suddenly check his faltering steps; rattlesnakes start from the cavities of the rocks, and the screams of eagles soaring among the whirlwinds of eddying vapor, which obscure the gulf of the cataract, at intervals announce that the raging waters have hurled 15 some bewildered animal over the precipice. After scrambling among piles of huge rocks that ob- struct his way, the traveller gains the bottom of the fall where the soul can be susceptible of but one emotion, namely, that of uncontrollable terror. It was not until 20 I had, by frequent excursions to the falls, in some measure familiarized my mind with their sublimities, that I ven- tured to explore the penetralia of the great cataract. The precipice over which it rolls is very much arched under- neath ; while the impetus which the water receives in its 25 descent projects it far beyond the cliff, and thus an im- mense Gothic arch is formed by the rock and the torrent. Twice I entered this cavern, and twice I was obliged to retrace my steps, lest I should be suffocated by the blasts of dense spray that whirled around me ; however, the 30 third time I succeeded in advancing about twenty- five yards. Here darkness began to encircle me ; on one side the black cliff stretched itself into a gigantic arch far above my head, and on the other the dense and hissing torrent formed an impenetrable sheet of foam, with which 35 I was drenched in a moment. The rocks were so slippery that I could hardly keep my feet, or hold securely by them; 112 hillard's sixth reader." while the horrid din made me think the precipices above were tumbling down in col(^sal fragments upon my head. ' It is not easy to determine how far an individual might advance between the sheet of water and the rock ; but were 5 it even possible to explore the recess to its utmost extrem- ity, scarcely any one, I believe, would have courage to at- tempt an expedition of the kind. A little way below the Great Fall the river is, compara- tively speaking, tranquil, so that a ferry boat plies be- 10 tween the Canada and American shores for the convenience of travellers. When I first crossed, the heaving flood tossed about the skifi" with a violence that seemed very alarming; but as soon as we gained the middle of the river, my attention was altogether engaged by the surpass-' 15 ing grandeur of the scene before me. I was now within the area of a semicircle of cataracts, more than three thousand feet in extent, and floated on the surface of a gulf raging, fathomless, and interminable. Majestic cliffs, splendid rainbows, lofty trees, and columns of spray were 20 the gorgeous decorations of this theatre of wonders, while a dazzling sun shed refulgent glories upon the scene. Surrounded with clouds of vapor, and stunned into a state of confusion and terror by the hideous noise, I looked upwards to the height of one hundred and fifty feet, and 25 saw vast floods, dense, awful, and stupendous, vehemently bursting over the precipice, and rolling down, as if the windows of heaven were open to pour another deluge upon the earth. Loud sounds, resembling discharges of ar- tillery or volcanic explosions, were now distinguishable 30 amidst the watery tumult, and added terrors to the abyss from which they issued. The sun, looking majestically through the ascending spray, was encircled by a radiant halo, whilst fragments of rainbows floated on every side, and momentarily vanished, only to give place to a succes- 35 sion of others more brilliant. Looking backwards I saw the Niagara River, again become calm and tranquil, rolling , hillakd's sixth reader. 113 magnificently between the towering cliffs that rose on either side, and receiving showers of orient dew-drops from the trees that gracefully overarched its transparent bosom. There have been instances of people being carried over 5 the falls, but I believe none of the bodies ever were found. The rapidity of the river, before it tumbles down the pre- cipice, is so great, that a human body would certainly be whirled along without sinking ; therefore some of those in- dividuals, to whom I allude, probably retained their senses 10 till they reached the edge of the cataract, and even looked down upon the gulf into which they were the next moment precipitated. Many years ago, an Indian, while attempting to cross the river above the falls in a canoe, had his paddle struck 15 from his hands by the rapidity of the currents. He was immediately hurried toward the cataract, and, seeing that death was inevitable, he covered his head with his cloak, and resigned himself to destruction. However, when he approached the edge of the cataract, shuddering nature re- 20 volted so strongly that he was seen to start up and stretch out his arms ; but the canoe upset, and he was instantly ingulfed amidst the fury of the boiling surge. XXXIY. — THE MISEEIES OF WAR Hall, [Robert Hall was born in Arnsby, Leicestersliire, England, May 2, 176#, and died in Bristol, February 21, 1831. He was educated at the University of Aberdeen, in Scotland, became a clergyman of the Baptist persuasion, and was settled first at Bristol, next at Cambridge, then at Leicester, and lastly at Bristol again. He was a very eloquent and popular preacher, and hardly less remarkable for conversational power. He was of robust figure, but of feeble health, with a countenance expressive of self-reliance and intellectual strength. His works, edited, with a memoir, by Ollnthus Gregory, and with an estimate of his character as a preacher, by John Foster, have been published in England and America. They consist of sermons, occasional productions, and contribu- tions to periodical literature. Their style is rich, animated, and jiure.] 10* 114 Though the whole race of man is doomed to dissolution, and we are all hastening to our long home ; yet at each successive moment life and death seem to divide between them the dominion of mankind, and life to have the larger 5 share. It is otherwise in war ; death reigns there without a rival, and without control. War is the work, the element, or rather the sport and triumph, of Death, who glories not ^ only in the extent of his conquest, but in the richness of l^ his spoil. In the other methods of attack, in the other 10 forms which death assumes, the feeble and the aged, who at the best can live but a short time, are usually the vic- tims ; here they are the vigorous and the strong. It is remarked by the most ancient of poets, that in peace, children bury their parents ; in war, parents bury 15 their children : nor is the difference small. Children la- ment their parents, sincerely, indeed, but with that mod- erate and tranquil sorrow which it is natural for those to feel who are conscious of retaining many tender ties, many animating prospects. Parents mourn for their children 20 with the bitterness of despair ; the aged parent, the wid- owed mother, loses, when she is deprived of her children, everything but the capacity of suffering : her heart, with- ered and desolate, admits no other object, cherishes no other hope. It is Eachel, weeping for her children, and 25 refusing to be comforted, because they are not. But to confine our attention to the number of the slain, would give us a very inadequate idea of the ravages of the sword. The lot of thosa who perish instantaneously may be considered, apart from religious prospects, as compara- 30 tively happy, since they are exempt from those lingering diseases and slow torments to which others are liable. We cannot see an individual expire, though a stranger, or an enemy, without being sensibly moved, and prompted by compassion to lend him every assistance in our power. 35 Every trace of resentment vanishes in a moment ; every other emotion gives way to pity and terror. 115 In these last extremities we remember nothing but the respect and tenderness due to our common nature. What a scene, then, must a field of battle present, where thousands are left without assistance, and without pity, with their 5 wounds exposed to the piercing air, while the blood, freezing as it flows, binds them to the earth, amidst the trampling of horses, and the insults of an enraged foe ! If they are spared by the humanity of the enemy, and carried from the field, it is but a prolongation of torment. 10 Conveyed in uneasy vehi^es, often to a remote distance, through roads almost impassable, they are lodged in ill- prepared receptacles for the wounded and the sick, where the variety of distress baffles all the efibrts of humanity and skill, and renders it impossible to give to each the 15 attention he^^ demands. Far from their native home, no tender assiduities of friendship, no well-known voice, no wife, or mother, or sister, is near to soothe their sorrows, relieve their thirst, or close their eyes in death ! Unhappy man ! and must you be swept into the grave unnoticed and 20 unnumbered, and no friendly tear be shed for your suffer- ings, or mingled with your dust ? We must remember, however, that as a very small pro- portion of a military life is spent in actual combat, so it is a very small part of its miseries which must be ascribed 25 to this source. More are consumed by the rust of inac- tivity than by the edge of the sword ; confined to a scanty or unwholesome diet, exposed in sickly climates, harassed with tiresome marches and perpetual alarms ; their life is a continual scene of hardships and dangers. They grow 30 familiar with hunger, cold, and watchfulness. Crowded into hospitals and prisons, contagion spreads amongst their ranks till the ravages of disease exceed those of the enemy. W^e have hitherto only adverted to the sufferings of those who are engaged in the profession of arms, without 35 taking into our account the situation of the countries which j^ are th« scenes of hostilities. How dreadful to hold every-. 116 hillard's sixth reader. thing at the mercy of an enemy, and to receive life itself as a boon dependent on the sword ! How boundless the fears which such a situation must inspire, where the issues of life and death are determined by no known laws, prin- 6 ciples, or customs, and no conjecture can be formed of our destiny, except as far as it is dimly deciph^ed in charac- ters of blood, in the dictates of revenge, and the caprices of power ! Conceive but for a moment the consternation which the 10 approach of an invading army would impress on the peace- ful villages in our own neighborhood. When you have placed yourselves for an instant in that situation, you will learn to sympathize with those unhappy countries which have sustained the ravages of arms. But how is it possi- 15 ble to give you an idea of these horrors ? Here you behold rich harvests, the bounty of Heaven, and the reward of industry, consumed in a moment, or trampled under foot, while famine and pestilence follow the steps of desolation. There the cottages of peasants given up to the flames, 20 mothers expiring through fear, not for themselves but their infants ; the inhabitants flying with their helpless babes, in all directions, miserable fugitives on their native soil ! In another part you witness opulent cities taken by storm ; the streets, where no sounds were heard but those of peace- 25 ful industry, filled on a sudden with slaughter and blood, resounding with the cries of the pursuing and the pursued ; the palaces of nobles demolished, the houses of the rich pillaged, and every age, sex, and rank, mingled in promis- cuous massacre and ruin I XXXV. — THE VOYAGE. Irving. To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to make is an excellent preparative. From the mo- hillard's sixth eeader. 117 ment you lose sight of the land you have left, all is vacancy until you step on th6 opposite shore, and are launched at once into the bustle and novelties of another world. 6 I have said that at sea all is vacancy. I should correct the expression. To one given up to day-dreaming, and fond of losing himself in reveries, a sea- voyage is full of subjects for meditation ; but then they are the wonders of the deep, and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the 10 mind from worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the quarter-railing, or climb to the main-top on af calm day^ and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom of S^ summer's sea ; or to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering above th^ horizon, fancy them some fairy 15 realms, and people them with a creation of my own ; or to watch the^ gentle undulating billows, rolling their silver volumes as if to die away on those happy shores. There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe, with which I looked down, from my giddy height, on 20 the monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols,— shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship; the grampus, slowly heaving his huge form above the surface ; or the ravenous shark, darting like a spectre through the blue waters. My imagination would conjure up all that 25 I had heard or read of the watery world beneath me ; of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys ; of shape- less monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth ; and of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. 30 Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How interesting this fragment of , a world hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence ! What a glorious monument of human invention, that has thus triumphed over wind 35 and wave ; has brought the ends of the earth in commun- ion ; has established an interchange of blessings, pouring 118 6lLLARD'S/STXTH\ilEADER. J into the sterile regions of the north all the luxuries of the south ; diffused the light of knowledge and the charities of cultivated life ; and has thus bound together those scat- tered portions of the human race, between which nature 5 seemed to have thrown an insurmountable barrier ! We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a distance. At sea, everything that breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse, attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely 10 wrecked; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves. There was no trace by which the name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about 15 for many months; clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea- weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, are the crew ? Their struggle has long been over ; they have gone down amidst the roar of the tem- pest ; their bones lie whitening in the caverns of the deep. 20 Silence — oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the story of theii: end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship ! what prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home ! How often has the mistress, the wife, and the mother, pored 25 over the daily news to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the deep ! How has expectation darkened into anxiety, anxiety into dread, and dread into despair ! Alas ! not one memento shall ever return for love to cher- ish. All that shall ever be known is, that she sailed from 30 her port, " and was never heard of more." The sight of the wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening, when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to look wild and threatening, and gave indications 35 of one of those sudden storms, that will sometimes break in upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat .■&/'■' no) IHILLARD'sySIXTirv READER. : <"^'i'' 119 V - - round the dull light of a lamp in the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale of shipwreck and disast<^r. I was particularly struck with a short one related by the captain. 5 "As I was once sailing," said he, *'in a fine, stout ship, across the banks of Newfoundland, one of the heavy fogs, that prevail in those parts, rendered it impossible for me to see far ahead, even in the daytime ; but at night the weather was so thick that we could not distinguish 10 any object at twice the length of our ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch forward to look out for fishing- smacks, which are accustomed to lie at anchor on the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the 15 water. Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of ' a sail ahead ! ' but it was scarcely uttered till we were upon her. She was a small schooner at anchor, with her broadside towards us. The crew were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just amidships. The 20 force, the size and weight of our vessel, bore her down below the waves; we passed over her, and were hurried on our course. "As the crashing wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches rushing 25 from her cabin ; they had just started from their beds to be swallowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their drown- ing cry mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears swept us out of all further hearing. I shall never forget that cry ! It was some time before we could 30 put the ship about, she was under such headway. We returned, as nearly as we could guess, to the place where the smack was anchored. We cruised about for several hours in the dense fog. We fired several guns, and lis- tened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors ; but 35 fl\ was silent — we never heard nor saw anything of them *feore ! " 120 hill.uid's sixth reader. It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of "land ! " was given from the mast-head. 1 question whether Columbus, when he discovered the New World, felt a more delicious throng of sensations, than rush into an Ameri- 5 can's bosom when he first comes in sight of Europe. There is a volume of. associations in the very name. It is the land of promise, teeming with everything of which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years have pondered. 10 From that time until the period of arrival, it was all feverish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like guardian giants around the coast ; the headlands of Ireland, stretching out into the channel ; the Welsh moun- tains, towering into the clouds ; all were objects of intense 15 interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green grass- plots. I saw the mouldering ruins of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper spire of a village church rising 20 from the brow of a neighboring hill — all were character- istic of England. XXXVI. — SLAVEEY. COWPER. [William Cowper was born at Berkhampstead, in Hertfordshire, England, November 26, 1731, and died April 25, 1800. He was of an extremely delicate and sensitive organization ; and he had the misfortune, when only six years old, to lose an aflfectionate mother, whom lie has commemorated in one of the most popular and beautiful of his poems. He was educated at Westminster school, where his gentle nature suflfered much at the hands of older and rougher lads. He spent some time In the study of the law, and was called to the bar ; but his morbid temperament was found unequal to the discharge of profes- sional and official duties. He declined the struggles and the prizes of an active career, and retired into the country, to a life of seclusion ; living for many years in the fimily of Mr. Unwin, an English clergyman. His first volume of poems, containing " Table Talk," " Hope," " The Progress of Error," "Char- ity," &c., was published in 1782, when he was fifty-one years old. It rarely happens that a poet's first appearance is so late in life. This volume did not hillard's sixth reader. 121 attract much attention. But in 1784 he published " The Task," which was received with much more favor. Its vigorous and manly style, its encrg-etic moral tone, and its charming pictures of natural scenery and domestic life, were soon appreciated, although the general taste, at that time, preferred a more artificial style of poetry. After the publication of " The Task," he spent some years upon a translation of Homer into blank verse, published in 1791. Many of Cowper's smaller pieces still enjoy great and deserved popularity. Like many men of habitual melancholy, he had a vein of humor running through his nature. His "John Gilpin" is a well-known instance of this ; and the same quality throws a frequent charm over his correspondence. Cow- per's life is full of deep and sad interest. His mind was more than once eclipsed by insanity, and often darkened by melancholy. He had tender and loving friends, who watched over him with affectionate and untiring interest. His most intimate friendships were with women ; and there is a striking contrast between the masculine vigor of his style and his feminine habits and manner of life. His letters are perhaps the best in the language. They are not superior, as intellectual efforts, to those of Gray, Walpole, Byron, or Scott ; but they have in the highest degree that conversational ease and playful grace which we most desire in this class of writings. They are not epistolary essays, but genuine letters — the unstudied effusions of the heart, meant for no eye but that of the person to whom they are addressed. Cowper's life has been written, and his poems and prose writings edited, by Southey ; and they form a work of great interest and permanent value in literature.] FOR a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumor of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war, 5 Might never reach me more. My ear is pained, My soul is sick, with every day's report Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. . There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart. It does not feel for man ; the natural bond 10 Of brotherhood is severed as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not colored like his own ; and having power To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 15 Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been melted into one. 11 122 hillard's sixth Dreader. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; And, worse than all, and most to be deplored, As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 5 With stripes that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. Then what is man ? And what man, seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush, And hang his head, to think himself a man ? 10 I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 15 Just estimation prized above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave, And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. We have no slaves at home — then why abroad?' And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave 20 That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. Slaves cannot breathe in England ; if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free ; They touch our country, and their shackles fall. That 's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 25 And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, And let it circulate through every vein Of all your empire ; that where Britain's power Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. XXXVIL — CHAEGE OE THE LIGHT BEIGADE. Tennyson. [Alfred Tennyson, a living' poet of England, was born at Somersby, Lin- colnshire, in 1810. He has published two volumes of miscellaneous poetry ; also, " The Princess," a narrative, in blank verse ; a volume called " In Memo- riam j " " Maud," in which an unhappy love story is told in a broken and frag- hillaed's sixth reader. 123 mentary way; and *' Idyls of the King," comprising' four poems founded on the legends of King Arthur. He is a man of rare and fine genius, whose poetry is addressed to refined and cultivated minds. The music of his verse and his skill in the use of language are alike excellent. He is a poet of poets ; and, in general, is only fully ap- preciated by those who have something of the poetical faculty themselves. He is more valued by women than by men, and by young men than by old. He is evidently a man of the finest organization, and his poetry is of the most exquisite and etherial cast. He has an uncommon power of presenting pictures to the eye, and often in a very few words. His pages are crowded with sub- jects for the artist. A portion of what he has written is rather remote from the beaten track of human sympathies and feelings ; but that he can write popular poetry is shown by his well-known •' May Queen." His volume called " In Memoriam," is a very remarkable book. It is a col- lection of one hundred and twenty-nine short poems, written in a peculiar and uniform metre, which were called forth by the early death of Arthur Henry Hallam, the eldest son of the historian, a young man of rare excellence of mind and character, the intimate friend of Tennyson, and betrothed to his sister. Such a book will not be welcome to all minds, nor to any mind at all periods and in all moods ; but it contains some of the most exquisite poetry which has been written in our times, and some of the deepest and sweetest effusions of feeling to be found anywhere. The following spirited poem commemorates a gallant and desperate charge made by a brigade of English light-horse at the battle of Balaklava, in the Cri- mea, October 25, 1854, under circumstances that seemed to insure the destruc- tion of the whole body. The order to charge was supposed to have been given under a mistake ; but nothing was ever distinctly known about it, as Captain Nolan, who delivered it, was the first man who fell. Of six hundred and thirty who started on the charge only a hundred and fifty returned.] Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of death Eode the six hundred. " Forward, the Light Brigade ! Charge for the guns ! " he said. Into the valley of death, Eode the six hundred. " Forward the Light Brigade ! " "Was there a man dismayed ? Not though the soldiers knew Some one had blundered ; Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die : 124 hillard's sixth readeiu Into the valley of death Kode the six hundred. 3 Cannon to right of them, Cannon to loft of them, Cannon in front of them Volleyed and thundered : Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well ; Into the jaws of death, Into the mouth of hell, Kode the six hundred. 4 Plashed all their sahres hare, Flashed as they turned in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered : Plunged in the battery smoke. Eight through the line they broke ; Cossack and Eussian Eeeled from the sabre-stroke, Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back, but not, Not the six hundred. 5 Cannon to right of them. Cannon to left of them. Cannon behind them, Volleyed and thundered : Stormed at with shot and shell, "While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well, , Came through the jaws of death. Back from the mouth of hell. All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. hillard's sixth keader. 125 When can their glory fade ? 0, the wild charge they made I All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made I Honor the Light Brigade, Nohle six hundred ! XXXYIII. — UNION AND LIBEETY. O. W. Holmes. Flag of the heroes who left us their glory, Borne through our battle-field's thunder and flame, Blazoned in song and illumined in story, Wave o'er us all who inherit their fame ! Up with our banner bright, Sprinkled with starry light. Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore ; While through the sounding sky. Loud rings the nation's cry, — Union and Liberty ! — one evermore ! Light of our firmament, guide of our nation, Pride of her children, and honored afar, Let the wide beams of thy full constellation Scatter each cloud that would darken a star ! Empire unsceptred ! what foe shall assail thee, Bearing the standard of Liberty's van ? Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee, Striving with men for the birthright of man ! Yet, if by madness and treachery blighted, Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must draw, 11* 126 HILLARD*S SIXTH READER. Then, with the arms of thy millions united, Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law ! 5 Lord of the Universe ! shield us and guide us, Trusting Thee always, through shadow and sun ! Thou hast united us, who shall divide us ? Keep us, keep us, the Many in One ! Up with our banner bright. Sprinkled with starry light. Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore; "While through the sounding sky, Loud rings the nation's cry, — Union and Liberty ! — one evermore ! XXXIX. — DIALOaUE rK0M IVANHGE. Sir Walter Scott. [The following scene is taken from " Ivanhoe," a novel, the scene of which is laid in England, in the twelfth century. Ivanhoe, an English knight, is lying wounded and a captive in the Castle of Front^de-Boeuf, a Norman knight, while it is undergoing an assault from a party of outlawed forest rangers, aided by an unknown knight in black armor, hence called the Black Knight, who afterwards turns out to be Richard, King of England. Rebecca is a young Jewish maiden.] Following with wonderful promptitude the directions of Ivanhoe, and availing herself of the protection of the large ancient shield, which she placed against the lower part of the window, Eebecca, with tolerable security to 5 herself, could witness part of what was passing without the castle, and report to Ivanhoe the preparations which the assailants were making for the storm. " The skirts of the wood seem lined with' archers, al- though only a few are advanced from its dark shadow." 10 " Under what banner ? " asked Ivanhoe. " Under no ensign of war which I can observe," an- swered Kebecca. VJl IXTH MADER. ^ 127 igular novelty," muttered the knight, "to ad- lee to storm such a castle without pennon or banner dis- Dlayed ! — Seest thou who they be that act as leaders ? " " A knight, clad in sable armor, is the most conspicu- 5 ous," said the Jewess; " he alone is armed from head to heel, and seems to assume the direction of all around "What device does he bear on his shield?" replied Ivanhoe." 10 " Something resembling a bar of iron, and a padlock painted blue on the black shield." " A fetterlock and shacklebolt azure," said Ivanhoe ; " I know not who may bear the device, but well I ween it might now be mine own. Canst thou not see the 15 motto?" ** Scarce the device itself, at this distance," replied Ee- becca ; ** but when the sun glances fair upon his shield, it shows as I tell you." " Seem there no other leaders ? " exclaimed the anxious 20 inquirer. ** None of mark and distinction that I can behold from this station," said Kebecca; "but, doubtless, the other side of the castle is also assailed. They appear even now preparing to advance." 25 Her description was here suddenly interrupted by the signal for assault, which was given by the blast of a shrill bugle, and at once answered by a flourish of the Norman trumpets from the battlements. " And I must lie here like a bedridden monk," ex- 30 claimed Ivanhoe, " while the game that gives me freedom or death is plafyed out by the hand of others ! — Look from the window once again, kind maiden, — but beware that you are not marked by the archers beneath, — look out once more, and tell me if they yet advance to the 35 storm." With patient courage, strengthened by the interval 128 iiillakd's sixth reader. which she had employed in mental devotion, Eebecca again took post at the lattice, sheltering herself, however, so as not to be visible from beneath. " What dost thou see, Eebecca?" again demanded the 5 wounded knight. " Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle mine eyes, and to hide the bowmen who shoot them." "That cannot endure," said Ivanhoe; "if they press 10 not right on to carry the castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail but little against stone walls and bul- warks. Look for the Knight of the Fetterlock, fair Ee- becca, and see how he bears himself; for, as the leader is, 80 will his followers be." 15 ** I see him not," said Eebecca. "Foul craven!" exclaimed Ivanhoe; "does he blench from the helm when the wind blows highest ? " "He blenches not! he blenches not!" said Eebecca; "I see him now ; he leads a body of men close under the 20 outer barrier of the barbican. They pull down the piles and palisades ; they hew down the barriers with axes. His high black plume floats abroad over the throng, like a raven over the field of the slain. They have made a breach in the barriers — they rush in — they are thrust 25 back! — Front-de-Boeuf =-•* heads the defenders; — I see his gigantic form above the press. They throng again to the breach, and the pass is disputed hand to hand, and man to man. It is the meeting of two fierce tides — the con- flict of two oceans, moved by adverse winds ! " 30 She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable longer to endure a sight so terrible. " Look forth again, Eebecca," said Ivanhoe, mistaking the cause of her retiring; "the archery must in some degree have ceased, since they are now fighting hand to 35 hand. Look again ; there is now less danger." ♦Fronounced rr6n(g)-dti-Buf. hillarb's sixth reader. 129 Kebecca again looked forth, and almost immediately ex- claimed : — " Front-de-Boeuf and the Black Knight fight hand to hand on the breach, amid the roar of their followers, who 6 watch the progress of the strife. Heaven strike with the cause of the oppressed, and of the captive ! " She then uttered a loud shriek, and exclaimed : — ** He is down ! — he is down ! " ** Who is down ? " cried Ivanhoe. " For our dear lady's 10 sake, tell me which has fallen ? " "The Black Knight," answered' Eebecca, faintly; then instantly again shouted, with joyful eagerness, — '* But no — but no ! — he is on foot again, and fights as if there were twenty men's strength in his single arm — his sword 15 is broken — he snatches an axe from a yeoman — he presses Front-de-Boeuf with blow on blow — the giant stoops and totters, like an oak under the steel of the woodman — he falls — befalls!" "Front-de-Boeuf?" exclaimed Ivanhoe. 20 " Front-de-Boeuf ! " answered the Jewess. " His men rush to the rescue, headed by the haughty Templar — • their united force compels the champion to pause — they drag Front-de-Boeuf within the walls." ** The assailants have won the barriers, have they not ? " 25 said Ivanhoe. ** They have — they have ! " exclaimed Kebecca "and they press the beseiged hard upon the outer wall ; some plant ladders, some swarm like bees, and endeavor to ascend upon the shoulders of each other — down go stones, 30 beams, and trunks of trees upon their heads, and as fast as they bear the wounded men to the rear, fresh men sup- ply their place in the assault. Great God! hast thou given men thine own image, that it should be thus cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren ! " 85 "Think not of that," said Ivanhoe; "this is no time for such thoughts. Who yield ? — who push their way ? " 130 hillard's sixth reader. ** The ladders are thrown down," replied Eebecca, shud- dering. ** The soldiers lie grovelling under them like crushed reptiles — the besieged have the better ! " ** Saint George strike for us ! " exclaimed the knight ; 1 do the false yeomen give way ? " rv" No ! " exclaimed Kebecca ; ** they bear themselves TOTight yeomanly — the Black Knight approaches the pos- tern with his huge axe — the thundering blows which he deals, you may hear them above all the din and shouts of \ \ v 10 the battle — stones and beams are hailed down on the bold \ champion — he regards them no more than if they were ^ thistledown or feathers ! " ** By Saint John of Acre ! " said Ivanhoe, raising him- self joyfully on his couch ; " methought there was but one 15 man in England that might do such a deed ! " " The postern gate shakes," continued Kebecca ; " it crashes — it is splintered by his blows — they rush in — the outwork is won — they hurl the defenders from the battlements — they throw them into the moat ! Oh, men, 20 — if ye be indeed men, — spare them that can resist no longer ! " " The bridge, — the bridge which communicates with the castle, — have they won that pass ? " exclaimed Ivanhoe. "No," replied Kebecca; "the Templar has destroyed 25 the plank on which they crossed — few of the defenders escaped with him into the castle — the shrieks and cries which you hear, tell the fate of the others ! Alas ! I see it is still more difficult to look upon victory than upon battle ! " 80 "What do they now, maiden?" said Ivanhoe; "look forth yet again — this is no time to faint at bloodshed." "It is over for the time," answered Kebecca. "Our friends strengthen themselves within the outwork which they have mastered, and it affords them so good a shelter 35 from the foeman's shot, that the garrison only bestow a few bolts on it, from interval to interval, as if rather to disquiet than effectually to injure them." hillard's sixth reader. 131 XL. — THE PEOGEESS OF SOCIETY. Channing. "^ [William Elleey Channing was born at Newport, Rhode Island, April 7, 1780, was graduated at Harvard College in 1798, and died October 2, 1842. He was settled as a clergyman over the church in Federal Street, Boston, in 1803, and continued in that relation till his death. His works, which consist of sermons, occasional discourses, essays, and reviews, all have a common re- semblance, and tend towards a common object. They set forth the dignity of man's nature, his capacity for improvement, the beauty of spiritual truth, and the charm of spiritual freedom ; and press upon the attention of man those views and considerations which should induce him to be true to his destiny, and to obey his highest aspirations. Some of his earlier writings were con- troversial ; but controversy was not the element in which his mind most gladly moved ; and he preferred to unfold those truths in morals and religion which are felt and recognized by all Christians. In the latter part of his life, his mind was more turned towards practical subjects. He wrote upon war, tem- perance, popular education, the duties of the rich towards the poor, and es- pecially upon slavery. Upon this last subject, his writings are marked by a fervor and earnestness which meet the claims of the most zealous opponent of slavery, and yet are free from anything vituperative or needlessly irritating. • Dr. Channing's style is admirably suited for the exposition of moral and spiritual truth. It is rich, flowing, and perspicuous ; even its diffuseness, which is its obvious literary defect, is no disadvantage in this aspect. There is a per- suasive charm over all his writings, flowing from his earnestness of purpose, his deep love of humanity, his glowing hopes, and his fervent religious faith. He has a poet's love of beauty and a prophet's love of truth. He lays the richest of gifts upon the purest of altars. The heart expands under his influ- ence, as it does when we see a beautiful countenance beaming with the finest expression of benevolence and sympathy. I He was a man of slight frame and delicate organization. His manner in the pulpit was simple and impressive ; and the tones of his voice were full of sweetness and penetrating power. As a speaker he may not have produced the greatest effect upon those who heard him for the first time, but all who were accustomed to his teachings recognized in him the elements of the high- est eloquence. The following extract is the conclusion of a lecture on " Self-Culture,"] What a contrast does the present form with past times ! Not many ages ago the nation was the property of one man, and all its interests were staked in perpetual games of war, for no end but to build up his family, or to bring 5 new territories under his yoke. Society was divided into two classes, the high-born and the vulgar, separated from one another by a great gulf, as impassable as that between the saved and the lost. The people had no significance as individuals, but formed a mass, a machine, to be wielded 132 hillard's sixth reader." at pleasure by their lords. In war, wLich was the great sport of the times, those brave knights, of whose prowess we hear, cased themselves and their horses in armor, so as to be almost invulnerable, whilst the common people on 5 foot, were left, without protection, to be hewn in pieces or trampled down by their betters. Who, that compares the condition of Europe a few years ago, with the present state of the world, but must bless God for the change. The grand distinction of modem 10 times, is the emerging of the people from brutal degrada- tion, the gradual recognition of their rights, the gradual diffusion among them of the means of improvement and happiness, the creation of a new power in the state, the power of the people. And it is worthy of remark, that this 15 revolution is due in a great degree to religion, which, in the hands of the crafty and aspiring, had bowed the mul- titude to the dust, but which, in the fulness of time, be- gan to fulfil its mission of freedom. It was religion, which, by teaching men their near re- 20 lation to God, awakened in them the consciousness of their importance as individuals. It was the struggle for relig- ious rights, which opened men's eyes to all their rights. It was resistance to religious usurpation, which led men to withstand political oppression. It was religious dis- 25 cussion, which roused the minds of all classes to free and vigorous thought. It was religion, which armed the mar- tyr and patriot in England against arbitrary power, which braced the spirits of our fathers against the perils of the ocean and wilderness, and sent them to found here the 30 freest and most equal state on earth. Let us thank God for what has been gained. But let us not think everything gained. Let the people feel that they have only started in the race. How much remains to be d(me I What a vast amount of ignorance, intemperance, 35 coarseness, sensuality, may still be found in our commu- nity ! What a vast amount of mind is palsied and lost ! HILLAED^S SIXTH EEADER. 133 "When we think, that every house might he cheered by intelligence, disinterestedness, and refinement, and then remember, in how many houses the higher powers and af- fections of human nature are buried as in tombs, what a 6 darkness gathers over society ! And how few of us are moved by this moral desolation ! How few understand, that to raise the depressed, by a wise culture, to the dignity of men, is the highest end of the social state ! Shame on us, that the worth of a fellow-creature is so little felt ! 10 I would that I could speak with an awakening voice to the people, of their wants, their privileges, their responsi- bilities. I would say to them : You cannot, without guilt and disgrace, stop where you are. The past and the present call on you to advance. Let what you have gained be an 15 impulse to something higher. Your nature is too great to be crushed. You were not created what you are, merely to toil, eat, drink, and sleep, like the inferior animals. If you will, you can rise. No power in society, no hardship in your condition can depress you, keep you down, in knowledge, 20 power, virtue, influence, but by your own consent. Do not be lulled to sleep by the flatteries which you hear, as if your participation in the national sovereignty made you equal to the noblest of your race. You have many and great defi- ciencies to be remedied ; and the remedy lies, not in the 25 ballot-box, not in the exercise of your political powers, but in the faithful education of yourselves and your children. These truths you have often heard and slept over. Awake ! Eesolve earnestly on self-culture. Make yourselves worthy of your free institutions, and strengthen and perpetuate them by your intelligence and your virtues. XLL — HUBERT AND ARTHUK. Shakspeare. [William Shakspeare was born at Stratford-upon-Avon, in England, April 23, 1564, and died April 23, 1616. Very little is known of the events of 12 134 ' hillard's sixth reader. his life, and of his personal character and habits. He married yoirag", went to London soon after his marriage, became an actor, a dramatic author, and a shareholder in one of the London theatres ; acquired considerable property, and retired to his native place a few years before his death, and there lived in ease and honor. He was the author of thirty-five plays, (rejecting those of doubtful authenticity,) written between 1690 and 1613, besides poems and son- nets. Shakspeare is pronounced by Mr. Hallam, who was a most conscientious critic and careful writer, to be the greatest name in all literature. It would, of course, be impossible, in the compass of a notice like this, to do anything like justice to the universality of his powers, his boundless fertility of inven- tion, his dramatic judgment, his wit, humor, and pathos, his sharp observa- tion, and his profound knowledge of the human heart. Nor is it easy to point out to the young reader, within a reasonable compass, the best sources of In- formation and criticism ; for the editions of Shakspeare are numberless, and •the books that have been written about him would alone make a considerable library. The following works, however, may be read and consulted with profit : Drake's "Shakspeare and his Times," " Hazlitt's Lectures," Mrs. Jameson's ** Characteristics of Women," Dr. Johnson's preface, Schlegel's " Lectures on Dramatic Literature," Coleridge's " Lectures on Shakspeare," the notes and introductory notices in Knight's pictorial edition, together with the biography prefixed, and, especially, the criticism upon Shakspeare contained in Hallam's Introduction to the Literature of Europe in the fifteenth, sixteenth, and sev- enteenth centuries. t Shakspeare's life and writings teach two lessons ; which, as they are not very obvious to the apprehension of the young, and as they have a somewhat practical bearing upon life, may be here set down. He is an instance directly opposed to the Byronic notion that great genius and great unhappiuess inva- riably go together. We have every reason to believe that his temperament was cheerful and joyous, and that is certainly the spirit of his writings. He is often tragic, but never morbid. In the next place, Shakspeare is a proof that the highest poetical genius is not inconsistent with practical and suc- cessful business habits. There can be no doubt that he was himself an excel- lent man of business, for he accumulated an ample fortune within a few years, and by occupations in which punctuality, economy, and method are particu- larly important. The following scene is from " King John." Arthur, a young boy, is lawful heir to the crown of England, which has been usurped by his uncle, the king, who employs Hubert to put out liis nephew's eyes.] Prince Arthur, Hubert, and Attendants. Scene — A room in the castle, Northampton. Enter Hubert and two Attendants. Hubert. Heat me these irons hot ; and look thou stand Within the arras : * when I strike my foot Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth, ♦Tapestry, or hangings, for rooms. hillard's sixth reader. 135 And bind the boy, which you shall find with me, Fast to the chair : be heedful : hence, and watch. 1st Attendant. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed. Hub. Uncleanly scruples! Tear not you: look to 't. \^Exeunt Attendants. 5 Young lad come forth ; I have to say with you. Enter Arthur. Arthur. Good morrow, Hubert. Hub. Good morrow, little prince, Arth. As little prince, (having so great a title To be more prince,) as may be. — You are sad. 10 Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier. Arth. Mercy on me! Methinks nobody should be sad but I : Yet I remember when I was in France, Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, 15 Only for wantonness. By my Christendom," So I were out of prison, and kept sheep, I should be merry as the day is long; And so I would be here, but that I doubt My uncle practises more harm to me : 20 He is afraid of me, and I of him : Is it my fault that I was Geofi'rey's son ? No indeed, is 't not ; and I would to heaven, I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. Hub. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate 25 He will awake my mercy, which lies dead : Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch. [A^de. Arth. Are you sick, Hubert ? You look pale to-day : In sooth, I would you were a little sick, That I might sit all night, and watch with you : 30 I warrant, I love you more than you do me. Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom. — * Christening, baptism. 136 hillaed's sixth header. Eead here, young Arthur. [^Showing a paper. How now foolish rheum ! " \_Asid4i, Turning dispiteous f torture out of door ! I must be brief; lest resolution drop 5 Out at my eyes, in tender womanish tears. — Can you not read it ? Is it not fair writ ? * Artii. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect: Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes ? Hub. Young boy, I must. 10 Arth. And will you? Hub. And I will. Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache, I knit my handkerchief about your brows, (The best I had, a princess wrought it me,) 15 And I did never ask it you again : And with my hand at midnight held your head ; And, like the watchful minutes to the hour, Still and anon cheered up the heavy time ; Saying, What lack you? and. Where lies your grief? 20 Or, What good love may I perform for you ? Many a poor man's son would h^ve lain still, And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you : But you at your sick service had a prince. Nay, you may think my love was crafty love, 25 And call it, cunning : do, an if you will : If Heaven be pleased that you must use me ill, Why, then you must. — Will you put out mine eyes ? These eyes, that never did, nor never shall. So much as frown on you ? 30 Hub. I have sworn to do it ; And with hot irons must I burn them out. Arth. Ah, none, but in this iron age would do it I The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, * Tears. * Unpitying, cruel. hillaed's sixth reader. 137 Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears, And quench his fiery indignation, Even in the matter of mine innocence : Nay, after that, consume away in rust, 5 But for containing fire to harm mine eye. Are you more stubborn-hard than hammered iron ? An if an angel should have come to me. And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes, I would not have believed no tongue but Hubert's.^ 1 Hub. Come forth. [^Stamps. He-enter Attendants, with cord, irons, S^c. Do as I bid you do. Arth. 0, save me, Hubert, save me ! My eyes are out, Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. 15 Arth. Alas, what need you be so boist'rous-rough ? I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. Eor Heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound ! Nay, hear me, Hubert ! drive these men away, And I will sit as quiet as a lamb ; 20 I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word^, Nor look upon the ironi i/jigniilry ; .^^^oM^J/^' Thrust but these men away, and I 'Ir for^ve you, Whatever torment you do put me to. Hub. Go, stand within ; let me alone with him. 25 1st Attend. I am best pleased to be from such a deed. \_Bxeunt Attendants. Arth. Alas ! I then have chid away my friend : He hath a stem look, but a gentle heart : — Let him come back, that his compassion may Give life to yours. 30 Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself. Arth. Is there no remedy ? *The two negatives in this line do not amount to an aflarmative: they are used to strengthen the negation : — a solecism, tolerated in the age, and often found in the writings, of Shakspeare. 12* 138 hillard's sixth reader. Hub. None, but to lose your eyes. Artii. heaven ! — that there were but a mote in yours, A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wand' ring hair, Any annoyance in that precious sense ! 5 Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there, Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. Hub. Is this your promise ? Go to, hold your tongue. Artii. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes : 10 Let me not hold my tongue ; let me not, Hubert I Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue. So I may keep mine eyes ; 0, spare mine eyes : Though to no use, but still to look on you I— Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold, 15 And would not harm me. Hub. I can heat it, boy. Arth. No, in good sooth ; the fire is dead with grief— Being create for comfort — to be used In undeserved extremes : See else yourself : 20 There is no malice in this burning coal ; The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out, And strewed repentant ashes on his head. Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush, 25 And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert ; Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes ; And, like a dog, that is compelled to fight, Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on."' All things, that you should use to do me wrong, 30 Deny their office ; only you do lack That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends, — Creatures of note, for mercy-lacking uses. Hub. Well, see to live ; I will not touch thine eyes Tor all the treasure that thine uncle owes ; f * Urge or set him on. t Owns. hillard's sixth readek. 139 Yet am I sworn, and I did purpose, boy, With this same very iron to burn them out. Arth. 0, now you look like Hubert ! all this while You were disguised. 6 Hub. Peace : no more. Adieu ; Your uncle must not know but you are dead ; I '11 fill these dogged spies with false reports. . And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure, That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, 10 Will not offend thee. Arth. heaven ! — I thank you, Hubert. Hub. Silence : no more. Gro closely in with me : Much danger do I undergo for thee. lUxeunt XLIL— ETEENITY ©E G@D. Greenwood. [Francis William Pitt Greenwood was born in Boston, February 5, 1797, was graduated at Harvard College, in 1814, and settled in 1818 as pastor over the New South Church, in Boston. But he was soon obliged to leave this post of duty, on account of his failing health. In 1824, he was settled as colleague to the late Dr. Freeman, over the church worshipping in King's Chapel. He died August 2, 1843. He was a man of rare purity of life, who preached the gospel by his works as well as his words. His manner in the pulpit was simple, impressive, and winning ; and his sermons were deeply imbued with true religious feeling. His style was beautifully transparent and graceful, revealing a poetical imagination under the control of a pure taste. He was a frequent contributor to the " North American Review " and the " Christian Examiner," and for a time was one of the editors of the latter periodical. A volume entitled "Sermons of Consolation," appeared during his lifetime, and a selection from his sermons, with an introductory memoir, was published after his death. Dr. Greenwood was an attentive student of natural history, and was an accurate observer of nature, with remarkable powers of description. Some of his lighter productions, contributed to the gift annuals of the day, have great merit as vivid and picturesque delineations of natural scenes and objects. The following extract is from one of his sermons.] We receive such repeated intimations of decay in the world through which we are passing, — decline, and change, and loss, follow decline, and change, and loss, in 140 hillard's sixth reader. such rapid succession, — that we can almost catch the sound of universal wasting, and hear the work of desola- tion going on busily around us. " The mountain falling cometh to nought, and the rock is removed out of his place. 6 The waters wear the stones, the things which grow out of the dust of the earth are washed away, and the hope of man is destroyed." . Conscious of our own instability, we look about for something to rest on ; but we look in vain. The heavens 10 and the earth had a beginning, and they will have an end. The face of the world is changing, daily and hourly. All animated things grow old and die. The rocks crumble, the trees fall, the leaves fade, and the grass withers. The clouds are flying, and the waters are flowing, away 15 from us. The firmest works of man, too, are gradually giving way. The ivy clings to the mouldering tower, the brier hangs out from the shattered window, and the wall-flower springs from the disjointed stones. The founders of these 20 perishable works have shared the same fate, long ago. If we look back to the days of our ancestors, to the men as well as the dwellings of former times, they become imme- diately associated in our imaginations, and only make the feeling of instability stronger and deeper than before, 25 In the spacious domes which once held our fathers, the serpent hisses and the wild bird screams. The halls which once were crowded with all that taste, and science, and labor could procure, which resounded with melody and were lighted up with beauty, are buried by their own 30 ruins, mocked by their own desolation. The voice of mer- riment and of wailing, the steps of the busy and the idle, have ceased in the deserted courts, and the weeds choke the entrances, and the long grass waves upon the hearth-' stone. iThe works of art, the forming hand, the tombs,] (35. the very ashes they contained, are all gone. While.we.thus .walk among the ruins of the past, a sad] hillakd's sixtii eeadee. 141 feeling of insecurity comes over us ; and that feeling is by no means diminished when we arrive at home. If we turn to our friends, we can hardly speak to them before they bid us farewell. We see them for a few moments, 5 and in a few moments more their countenances are changed, and they are sent away. It matters not how near and dear they are. The ties which bind us together are never too close to be parted, or too strong to be broken. Tears were never known to move the king of 10 terrors, neither is it enough that we are compelled to sur- render one, or two, or many, of those we love ; for though the price is so great, we buy no favor with it, and our hold on those who remain is as slight as ever. The shad- ows all elude our grasp, and follow one another down the 15 valley. We gain no confidence, then, no feeling of security, by turning to our contemporaries and kindred. We know that the forms which are breathing around us are as short-lived and fleeting as those were which have been 20 dust for centuries. The sensation of vanity, uncertainty, and ruin is equally strong, whether we muse on what has long been prostrate, or gaze on what is falling now, or will fall so soon. If everything which comes under our notice has en- 25 dured for so short a time, and in so short a time will be no more, we cannot say that we receive the least assurance by thinking on ourselves. When they, on whose fate we have been meditating, were engaged in the active scenes of life, as full of health and hope as we are now, what 30 were we? AYe had no knowledge, no consciousness, no being ; there was not a single thing in the wide universe which knew us. And after the same interval shall have elapsed, which now divides their days from ours, what shall we be ? What they are now. 35 When a few more friends have left, a few more hopes deceived, and a few more changes mocked us, " we shall 142 htllard's sixth reader, ^ be brought to the grave, and shall remain in the tomb : the clods of the valley shall be sweet unto us, and every man shall follow us, as there are innumerable before us." All power will have forsaken the strongest, and the loftiest 6 will be laid low, and every eye will be closed, and every voice hushed, and every heart will have ceased its beating. And when we have gone ourselves, even our memories will not stay behind us long. A few of the near and dear will bear our likeness in their bosoms, till they too have arrived 10 at the end of their journey, and entered the dark dwelling of unconsciousness. In the thoughts of others we shall live only till the last sound of the bell, which informs them of our departure, has ceased to vibrate in their ears. A stone, perhaps, may 15 tell some wanderer where we lie, when we came here, and when we went away ; but even that will soon refuse to bear us record : " time's eiFacing fingers" will be busy on its surface, and at length will wear it smooth ; and then the stone itself will sink, or crumble, and the wanderer of 20 another age will pass, without a single call upon his sym- pathy, over our unheeded graves. Is there nothing to counteract the sinking of the heart which must be the effect of observations like these ? Can no support be offered? can no source of confidence be 25 named ? 0, yes ! there is one Being, to whom we can look with a perfect conviction of finding that security which nothing about us can give, and which nothing about us can take away. To this Being we can lift up our souls, and on Him we 30 may rest them, exclaiming, in the language of the monarch of Israel, "Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God! " '* Of old hast thou laid the foundations of the earth, and the heavens 35 are the work of thy hands. They shall perish, but thou shalt endure ; yea, all of them shall wax old like a gar- hillard's sixth reader. 143 ment ; as a vesture shalt thou change them, and they shall be changed ; but thou art the same, and thy years shall have no end." > Here, then, is a support which will never fail ; here is 5 a foundation which can never be moved — the everlasting Creator of countless worlds, " the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity." "What a sublime conception ! He inhabits eternity, occupies this inconceivable duration, per- vades and fills throughout this boundless dwelling. 10 The contemplation of this glorious attribute of God is fitted to excite in our minds the most animating and con- soling reflections. Standing as we are amid the ruins of time and the wrecks of mortality, where everything about us is created and dependent, proceeding from nothing, and 15 hastening to destruction, we rejoice that something is pre- sented to our view which has stood from everlasting, and will remain forever. AVe can look to the throne of God : change and decay have never reached that ; the revolution of ages has never moved it ; the waves of an eternity have 20 been rushing past it, but it has remained unshaken ; the waves of another eternity are rushing towards it, but it is fixed, and can never be disturbed. XLIIL — A FLOWEK E®K THE WINDOW. Leigh Hunt. [Leigh Hunt was born at Southgate, in the county of Middlesex, England, October 19, 1784, and died August 28, 1859. He was a man of letters by pro- fession, and was for many years a writer for the periodical press in London. He appeared as a poet at an early age. His poetry was of a kind that was easy to disparage, and not difficult to ridicule. Its simplicity sometimes de- generated into baldness, and the tone of sentiment was not always free from mawkishness. There were certain peculiarities of expression in it, which ap- peared like aflfeetation ; besides a frequent use of novel words, and a flowing laxity in the structure of his verse. He was criticized accordingly with indis- criminate severity ; especially by those writers who differed with him in poli- tics, he being an ardent liberal. Of late years more justice has been done him ; and his tenderness of feeling, luxuriant fancy, and warm sympathy with nature and the affections of the heart, are appreciated as they should be. 144 hillard's sixth reader. Mr. Hunt was also a prose writer ; and he wrote prose, to aay the least, as ■well as he wrote poetry. His sketches and essays, which have appeared from time to time, and been collected under the names of" The ludicator and Com- panion " and " The Seer," are delightful compositions ; full of genial feeling, graceful fancy, and an inextinguishable spirit of youth. He was also an admirable critic of poetry. His " Imagination and Fancy," and" Wit and Humor," — consisting of poetical extracts illustrating these qualities, with critical notices, — are written with earnest feeling, and a lively and discriminating sense of the merits of the authors he discusses. They have been republished in this country, and are commended to all who wish to acquire a good taste in poetical literature.] Why does not every one, who can afford it, have a ge- ranium in his window, or some other flower ? It is very cheap ; its cheapness is next to nothing, if you raise it from seed, or from a slip ; and it is a beauty and a com- 5 panion. It sweetens the air, rejoices the eye, links you with nature and innocence, and is something to love. And if it cannot love you in return, it cannot hate you ; it can- not utter a hateful thing even for your neglecting it ; for, though it is all beauty, it has no vanity ; and such being 10 the case, and living as it does purely to do you good and afford pleasure, how will you be able to neglect it ? But, pray, if you choose a geranium, or possess but a few of them, let us persuade you to choose the scarlet kind, the "old original" geranium, and not a variety of 15 it, not one of the numerous diversities of red and white, blue and white, or ivy-leaved. Those are all beautiful, and very fit to vary a large collection ; but to prefer them to the originals of the race is to run the hazard of prefer- ring the curious to the beautiful, and costliness to sound 20 taste. It may be taken as a good general rule, that the most popular plants are the best ; for otherwise they would not have become such. And what the painters call "pure colors" are preferable to mixed ones, for reasons which 25 Nature herself has given when she painted the sky of one color, and the fields of another, and divided the rainbow itself into a few distinct colors, and made the red rose the queen of flowers. hillard's sixth reader. 14:5 Variations in flowers are like variations in music, often beautiful as such, but almost always inferior to the theme on which thej are founded — the original air. And the rule holds good in beds of flowers, if they be not very 5 large, or in any other small assemblage of them. Nay, the largest bed will look well, if of one beautiful color, while the most beautiful varieties may be inharmoniously mixed up. Contrast is a good thing, but we must observe the laws of harmonious contrast, and unless we have space 10 enough to secure these, it is better to be content with unity and simplicity, which are always to be had. We do not, in general, love and honor any one single color enough, and we arc instinctively struck with a con- viction to this effect, when we see it abundantly set forth. 15 The other day we saw a little garden wall completely cov- ered with nasturtiums, and felt how much more beautiful they were than if anything had been mixed with them ; for the leaves and the light and shade offer variety enough. The rest is all richness and simplicity united, which is the 20 triumph of an intense perception. Embower a cottage thickly and completely with nothing but roses, and nobody would~ desire the interference of another plant. Everything is handsome about the geranium, not ex- cepting its name ; which cannot be said of all flowers, 25 though we get to love ugly words when associated with pleasing ideas. The -word "geranium" is soft and pleas- ant ; the meaning is poor, for it comes from a Greek word which signifies a crane, the fruit having the form of a crane's head or bill. Cranesbill is the English name for 30 geranium, though the learned appellation has superseded the vernacular. But what a reason for naming a flower ! as if the fruit were anything in comparison, or any one cared about it. Such distinctions, it is true, are useful to botanists ; but as a plenty of learned names are sure to be 35 reserved for the freemasonry of the science, it would be well for the world at large to invent joyous and beautiful 13 146 iiillard's sixth reader. names for these images of joy and beauty. In some instances we have them ; such as heartsease, honeysuckle, marigold, mignonette (little darling), daisy (day's eye). And many flowers are so lovely, and have associated names, 5 otherwise unmeaning, so pleasantly with one's memory/, that no new ones would sound so well, or seem even to have such proper significations. In pronouncing the words lilies, roses, tulips, pinks, jonquils, we see the things themselves, and seem to taste 10 all their beauty and sweetness. Pink is a harsh, petty word in itself, and yet assuredly it does not seem so ; for in the word wt have the flower. It would be difiicult to persuade ourselves that the word rose is not very beauti- ful. Pea is a poor, Chinese-like monosyllable ; and briei 15 is rough and fierce, as it ought to be ; but when we +hink of sweet-pea and sweet-brier, the words appear quite worthy of their epithets. The poor monosyllable becomes rich in sweetness and appropriation ; the rough dissyllabla also ; and the sweeter for its contrast. 20 The names of flowers, in general, among the polite, are; neither pretty in themselves, nor give us information. The country people are apt to do them more justice. Goldylocks, ladies'-fingers, rose-a-ruby, shepherd' s-clock, shepherd' s-purse, sauce-alone, scarlet-runners, sops-in-wine» 25 sweet-william, and many other names, give us some ideas, either useful or pleasant. But from the peasantry come many uncongenial names, as bad as those of the botanist. It is a pity that all fruits and flowers, and animals toOt except those with good names, could not be passed in 80 review before somebody with a genius for christening, aa the creatures were before Adam in paradise, and so have new names given them, worthy of their creation. Suppose flowers themselves were new ! Suppose they had just come into the world, a sweet reward for some 35 new goodness, and that we had not yet seen them quite developed ; that they were in the act of growing ; had just HILLARD'S SIXTH READER. ' 147 issued, witli tlieir green stalks, out of the ground, and en- gaged the attention of the curious. Imagine what we should feel when we saw the first lateral stem bearing off from the main one, or putting forth a leaf. How we 5 should watch the leaf gradually unfolding its little grace- ful hand ; then another, then another ; then the main stalk rising and producing more ; then one of them giving indications of astonishing novelty — a hud ! then this mysterious bud gradually unfolding, like the leaf, amaz- 10 ing us, enchanting us, almost alarming us with delight, as if we knew not what enchantment were to ensue, till at length, in all its fairy beauty, and odorous voluptu- ousness, and mysterious elaboration of tender and living sculpture, shone forth 15 "The bright consummate flower! " Yet this phenomenon, to a person of any thought and lovingness, is what may be said to take place every day ; for the commonest objects are wonders at which habit has made us cease to wonder, and the marvellousness of which we may renew at pleasure, by taking thought. XLIV. — HOME. Montgomery. [James Montgomery was born at Irvine, in Scotland, November 4, 1771, and died in 1854. For the greater part of his life he resided at Sheffield, Eng- land, and was editor of a newspaper published there. He wrote a number of poems — some of considerable length. Among them are " The Wanderer in Switzerland," "The World before the Flood," "The West Indies," "The Pelican Island," and " Greenland," besides many miscellaneous pieces. His poetry is distinguished for its purity of feeling, and its gentle, sympathetic spirit. His longer poems contain many noble descriptive passages, but he has not strength of wing for a protracted flight. His genius is essentially lyric, and many of his fugitive pieces are beautiful alike in sentiment and style. The following eitract is from " The West Indies," a poem written in honor of the abolition of the African slave-trade, by the British legislature, in 1807.] 148 There is a land, of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside ; Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons imparadise the night ; 5 A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth. Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth ; The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, 10 Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air : In every clime the magnet of his soul, Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole ; For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace, The heritage of nature's noblest race, 15 There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, While in his softened looks benignly blend 20 The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend : Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife. Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life ; In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; 25 Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. ♦' Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ? ' Art thou a man ? — a patriot ? — look around ! 0, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, 30 That land thy country, and that spot thy home I — Man, through all ages of revolving time, Unchanging man, in every varying clime. Deems his own land of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside ; 35 His home the spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest hillard's sixth readee. 149 XLV. — CHAEACTER 67 WASHINGTON. [The following' sketch of the character of Washington appeared in the " Lon- don Courier" of January 24, 1800. It will be read with interest, not merely as a discriminating and well- written production, but as a tribute to the excellence of that illustrious man, from a contemporary, a foreigner, and one of a people against whom he had conducted a successful revolution — a tribute as honor- able to the candor of the writer as it is gratifying to our national pride. It is not often that contemporary opinions so perfectly anticipate the judgment of posterity.] The melancholy account of the death of General Wash- ington was brought by a vessel from^ Baltimore, which arrived off Dover. General Washington was, we believe, in his sixty-eighth year. The height of his person was about 6 six feet two : his chest full, and his limbs, though rather slender, well shaped and muscular. His eye was of a light gray color ; and, in proportion to the length of his face, his nose was long. Mr. Stuart, the eminent portrait painter, used to say that there were features in his face totally 10 different from what he had observed in that of any other person ; the sockets of the eyes, for instance, were larger than any he had ever met with before, and the upper part of his nose broader. All his features, he observed, were indicative of the strong- 15 est passions; yet, like Socrates, his judgment and great self- command have always made him appear a man of a differ- ent cast in the eyes of the world. He always spoke with great diffidence, and sometimes hesitated for a word, but always to find one particularly well adapted to his meaning. 20 His language was manly and expressive. At levees, his discourse with strangers turned principally upon the sub- ject of America ; and if they had been through remarkable places, his conversation was free and peculiarly interesting, for he was intimately acquainted with every part of the 25 country. He was much more open and unreserved in his behavior at levees than in private, and in the company of ladies still more so, than solely with men. Few persons ever found themselves for the first time 13* 150 hillaed's sixth reader. in the presence of General Washington without being im- pressed with a certain degree of veneration and awe ; nor did these emotions subside on a closer acquaintance ; on the contrary, his person and deportment were such as tended 5 to augment them. The hard service he had seen, and the important and laborious offices he had filled, gave a kind of austerity to his countenance, and reserve to his manners ; yet he was the kindest husband, the most humane master, and the steadiest friend. The whole range of history does 10 not present to our view a character upon which we can dwell with such entire and unmixed admiration. The long life of General Washington is unstained by a single blot. He was a man of rare endowments, and such fortunate temperament that every action he performed was 15 equally exempted from the charge of vice or weakness. Whatever he said, or did, or wrote, was stamped with a striking and peculiar propriety. His qualities were so happily blended and so nicely harmonized, that the result was a great and perfect whole. The powers of his mind 20 and the dispositions of his heart were admirably suited to each other. It was the union of the most consummate prudence with the most perfect moderation. His views, though large and liberal, were never extrav- agant. His virtues, though comprehensive and beneficent, 25 were discriminating, judicious, and practical. Yet his character, though regular and uniform, possessed none of the littleness which sometimes belongs to men of that de- scription. It formed a majestic pile, the efi'ect of which was not impaired, but improved, by order and symmetry. 30 There was nothing in it to dazzle by wildness and surprise by eccentricity. It was of a higher species of moral beauty. It contained everything great or elevated, but it had no false and tinsel ornament. It was not the model cried up by fashion and circumstance ; its excellence was adapted 85 to a true and just moral taste, incapable of change from the varying accidents of manners, opinions, and times. hillard's sixth reader. 151 General Washington is not tlie idol of a day, but tlie hero of ages. Placed in circumstances of the most trying difficulty at the commencement of the American contest, he a<3cepted that situation which was pre-eminent in danger 5 and responsibility. His perseverance overcame every ob- stacle ; his moderation conciliated every opposition ; his genius supplied every resource ; his enlarged view could plan, devise, and improve every branch of civil and mili- tary operation. He had the superior courage which can 10 act or forbear to act as true policy dictates, careless of the reproaches of ignorance either in power or out of power. He knew how to conquer by waiting, in spite of obloquy, for the moment of victory ; and he merited true praise by despising undeserved censure. In the most arduous 15 moments of the contest, his prudent firmness proved the salvation of the cause which he supported. His conduct was, on all occasions, guided by the most pure disinterestedness. Far superior to low and grovelling motives, he seemed ever to be influenced by that ambition 20 which has justly been called the instinct of great souls. He acted ever as if his country's welfare, and that alone, was the moving spirit. His excellent mind needed not even the stimulus of ambition, or the prospect of fame. Glory was a secondary consideration. He performed great 25 actions; he persevered in a course of laborious utility, with an equanimity that neither sought distinction nor was flattered by it. His reward was in the consciousness of his own rectitude, and the success of his patriotic efi'orts. As his elevation to the chief power was the unbiassed 30 choice of his countrymen, his exercise of it was agreeable to the purity of its origin. As he had neither solicited nor usurped dominion, he had neither to contend with the opposition of rivals nor the revenge of enemies. As his authority was undisputed, so it required no jealous pre- 35 cautions, no rigorous severity. His government was mild and gentle ; it was beneficent and liberal ; it was wise and 152 just. His prudent administration consolidated and en- larged the dominion of an infant republic. In voluntarily resigning the magistracy whicli he had filled with such distinguished honor, he enjoyed the un- 5 equalled satisfaction of leaving to the state he had con- tributed to establish the fruits of his wisdom and the example of his virtues. It is some consolation amidst the violence of ambition and criminal thirst of power, of which so many instances occur around us, to find a character whom 10 it is honorable to admire and virtuous to imitate. A con- queror for the freedom of his country ! a legislator for its security ! a magistrate for its happiness ! His glories were never sullied by those excesses into which the highest qual- ities arc apt to degenerate. With the greatest virtues, he 15 was exempt from the corresponding vices. He was a man in whom the elements were so mixed, that " Nature might have stood up to all the world and owned him as her work.'* His fame, bounded by no country, will be confined to no age. The character of General Washington, which his con- 20 temporaries reverence and admire, will be transmitted to posterity ; and the memory of his virtues, while patriotism and virtue are held sacred among men, will remain undi- minished. XLVI. — BKEATHINGS €)F SPKINa. 3IR.S. IIemans. [Felicia Dorothea Browne was born in Liverpool, England, September 25, 1794, was married to Captain Homans, an officer in the British army, in 1S12, and died May 16, 1835. She wrote two tragedies, " The Siege of Valencia." and " The Vespers of Palermo ; " a narrative poem called " The Forest Sanctu- ary," an.l Ji yreat number of lyrical poems ; in which last her genius appears to the best advantage. Her poetry is remarkable for its elevated tone, its exquisite imagery, its deep sense of the beauty of nature, and the truth and tenderness with Avhich it expresses the domestic affections. Her poems, as they appeared from time to time in tlie periodical publications of the day during her lifetime, were universally read and admired, both in Eng'land and America ; but they are less popular now that they have been collected and are read continuously. Her life was not happy j and this has contributed to throw hillard's sixth eeader. 153 ft shadow of melancholy over her writings, which, while it deepens the charm of a single eflFusion of feeling^, becomes somewhat monotonous when prolonged from page to page. Her diction sometimes becomes dazzhng to the eye of the mind from its too uniform brilliancy. Mrs. Hemans's knowledge and range of reading were quite extensive. She was acquainted with the principal languages of modern Europe, and drew the subjects of her poems from a great variety of sources. She has much skill iu catching and presersing the spirit of a remote age or a foreign people. She was pleasing in her personal appearance ; her manners were graceful and ani- mated ; and she was beloved as well as admired by her friends. She bore with gentle sweetness the burdens of life, and shrank from none of its duties. Her later poems are deeply and beautifully penetrated with religious feeling.] 1 What wak'st thou, Spring ? — Sweet voices in the woods, And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute ; Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes, The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute, Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee, Even as our hearts may be. 2 And the leaves greet thee, Spring ! — the joyous leaves, Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade. Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, When thy south wind hath pierced the whispery shade, And happy murmurs, running through the grass, Tell that thy footsteps pass. 3 And the bright waters — they, too, hear thy call, Spring, the awakener ! thou hast burst their sleep ! Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall Makes melody, and in the forests deep, Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray Their windings to the day. 4 And flowers — the fairy-peopled world of flowers I Thou from the dust hast set that glory free. Coloring the cowslip with the sunny hours, And pencilling the wood-anemone : Silent they seem ; yet each to thoughtful eye Glows with mute poesy. 154 hillakd's sixth eeader. ^ 5 But what awak'st thou in the heart, Spring ! — The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs ? Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing, Kestorer of forgotten harmonies ! Tresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou art : What wak'st thou in the heart ? 6 Too much, oh, there, too much ! — we know not well Wherefore it should be thus ; yet, roused by thee, What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell, Gush for the faces we no more may see ! How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone, By voices that are gone ! 7 Looks of familiar love, that never more, Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, Past words of welcome to our household door. And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feet -— Spring, midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees. Why, why revivest thou these ? 8 Vain longings for the dead ! — why come they back With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms ? 0, is it not that from thine earthly track Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs ? Yes, gentle Spring ; no sorrow dims thine air, Breathed by our loved ones there. XLVIL — IMAGINAEY SPEECH IN OPPOSITION TO THE DECLAKATION OF INDEPENDENCE. VTebster. [This lesson and that which succeeds it are both taken from Mr. Webster's *' Eulogy on Adams and Jefferson," delivered in Faneuil Hall, Boston, August 2, 1826- The first speech presents such arguments as might have been urged against the declaration of the independence of the colonies, by a man of timid hillard's sixth reader. 155 and desponding temperament ; and the views of bolder and far-seeing states- men are uttered by the lips of Mr. Adams. Many persons have supposed that the speech put into the mouth of Mr. Adams -wns really delivered by him, but this is not the ease. It was written by Mr. Webster.] Let us pause ! This step, once taken, cannot he re- traced. This resolution, once passed, will cut off all hope of reconciliation. If success attend the arms of England, we shall then he no longer colonies, with charters and 5 with privileges ; these will all he forfeited by this act ; and we shall he in the condition of other conquered peo- ple, at the mercy of the conquerors. For ourselves, we may be ready to run the hazard ; but are we ready to carry the country to that length ? Is 10 success so probable as to justify it ? Where is the mili- tary, where the naval power, by which we are to resist the whole strength of the arm of England; for she will exert that strength to the utmost? Can we rely on the constancy and perseverance of the people ? or will they 15 not act as the people of other countries have acted, and, wearied with a long war, submit, in the end, to a worse oppression? While we stand on our old ground and insist on redress of grievances, we know we are right and are not answerable for consequences. Nothing, then, can 20 be imputed to us. But if we now change our object, carry our pretensions farther, and set up for absolute independence, we shall lose the sympathy of mankind. We shall no longer be defending what we possess, but struggling for something 25 which we never did possess, and which we have solemnly and uniformly disclaimed all intention of pursuing, from the very outset of the troubles. Abandoning thus our old ground, of resistance only to arbitrary acts of oppression, the nations will believe the whole to have been mere pre- 30 tence, and they will look on us, not as injured, but as ambitious, subjects. I shudder before this responsibility. It will be on us, if, relinquishing the ground we have stood on so long, and stood on so safely, we now proclaim 156 hillard's sixth reader. independence, and carry on the war for that object, while these cities bum, these pleasant fields whiten and bleach with the bones of their owners, and these streams run blood. It will be upon us, it will be upon us, if, failing 5 to maintain this unseasonable and ill-judged declaration, a sterner despotism, maintained by military power, shall be established over our posterity, when we ourselves, given up by an exhausted, a harassed, a misled people, shall have expiated our rashness and atoned for our presump- tion on the scaffold. XLVIIL — MR ADAMS'S EEPLY TO THE ABOVE. Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this vote. It is true, indeed, that in the beginning we aimed not at independence. But there 's a divinity which shapes our ends. The injustice 5 of England has driven us to arms ; and, blinded to her own interest for our good, she has obstinately persisted, till independence is now within our grasp. We have but to reach forth to it, and it is ours. Why, then, should we defer the declaration ? 10 Is any man so weak as now to hope for a reconciliation with England, which shall leave either safety to the country and its liberties, or safety to his own life and his own honor ? Are not you, sir, who sit in that chair, is not he, our venerable colleague near you, are you not both 15 already the proscribed and predestined objects of punish- ment and of vengeance ? Cut off from all hope of royal clemency, what are you, what can you be, while the power of England remains, but outlaws ? If we postpone independence, do we mean to carry on or to give up the 20 war ? Do we mean to submit to the measures of parlia- ment, Boston Port Bill and all ? Do we mean to submit, & hillard's sixth reader. 157 and consent that we ourselves shall be ground to powder, and our country and its rights trodden down in the dust ? I know we do not mean to submit. AVe never shall submit. Do we intend to violate that most solemn obli- 5 gation ever entered into by men, that plighting, before God, of our sacred honor to Washington, when, puttin him forth to incur the dangers of war, as well as the political hazards of the times, we promised to adhere to him, in every extremity, with our fortunes and our lives ? 10 I know there is not a man here, who would not rather see a general conflagration sweep over the land, or an earth- quake sink it, than one jot or tittle of that plighted faith fall to the ground. For myself, having, twelve months ago, in this place, moved you, that George Washington be 15 appointed commander of the forces raised, or to be raised, for defence of American liberty, may my right hand for- get her cunning, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I hesitate or waver in the support I give him. The war, then, must go on. We must fight it through. 20 And if the war must go on, why put off longer the decla- ration of independence? That measure will strengthen us. It will give us character abroad. The nations will then treat with us, which they never can do while we acknowledge ourselves subjects in arms against our sov- 25 ereign. Nay, I maintain that England herself will sooner treat for peace with us on the footing of independence, than consent, by repealing her acts, to acknowledge that her whole conduct toward us has been a course of injustice and oppression. 30 Her pride will be less wounded by submitting to that course of things which now predestinates our independ- ence, than by yielding the points in controversy to her rebellious subjects. The former she would regard as the result of fortune ; the latter she would feel as her own 35 deep disgrace. Why then, why then, sir, do we not as soon as possible change this from a civil to a national war? 14 158 htllaed's sixth reader. And since we must fight it through, why not put ourselves in a state to enjoy all the benefits of victory, if we gain the victory ? If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall not 6 fail. The cause will raise up armies ; the cause will create navies. The people, the people, if we are true to them, will carry us, and will carry themselves, gloriously, through this struggle. I care not how fickle other people have been found. I know the people of these colonies, and I 10 know that resistance to British aggression is deep and set- tled in their hearts, and cannot be eradicated. Every col- ony, indeed, has expressed its willingness to follow, if we but take the lead. Sir, the declaration will inspire the people with in- 15 creased courage. Instead of a long and bloody war for the restoration of privileges, for redress of grievances, for chartered immunities held under a British king, set be- fore them the glorious object of entire independence, and it will breathe into them anew the breath of life. Bead 20 this declaration at the head of the army ; every sword will be drawn from its scabbard, and the solemn vow uttered, to maintain it, or to perish on the bed of honor. Publish it from the pulpit ; religion will approve it, and the love of religious liberty will cling round it, resolved to stand 25 with it, or fall with it. Seiid it to the public halls ; pro- claim it there ; let them hear it who heard the first roar of the enemy's cannon ; let them see it who saw their brothers and their sons fall on the field of Bunker Hill, and in the streets of Lexington and Concord, and the very walls will 30 cry out in its support. Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs, but I see, I see clearly through this day's business. You and I, in- deed, may rue it. We may not live to the time when this declaration shall be made good. We may die ; die colo- 35 nists ; die slaves ; die, it may be, ignominiously, and on the scaffold. Be it so. Be it so. If it be the pleasure of hillard's sixth reader. 159 Heaven tliat my country shall require the poor oflFering of my life, the victim shall be ready, at the appointed hour of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But while I do live, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a country, 5 and that a free country. But whatever may be our fate, be assured, be assured that this declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, and it may cost blood ; but it will stand, and it will richly compensate for both. Through the thick gloom of 10 the present, I see the brightness of the future as the sun in heaven. We shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When we are in our graves, our children will honor it. They will celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festiv- ity, with bonfires, and illuminations. On its annual re- 15 turn, they will shed tears, copious, gushing tears, not of subjection and slavery, not of agony and distress, but of exultation, of gratitude, and of joy. Sir, before God, I believe the hour is come. My judg- ,ment approves this measure, and my whole heart is in it. 20 All that I have, and all that I am, and all that I hope in this life, I am now ready here to stake upon it ; and I leave ofi" as I begun, that, live or die, survive or perish, I am for the declaration. It is my living sentiment, and by the blessing of God it shall be my dying sentiment, — independence, now, and independence forever ! XLIX — DEATH AND BUKIAL OF LITTLE NELL. Dickens. [Charles Dickens, tte most popular living novelist, perhaps the most popular living writer of England, was born in Portsmouth, England, Feb- ruary 7, 1812. His first work — a series of sketches under the name of " Boz " —was published in 1836. and though it showed brilliant descriptive powers, did not attract great attention. But the "Pickwick Papers," which appeared the next year, fairly took the world by storm, and lifted the author up to a dizzy height of popularity, equalled by nothing since Scott and Byron. Since 160 hiixaed's sixth eeader. then he has written many novels and tales, besides sketches of travel in Italy and in America, (he was here in 1842,) in which last his genius appears to less advantage than in his works of fiction. His most striking characteristic is a peculiar and original vein of humor, shown in sketches taken from low life, and expressing itself by the most quaint, grotesque, and unexpected combinations of ideas. His Sam Weller — a character he has never surpassed — is the type of his creations of this class ; and it is a truly original conception, and very well sustained. He is hardly less successful in his pathetic passages than in his humorous delineations. He excels in scenes which paint sickness and death, especially of the lovely and the young. His pages have been blistered by many a tear. The extract in the text is alone enough to prove his great power over the sympathies of the heart. He has also uncommon skill in the minute representation of scenes of still life, which he paints with the sharp fidelity of a Dutch artist. He depicts a bar-room, a kitchen, a court of justice, or a prison, in such away as to be next to seeing them. He sometimes uses this gift to a greater extent than the taste of his readers approve. The tone of Dickens's writings is sound and healthy ; though he takes us a little too much into scenes of low life, and obtrudes his evil and hateful char- acters upon us more than we could wish. He has a poetical imagination, and a heart full of genial charities. The generous and sympathetic tone of his writings is one of their most powerful attractions. He has a hatred of op- pression and injustice in all their forms, and is ever ready to take sides with the victim and the sufferer. His great literary reputation has given him much influence in England ; and this has been uniformly exercised in behalf of those social reforms in which our English brethren have been of late years so much engaged, and with such honor to themselves. The following extract is from " Master Humphrey's Clock," a novel published originally in 1841. Little Nell is one of the sweetest and purest of all his crea- tions ; and her life and death have touched many thousands of hearts. She is represented in the novel as the constant attendant of her grandfather, an affec- tionate old man, but weak in moral energy. She glides like a sunbeam of grace and innocence through many a troubled scene ; but the burden of life is too heavy for her delicate spirit, and she thus gently lays it down.] By little and little, the old man had drawn hack towards the inner chamber, while these words were spoken. He pointed there, as he replied, with trembling lips, — " You plot among you to wean my heart from her. You 5 will never do that — never while I have life. I have no rel- ative or friend but her — I never had — I never will have. She is all in all to me. It is too late to part us now." Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her 10 as he went, he stole into the room. They who were left behind drew close together, and after a few whispered words, — not unbroken by emotion, or easily uttered, — iiillard's sixth keadee. 161 followed him. They moved so gently that their footsteps made no noise ; but there were sobs from among the group, and sounds of grief and mourning. For she was dead. There, upon her little bed, she lay 5 at rest. The solemn stillness was no marvel now. She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life ; not one who had lived and suffered death. 10 Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. " When I die, put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always." These were her words. 15 She w?;s dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird — a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed — was stirring nimbly in its cage : and the strong heart of its child-mistress was mute and motionless forever. , 20 AVhere were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings, and fatigues ? All gone. His was the true death before their weeping eyes. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect happiness were born; imaged in ho, tranquil beauty and profound repose. 25 And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes. i The old fireside had smiled on that same sweet face ; it had passed like a dream through haunts of misery and care ; at the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon the cold, 30 wet night, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there had been the same mild, lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their majesty, after death. The old man held one languid arm in Lis, and kept the small hand tight folded to his breast, for warmth. It was 35 the hand she had stretched out to him with her last smile — the hand that had led him on through all their wander- 14* 1<52 ings. Ever and anon lie pressed it to his lips ; then hugged it to his breast again, munr.uring that it was warmer now ; and as he said it, he looked, in agony, to those who stood around, as if imploring them to help her. 5 She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was ebbing fast — the garden she had tended — the eyes she had gladdened — the noiseless haunts of many a thoughtless hour — the paths she had trodden as it were 10 but yesterday — could know her no more. " It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and gave his tears free vent, — "it is not in this world that heaven's justice ends. Think what earth is compared with the world to which her young spirit 15 has winged its early flight, and say, if one deliberate wish expressed in solemn terms above this bed could call her back to life, which of us would utter it ! " AYhen morning came, and they could speak more calmly on the subject of their grief, they heard how her life had 20'clo'sed. She had been dead two days. They were all about her at the time, knowing that the end was drawing on. She died soon after daybreak. 'They had read and talked to her in the earlier portion of the night ; but as the hours 25 crept on, she sank to sleep. They could tell, by what she faintly uttered in her dreams, that they were of her jour- ncyings with the old man ; they were of no painful scenes, but of those who had helped and used them kindly, for she often said " God bless you ! " with great fervor. Waking, 80 she never wandered in her mind but once, and that was of beautiful music which she said was in the air. It may have been. Opening her eyes at last, from a very quiet sleep, she begged that they would kiss her once again. That done, she 35 turned to the old man with a lovely smile upon her face, — such, they said, as they had never seen, and never could tlEADER. 163 forget, — and clung with both her arms ahout his neck. They did not know that she was dead, at first. For the rest, she had never murmured or complained ; but with a quiet mind, and manner quite unaltered, — save 5 that she every day became more earnest and more grateful to them, — faded like the light upon the summer's evening. And now the bell — the bell she had so often heard by ] night and day, and listened to with solemn pleasure almost as a living voice — rung its remorseless toll for her, so 10 young, so beautiful, so good. Decrepit age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless infancy poured forth — on crutches, in the pride of strength and health, in the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life — to gather round her tomb. Old men were there, whose eyes were 15 dim and senses failing — grandmothers, who might have died ten years ago, and still been old — the deaf, the blind, the lame, the palsied, the living dead in many shapes and forms, to see the closing of that early grave. What was the death it would shut in, to that which still could crawl 20 and creep above it ! Along the crowded path they bore her now, pure as the newly-fallen snow that covered it, whose day on earth had been as fleeting. Under the porch, where she had sat when Heaven in its mercy brought her to that peaceful spot, she 25 passed again, and the old church received her in its quiet shade. They carried her to one old nook, where she had many and many a time sat musing, and laid their burden softly on the pavement. The light streamed on it through the 30 colored window — a window where the boughs of trees were ever rustling in the summer, and where the birds sang sweetly all day long. With every breath of air that stirred among those branches in the sunshine, some trembling, changing light would fall upon her grave. 35 Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Many a young hand dropped in its little wreath, many a stifled sob ,4r j was heard. Some — and they were not few — knelt down. All were sincere and truthful in their son w. The service done, the mourners stood apart, and the vil- lagers closed round to look into the grave before the pave- 5 ment-stone should he replaced. One called to mind how he had seen her sitting on that very spot, and how her book had fallen on her lap, and she was gazing with a pensive face upon the sky. Another told how he had wondered much that one so delicate as she should be so bold, how 10 she had never feared to enter the church alone at night, but had loved to linger there when all was quiet, and even to climb the tower stair, with no more light than that of the moon's rays stealing through the loopholes in the thick, old wall. 15 A whisper went about among the oldest there, that she had seen and talked with angels ; and when they called to mind how she had looked, and spoken, and her early death, some thought it might be so indeed. Thus coming to the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and giving 20 place to others, and falling oflf in whispering groups of three or four, the church was cleared, in time, of all but the ^sexton and the mourning friends. '^*-;^sj^ They saw the vault covered and the stone fixed down. iyld^ 5fiwi, when the dusk of evening had come on, and not a > 25 sound disturbed the sacred stillness of the place, — when the bright moon poured in her light on tomb and monu- ment, on pillar, wall, and arch, and most of all, (it seemed to them,) upon her quiet grave, — in that calm time, when all outward things and inward thoughts teem with assur- 30 ances of immortality, and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in the dust before them, — then, with tranquil and submissive hearts, they turned away, and left the child with God. . hillaed's sixth reader. 165 L.— ADDKESS TQ THE MUMMY IN BELZ^NI'S EXHIBITION, LONDON. Horace Smith. [Horace Smith, a native of London, died in July, 1849, in the seventieth year of his age. In 1812, in conjunction with his elder brother, James Smith, he published a volume called " Rejected Addresses," consisting of imitations of the popular poets of the day. It had great and deserved success, and has since been frequently reprinted. Horace Smith was a stock broker by pro- fession ; but in the leisure hours stolen from his employment, he wrote a number of works of fiction, which were received with favor, and many con- tributions, both in verse and prose, to the magazines of the time. His poems have been collected and published in two volumes. He was a very amiable and estimable man. J 1 And thou hast walked about (how strange a story !) In Thebes' s=-= streets three thousand years ago, When the Memnonium f was in all its glory, And time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous. 2 Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted dummy ; Thou hast a tongue — come, let us hear its tune ; Thou 'rt standing on thy legs, above ground. Mummy, Eevisiting the glimpses of the moon ; Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features. 3 Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect — To whom should we assign the sphinx's J fame? "Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect Of either pyramid that bears his name ? § * Thebes was a celebrated city of Upper Egypt, of which extensive ruins still remain. t The Memnonium was a building combining the properties of a palace and a temple, the ruins of which are remarkable for symmetry of architecture and elegance of sculpture. X The great sphinx, at tlic pyramids, is hewn out of a rock, in the form of a lion with a human head, and is one hundred and forty-three feet in length, and sixty-two feet in height in front. § The pyramids are well-known structures near Cairo. According to Herod- otus, the great pyramid, so called, was built by Cheops, (pronounced Ke'ops). H e was succeeded by his brother Cephren or Cephrenes, (pronounced Sef re-ne§,) who, according to the same historian, built another of the pyramids. 166 hillard's sixth reader. Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer ? ^ Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer ? 4 Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden By oath to tell the mysteries of thy trade ; Then say what secret melody was hidden In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played. f Perhaps thou wert a priest ; if so, my struggles Are vain ; Egyptian priest ne'er owned his juggles. 5 Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharoah, glass to glass: Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat; Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass ; Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, A torch at the great temple's dedication. 6 I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed. Has any Eoman soldier mauled and knuckled ; Por thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed, Ere Komulus and Kemus had been suckled : — • Antiquity appears to have begun Long after thy primeval race was run. 7 Since first thy form was in this box extended, We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations ; The Koman empire has begun and ended ; New worlds have risen — we have lost old nations, And countless kings have into dust been humbled, While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. 8 Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, * Pompey's Pillar is a column almost a hundred feet high, near Alexandria. It is now generally admitted by the learned to have had no connection with the Koman general whose name it bears. t This was a statue at Thebes, said to utter at sunrise a sound like the twanging of a harpstring or of a metallic wire. hillard's sixth reader. 167 Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread/-' O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, f And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder, When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? 9 If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, The nature of thy private life unfold : — A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast, And tears adown that dusky cheek hav'S Tolled : — Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face? What were thy name and station, age and race ? 10 Statue of flesh — immortal of the dead! Imperishable type of evanescence ! Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, And standest undecayed within our presence. Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning, When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning. 11 Why should this worthless tegument endure, If its undying guest be lost forever ? 0, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure In living virtue ; that when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame consume, The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom.- LL — SPANISH WAK SONG. Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again ; Let the watchword, Castile, go resounding through Spain ! And thou, free Asturias, encamped on the height. Pour down thy dark sons to the vintage of fight ; *Eg-ypt was conquered 525 B. c, by Cambyses, the Becond king of Persia, t These are the names of Egyptian deities. 168 hillard's sixth reader. Wake ! wake ! the old soil where our warriors repose, Rings hollow and deep to the trampling of foes. The voices are mighty that swell from the past, With Aragon's cry on the shrill mountain blast; 5 The ancient Sierras give strength to our tread, Their pines murmur song where bright blood hath been shed. riing forth the proud banner of Leon again, And shout ye, " Castile ! to the rescue for Spain ! " LII. — HALLOWED GKOUND. Campbell. What 's hallowed ground ? Has earth a clod Its Maker meant not should be trod By man, the image of his God, Erect and free, Unscourged by Superstition's rod To bow the knee ? Is 't death to fall for Freedom's right ? He 's dead alone that lacks her light ! And murder sullies in Heaven's sight The sword he draws : — What can alone ennoble fight ? A noble cause ! Give that ! and welcome War to brace Her drums ! and rend Heaven's reeking space ! The colors planted face to face, The charging cheer, Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, Shall still be dear. And place our trophies where men kneel To Heaven ! but Heaven rebukes my zeal. hillard's sixth header. 169 God above ! The cause of Truth and human weal, Transfer it from the sword's appeal To Peace and Love. 6 Peace, Love ! the cherubim that join Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine, Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, Where they are not — The heart alone can make divine Keligion's spot. 6 To incantations dost thou trust, And pompous rites in domes august ? See mouldering stones and metal's rust Belie the vaunt That men can bless one pile of dust AVith chime or chant. 7 The ticking wood- worm mocks thee, man ! Thy temples — creeds themselves grow wan But there 's a dome of nobler span, A temple given Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — Its space is Heaven ! 8 Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling. Where, trancing the rapt spirit's feeling, And God himself to man revealing. The harmonious spheres Make music, though unheard their pealing By mortal ears. 9 Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ? Can sin, can death, your worlds obscure ? Else why so swell the thoughts at your 15 170 hillard's sixth reader. Aspect above ? * Ye must be Heavens tbat make us sure Of beavenly love ! 10 And in your harmony sublime I read the doom of distant time ; That man's regenerate soul from crime Shall yet be drawn, And reason on his mortal clime Immortal dawn. 11 What 's hallowed ground ? 'T is what gives birth To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth Earth's compass round ; And your high priesthood shall make earth All hallowed ground! LIII. — FASHIONABLE PARTIES IN NEW NETH- EELANDS. Washington Irving. In those happy days, a well-regulated family always rose with the dawn, dined at eleven, and went to bed at sunset. Dinner was invariably a private meal, and the fat old burghers showed incontestable signs of disapproba- 5 tion and uneasiness at being surprised by a visit from a neighbor on such occasions. But though our worthy an- cestors were thus singularly averse to giving dinners, yet they kept up the social bands of intimacy by occasional banquetings, called tea-parties. 10 These fashionable parties were generally confined to the higher classes, or noblesse, that is to say, such as kept their own cows, and drove their own wagons. The com- pany commonly assembled at three o'clock, and went away hillard's sixth reader. 171 about six, unless it was in winter-time, when the fashion- able hours were a little earlier, that the ladies might get home before dark. The tea-table was crowned with a huge earthen dish, well stored with slices of fat pork, 5 fried brown, cut up into morsels, and swimming in gravy. The company being seated round the genial board, and each furnished with a fork, evinced their dexterity in launching at the fattest pieces in this mighty dish — in much the same manner as sailors harpoon porpoises at sea, 10 or our Indians spear salmon in the lakes. Sometimes the table was graced .with immense apple-pies, or saucers full of preserved peaches and pears ; but it was always sure to boast an enormous dish of balls of sweetened dough, fried in hog's fat, and called doughnuts, or olykoeks — a deli- 15 cious kind of cake, at present scarce known in this city, except in genuine Dutch families. The tea was served out of a majestic delft tea-pot, orna- mented with paintings of fat little Dutch shepherds and shepherdesses tending pigs — with boats sailing in the air, 20 and houses built in the clouds, and sundry other ingen- ious Dutch fantasies. The beaux distinguished themselves by their adroitness in replenishing this pot from a huge copper tea-kettle, which would have made the pigmy maca- ronies of these degenerate days sweat merely to look at it. 25 To sweeten the beverage, a lump of sugar was laid beside each cup — and the company alternately nibbled and sipped with great decorum, until an improvement was introduced by a shrewd and economic old lady, which was to suspend a large lump directly over the tea-table, by a 30 string from the ceiling, so that it could be swung from mouth to mouth — an ingenious expedient, which is still kept up by some families in Albany ; but which prevails without exception in Communipaw, Bergen, Flatbush, and all our uncontaminated Dutch villages. 35 At these primitive tea-parties the utmost propriety and dignity of deportment prevailed. No flirting nor coquet- 172 hillard's sixth reader. ting — no gambling of old ladies nor hoyden chattering and romping of young ones — no self-satisfied struttings of wealthy gentlemen, with their brains in their pockets — nor amusing conceits, and monkey divertisements, of smart 5 young gentlemen, with no brains at all. On the contrary, the young ladies seated themselves demurely in their rush- bottomed chairs, and knit their own woollen stockings ; nor ever opened their lips, excepting to say yes or no, to any question that was asked them ; behaving, in all things, 10 like decent, well-educated damsels. As to the gentlemen, each of them tranquilly smoked his pipe, and seemed lost in contemplation of the blue and white tiles with which the fireplaces were decorated ; wherein sundry passages of Scripture were piously portrayed. 15 The parties broke up without noise and without confu- sion. They were carried home by their own carriages, that is to say, by the vehicles nature had provided them, excepting such of the wealthy as could afibrd to keep a wagon. The gentlemen gallantly attended their fair ones 20 to their respective abodes, and took leave of them with a hearty smack at the door : which, as it was an established piece of etiquette, done in perfect simplicity and honesty of heart, occasioned no scandal at that time, nor should it at the present — if our great-grandfathers approved of the 25 custom, it would argue a great want of reverence in their descendants to say a word against it. iiillard's sixth reader. 173 LIY. — THE BATTLE OF BUNKEE HILL. Bancroft. [George Bancroft was born in Worcester, Massachusetts, in 1800, and was graduated at Harvard College in 1817. In tlie following year he went to Europe, and remained there about four years, mostly in Germany. For some years after his return he was employed in the practical duties of a teacher, first in Harvard Colleg-e, and afterwards as one of the principals of a seminary upon Round Hill, in Northampton. In 1838 he was appointed collector of the port of Boston, and in 1844 he took a seat in the cabinet of President Polk, as sec- retary of the navy ; resigning that post in 1846, he was appointed minister plenipotentiary to the court of Great Britain, and continued in that station till 1849. Since that date, he has been a resident of the city of New York. His great work, " The History of the United States," has now reached eight volumes, the first having been published in 1834. It is a production of marked and peculiar merit, presenting the results of extensive and elaborate research in a condensed form, and showing an uncommon power of analysis and gener- alization. His style is vivid, animated, and picturesque ; full of point and energy ; but somewhat abrupt in its transitions, and rather wanting in sim- plicity and repose. His speculations are often acute and profound, but they occupy more of his pages than the taste of some of his readers approves ; and the dispassionate seeker after truth is occasionally merged in the fervid and eloquent advocate.] The British advanced in line in good order, steadily and slowly, and with a confident imposing air, pausing on the march to let their artillery prepare the way, and firing with muskets as they advanced. But they fired too soon, 5 and too high, doing but little injury. Encumbered with their knapsacks, they ascended the steep hill with difficulty, covered as it was with grass reaching to their knees, and intersected with walls and fences. Prescott waited till the enemy had approached 10 within eight rods as he afterwards thought, within ten or twelve rods as the committee of safety of Massachusetts wrote, when he gave the word: "Fire." A^ once from vthe redoubt, and breastwork, every gun was discharged. ■^ Nearly the whole front rank of the enemy fell, and the 15 rest, to whom this determined resistance was unexpected, were brought to a stand. For a few minutes, fifteen or ten, who can count such minutes ! each one of the Ameri- cans, completely covered while he loaded his musket, exposed only while he stood upon the wooden platform or 15* 174 hillaed's sixth reader. steps of earth in the redoubt to take aim, fought according to his own judgment and will ; and a close and unremitting fire was continued and returned, till the British staggered, wavered, and then in disordered masses retreated precipi- 5 tately to the foot of the hill, and some even to their boats. The column of the enemy which advanced near the Mystic " under the lead of Howe, moved gallantly forward against the rail-fence, and when within eighty or one hun- dred yards, displayed into line, with the precision of troops 10 on parade. Here, too, the Americans, commanded by Stark and Knowlton, cheered on by Putnam, who like Prescott bade them reserve their fire, restrained themselves as if by universal consent, till at the proper moment, resting their guns on the rails of the fence, they poured forth a delib- 15 erate, well-directed, fatal discharge. Here, too, the British recoiled from the volley, and after a short contest, were thrown into confusion, and fell back till they were covered by the ground. Then followed moments of joy in that unfinished redoubt, 20 and behind the grassy rampart, where New England hus- bandmen, so often taunted with cowardice, beheld veteran battalions shrink before their arms. Their hearts bounded as they congratulated each other. The night-watches, thirst, hunger, danger, whether of captivity or death, were 25 forgotten. They promised themselves victory. As the British soldiers retreated, the officers were seen by the spectators on the opposite shore, running down to them, using passionate gestures, and pushing them forward with their swords. After an interval of about fifteen minutes, 30 during which Prescott moved round among his men, encour- aging them and cheering them with praise, the British column under Pigot rallied and advanced, though with apparent reluctance, in the same order as before, firing as they approached within musket shot. This time the Amer- 35 icans withheld their fire till the enemy were within six * A small stream entering into Boston Harbor near Bunker HUl. hillaed's sixth eeader. 175 or five rods of the redoubt, when, as the order was given, it seemed more fatal than before. The enemy continued to discharge their guns, and pressed forward with spirit. " But from the whole American line, there was," said Pres- 6 cott, " a continuous stream of fire," and though the British officers were seen exposing themselves fearlessly, remon- strating, threatening, and even striking the soldiers to urge them on, they could not reach the redoubt, but in a few moments gave way in greater disorder than before. The 10 wounded and the dead covered the ground in front of the works, some lying within a few yards of them. On the flank, also, the British light infantry again marched up its companies against the grass fence, but could not penetrate it. " Indeed," wrote some of the survivors, 15 '-> how could we penetrate it? Most of our grenadiers and light infantry, the moment of presenting themselves, lost three fourths, and many, nine tenths of their men. Some had only eight or nine men in a company left, some only three, four, or five." On the ground where but the day 20 before the mowers had swung the scythe in peace, " the dead," relates Stark, "lay as thick as sheep in a fold." Howe, for a few seconds, was left nearly alone, so many of the officers about him having been killed or wounded ; and it required the utmost exertion of all, from the generals 25 down to the subalterns, to repair the rout. At intervals the artillery from the ships and batteries was playing, while the flames were rising over the town of Charlestown, and laying waste the places of the sepulchres of its fathers, and streets were falling together, and ships 30 at the yards were crashing on the stocks, and the kindred of the Americans, from the fields and hills around, watched every gallant act of their defenders. "The whole," wrote Burgoyne, "was a complication of horror and importance beyond anything it ever came to my lot to be witness 35 to. It was a sight for a young soldier, that the longest service may not furnish again." 176 hillard's sixth reader. " If we drive tliein back once more," cried Prescott,' " they cannot rally again." To the enduring hushandmen about him, the terrible and appalling scene was altogether new. " We are ready for the red-coats again," they shouted, 5 cheering their commander, and not one of them shrunk from duty. LV.— WAEREN'S ADDRESS BEFORE THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL. PlEKPONT. 1 Stand ! the ground 's your own, my braves I Will ye give it up to slaves ? Will ye hope for greener graves ? Hope ye 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. 2 Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? Will ye to your homes retire ? Look behind you ! they 're afire ! And, before you, see W^ho have done it ! — From the vale On they come ! — and will ye quail? Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be ! 3 In the God of battles trust ! Die we may — and die we must : But, O, where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot's bed. And the rocks shall raise their head Of his deeds to tell I hillaed's sixth eeadek7 177' LYL~GINEYEA. Rogers. [Samuel Rogers was born at Newington Green, near London, July 30, 1763, and died December 18, 1855. In 1792, he published his " Pleasures of Memory," a poem which gave him an honorable and enduring place among the poets of his country. His subsequent productions, which are not very numerous, cannot be said to have added materially to his reputation. His poetry is marked by the careful finish and grace of patient elaboration. The following extract is from " Italy," a poem published in 1822, consisting of sketches of Italian scenery, manners, and history. Modena is a town in the northern part of Italy. Here is kept an old worm-eaten bucket, said to have been taken from the Bolognese by the Modenese, in a fight in the thirteenth century. This trophy forms the subject of a mock-heroic poem, called " The Rape of the Bucket," by Tassoni, an Italian poet of the sixteenth century. Zampieri was a celebrated painter of Bologna, (Bo-lon'yii,) more generally known by his first name, Domenichino, (D9-ma-ne-ke'-no,) or Domenico, (D9-mri'ne-co).J 1 If ever you should eome to Modena,'-* (Where among other relics you may see Tassoni's bucket — but 't is not the true one,) Stop at a palace near the Eeggio-gate, Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati. Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace. And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses. Will long detain you — but, before you go, Enter the house, — forgot it not, I pray you, And look awhile upon a picture there. 2 'T is of a lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious family ; Done by Zampieri f — but by whom I care not. He, who observes it, ere he passes on. Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again. That he may call it up when far away. 3 She sits, inclining forward as to speak. Her lips half open, and her finger up, As though she said, ** Beware ! " her vest of gold Broidered with flowers and clasped from head to foot, *Mo'de-nii. f I^^am-pe-a'r?. 178 An emerald stone in every golden clasp ; And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls. 4 But then her face, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth. The overflowings of an innocent heart — It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, Like some wild melody ! 6 Alone it hangs Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm, But richly carved by Antony of Trent '•' With Scripture stories from the life of Christ, A chest that came from Venice, and had held The ducal robes of some old ancestors — That by the way — it may be true or false — But don't forget the picture ; and you will not. When you have heard the tale they told me there. 6 She was an only child — her name Ginevra, The joy, the pride, of an indulgent father ; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son, Trancesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. 7 Just as she looks there in her bridal dress. She was all gentleness, all gayety, Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come — the day, the hour; Now, frowning, smiling for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. ♦Antonio da Trento, a celebrated wood engraver, was born at Trent, : Venetian States, about 1508. hillard's sixth keader. 179 8 Great was the joy ; but at the nuptial feast, When all sate down, the bride herself was wanting, Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried, " 'T is but to make a trial of our love ! " And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook, And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'T was but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back, and flying still, Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas ! she was not to be found ; Nor from that hour could anything be guessed But that she was not ! 9 Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking, Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Donati lived — and long might you have seen An old man wandering as in quest of something. Something he could not find — he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remained awhile Silent and tenantless — then went to strangers. 10 Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten. When on an idle day, a day of search 'Mid the old lumber in the gallery. That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 't was said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, " Why not remove it from its lurking-place ? " 'T was done as soon as said ; but on the way It burst — it fell — and lo ! a skeleton. With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone, A golden clasp clasping a shred of gold. All else had perished — save a wedding-ring. And a small seal, her mother's legacy. Engraven with a name, — the name of both, — " Ginevra." 180 hillaed's sixth reader.' 11 — There then had she found a grave ! Within that chest had she concealed herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy ; When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down forever ! LVII — THE WESTEEN POSTS. Ames. [Fisher Ames was born in Dedham, Massachusetts, April 9, 1758, and died in the same place July 4, 1808. When the federal government went into oper- ation, he was elected the first representative of his district in Congress, and retained his seat through the whole of the administration of Washington, of whose policy and measures he was an ardent supporter. He was a very elo- quent man, remarkable alike for his readiness in debate and the finished beauty of his prepared speeches. He was a copious writer upon politic.nl subj(!cts, and his essays are remarkable for vigor of thought and brilliant and animated style. In private life Mr. Ames was one of the most amiable and delightful of men, and possessed of rare conversational powers. The speech from which the following extract is taken was delivered in the House of Representatives, April 28, 17%, in support of a resolution in favor of passing the laws necessary for carrying into effect a treaty recently negotiated with Great Britain by Mr. Jay. By this treaty, Great Britain agreed to sur- render certain posts on the western frontier, which she still held. Mr. Ames argued that the possession of these posts was essential for the preservation of the western settlers against the Indians.] If any, against all these proofs, should maintain, that the peace with the Indians will be stable without the posts, to them I will urge another reply. From arguments cal- culated to produce conviction, I will appeal directly to the 5 hearts of those who hear me, and ask whether it is not already planted there ? I resort especially to the convic- tions of the western gentlemen, whether, supposing no posts and no treaty, the settlers will remain in security ? Can they take it upon them to say, that an Indian peace, 10 under these circumstances, will prove firm? No, sir, it will not be peace, but a sword ; it will be no better than a lure to draw victims within the reach of the tomahawk. On this theme my emotions are unutterable. If I could hillaed's sixth eeadek. 181 find words for them, if my powers bore any proportion to my zeal, I would swell my voice to such a note of remon- strance it should reach every log-house beyond the moun- tains. I would say to the inhabitants, wake from your false 5 security ; your cruel dangers, your more cruel apprehen- sions are soon to be renewed ; the wounds, yet unhealed, are to be torn open again ; in the daytime, your path through the woods will be ambushed ; the darkness of midnight will glitter with the blaze of your dwellings. You are a 10 father — the blood of your sons shall fatten your cornfield. You are a mother — the war-whoop shall wake the sleep of the cradle. On this subject you need not suspect any deception on your feelings ; it is a spectacle of horror which cannot be 15 overdrawn. If you have nature in your hearts, they will speak a language, compared with which all I have said or can say will be poor and frigid. Will it be whispered that the treaty has made me a new champion for the protection of the frontiers ? It is known 20 that my voice, as well as vote, have been uniformly given in conformity with the ideas I have expressed. Protection is the right of the frontiers; it is our duty to give it. Who will accuse me of wandering out of the subject? Who will say that I exaggerate the tendencies of our meas- 25 ures ? Will any one answer by a sneer that this is all idle preaching ? Will any one deny that we are bound, and I would hope to good purpose, by the most solemn sanctions of duty, for the vote we give ? Are despots alone to be reproached for unfeeling indifierence to the tears and blood 30 of their subjects? Are republicans irresponsible? Have the principles on which you ground the reproach upon cabinets and kings, no practical influence, no binding force ? Are they merely themes of idle declamation, in- troduced to decorate the morality of a newspaper essay, or 35 to furnish pretty topics of harangue from the windows of that State House ? I trust it is neither too presumptuous 16 182 hillard's sixth reader, nor too late to ask, Can you put the dearest interest of society at risk, without guilt, and without remorse? It is vain to offer as an. excuse that public men are not to be reproached for the evils that may happen to ensue 5 from their measures. This is very true, where they are unforeseen or inevitable. Those I have depicted are not unforeseen ; they are so far from inevitable, we are going to bring them into being by our vote ; we choose the con- sequences, and become as justly answerable for them as 10 for the measure that we know will produce them. By rejecting the posts, we light the savage fires, we bind the victims. This day we undertake to render an account to the widows and orphans whom our decision will make ; to the wretches that will be roasted at the stake ; to our 15 country ; and I do not deem it too serious to say, to con- science and to God. We are answerable ; and if duty be anything more than a word of imposture, if conscience be not a bugbear, we are preparing to make ourselves as wretched as our country. 20 There is no mistake in this case, there can be none; experience has already been the prophet of events, and the cries of our future victims have already reached us. The western inhabitants are not a silent and uncomplaining sacrifice. The voice of humanity issues from the shade of 25 the wilderness ; it exclaims, that while one hand is held up to reject this treaty, the other grasps a tomahawk. It summons our imagination to the scenes that will open. It is no great effort of the imagination to conceive that events so near are already begun. I can fancy that I listen to 30 the yells of savage vengeance and the shrieks of torture ; already they seem to sigh in the western wind ; already they mingle with every echo from the mountains. 183 LVIII — OVEE THE EIVEE. Miss Priest. Over the river they beckon to me — Loved ones wlio 've crossed to the further side ; The gleam of their snowy robes I see, But their voices are drowned in the rushing tide. There 's one with ringlets of sunny gold, And. eyes, the reflection of heaven's own blue; He crossed in the twilight, gray and cold, And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels who met him there ; The gates of the city we could not see ; Over the river, over the river. My brother stands waiting to welcome me ! Over the rivisr, the boatman pale Carried another — the household pet ; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale — Darling Minnie ! I see her yet. She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; We watched it glide from the silver sands, And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. We know she is safe on the further side. Where all the ransomed and angels be ; Over the river, the mystic river, My childhood's idol is waiting for me. Eor none return from those quiet shores. Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; We hear the dip of the golden oars. And catch a gleam of the snowy sail, — And lo ! they have passed from our yearning heart ; They cross the stream, and are gone for aye ; 184 hillard's sixth reader. We may not sunder the veil apart That hides from our vision the gates of day ; We only know that their bark no more May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ; Yet somewhere. I know, on the unseen shore, They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 4 And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold Is flushing river, and hill, and shore, I shall one day stand by the water cold, And list for the sound of the boatman's oar ; I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail ; I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand ; I shall pass from sight, with the boatman pale, To the better shore of the spirit-land ; I shall know the loved who have gone before,' j- And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, When over the river, the peaceful river. The Angel of Death shall carry me. LIX. — TEUE H0NESTY. FOLLEN. [Chakles Follen was born at Romrod, in Hesse-Darmstadt, Germany, September 4, 1796, emigrated to this country in 1824, on account of the danger to which he was exposed from his liberal opinions, and died in January, 1840, a victim of that fearful tragedy,— the burning of the steamboat Lexington, in Long Island Sound. At the time of his death, he was pastor of a church in East Lex- ington, Massachusetts, and he had previously been for some years Professor of the Language and Literature of Germany in the University at Cambridge. He was a man of admirable qualities of mind and character. His courage was of the highest temper, and graced by Christian gentleness and forbear- ance. He had a generous and wide-embracing philanthropy, and yet was never neglectful of the daily charities and kindnesses of life. The duties of his sacred calling he discharged with great fidelity. His sermons were of a high order, and his devotional exercises were most fervid and impressive. Dr. Follen had also an excellent understanding and a thorough cultivation. While in Germany he had been a teacher of jurisprudence, and his lectures had attracted much attention. He had a taste and a capacity for metaphysical and hillard's sixth reader. 185 psychological investigations, and at the time of his death had made some prog- ress in a work on the nature and functions of the soul. His English style is very remarkable. Not only is there no trace of foreign idiom in it, but his writings might be put into the hands of students of our language as models of accuracy, neatness, and precision. Dr. Follen's works were published, after his death, by his widow, in five volumes : the first volume containing a memoir. They consist of sermons, lectures, and occasional discourses. The following extract is taken from one of his sermons.] Honesty is often recommended to those wlio seem more especially to need the recommendation, by the common saying that " honesty is the best policy." This maxim is to a certain extent true, and borne out by experience. 5 The dishonest man is continually undermining his own credit ; and not only is credit the first requisite for ob- taining the conveniences of life which can be bought or hired, but all our social blessings, arising from the confi- dence, esteem, and love of our fellow-men, depend essen- 10 tially on good faith. Our conscience and our reason fully approve of a state of things that should secure the enjoy- ment of property, of confidence, esteem, and afiection, to him who alone deserves them. So far, then, the common saying, that honesty is the 15 best — that is, the most profitable — policy, has a good foundation, both in experience and in sound reason. But, like all the other current doctrines of expediency which commend virtue not for its own sake, — that is, on account of the happiness which is found in the exercise of virtue, 20 — that common saying, too, which makes honesty an instru- ment of policy, is untrue and mischievous in some of its most important bearings and consequences. In the first place, those who are in the habit of consid- ering honesty the most profitable line of conduct, are apt 25 to look upon virtue, in general, as a matter of policy — to value it solely or chiefly in proportion to the price it will bring in the market. This habit of calculating the inter- est of virtue undermines the moral sensibility, and, by de- grees, unfits the selfish calculator for that deep satisfac- IG* 186 hillard's sixth reader. tion, arising from the simple consciousness of rectitude, which the truly honest man does not hesitate to purchase with the loss of all the advantages which the most success- ful policy could have secured. 5 But besides the immoral tendency of this economical view of virtue, it is not consistent with facts, with expe- rience, that honesty is always the best, the most successful, policy. He is not always the most successful merchant who in no instance deviates from the strict principles of 10 honesty ; but rather he whose general way of doing busi- ness is so fair and equitable, that he can, without much danger, avail himself of some favorable opportunity to make his fortune by a mode of proceeding which would have ruined his credit if he had been so impolitic as to 15 make this successful deviation from duty the general line of his conduct. Again, he is not always the most prosperous lawyer who never undertakes the defence of a cause which his con- science condemns ; but rather he who never undertakes a 20 cause so palpably unjust that it cannot be gained even by the most skilful and artful management ; while the power of making a bad cause appear good, when discreetly em- ployed, is apt to enhance, rather than degrade, his profes- sional character. 25 Again, he is not always the most influential politician who never deviates from the straight path of political jus- tice ; but rather he who goes upon the common principle that ** all is fair in politics," provided he does not become guilty of any such dishonesty as will not be pardoned by 30 his own party. In the same way, he is not apt to be the , most popular divine, who, regardless both of the praise and of the cen- sure of men, declares the whole counsel of God, as it stands revealed to his own mind ; but rather he who re- 35 gards the signs of the times as much as the handwriting of Grod, modifying the plain honesty of apostolic preaching hillaed's sixth keader. 187 with a politic regard to the likes and dislikes, the passions and prejudices, of men. I believe, then, that experience does not verify the com- mon saying, that honesty is the best — that is, the most 5 profitable — policy. It is so in most cases, but not in all. Hence those who recommend honesty on the ground of its being the best policy, advise men to act from a motive ■which, in some, perhaps the most important cases, may lead them into dishonesty. Steal no more ! Cease to do 10 evil ! Learn to do well ! These are the simple precepts addressed to the consciences of men, without leaving it to their discretion to decide in what cases they may do evil, if in all others they do well. If you compare this simple doctrine of Scripture and of 15 conscience, which enjoins honesty because of its intrinsic excellence, with the doctrine of worldly wisdom, which recommends honesty as the most profitable policy, and if you put both maxims to the test of experience, you will know by their fruits which is of God and which of man. 20 In those cases where honesty is in part the worst policy, the man who is virtuous for virtue's sake will choose to endure all the evils connected with the performance of duty, rather than the simple consciousness of guilt ; while in all those cases in which honesty turns out to be the best 25 policy, the joy of acting right, without regard to the con- sequences, exceeds every other reward. LX. — PAUL fiEVERE'S EIDE. Longfellow. Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Eevere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Eive : Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. 188 iiillard's sixth reader. 2 He said to his friend, — "If the British inarch By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch Of the North-Church tower, as a signal-light, — One if by land, and two if by sea ; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country-folk to be up and to arm." % ^ -^ 3 Then he said^ood-night, and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore. Just as the moon rose over the bay. Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war: A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon, like a prison-bar, And a huge, black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. 4 Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street Wanders and watches with eager ears. Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack-door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers, Marching down to their boats on the shore. 5 Then he climbed to the tower of the church. Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade, — Up the light ladder, slender and tall, To the highest window in the wall. . iil . |( HILLAPtD'S SIXTH READER. 189 Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over alL 6 Beneath, in the church-yard, lay the dead In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still, That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night- wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, " All is well ! " A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away. Where the river widens to meet the bay, — A line of black, that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 7 Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride, On the opposite shore walked Paul Eevere. Now he patted his horse's side. Now gazed on the landscape far and near, Then impetuous stamped the earth. And turned and tightened his saddle-girth ; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely, and spectral, and sombre, and still. 8 And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height, A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in tLo belfry burns ! 190 itillakd's nxTTi r.::Ai;r.R. 9 A hurry of hoofs in a village-street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet : That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and the light. The fate of a nation was riding that night ; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 10 It was twelve by the village-clock, When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog. And felt the damp of the river-fog. That rises when the sun goes down. 11 It was one by the village-clock. When he rode into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed. And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. 12 It was two by the village-clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning-breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball. 191 13 You know the rest. In the "books you have read How the British regulars fired and fled, — How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard-wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. 14 So through the night rode Paul Eevere ; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm, — A cry of defiance, and not of fear, — A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo for evermore ! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last. In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed, And the midnight-message of Paul Eevere. LXI. — WASHmaTON AT MOUNT VEKNON. Irving, [This sketch of "Washing-ton's manner of life, from the close of the old French war to the beginning of the revolution, is from the first volume of Irving's " Life of Washington."] Mount Vernon was beautifully situated on a swelling lieight, crowned with wood, and commanding a magnificent JC^view up and down the Potomac. The grounds immedi- \^)ately about it were laid out somewhat in the English 5 taste. The estate was apportioned into separate farms, devoted to different kinds of culture, each having its allot- 192 hillard's sixth reader. ted laborers ; much, however, was still covered with wild woods, seamed with deep dells and runs of water, and in- dented with inlets — haunts of deer and lurking-places of foxes. The whole woody region along the Potomac from 5 Mount Vernon to Belvoir, and far beyond, with its range of forests, and hills, and picturesque promontories, afforded sport of various kinds, and was a noble hunting-ground. Washington had hunted through it with old Lord Fairfax in his stripling days ; we do not wonder that his feelings 10 throughout life incessantly reverted to it. " No estate in United America," observes he in one of his letters, "is more pleasantly situated — in a high and healthy country ; in a latitude between the extremes of heat and cold ; on one of the finest rivers in the world, a 15 river well stocked with various kinds of fish at all seasons of the year, and in the spring with shad, herring, bass, carp, sturgeon, &c., in great abundance. The borders of the estate are washed by more than ten miles of tide- water ; several valuable fisheries appertain to it ; the whole 20 shore, in fact, is one entire fishery." These were as yet the aristocratical days of Virginia. The estates were large, and continued in the same families by entail. Many of the wealthy planters were connected with old families in England. The young men, especially 25 the elder sons, were often sent to finish their education there, and on their return brought out the tastes and habits of the mother country. The governors of Vir- ginia were from the higher ranks of society, and main- tained a corresponding state. The "established" or 30 Episcopal church predominated throughout the "ancient dominion," as it was termed ; each county was divided into parishes, as in England — each with its parochial church, its parsonage, and glebe. A style of living prevailed among the opulent Virginia 35 families in those days that has long since faded away. The houses were spacious, commodious, liberal in all their IIILLAr.D'S SIXTH HEADER. 193 appointments, and fitted to cope with tlie free-handed, open-hearted hospitality of the owners. Nothing was more common than to sec handsome services of plate, ele- gant equipages, and superb carriage horses — all imported 5 from England. The Virginia planters were prone to leave the care of their estates too much to their overseers, and to think personal labor a degradation. Washington carried into his rural afi'airs the same method, activity, and circum- 10 spection that had distinguished him in military life. He kept his own accounts, posted up his books, and balanced them with mercantile exactness. We have examined them, as well as his diaries recording his daily occupations, and his letter-books, containing entries of shipments of tobacco, 15 and correspondence with his London agents. They are monuments of his business habits. The products of his estate also became so noted for the faithfulness, as to quantity and quality, with which they were put up, that it is said any barrel of flour that bore the brand of 20 George Washington, Mount Ycrnon, was exempted from the customary inspection in the AYest India ports. He rose early, often before daybreak in the winter when the nights were long. On such occasions he lighted his own fire, and wrote or read by candlelight.. He breakfasted 25 at seven in summer, at eight in winter. Two small cups of tea, and three or four cakes of Indian meal, (called hoe-cakes,) formed his frugal repast. Immediately after breakfast he mounted his horse, and visited those parts of the estate where any work was going on, seeing to every- ]Q thing with his own eyes, and often aiding with his own hand. Washington delighted in the chase. In the hunting season, when he rode out early in the morning to visit distant parts of the estate, he often took some of the dogs 5 with him, for the chance of starting a fox, which he occa- sionally did, though he was not always successful in kill- 194 hillard's sixth reader. ing hira. He was a bold rider and an admirable horse- man, though he never claimed the merit of being an ac- complished fox-hunter. In the height of the season, how- ever, he would be out with the fox-hounds two or three 5 times a week, accompanied by his guests at Mount Ver- non, and the gentlemen of the neighborhood, especially the Fairfaxes of Belvoir, of which estate his friend George William Fairfax was now the proprietor. On such occa- sions there would be a hunting dinner at one or other of 10 those establishments, at which convivial repasts Wash- ington is said to have enjoyed himself with unwonted hilarity. Occasionally he and Mrs. Washington would pay a visit to Annapolis, at that time the seat of government of Mary- 15 land, and partake of the gayeties which prevailed during the session of the legislature. The society of these seats of provincial governments was always polite and fashion- able, and more exclusive than in these republican days, being, in a manner, the outposts of the English aristoc- 20 racy, where all places of dignity or profit were secured for younger sons and poor but proud relatives. During the session of the legislature, dinners and balls abounded, and there were occasional attempts at theatricals. The latter was an amusement for which Washington always had a 25 relish, though he never had an opportunity of gratifying it effectually. Neither was he disinclined to mingle in the dance ; and we remember to have heard venerable ladies, who had been belles in his day, pride themselves on hav- ing had him for a partner, though, they added, he was apt 30 to be a ceremonious and grave one. In this round of rural occupation, rural amusement, and social intercourse, Washington passed several tranquil years, the halcyon season of his life. His already estab- lished reputation drew many visitors to Mount Vernon ; 35 some of his early companions in arms were his occasional guests, and his friendships and connections linked him HILLARD'S SIXTH READER. 195 witli some of the most prominent and worthy people of the country, who were sure to be received with cordial but simple and unpretending hospitality. His marriage was not blessed with children ; but those of Mrs, Washington 5 experienced from him parental care and affection, and the formation of their minds and manners was one of the dearest objects of his attention. His domestic concerns and social enjoyments, however, were not permitted to interfere with his public duties. He was active by na- 10 ture, and eminently a man of business by habit. As judge of the county court, and member of the House of Bur- gesses, he had numerous calls upon his time and thoughts, and was often drawn from home ; for whatever trust he undertook he was sure to fulfil with scrupulous exactness. LXIL — THE ALDEEMAN'S EUNEEAL. SOUTHEY. [Robert Southey was born in Bristol, England, August 12, 1774, and died March 21, 1843. For the last forty years of his life he resided at Keswick, in the county of Cumberland. He was a very voluminous writer in verse and prose, and his works would fill not less than a hundred volumes. His poetry is characterized by a rich and gorgeous fancy, great beauty in description, and an elevated moral tone, but not by high creative power. His " Thai aba" and " Curse of Kehama" are splendid Oriental visions, and his "Roderick" is an elaborate and well-sustained work. Many of his shorter poems are marked by a happy vein of humor. His prose style is admirable; pure, simple, perspicuous, and energetic; sin- gularly well suited for narrative, and hardly less so for reasoning upon the usual topics of controversy among men. His best known prose works are " 1 ho Life of Nelson," " The Life of Wesley," " The History of the Peninsular War," " The History of Brazil," " Sir Thomas More, or Colloquies on the Progress and Prospects of Society," " The Life of Cowper," and " The Doctor." Southey was exclusively a man of letters, and few men have ever adorned that profession with higher qualities of character. He was admirable in all the relations of life, full of warm affections, and ever faithful to duty. He had strong' prejudices, but they were honestly entertained. His littrary industry was worthy of all praise. He was a passionate lover of books, and left behind him a large and valuable library. Overworn by excessive mental toil and domestic anxiety, the light of his mind faded away before death released him; and his last years were passed iu ignorance alike of his books and his friends.^ 196 iiillakd's sixth reader. Stranger. AMiom arc they ushering from the world, with all This pageantry and long parade of death ? Townsman. A long parade, indeed, sir, and yet here You see but half ; round yonder bend it reaches 6 A furlong farther, carriage behind carriage. Stran. 'T is but a mournful sight, and yet the pomp Tempts me to stand a gazer. Towns. Yonder schoolboy, Who plays the truant, says the proclamation 10 Of peace ^ was nothing to the show, and even The chairing of the members at election f Would not have been a finer sight than this ; Only that red and green are prettier colors Than all this mourning. There, sir, you behold 15 One of the red-gowned J worthies of the city, The envy and the boast of our exchange, — Ay, what was worth, last week, a good half million, — Screwed down in yonder hearse. ^ Stran. Then he was bom 20 Under a lucky planet, who to-day Puts mourning on for his inheritance. Towns. When I first heard his death, that very wish Leapt to my lips ; but now the closing scene Of the comedy hath wakened wiser thoughts ; 25 And I bless God, that when I go to the grave. There will not be the weight of wealth like his To sink me down. * This poem was written in 1803. The allusion in the text is to the peace of Amiens, between England, France, Spain, and Holland, which was concluded in May, 1802. t In England, after a contested parliamentary election, the successful mem- t)ers are sometimes carried about in a chair on the shoulders of their partisans. In such elections, also, the voters on different sides are sometimes designated by ribbons and badg^es of a peculiar color. + In P^ngland, a red gown is a common official dress of mayors and aldermen of cities, worn on important occasions. hillard's sixth reader. 197 Stran. The camel and tlie needle, — Is that then in your mind ? Towns. Even so. The text Is gospel wisdom. I would ride the camel, 5 Yea, leap him flying through the needle's eye, A.S easily as such a pampered soul Could pass the narrow gate. Stran. Your pardon, sir, But sure this lack of Christian charity 10 Looks not like Christian truth. Towns. Your pardon, too, sir, If, with this text before me, I should feel In the preaching mood. But for these barren fig-trees, With all their flourish and their leafiness, 15 We have been told their destiny and use. When the axe is laid unto the root, and they Cumber the earth no longer. Stran. Was his wealth 20 Stored fraudfully, the spoil of orphans wronged, And widows who had none to plead their right ? Towns. All honest, open, honorable gains. Pair legal interest, bonds and mortgages, Ships to the east and west. Stran. Why judge you then 25 So hardly of the dead? Towns. For what he left Undone ; — for sins, not one of which is mentioned In the Ten Commandments. He, I warrant him. Believed no other gods than those of the Creed ; 30 Bowed to no idols — but his money-bags ; Swore no false oaths — except at the custom-house ; Kept the Sabbath — idle ; built a monument To honor his dead father ; did no murder ; Never picked pockets ; never bore false witness ; 35 And never, with that all-commanding wealth Coveted his neighbor's house, nor ox, nor ass. 17* 198 Stran. You knew him, then, it seems ? Towns. As all men know The virtues of your hundred-thousanders : They never hide their lights beneath a bushel. 5 Stran. Nay, nay, uncharitable sir ! for often Doth bounty, like a streamlet, flow unseen. Freshening and giving life along its course. Towns. We track the streamlet by the brighter green And livelier growth it gives : — but as for this — 10 This was a stagnant pool of waters foul ; The rains of heaven engendered nothing in it But slime and rank corruption. Stran. Yet even these Are reservoirs whence public charity 15 Still keeps her channels full. Towns. Now, sir, you touch Upon the point. This man of half a million Had all these public virtues which you praise, But the poor man never rung at his door : 20 And the old beggar, at the public gate, Who, all the summer long, stands, hat in hand, — He knew how vain it was to lift an eye To that hard face. Yet he was always found Among your ten and twenty pound subscribers, 25 Your beneftictors in the newspapers. uS His alms were money put to interest In the other world, — donations to keep open A running charity account with Heaven ; — Eetaining fees against the last assizes, 30 When, for the trusted talents, strict account Shall be required from all, and the old arch-lawyer Plead his own cause as plaintiff. Stran. I must needs Believe you, sir ; — these are your witnesses, 35 These mourners here, who from their carriages Gape at the gaping crowd. A good March wind X htllard's sixth reader. 199 "Were to be prayed for now, to lend their eyes Some decent rheum. The very hireling mute '•' Bears not a face blanker of all emotion Than the old servant of the family. 5 How can this man have lived, that thus his death Costs not the soiling one white handkerchief ? Towns. Who should lament for him, sir, in whose heart Love had no place, nor natural charity ? The parlor-spaniel, when she heard his step, 10 Eose slowly from the hearth, and stole aside With creeping pace ; she never raised her eyes To woo kind words from him, nor laid her head Upraised upon his knee, with fondling whine. How could it be but thus ? Arithmetic 15 Was the sole science he was ever taught. The multiplication table was his creed. His pater-noster, and his decalogue. When yet he was a boy, and should have breathed The open air and sunshine of the fields, 20 To give his blood its natural spring and play, He, in a close and dusky counting-house, Smoke-dried, and seared, and shrivelled up his heart. So, from the way in which he was trained up. His feet departed not ; he toiled and moiled, 25 Poor muckworm ! through his threescore years and ten ; And when the earth shall now be shovelled on him, If that which served him for a soul were still Within its husk, 't would still be dirt to dirt. Stran. Yet your next newspapers will blazon him, 30 Tor industry and honorable wealth, A bright example. Towns. Even half a million Gets him no other praise. But come this way * Mutes are persons dressed in deep mourning, who are sometimes employed by undertakers, in England, to stand before the door of a house in which prep- arations for a funeral are going on. 200 hillard's sixth reader. Some twelve montlis hence, and you will find his virtues Trimly set forth in lapidary lines, Faith, with her torch beside, and little Cupids Dropping upon his urn their marble tears. LXIIL — VtlCES 0F THE DEAD. Gumming. [John Gumming, D. D., is the pastor of a Scotch Presbyterian church in the city of London. He is a popular and eloquent preacher, and the author of many works which arc favorably known in this country as well as in Europe. Among them are " Apocalyptic Sketches," " Lectures on the Parables," and «' Voices of the Night."] We die, but leave an influence behind us that survives. The echoes of our words are evermore repeated, and reflected along the ages. It is what man was that lives and acts after him. What he said sounds along the years like voices 5 amid the mountain gorges ; and what he did is repeated after him in ever multiplying and never ceasing reverber- ations. Every man has left behind him influences for good or for evil that will never exhaust themselves. The sphere in which he acts may be small, or it may be great. 10 It may be his fireside, or it may be a kingdom ; a village, or a great nation ; it may be a parish, or broad Europe ; but act he does, ceaselessly and forever. His friends, his family, his successors in office, his relatives are all recep- tive of an influence, a moral influence which he has trans- 15 mitted and bequeathed to mankind ; either a blessing which will repeat itself in showers of benedictions, or a curse which will multiply itself in ever accumulating evil. Every man is a missionary, now and forever, for good or for evil, whether he intends and designs it, or not. He 20 may be a blot, radiating his dark influence outward to the very circumference of society, or he may be a blessing, spreading benedictions over the length and breadth of the hillard's sixth reader. 201 world ; but a blank he cannot be. The seed sown in life springs up in harvests of blessings, or harvests of sorrow. Whether our influence be great or small, whether it be good or evil, it lasts, it lives somewhere, within some limit, and 5 is operative wherever it is. The grave buries the dead dust, but the character walks the world, and distributes itself, as a benediction or a curse, among the families of mankind. The sun sets beyond the western hills, but the trail of 10 light he leaves behind him guides the pilgrim to his dis- tant home. The tree falls in the forest ; but in the lapse of ages it is turned into coal, and our fires burn now the , brighter, because it grew and fell. The coral insect dies, but the reef it raised breaks the surge on the shores of 15 great continents, or has formed an isle in the bosom of the ocean, to wave with harvests for the good of man. We live and we die ; but the good or evil that we do lives after us, and is not "buried with our bones." The babe that perished on the bosom of its mother, 20 like a flower that bowed its head and drooped amid the death-frosts of time — that babe, not only in its image, but in its influence, still lives and speaks in the chambers of the mother's heart. The friend with whom we took sweet counsel is removed 25 visibly from the outward eye; but the lessons that he taught, the grand sentiments that he uttered, the holy deeds of generosity by which he was characterized, the m^ral lineaments and likeness of the man, still sur- vive, and appear in the silence of eventide, and on the 30 tablets of memory, and in the light of mom, and noon, and dewy eve ; and, being dead, he yet speaks eloquently, and in the midst of us. Mahomet still lives in his practical and disastrous in- fluence in the East. Napoleon still is France, and France 35 is almost Napoleon. Martin Luther's dead dust sleeps at Wittenburg, but Martin Luther's accents still ring through 202 hillard's sixth reader. the churches of Christendom. Shakspeare, Byron, and Mil- ton, all live in their influence, for good or evil. The apostle from his chafr, the minister from his pulpit, the martyr from his flame-shroud, the statesman from his cabinet, the 5 soldier in the field, the sailor on the deck, who all have passed away to their graves, still live in the practical deeds that they did, in the lives they lived, and in the powerful lessons that they left behind them. " None of us liveth to himself; " others are afi'ected by 10 that life ; ** or dieth to himself; " others are interested in that death. Our queen's crown may moulder, but she who wore it will act upon the ages which are yet to come. The noble's coronet may be reft in pieces, but the wearer of it is now doing what will be reflected by thousands who will 15 be made and moulded by him. Dignity, and rank, and riches, are all corruptible and worthless ; but moral char- acter has an immortality that no sword-point can destroy ; that ever walks the world and leaves lasting influences behind. 20 What we do is transacted on a stage of which all in the universe are spectators. What we say is transmitted in echoes that will never cease. What we are is influencing and acting on the rest of mankind. Neutral we cannot be. Living we act, and dead we speak ; and the whole universe 25 is the mighty company forever looking, forever listening, and all nature the tablets forever recording the words, the deeds, the thoughts, the passions, of mankind ! Monuments, and columns, and statues, erected to heroes, poets, orators, statesmen, are all influences that extend into 30 the future ages. *' The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle" •••= still speaks. The Mantuan bardf still sings in every school. Shakspeare, the bard of Avon, is still translated into every tongue. The philosophy of the Stagyrite J is still felt in every academy. Whether these influences are beneficent 35 or the reverse, they are influences fraught with power. ♦Homer. fVirgU. t Aristotle. HILLARD'S SIXTH READEll. 203 How blest must be the recollection of those who, like the setting sun, have left a trail of light behind them by which others may see the way to that rest which remaineth with the people of God ! 5 It is only the pure fountain that brings forth pure water. The good tree only will produce the good fruit. If the centre from which all proceeds is pure and holy, the radii of influence from it will be pure and holy also. Go forth, then, into the spheres that you occupy, the employments, 10 the trades, the professions of social life ; go forth into the high places or into the lowly places of the land ; mix with the roaring cataracts of social convulsions, or mingle amid the eddies and streamlets of quiet and domestic life ; what- ever sphere you fill, carrying into it a holy heart, you will 15 radiate around you life and power, and leave behind you holy and beneficent influences. LXIV. — THE EAINBtW. Anonymous. The evening was glorious, and light through the trees Played the sunshine and rain-drops, the birds and the breeze ; The landscape, outstretching in loveliness, lay On the lap of the year, in the beauty of May. For the Queen of the Spring, as she passed down the vale, Left her robe on the trees, and her breath on the gale ; And the smile of her promise gave joy to the hours, And fresh in her footsteps sprang herbage and flowers. The skies, like a banner in sunset unrolled, O'er the west threw their splendor of azure and gold ; But one cloud at a distance rose dense, and increased. Till its margin of black touched the zenith, and east. 204 hillakd's sixth reader. 4 We gazed on the scenes, while around us they glowed, When a vision of beauty appeared on the cloud ; — 'T was not like the Sun, as at mid-day we view, Kor the Moon, that rolls nightly through star-light and blue. 6 Like a spirit, it came in the van of the storm ! And the eye, and the heart, hailed its beautiful form ; For it looked not severe, like an Angel of Wrath, But its garment of brightness illumed its dark path. 6 In the hues of its grandeur, sublimely it stood, O'er the river, the village, the field, and the wood ; And river, field, village, and woodlands grew bright, As conscious they gave and afforded delight. 7 'T was the bow of Omnipotence ; bent in His hand Whose grasp at Creation the universe spanned ; 'T was the presence of God, in a symbol sublime, His vow from the flood to the exit of Time ! 8 Not dreadful, as when in the whirlwind He pleads, When storms are His chariot, and lightnings His steeds, The black clouds His banner of vengeance unfurled. And thunder His voice to a guilt-stricken world ; — 9 In the breath of his presence, when thousands expire, And seas boil with fury, and rocks burn with fire. And the sword and the plague-spot, with death strew the plain, And vultures, and wolves, are the graves of the slain : 10 Not such was the Eainbow, that beautiful one ! Whose arch was refraction, its key-stone — the Sun ; A pavilion it seemed which the Deity graced. And Justice and Mercy met there, and embraced. 205 1 1 Awhile, and it sweetly bent over the gloom, Like Love o'er a death-couch, or Hope o'er the tomb ; Then left the dark scene ; whence it slowly retired, As if Love had just vanished, or Hope had expired. 12 I gazed not 9,lone on that source of my song; To all who beheld it these verses belong ; Its presence to all was the path of the Lord; Each full heart expanded, — grew warm, and adored. 13 Like a visit — the converse of friends — or a day. That bow, from my sight, passed forever away : Like that visit, that converse, that day — to my hearty That bow from remembrance can never depart. 14 'T is a picture in memory distinctly defined, With the strong and unperishing colors of mind : A part of my being beyond my control, Beheld on that cloud, and transcribed on my souL LXV. — INCENTIVES T# DUTY. Sumner. [Charles Sumner was bom in Boston, January 6, 1811, and was graduated at Harvard College in 1830. He was admitted to the bar in 1834, and in 1837 visited Europe, where he remained till 1840, travelling' in Italy, Germany, and France, and residing nearly a year in England. On the Fourth of July, 1845, he pronounced before the municipal authorities of Boston an oration on " The True Grandeur of Nations," which was an eloquent argument against the war system of nations, and in favor of peaceful arbitration in the settlement of international questions. This oration was widely circulated, both in America and England. Having become earnestly engaged in the anti-slavery cause, he was chosen to the senate of the United States from the state of Massachusetts, in the winter of 1851, and still continues a member of that body, having been twice re-elected. He is well known for the energy and eloquence with which he has assailed the institution of slavery. His works, consisting of speeches and occasional addresses, have been published in three volumes, and are re- markable for fervid eloquence and abundant illustration. The following extract is the conclusion of a discourse pronounced before 18 206 the Phi-Beta-Kappa Society of Harvard College, at their anniversary, Au^st 27, 1846, entitled " The Scholar, the Jurist, the Artist, the rhilantliropist," and in commemoration of four deceased members of the society, John Pick- ering, Joseph Story, "Washington Allston, and William EUery Channing.] Thus have I attempted, humbly and affectionately, to bring before you the images of our departed brothers, while I dwelt on the great causes in which their lives were made manifest. Servants of Knowledge, of Justice, 5 of Beauty, of Love, they have ascended to the great Source of Knowledge, Justice, Beauty, Love. Each of our broth- ers is removed ; but though dead, yet speaketh, informing our understandings, strengthening our sense of justice, refining our tastes, enlarging our sympathies. The body 10 dies ; but the page of the Scholar, the interpretation of the Jurist, the creation of the Artist, the beneficence of the Philanthropist, cannot die. I have dwelt upon their lives and characters, less in grief for what we have lost, than in gratitude for what we 15 so long possessed, and still retain, in their precious exam- ple. In proud recollection of her departed children, Alma Mater might well exclaim, in those touching words of pa- ternal grief, that she would not give her dead sons for any living sons in Christendom. Pickering, Story, Alls- 20 ton, Channing ! A grand Quaternion ! Each, in his peculiar sphere, was foremost in his country. Each might have said, what the modesty of Demosthenes did not forbid him to boast, that, through him, his country had been crowned abroad. Their labors were wide as the 25 Commonwealth of Letters, Laws, Art, Humanity, and have found acceptance wherever these have found dominion. Their lives, which overflow with instruction, teach one persuasive lesson, which speaks alike to all of every calling and pursuit, — not to live for ourselves alone. They lived 30 for Knowledge, Justice, Beauty, Humanity. Withdrawing from the strifes of the world, from the allurements of office, and the rage for gain, they consecrated themselves to the pursuit of excellence, and each, in his own voca- hillard's sixth reader. 207 tion, to beneficent labor. They were all philanthropists ; for the labors of all promoted the welfare and happiness of mankind. In the contemplation of their generous, unselfish lives, 6 we feel the insignificance of office and wealth, which men so hotly pursue. What is office ? and what is wealth ? They are the expressions and representatives of what is present and fleeting only, investing their possessor, per- haps, with a brief and local regard. But let this not be 10 exaggerated ; let it not be confounded with the serene fame which is the reflection of important labors in great causes. The street lights, within the circle of their nightly scintillation, seem to outshine the distant stars, observed of men in all lands and times ; but gas-lamps are 15 not to be mistaken for the celestial luminaries. They, who live only for wealth and the things of this world, follow shadows, neglecting the great realities which are eternal on earth and in heaven. After the perturba- tions of life, all its accumulated possessions must be re- 20 signed, except those alone which have been devoted to God and mankind. What we do for ourselves, perishes with this mortal dust ; what we do for others, lives in the grateful hearts of all who feel or know the benefaction. Worms may destroy the body ; but they cannot consume 25 such a fame. It is fondly cherished on earth, and never forgotten in heaven. The selfish struggles of the crowd, the clamors of a false patriotism, the suggestions of a sordid ambition, can- not obscure that great commanding duty which enjoins 30 perpetual labor, without distinction of country, of color, or of race, for the welfare of the whole Human Family. In this mighty Christian cause. Knowledge, Jurisprudence, Art, Philanthropy, all are blessed ministers. More puis- sant than the Sword, they shall lead mankind from the 35 bondage of error into that service which is perfect freedom. Our departed brothers join in summoning you to this glad- 208 hillard's sixth reader. some obedience. Their examples speak for them. Go forth into the many mansions of the house of life : schol- ars ! store them with learning ; jurists ! build them with justice; artists! adorn them with beauty; philanthropists! 6 let them resound with love. Be servants of truth, each in his vocation ; doers of the word and not hearers only. Be sincere, pure in heart, earnest, enthusiastic. A virtuous enthusiasm is always self-forgetful and noble. It is the only inspiration now vouchsafed to man. Like Pickering, 10 blend humility with learning. Like Story, ascend above the Present, in place and time. Like Allston, regard fame only as the eternal shadow of excellence. Like Channing, bend in adoration before the right. Cultivate alike the wisdom of experience and the wisdom of hope. Mindful 15 of the Future, do not neglect the Past: awed by the majesty of Antiquity, turn not with indifference from the Future. True wisdom looks to the ages before us, as well as behind us. Like the Janus of the Capitol, one front thoughtfully regards the Past, rich with experience, with 20 memories, with the priceless traditions of virtue ; the other is earnestly directed to the All Hail Hereafter, richer still with its transcendent hopes and unfulfilled prophecies. We stand on the threshold of a new age, which is pre- 25 paring to recognize new influences. The ancient divinities of Violence and Wrong are retreating to their kindred darkness. There 's a fount about to stream, There 's a light about to beam, SO There 's a warmth about to glow, There 's a flower about to blow ; There 's a midnight blackness changing Into gray ; Men of thought, and men of action, 35 Clear the way. Aid tlie daM^ning, tongue and pen; ^Aid it, hopes of honest men; hillaed's sixth readek. 209 Aid it, paper ; aid it, type ; Aid it, for the liour is ripe. And our earnest must not slacken Into play ; 6 Men of thought, and men of action, Clear the way. The age of Chivalry has gone. An age of Humanity has come. The Horse, whose importance more than human, gave the name to that early period of gallantry and war," 10 now yields his foremost place to Man. In serving him, in promoting his elevation, in contributing to his welfare, in doing him good, there are fields of bloodless triumph, nobler far than any in which the bravest knight ever con- quered. Here are spaces of labor, wide as the world, lofty 15 as heaven. Let me say, then, in the benison once bestowed upon the youthful knight, — Scholars ! jurists ! artists ! philanthropists ! heroes of a Christian age, companions of a celestial knighthood, " Go forth, be brave, loyal, and successful ! " 20 And may it be our office to-day to light a fresh beacon- fire on the venerable walls of Harvard, sacred to Truth, to Christ, and the Church, — to Truth Immortal, to Christ the Comforter, to the Holy Church Universal. Let the flame spread from steeple to steeple, from hill to hill, from 25 island to island, from continent to continent, till the long lineage of fires shall illumine all the nations of the earth ; animating them to the holy contests of Knowledge, Jus- tice, Beauty, Love. LXVL — ADDEESS T0 THE SUN. OSSIAN. THOU that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers ! Whence are thy beams, sun ! thy everlasting ♦Chivalry is derived from clieval, the French word for a horse. 18* 210 hillaed's sixth reader. light ? Thou comest forth, in thy awful beauty, and the stars hide themselves in the sky ; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself mo vest alone : who can be a companion of thy course ? The oaks of the 5 mountains fall; the mountains themselves decay with years ; the ocean shrinks and grows again ; the moon her- self is lost in heaven ; but thou art forever the same, re- joicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests ; when thunder rolls, and lightning 10 flies ; thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian, thou lookest in vain ; for he beholds thy beams no more, whether thy yel- low hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west But thou art, perhaps, like me, for 15 a season, and thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult then sun, in the strength of thy youth ! Age is dark and unlovely ; it is like the glimmering light of the ' moon, when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist 20 is on the hills ; the blast of the north is on the plain, the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey. LXVIL — THE BUEIAL «E AEN0LD.<» , N. P. Willis. [Mr. Willis ia«MMMg,.il4M0filiagRg«iMr in prose and verse. He is a grad- uate of Yale Colleg-e, of the class of 1827. His prose writings fill many vol- umes, comprising travels, tales, essays, sketches of life and manners, and de- scriptions of natural scenery. His style is airy and graceful, his perception of beauty keen and discriminating, and his descriptive powers of a high order. Few men can present a visible scene, a landscape, or a natural object more dis- tinctly to the eye. His poetry has the same general characteristics. It is sweet, flowing, and musical, and, in its best specimens, marked by truth of sentiment and delicacy of feeling. He has been for many years one of the editors of the " Home Journal," a weekly newspaper published in New York, and has resided upon the Hudson River. The fine sketches of the scenery in A member of the senior class In Yale College. 211 his neighborhood which have from time to time appeared in his paper have thrown a new interest over that noble river, already graced with so many his- torical and literary associations. Mr. Willis, of late years, has written less poetry than could be wished by those who remember and admire the grace and sweetness of so many of hia early productions.] 1 Ye 'vE gathered to your place of prayer, With slow and measured tread : Your ranks are full, your mates all there — r> But the soul of one has fled. ^^ He was the proudest in his strength, The manliest of ye all ; Why lies he at that fearful length, And ye around his pall ? 2 Ye reckon it in days, since he Strode up that foot- worn aisle, With his dark eye flashing gloriously. And his lip wreathed with a smile. Aj^- 0, had it been but told you then, fy' To mark whose lamp was dim, From out yon rank of fresh-lipped men, Would ye have singled him ? Whose was the sinewy arm, which flung Defiance to the ring ? Whose laugh of victory loudest rung, But not for glorying ? Whose heart, in generous deed and thought, No rivalry might brook, And yet distinction claiming not ? There lies he — go and look ! 4 On now — his requiem is done, The last deep prayer is said — On to his burial, comrades — on. With the noblest of the dead ! 212 hillard's sixth eeadee. Slow — for it presses heavily — It is a man ye bear ! Slow, for our thoughts dwell wearily On the noble sleeper there. Tread lightly, comrades ! — we have laid His dark locks on his brow — Like life — save deeper light and shade — We '11 not disturb them now. ^ Tread lightly — for 't is beautiful, That blue-veined eyelid's sleep, Hiding the eye death left so dull — Its slumber we will keep. ¥ 6 Best now ! — his journeying is done — Your feet are on his sod — Death's chain is on your champion — \»^ He waiteth here his God ! Xf Ay — turn and weep — 't is manliness '^ To be heart-broken here — For the grave of earth's best nobleness Is watered by the tear. LXVIIL— THE FUTUKE ®E AMEKICA. Webster. [Conclusion of a Discourse delivered at Plymouth, Massachusetts, December 2, 1820, iu commemoration of the first settlement in New England.] Let us not forget the religious character of our origin. Our fathers were brought hither by their high veneration for the Christian religion. They journeyed in its light, and labored in its hope. They sought to incorporate its 5 principles with the elements of their society, and to diffuse its influence through all their institutions, civil, political, hillard's sixth reader. 213 and literary. Let us cherish these sentiments, and extend their influence still more widely ; in the full conviction that that is the happiest society which partakes in the highest degree of the mild and peaceable spirit of Chris- 5 tianity. The hours of this day are rapidly flying, and this occa- sion will soon be passed. Neither we nor our children can expect to behold its return. They are in the distant regions of futurity, they exist only in the all-creating power of 10 God, who shall stand here, a hundred years hence, to trace, through us, their descent from the pilgrims, and to survey, as we have now surveyed, the progress of their country during the lapse of a century. We would anticipate their concurrence with us in our sentiments of deep regard for 15 our common ancestors. We would anticipate and partake the pleasure with which they will then recount the steps of New England's advancement. On the morning of that day, although it will not disturb us in our repose, the voice of acclamation and gratitude, commencing on the rock of 20 Plymouth, shall be transmitted through millions of the sons of the pilgrims, till it lose itself in the murmurs of the Pacific seas. We would leave, for the consideration of those who shall then occupy our places, some proof that we hold the bless- 25 ings transmitted from our Withers in just estimation ; some proof of our attachment to the cause of good government, and of civil and religious liberty ; some proof of a sincere and ardent desire to promote everything which may enlarge the understandings and improve the hearts of men. And 30 when, from the long distance of a hundred years, they shall look back upon us, they shall know, at least, that we possessed afi"ections, which, running backward, and warm- ing with gratitude for what our ancestors have done for our happiness, run forward also to our posterity, and meet 35 them with cordial salutation, ere yet they have arrived on the shore of Being. 214 hillaed's sixth reader. Advance, then, ye future generations ! We would hail you as you rise in your long succession to fill the places which we now fill, and to taste the blessings of existence where we are passing, and soon shall have passed, our 5 human duration. We bid you welcome to this pleasant land of the Fathers. We bid you welcome to the healthful skies and the verdant fields of New England. We greet your accession to the great inheritance which we have enjoyed. We welcome you to the blessings of good gov- 10 crnmcnt and religious liberty. We welcome you to the treasures of science and the delights of learning. We welcome you to the transcendent sweets of domestic life, • to the happiness of kindred and parents and children. We welcome you to the immeasurable blessings of rational ex- 15 istence, the immortal hope of Christianity, and the light of everlasting Truth ! LXIX. — ALL THINGS ARE OF G@D. Moore. [Thomas Moore was born in Dublin, May 28, 1779, and died February 26, 1862. His first work, a translation of the " Odes of Anacreon," publislied in 1800, was received with mucli favor; and from that time lie was constantly before the public, a"^j(,g| «i poet, rose to a popularity second only to that of Byron or Scott. His loj^est poem, " Lallallookh," is a brilliant and gorgeous production, glowing with the finest hues of Oriental painting, and true in its details; but it cloys the mind witii its excess of imaj^cry and the luxuriant sweetness of its versification. His " Loves of the Angels," another poem of some length, was a comparative failure. Moore's greatest strength is shown in his songs, ballads, and lyric effusions. In these, his vivid fancy, his sparkling wit, his rich command of poetical ex- pression, his love of ornament, and his sense of music find an appropriate sphere. His Irish Melodies, especially, are of great excellence in their Avay. They are the truest and most earnest things he ever wrote. In many of his productions there is more or less of make-believe sentiment ; but here we feel the pulse of truth. The web of Moore's poetry, however, is more remarkable for the richness of its coloring than the fineness of its texture. He is not a very careful writer, and does not bear a rigid verbal criticism. Moore's satirical and humorous poems — of which he wrote many — are per- haps entitled to ev(ni a higher comparative rank than his serious productions, because they are suth genuine and natural expressions of his mind. He was full of wit and animal spirits, aud seemed to take positive delight iu darting hillard's sixth reader. 215 his pointed and g^littoring shafts against literary and political opponents. In these lighter effusions, also, we do not require the depth of feeling, the moral tone, and tlie dignity of scutimeut, which we seek — and seek in vaiu' — in his serious poetry. Many of them, however, were called forth by the passing occurrences of the day and have lost their interest with the occasion that gave them birih. In the latter years of his life, Moore was a diligent laborer in the trade of literature, and wrote many works in prose; among them, " Lives of Sheridan and liyron," " The Epicurean," a tale, " The History of Ireland," a production of much research, " The Life of Captain llock," " Travels of an Irish Gentle- man in Search of a Religion," &c. His prose writings, in general, have not added nmch to his literary reputation. Moore's private character was amiable and respectable on the whole, but he was a little too inclined to pay court to persons of higher social position than himself. He was a devoted and excellent son, and without reproach in his domestic relations. He had some knowledge of music, and sang his own songs with great taste and feeling : this accomplishment and his brilliant con-, versational powers made him a great favorite in society.] 1 Thou art, God, the life and light J Of all this wondrous world we see ; Its glow by day, its smile by night, Are but reflections caught from thee. Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are thine. 2 When day, with farewell beam, delays Among the opening clouds of even, And we can almost think we gaze Through opening vistas into heaven, Those hues that make the sun's decline So soft, so radiant, Lord, are thine. When night, with wings of starry gloom, O'ershadows all the earth and skies, Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes, That sacred gloom, those fires divine, So grand, so countless. Lord, are thine. When youthful spring around us breathes, Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh, 216 HILLAi;i;'s SIXTH HEADER. And every flower that Summer wreathes Is born beneath thy kindling eye : Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are thine. LXX. — GX THE PLEASURE $F ACQUIRING KNOWLEDGE. Alisox. [AnCHTBA^D AOSON waa born in Edinburgh, Scotland, November 13, 1757, and died tliere May 17, isao. He was a clergyman of the Church of Eng^Iaud. Ho wrote " Essays on the Nature and Principles of Taste," a much admind work, which passed through several editions. He also published two volumes of sermons, which obtained a wide-spread poi)uliirity both in England and Auior- ica. Their reputation has subsequently declined, and they are less remarkable for vigor of thought than for finished elegance of composition.] In every period of life, the acquisition of knowledge is one of the most pleasing employments of the human mind. But in youth, there are circumstances which make it pro- ductive of higher enjoyment. It is then that everything 5 has the charm of novelty ; that curiosity and fancy are awake ; and that the heart swells with the anticipations of future eminence and utility. Even in those lower branches of instruction, which we call mere accomplishments, there is something always pleasing to the young in their acquisi- 10 tion. They seem to become every well-educated person ; they adorn, if they do not dignify, humanity ; and, what is far more, while they give an elegant employment to the hours of leisure and relaxation, they afford a means of contributing to the purity and innocence of domestic life. 15 But in the acquisition of knowledge of the higher kind, — in the hours when the young gradually begin the study of the laws of nature and of the faculties of the human mind, or of the magnificent revelations of the Gospel, — there is a pleasure of a sublimer nature. The cloud, which in their infant years seemed to cover nature from their view, begins hillaed's sixth reader. 217 gradually to resolve. The world, in which they are placed, opens with all its wonders upon their eye ; their powers of attention and observation seem to expand with the scene before them; and, while they see, for the first time, the immensity of the universe of God, and mark the majestic simplicity of those laws by which its operations are con- ducted, they feel as if they were awakened to a higher species of being, and admitted into nearer intercourse with the Author of Nature. 10 It is this period, accordingly, more than all others, that determines our hopes or fears of the future fate of the young. To feel no joy in such pursuits; to listen care- lessly to the voice which brings such magnificent instruc- tion ; to see the veil raised which conceals the counsels of 15 the Deity, and to show no emotion at the discovery, — are symptoms of a weak and torpid spirit, — of a mind unwor- thy of the advantages it possesses, and fitted only for the humility of sensual and ignoble pleasure. Of those, on the contrary, who distinguish themselves by the love of 20 knowledge, who follow with ardor the career that is open to them, we are apt to form the most honorable presages. It is the character which is natural to youth, and which, therefore, promises well of their maturity. We foresee for them, at least, a life of pure and virtuous enjoyment, and 25 we are willing to anticipate no common share of future usefulness and splendor. In the second place, the pursuits of knowledge lead not only to happiness but to honor. " Length of days is in her right hand, and in her left are riches and honor." It 30 is honorable to excel even in the most trifling species of knowledge, in those which can amuse only the passing hour. It is more honorable to excel in those difierent branches of science which are connected with the liberal professions of life? and which tend so much to the dignity 85 and well-being of humanity. It is the means of raising the most obscure to esteem 19 218 hillard's sixth readep and attention ; it opens to the just ambition of youth some of tlie most distinguished and respected situations in soci- ety ; and it places them there, with the consoling reflection, that it is to their own industry and labor, in the provi- 5 dence of God, that they are alone indebted for them. But, to excel in the higher attainments of knowledge, to be distinguished in those greater pursuits which have com- manded the attention and exhausted the abilities of the wise in every former age, — is, perhaps, of all' the dis- 10 tinctions of human understanding, the most honorable and grateful. When we look back upon the great men who have gone before us in every path of glory, we feel our eye turn from the career of war and ambition, and involuntarily rest upon 15 those who have displayed the great truths of religion, who have investigated the laws of social welfare, or extended the sphere of human knowledge. These are honors, we feel, which have been gained without a crime, and which can be enjoyed without remorse. They are honors also 20 which can never die, — which can shed lustre even upon the humblest head, — and to which the young of every I succeeding age will look up, as their brightest incentives > to the pursuit of virtuous fame. LXXI. — HYMN AT THE C0NSECKATION OF A CEMETEEY. Newell. [This beautiful hymn was sung at the consecration of a cemetery belonging to the city of Cambridge, in October, 1854. It was written by the Rev. Wil- liam Newell, a graduate of Harvard College of the class of 1824, and pastor of the First Congregational Church in Cambridge. Dr. Newell has published very little ; but this poem shows him to be capable of giving beautiful expres- sion to genuine Beligious feeling.] 1 Changing, fading, falling, flying From the homes that gave them birth, HILLARI>'8 SIXTH READER. 219 Autumn leaves, in "beauty dying. Seek the mother breast of earth. 2 Soon shall all the songless wood Shiver in the deepening snow, Mourning in its solitude, Like some Kachel in her woe. 3 Slowly sinks yon evening sun, Softly wanes the cheerful light. And — the twelve hours' labor done — Onward sweeps the solemn night. 4 So on many a home of gladness Falls, Death, thy winter gloom ; Stands there still in doubt and sadness, Many a Mary at the tomb. 6 But the genial spring, returning. Will the sylvan pomp renew, And the new-bom flame of morning Kindle rainbows in the dew. 6 So shall God, His promise keeping. To the world by Jesus given, "VVake our loved ones, sweetly sleeping, At the breaking dawn of heaven. 7 Light from darkness ! Life from death I Dies the body, not the soul ; Trom the chrysalis beneath Soars the spirit to its goal. 8 Father, when the mourners come With the slowly moving bier, Weeping at the open tomb 220 hillard's sixth reader. 9 Breathe into the "bleeding heart Hopes that die not with the dead ; And the peace of Christ impart When the joys of life have fled I LXXIL — THE C«NQUEK#E'S GRAVE. Bryant. [This poem, which appeared originally in "Putnam's Magazine," is one of the most beautiful compositions that ever was written; admirable in senti- ment, admirable in expression. From such poetry we learn how much we owe to those poets whose genius is under the control of moral feeling; who make the imagination and the sense of beauty ministering servants at the altar of the highest good and the highest truth.] 1 Within this lowly grave a conqueror lies ; And yet the monument proclaims it not, Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought The emblems of a fame that never dies — Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf. A simple name alone. To the great world unknown, Is graven here, and wild flowers rising round, Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground, Lean lovingly against the humble stone. 2 Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart No man of iron mould and bloody hands, Who sought to wreak upon the cowering lands The passions that consumed his restless heart; But one of tender spirit and delicate frame, Gentlest in mien and mind Of gentle womankind, Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame ; One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May ; hillard's sixth reader. 221 Yet at the thought of others' pain, a shade Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away. Nor deem that when the hand that moulders here Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear, And armies mustered at the sign, as when Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy east, — Gray captains leading bands of veteran men And fiery youths to be the vultures' feast. Not thus were waged the mighty wars that gave The victory to her who fills this grave ; Alone her task was wrought ; Alone the battle fought ; Through that long strife her constant hope was staid On God alone, nor looked for other aid. She met the hosts of sorrow with a look That altered not beneath the frown they wore ; And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took Meekly her gentle rule, and frowned no more. Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath, And calmly broke in twain The fiery shafts of pain. And rent the nets of passion from her path. By that victorious hand despair was slain : With love she vanquished hate, and overcame Evil with good in her great Master's name. Her glory is not of this shadowy state. Glory that with the fleeting season dies ; But when she entered at the sapphire gate, What joy was radiant in celestial eyes ! How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung, And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung ! And He who, long before. Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore, 19* 222 hillard's sixth reader. -- The mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet, Smiled on the timid stranger from His seat — He who, returning glorious from the grave, Dragged death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave. 6 See, as I linger here, the sun grows low ; Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near. gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go Consoled, though sad, in hope, and yet in fear. Brief is the time, I know, The warfare scarce begun ; Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won ; Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee. The victors' names are yet too few to fill Heaven's mighty roll ; the glorious armory That ministered to thee is open still. LXXIIL — THE BIBLE. Study how to be wise ; and in all your gettings get understanding. And especially would I urge upon your soul- wrapt attention that Book upon which all feelings, all opinions are concentrated; which enlightens the judgment, 6 while it enlists the sentiments, and soothes the imagination in songs upon the harp of the ** sweet songster of Israel." The Book which gives you a faithful insight into your heart, and consecrates its character in *' Shrines, 10 Such as the keen tooth of time can never touch." Would you know the effect of that Book upon the heart ? It purifies its thoughts and sanctifies its joys; it nerves and strengthens it for sorrow and the mishaps of life ; and when these shall have ended and the twilight of death is hillard's sixth reader. 223 spreading its dew-damp upon tlie wasting features, it pours upon the last glad throb the bright and streaming light of Eternity's morning. Oh ! have you ever stood beside the couch of a dying saint, when 5 " Without a sigh, A change of feature or a shaded smile, He gave his hand to the stern messenger, And as a glad child seeks his father's arms, Went home ? " 10 Then you have seen the deep, the penetrating influence of this Book. Would you know its name ? It is the Book of Books — its author, Grod — its theme. Heaven, Eternity. The Bible ! Bead it, search it. Let it be first upon the shelves 15 of your library, and first in the affections of your heart. " Search the Scriptures, for in them ye think ye have eternal life; and they are they which testify of me." Oh ! if there be sublimity in the contemplation of God — if there be grandeur in the display of Eternity — if there be anything 20 ennobling and purifying in the revelation of man's salvation, search the Scriptures, for they are they which testify of these things. LXXIV. — G«D Derzhavin [Gabriel Romano vitch Derzhavix, a Russian lyrical poet, was born itt Kasan, July 3, 1743, and died July 6, 1816. He gained distinction in the mili- tary and civil service of his country, and was made secretary of state in 1791 by Catharine II. The following- poem has been translated, not only into many European languages, but into those of China and Japan. It is said to have been hung up in the palace of the Emperor of China, printed in gold letters on white satin. Sir John Bowring-, in his " Specimens of the Russian Poets," published in 1821, was the first person who made the readers of England and America acquainted with the writings of Derzhavin and other Russian poets.] 1 THOU eternal One ! whose presence bright All space doth occupy, all motion guide : 224 hillakd's sixth reader. Unchanged through time's all devastating flight; Thou only God ! There is no God beside ! Being above all beings ! Mighty One ! Whom none can comprehend and none explore ; Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone : Embracing all, — supporting, — ruling o'er, — Being whom we call God — and know no more ! 2 In its sublime research, philosophy May measure out the ocean-deep — may count The sands or the sun's rays — but God ! for Thee There is no weight nor measure : — none can mount Up to thy mysteries. Eeason's brightest spark, Though kindled by thy light, in vain would try To trace thy counsels, infinite and dark : And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high, Even like past moments in eternity. 3 Thou from primeval nothingness didst call First chaos, then existence : — Lord ! on thee Eternity had its foundation : — all Sprung forth from thee : — of light, joy, harmony, Sole origin : — all life, all beauty thine. Thy word created all, and doth create ; Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine. Thou art, and wert, and shalt be ! Glorious ! Great ! Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate ! 4 Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround, Upheld by thee, by thee inspired with breath ! Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, And beautifully mingled life and deatli ! As sparks mount upwards from the fiery blaze. So suns are born, so worlds sprung forth from thee : And as the spangles in the sunny rays Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry Of heaven's bright army glitters in thy praise. hillard's sixth keadek. 225 A million torches lighted by thy hand Wander unwearied through the blue abyss : They own thy power, accomplish thy command, All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. What shall we call them ? Piles of crystal light — A glorious company of golden streams — Lamps of celestial ether burning bright — Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams ? But thou to these art as the noon to night. Yes ! as a drop of water in the 'sea, All this magnificence in thee is lost : — What are ten thousand worlds compared to thee ? And what am / then ? Heaven's unnumbered host, Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed In all the glory of sublimest thought, Is but an atom in the balance ; weighed Against thy greatness, is a cipher brought Against infinity ! 0, what am I then ? Nought ! Nought ! yet the effluence of thy light divine. Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too ; Yes ! in my spirit doth thy spirit shine. As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. Nought ! yet I live, and on hope's pinions fly Eager towards thy presence ; for in thee I live, and breathe, and dwell ; aspiring high, Even to the throne of thy divinity. I am, God I and surely thou must be ! Thou art ! directing, guiding all, thou art ! Direct my understanding, then, to thee ; Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart: Though but an atom midst immensity, Still I am something, fashioned by thy hand ! I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth, On the last verge of mortal being stand, 22Q hillard's sixth reader. Close to the realms where angels have their birth, Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land ! 9 The chain of being is complete in me ; In me is matter's last gradation lost, And the next step is spirit — Deity ! I can command the lightning, and am dust I A monarch, and a slave ; a worm, a god ! Whence came I here ? and how so marvellously Constructed and conceived ? unknown ! this clod Lives surely through some higher eneigy ; For from itself alone it could not be ! 10 Creator, yes ! thy wisdom and thy word Created me ! thou source of life and good I Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord I Thy light, thy love, in their bright plenitude Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear The garments of eternal day, and wing Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere. Even to its source — to thee — its Author there. 11 thoughts ineffable ! visions blest ! Though worthless our conceptions all of thee, Yet shall thy shadowed image fill our breast, And waft its homage to thy Deity. God ! thus alone my lonely thoughts can soar ; Thus seek thy presence. Being wise and good ! Midst thy vast works admire, obey, adore ; And when the tongue is eloquent no more, The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. hillard's sixth reader.> 227 LXXY. — THE INTE®DUCTION ©F CHKISTIANITY INT# EUKf PE. IDE. [George B. Ide, D. D., is a native of Vermont, and a graduate of Middle- bury College in that State. He has been for some years pastor of the First Bap- tist Ch. in Spring-fleld, Mass. His sermons, many of which have been printed, are marked by vigor of expression and a fertile fancy. He has written several popular hymns, and is the author of *' Green Hollow, or the Power of Kind- ness," a story of real life. Troas was a region in the northwest part of Asia Minor, ruled over by the ancient kings of Ilium, or Troy, a famous city taken by the Greeks under com- mand of Agamemnon. Tenedos is a small island off the coast of Troas. Phi- lippi was a town in Macedonia, in the northern part of Greece. lUyricum, now lUyria, is a country lying on the east coast of the Adriatic] At tlie port of Troas, a spot rich in memories of the olden time, with the ruins of Ilium in the distance, and the classic waves of the iEgean breaking at their feet, were now assembled Paul, Silas, Timothy, and Luke — four 5 obscure and unknown voyagers, but bound on a mightier mission than had ever before been wafted over these far- famed waters. Across the narrow strait on which they gazed, the ships of Greece had come to the siege of Troy, and full in their 10 view lay the renowned Tenedos. Along the very coast where they stood, the myriads of Xerxes had proudly marched, while his fleet covered the sea. And, in later days, the same isle-gemmed billows had been ploughed by many a Koman galley, exulting in the pomp of victory. But never 15 had they borne a freight so precious, or one charged with such vast results as that which was now to be committed to their keeping. A lowly bark, whose name no historian has recorded, and no poet has sung, puts forth from the haven and wooes 20 the favoring breeze. No sound of trumpet announces its departure ; no shouting multitudes cheer it on its way ; no banners floating from its masts proclaim the greatness of its embassy. And yet it bears destinies more grand than those of Agamemnon or Alexander. 228 hillard's sixth reader. - On its deck, in the persons of those toil-worn and unre- garded wayfarers, stand the messengers of the living God ; and in the simple doctrine of a crucified Christ, which they go to publish, there resides an all-conquering power, which 5 shall prostrate the idolatry of Greece, silence its oracles, confound its philosophy, and pour upon its population the beams of heavenly truth ; and which, spreading that truth to the farthest regions of the West, shall elevate its bar- barian hordes to the pinnacle of civilization, and render 10 them centres of intellectual and moral light to the again darkened East. Speeded by propitious gales, the little craft reaches its destination. Paul treads the heroic soil of Macedon, and begins, at Philippi, that series of evangelical conflicts and 15 successes, in which, through all the provinces of Greece, from Corinth to lUyricum, he "fully preached the gospel of Christ." LXXVL-^W^LSEY AND CROMWELL. Shakspeake. [The following scene is taken from the historical play of "King Henry VIII." Cardinal "Wolsey had been prime minister of England, the possessor of enormous wealth and unbounded power, but, in losing the favor of the king, had lost all. Cromwell was a friend and member of his household, who remained faithful to his benefactor in his fallen fortunes.] WoL. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness I This is the state of man : To-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes ; to-morrow blossoms. And bears his blushing honors thick upon him ; 5 The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost, And — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening — nips his root ; And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 10 This many summers, in a sea of glory ; But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride hillaed's sixth readee. 229 At length broke under me, and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye ; 5 I feel my heart new opened. 0, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors ! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,"' More pangs and fears than wars or women have ; 10 And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again. — Enter Cromwell, amazedly. Why, how now, Cromwell ? Crom. I have no power to speak, sir. 15 WoL. What, amazed At my misfortunes ? Can thy spirit wonder A great man should decline ? Nay, an you weep I am fallen indeed. Crom. How does your grace ? 20 WoL. Why, well ; Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. I know myself now ; and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me, — 25 1 humbly thank his grace, — and from these shoulders. These ruined pillars, out of pity, taken A load would sink a navy — too much honor. 0, 't is a burden, Cromwell, 't is a burden, Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven. 30, Crom. I am glad your grace has made that right use of it WoL. I hope I have. I am able now, methinks, (Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,) To endure more miseries, and greater far, * That is, the ruiu which princes inflict. 20 230 hillard's sixth reader. Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. "What news abroad ? Crom. The heaviest, and the worst, Is your displeasure with the king. 5 WoL. God bless him ! Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord chancellor, in your place. WoL. That 's somewhat sudden ; But he 's a learned man. May he continue 10 Long in his highness's favor, and do justice For truth's sake, and his conscience ; that his bones, When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings. May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on 'em ! What more ? 15 Crom. That Cranmer is returned with welcome, Installed lord archbishop of Canterbury. WoL. That 's news, indeed. Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne,** Whom the king hath in secrecy long married, 20 This day was viewed in open, as his queen. Going to chapel ; and the voice is now Only about her coronation. WoL. There was the weight that pulled me down ! O Cromwell, 25 The king has gone beyond me ; all my glories In that one woman I have lost forever. No sun shall ever usher forth mine honors. Or gild again the noble troops that waited Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell j 30 I am a poor, fallen man, unworthy now To be thy lord and master. Seek the king : That sun, I pray, may never set ! I have told him What, and how true thou art ; he will advance thee ; Some little memory of me will stir him * Anne Bolejm, the second wife of King Henry VIII hillard's sixth reader. 231 (I know his noble nature) not to let Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell, Neglect him not ; make use now, and provide Tor thine own future safety. 5 Crom. my lord, Must I then leave you ? Must I needs forego So good, so noble, and so true a master ? Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, "With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord. 10 The king shall have my service ; but my prayers Forever, and forever, shall be yours. "WoL. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me, Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 16 Let 's dry our eyes ; and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; And, — when I am forgotten, as I shall be. And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, — say, I taught thee ; Say, Wolsey — that once trod the ways of glory, 20 And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor -^ Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it, Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition : 25 By that sin fell the angels : how can man, then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't ? Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that hate thee ; Corruption wins not more than honesty : Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 30 To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not. Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's ; then, if thou fall'st, Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blessed martyr ! Serve the king ; And Prithee, lead me in : 35 There take an inventory of all I have, To the last penny ; 't is the king's ; my robe, 2B2 And my integrity to Heaven, is all I dare now call mine own. Cromwell, Cromwell, Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies. Crom. Good sir, have patience. "WoL. So I have. Farewell The hopes of court ! my hopes in heaven do dwell. LXXVIL — THE DEAF MAN'S GEAVE. Wo KDS WORTH. [William Wordsworth was bom at Cockermouth, in the county of Cum- T)erland, England, April 7, 1770, and died April 23, 1850. His life was passed for the most part in that beautiful region of England where he was born, and with which so much of his poetry is inseparably associated. He made his first appearance as an author in 1793, by the publication of a thin quarto volume of poems, which did not attract much attention. Indeed, for many years his poetry made little impression on the general public, and that not of a favora- ble kind. The " Edinburgh Review," — the great authority in matters of lit- erary taste — set its face against him; and Wordsworth's own style and man- ner were so peculiar, and so unlike those of the poetry which was popular at the time, that he was obliged to create the taste by which he himself was judged. As time went on, his influence and popularity increased, and many years before his death he enjoyed a fame and consideration which in its calm- ness and serenity resembled the unbiassed judgment of posterity. Wordsworth's popularity has never been of that comprehensive kind which Scott and liyron possessed. He had many intense admirers ; but there were also many who were insensible to his claims, and many who admired him only with qualifications and limitations. He is often cold, languid, and prosaic. He is deficient in the power of presenting pictures. He often attempts to give poetical interest to themes which lie entirely out of the domain of poetry. He has no humor, and no sense of the ludicrous ; and many of his poems are obnoxious to the attack of ridicule. But on the other hand, there are very great and enduring excellences. Among these are most careful precision and accuracy of diction, a minute acquaintance and deep sympathy with nature, power and tenderness in the expression of the domestic affections, a philosophical insight into the workings of the human soul, lofty dignity of sentiment, and in his best passages, a serene, imaginative grandeur akin to that of Milton. Wordsworth's character was pure and high. He was reserved in manner, and somewhat exclusive in his tastes and sympathies ; but his friends were warmly attached to him. His domestic affections were strong and deep. His life has been published, since his decease, by his nephew, the Rev. Chris- topher Wordsworth, and republished in this country. In Coleridge's "Biog- IIILLAED'S sixth KEADEIl. 233 raphia TJtpraria," there is an admirable review of his poetical genius, in which praise is bestowed generously and discriminatingly, and defects are pointed out with a loving- and reverent hand. The following extract is from the seventh book of " The Excursion," a de- Bcriptive and philosophical poem in twelve books.] 1 Almost at the root Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare And slender stem, while here I sit at eve, Oft stretches towards me like a long straight path, Traced faintly in the greensward ; there, beneath A plain blue stone, a gentle dalesman lies, From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn The precious gift of hearing. 2 He grew up Prom year to year in loneliness of soul ; And this deep mountain valley was to him Soundless with all its streams. The bird of dawn Did never rouse this cottager from sleep With startling summons : not for his delight The vernal cuckoo shouted ; not for him Murmured the laboring bee. When stormy winds Were working the broad bosom of the lake Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves, Booking the trees, and driving cloud on cloud, Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags, The agitated scene before his eye Was silent as a picture : evermore Were all things silent wheresoe'er he moved/ 3 Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts' Upheld, he duteously pursued the round Of rural labors ; the steep mountain-side Ascended with his staff and faithful dog ; • The plough he guided, and the scythe he swayed 7^ And the ripe corn before his sickle fell Among the jocund reapers. For himself, 20* ^4 HILLARD's sixth REM)E«. All watchful and industrious as he was, He wrought not ; neither field nor flock he owned : No wish for wealth had place within his mind ; Nor husband's love, nor father's hope or care. 4 Though bom a younger brother, need was none That from the floor of his paternal home He should depart, to plant himself anew. And when, mature in manhood, he beheld His parents laid in earth, no loss ensued Of rights to him ; but he remained well pleased, By the pure bond of independent love, An inmate of a second family. The fellow laborer and friend of him To whom the small inheritance had fallen. 6 Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight That pressed upon his brother's house ; for books Were ready comrades whom he could not tire, — Of whose society the blameless man Was never satiate. Their familiar voice, Even to old age, with unabated charm Beguiled his leisure hours ; refreshed his thoughts ; Beyond its natural elevation raised His introverted spirit ; and bestowed Upon his life an outward dignity Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night, The stormy day, had each its own resource — Song of the muses, sage historic tale, Science severe, or word of holy writ Announcing immortality and joy To the assembled spirits of the just. Prom imperfection and decay secure. 6 Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field, To no perverse suspicion he gave way, hillard's sixth reader. 235 Ko languor, peevishness, nor vain complaint : And they who were about him did not fail ^ In reverence, or in courtesy ; they prized His gentle manners ; and his peaceful smiles, The gleams of his slow- varying countenance, Were met with answering sympathy and love. At length, when sixty years and five were told, A slow disease insensibly consumed The powers of nature ; and a few short steps Of friends and kindred bore him from his home (Yon cottage shaded by the woody crags) To the profounder stillness of the grave. Nor was his funeral denied the grace Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful grief. Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude. And now that monumental stone preserves His name, and unambitiously relates How long, and by what kindly outward aids, And in what pure contentedness of mind. The sad privation was by him endured. And yon tall pine-tree, whose composing sound "Was wasted on the good man's living ear, Hath now its own peculiar sanctity ; And, at the touch of every wandering breeze, Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave. LXXYIIL— FEMALE EDUCATION. Everett. [From an address at the dedication of the Everett School House, Boston, September 17, 18G0.] The school-house, whose dedication we are assembled to witness, is for the accommodation of a girls' school ; and this circumstance seems to invite a few words on female educa- 236 iiillard's sixth reader. tion. There is a good deal of discussion at the present day on the subject of Women's Eights. No one would be willing to allow that he wished to deprive them of their rights, and the only difficulty seems to be to settle what their 5 rights are. The citizens of Boston, acting by their munici- pal representatives, have long since undertaken to answer this question in a practical way (always better than a metaphysical solution of such questions), as far as a city government can do it, by admitting the right of the girls 10 to have, at the public expense, as good an education as the boys. It is not in the power of the city to amend our con- stitutions, if amendment it would be, so as to extend polit- ical privileges to the gentler sex, nor to alter the legislation which regulates the rights of property. But it was in the 15 power of the city to withhold or to grant equal privileges of education ; and it has decided that the free grammar schools of Boston should be open alike to boys and girls. This seems to me not only a recognition, at the outset, of the most important of Women's Eights — equal partici- 20 pation in these institutions — but the best guaranty that, if in anything else the sex is unjustly or unfairly dealt with, the remedy will come in due time. AVith the ac- knowledged equality of woman in general intellectual en- dowments, though tending in either sex to an appropriate 25 development ; with her admitted superiority to man in tact, sensibility, physical and moral endurance, quickness of per- ception, and power of accommodation to circumstances, — give her for two or three generations equal advantages of mental culture, and the lords of creation, as you, Mr. 30 Chairman, have called them, will have to carry more guns than they do at present, to keep her out of the enjoyment of anything, which sound reasoning and fair experiment shall show to be of her rights. I have, however, strong doubts, whether, tried by this 35 test, the result would be a participation in the performance of the political duties which the experience of the human iiillard's sixth readek. 237 race, in all ages, has nearly confined to the coarser sex. I do not rest this opinion solely on the fact that those duties do not seem congenial with the superior delicacy of women, or compatible with the occupations which nature 5 assigns to her in the domestic sphere. I think it would be found, on trial, that nothing would be^ gained, nothing changed for the better, by putting the sexes on the same footing, with respect, for instance, to the right of suffrage. Whether the wives and sisters agreed with the husbands 10 and brothers, or differed from them, as this agreement or difference would, in the long run, exist equally in all par- ties, the result would be the same as at present. So too, whether the wife or the husband had the stronger will, and so dictated the other's vote, as this also would be the same, 15 on all sides, the result would not be affected. So that it would be likely to turn out that the present arrangement, by which the men do the electioneering and the voting for both sexes, is a species of representation, which, leaving results unchanged, promotes the convenience of all, and 20 does injustice to none. Meantime, for all the great desirable objects of life, the possession of equal advantages for the improvement of the . mind is of vastly greater importance than the participation of political power. There are, humanly speaking, three 25 great objects of pursuit on earth, — well-being or happi- ness for ourselves and families ; influence and control over others; and a good name with our fellow-men, while we live and when we are gone. Who needs be told that, in the present state of the world, a good education is not 30 indeed a sure, but by far the most likely means of attain- ing all the ends which constitute material prosperity, com- petence, position, establishment in life ; and that it also opens the purest sources of enjoyment ? The happiest condition of human existence is unques- 35 tionably to be found in the domestic circle of what may be called the middle condition of life, in a family harmoni- 238 hillard's sixth reader. ously united in the cultivation and enjoyment of the inno- cent and rational pleasures of literature, art, and refined intercourse, equally removed from the grandeurs and the straits of society. These innocent and rational pleasures, 5 and this solid happiness, are made equally accessible to both sexes by our admirable school system. Then for influence over others, as it depends much more on personal qualities than on official prerogative, equality of education furnishes the amplest means of equal ascen- 10 dency. It is the mental and moral forces, not political power, which mainly govern the world. It is but a few years since the three greatest powers in Europe, two on one side and one on the other, engaged in a deadly struggle with each other to decide the fate of the Turkish empire ; 15 three Christian powers straining every nerve, the one to overthrow, the two others to uphold the once great and formidable, but now decaying and eflfete Mahommedan des- potism of Western Asia. Not less than half a million of men were concentrated 20 in the Crimea, and all the military talent of the age was called forth in the contest. And who, as far as individuals were concerned, bore ofi* the acknowledged palm of energy, usefulness, and real power in that tremendous contest ? Not emperors and kings, not generals, admirals, or engi- 25 neers, launching from impregnable fortresses and blazing intrenchments the three-bolted thunders of war. No, but an English girl, bred up in the privacy of domestic life, and appearing on that dread stage of human action and suJBFering, in no higher character than that of a nurse ! 30 And then for fame, to which, by a natural instinct, the ingenuous soul aspires : " The spur, which the clear spirit doth raise, (The last infirmity of noble minds,) To scorn delights and live laborious days— " need I say that the surest path to a reputation, for the iiillard's sixth reader. 239 mass of mankind, is by intellectual improvement ; and that in this respect, therefore, our school system places the sexes on an equality ? LXXIX. — THE BUEIAL OF SIE JOHN MOOEE. Wolfe. [Charles Wolfe was born in Dublin, Ireland, December 14, 1791, and died February 21, 1823. He was a clergyman of the established church. His "Kemains," consisting of sermons, fragments, and poems, were published arter his death, with a memoir. Sir John Moore was killed at Corunna, in Spain, in a battle between the French and English, January 16, 1809. He was wrapped in his military cloak, and buried by torch-light in a hasty grave on the ramparts of the town. A monument has since been erected upon the spot.] 1 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 2 We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning ; By the struggling moon-beam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. 3 No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet, nor in shroud, we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. 4 Few, and short were the prayers we said ; And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead ; And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 6- "We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow. That the foe, and the stranger would tread o'er his head ; And we far away on the billow. 240 hillard's sixth reader, 6 Lightly tliey '11 talk of the spirit that 's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; But little he '11 reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 7 But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun That tlie foe was sullenly firing. 8 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory : We carved not a line, — we raised not a stone. But we left him alone with his glory. LXXX. — THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP. LONGFELLOAV. 1 All is finished, and at length Has come the bridal day Of beauty and of strength. To-day the vessel shall be launched I With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched. And o'er the bay, Slowly, in all his splendors dight, The great sun rises to behold the sight. 2 The ocean old, Centuries old, Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled. Paces restless to and fro, Up and down the sands of gold. His beating heart is not at rest ; hillard's sixth header. 241 And far and wide With ceaseless flow His beard of snow Heaves with the heaving of his breast. He waits impatient for his bride. There she stands, With her foot upon the sands, Decked with flags and streamers gay, In honor of her marriage-day, Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, Eound her like a veil descending, Eeady to be The bride of the gray old sea. Then the Master, With a gesture of command, Waved his hand ; And at the word, Loud and sudden there was heard. All around them and below. The sound of hammers, blow on blow. Knocking away the shores and spurs. And see ! she stirs ! She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground. With one exulting, joyous bound. She leaps into the ocean's arms. And lo ! from the assembled crowd There rose a shout, prolonged and loud. That to the ocean seemed to say, ** Take her, bridegroom, old and gray ; Take her to thy protecting arms, With all her youth and all her charms." 242 hillard's sixth reader. 6 How beautiful she is ! bow fair She lies within those arms, that press Her form with many a soft caress Of tenderness and watchful care ! Sail forth into the sea, ship ! Through wind and wave, right onward steer I The moistened eye, the trembling lip, Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 7 Sail forth into the sea of life, gentle, loving, trusting wife, And safe from all adversity, Upon the bosom of that sea Thy comings and thy goings be ! For gentleness, and love, and trust, Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives ! 8 Thou, too, sail on, Ship of State ! Sail on, Union, strong and great ! Humanity, with all its fears. With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! "We know what Master laid thy keel, What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel. Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat. In what a forge, and what a heat. Were shaped the anchors of thy hope. 9 Fear not each sudden sound and shock ; 'T is of the wave, and not the rock ; 'T is but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale. In spite of rock and tempest roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, hillaed's sixth reader. 243 Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea. Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee: Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee — are all with thee. LXXXL — THE KOMAN EMPIKE A PKEPAEATIOllT EOE CHEISTIANITY. Wayland. [Francis Wayland was born in the city of New York, March 11, 1796, and was graduated at Union College in 1813. In 1821 he was settled over the First Baptist Church in Boston, was elected president of Brown University, in Rhode Island, in 1826, and held that office till 1855. He has published various sermons, a treatise on " Political Economy," the " Elements of Moral Science," and several occasional discourses. He has a vigorous and logical mind, and writes with clearness and energy. He has a wide range and strong grasp of thought, and a power both of intellectual construction and analysis. His deep religious convictions, and his sensibility to moral beauty, save his writings from the dryness which is apt to characterize the productions of minds of so much log-ical acuteness. The following extract is from one of his sermons.] One other condition remains yet to be observed. You well know that the nations inhabiting the shores of the Mediterranean were originally distinct in government, dis- similar in origin, diverse in laws, habits, and usages, and 5 almost perpetually at war. To pass from one to the other without incurring the risk of injury, nay, even of being sold into slavery, was almost impossible. A stranger and an enemy were designated by the same word. Beginning with Spain, and passing through Gaul, Ger- 10 many, Italy, Greece, Asia Minor, Syria, Palestine, Egypt, and Carthage, until you arrive again at the Pillars of Hercules, every state was most commonly the enemy of every other. It was necessary that these various peoples should all be moulded by the same pressure into one com- 15 mon form; that one system of laws should bind them all in harmony; and that, under one common protection, a £44 hillaed's sixth reader citizen miglit be able to pass through all of them in secu- rity. This seems to have been needful in order that the new religion might be rapidly and extensively promulgated. In order to accomplish this purpose, as I suppose, was 5 the Koman empire raised up, and entrusted with the scep- tre of universal dominion. Commencing with a feeble colony on the banks of the Tiber, she gradually, by con- quest and conciliation, incorporated with herself the many warlike tribes of ancient Italy. In her very youth, after 10 a death struggle of more than a century, she laid Car- thage, the former mistress of the Mediterranean, lifeless at her feet. From this era she paused not a moment in her career of universal conquest. Nation after nation submitted to her 15 sway. Army after army was scattered before her legions, like the dust of the summer threshing-floor. Her pro- consuls sat enthroned in regal state in every city of the civilized world ; and the barbarian mother, clasping her 20 infant to her bosom, fled 'to the remotest fastnesses of the wilderness, when she saw, far off in the distance, the sun- beams glittering upon the eagles of the republic. Far different, however, were the victories of Eome from those of Alexander. The Macedonian soldier thought mainly of battles and sieges, the clash of onset, the flight 25 of satraps, and the subjugation of kings. He overran ; the Eomans always conquered. Every vanquished nation became, in turn, a part of the Eoman empire. A large portion of every conquered people was admitted to the rights of citizenship. The laws of the republic threw over 30 the conquered the shield of her protection. Eome may, it is true, have oppressed them ; but then she delivered them from the capricious and more intolerable oppression of their native rulers. Hence her conquests really marked the progress of civilization, and extended in all directions 35 the limits of universal brotherhood. The Eoman citizen was free throuo;hout the civilized iiillahd's sixth reader. 245 world ; everywhere he might appeal to her laws, and repose in security under the shadow of her universal power. Thus the declaration, " Ye have beaten us openly, and uncon- demned, being Eomans," brought the magistrates of Phi- 5 lippi suppliants at the feet of the apostle Paul ; his ques- tion, " Is it lawful for you to scourge a man that is a Eo- man, and uncondemned ? " palsied the hands of the lictors at Jerusalem ; and the simple words, " I appeal unto Caesar," removed his cause from the jurisdiction even of 10 the proconsul at Csesarea, and carried it at once into the presence of the emperor. You cannot but perceive that this universal domination of a single civilized power must have presented great facil- ities for the promulgation of the gospel. In many respects 15 it resembled the dominion of Great Britain at the present day in Asia. Wherever her red cross floats, there the lib- erty of man is, to a great extent, protected by the consti- tution of the realm. Whatever be the complexion or the language of the nations that take refuge beneath its folds, 20 they look up to it everywhere, and bid defiance to every other despotism. LXXXII.— WONDEES OF ASTEONOMY. MiTCHEL. [Ormsbt Macknight Mitchel was born in Union County, Kentucky, August 28, 1810, and died October 30, 1862. He was a graduate of VTest Point Academy of the class of 1829, but preferred a civil to a military career. He was professor at Cincinnati College from 1834 to 1844. Upon the establishment of the Observatory at Cincinnati, in 1845, he became director of the institution. In 1859 he was made director of the Dudley Observatory at Albany, still retain- ing his connection with that at Cincinnati. He was an excellent and popular lecturer on astronomy, and a good observer. He published two works on the science. " Planetary and Stellar Worlds," and *' Popular Astronomy," and ed- ited for two years " The Sidereal Messeng-er," the first exclusively astronom- ical periodical attempted in the United States. At the commencement of the civil Avar he offered his services to his country in a military capacity, was made brigadier-general of volunteers, and afterwards major-general. In his new sphere of duty, he displayed his usual activity and energy. Having been appointed commander of a military department at the 21* 246 hillard's sixth reader. South, he -was preparing for a vigorous campaign, when he was carried off by an attack of yellow fever. His death was felt to be a great loss to the service, as his moral worth and religious feeling were as conspicuous as his intellectual power. , The following extract is from the " Astronomy of the Bible," a work pub- lished since his death. He is considering the astronomical allusions in the Book of Job, and has just quoted chapter xxxviii., verses 19, 20, 21.] Go with me to yonder " light-house of the skies." Poised on its rocky base, behold that wondrous tube which lifts the broad pupil of its eye high up, as if gazing in- stinctively into the mighty deep of space. Look out upon 5 the heavens, and gather into your eye its glittering con- stellations. Pause and reflect that over the narrow zone of the retina of your eye a universe is pictured, painted by light in all its exquisite and beautiful proportions. Look upon that luminous zone which girdles the sky, — 10 observe its faint and cloudy light. How long, think you, that light has been streaming, day and night, with a swift- ness which flashes it on its way twelve millions of miles in each and every minute ? — how long has it fled and flashed through space to reach your eye and tell its wondrous tale ? 15 Not less than a century has rolled away since it left its home ! Hast thou taken it at the bound thereof? Is this the bound, — here the limit from beyond which light can never come? Look to yonder point in space, and declare that thou 20 beholdest nothing, absolutely nothing; all is blank and deep and dark. You exclaim : Surely no ray illumines that deep profound. Place your eye for one moment to the tube that now pierces that seeming domain of night, and, lo ! ten thousand orbs, blazing with light unutterable, burst on 25 the astonished sight. Whence start these hidden suns ? Whence comes this light from out deep darkness ? Knowest thou, man ! the paths to the house thereof ? Ten thou- sand years have rolled away since these wondrous beams set out on their mighty journey ! Then you exclaim: We 30 have found the boundary of light; surely none can lie beyond this stupendous limit: far in the deep beyond llILLAFwD'S SIXTH READER. 247 darkness unfathomable reigns. Look once more. The vision changes ; a hazy cloud of light now fills the field of the telescope. Whence comes the light of this mysterious ob- ject? Its home is in the mighty deep, as far beyond the 5 limit you had vainly fixed, — ten thousand times as far, — as that limit is beyond the reach of human vision. And thus we mount, and rise, and soar, from height to height, upward, and ever upward still, till the mighty series ends, because vision fails, and sinks, and dies. 10 Hast thou then pierced the boundary of light? Hast thou penetrated the domain of darkness ? Hast thou, weak mortal, soared to the fountain whence come these wondrous streams, and taken the light at the hand thereof ? Know- est thou the paths to the house thereof ? Hast thou stood 15 at yonder infinite origin, and bid that flash depart and jour- ney onward, days and months and years, century on cen- tury, through countless ages, — millions of years, and never weary in its swift career ? Knowest thou when it started ? Knowest thou it because thou wast then born, and because 20 the number of thy days is great ? Such, then, is the lan- guage addressed by Jehovah to weak, erring, mortal man. How has the light of science flooded with meaning this- astonishing passage ? Surely, surely we do not misread, — the interpretation is just. LXXXIII. — THANATOPSIS.=^ Bryant. To him who, in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language. Tor his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild ♦From two Greek words, signifying a view of death 2iS iiillaPwD's sixth reader. And gentle sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images 6 Of the stem agony, and shroud and pall. And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, — Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around—- 10 Earth and her waters, and the depths of air, — Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 15 Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go 2 To mix forever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock. And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 25 Yet not to thin© eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone — nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world ; with kings. The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 30 Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, — All in one mighty sepulchre. — The hills Eock-ribbed and ancient as the sun ; the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between ; The venerable woods ; rivers that move 35 In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all, hillaed's sixth reader. 249 Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 5 Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bo§om. Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce ; 10 Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings — yet — the dead are there, And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down 15 In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. — So shalt thou rest — and what if thou shalt fall Unnoticed by the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 20 When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train 25 Of ages glide away, the sons of men. The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron, and maid The bowed with age, the infant in the smiles And beauty of its innocent age cut oflF, — 30 Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side, By those who in their turn shall follow them. So live that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take 35 His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quariy-slave at night 250 iiillard's sixth reader. Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. LXXXIV. — THE USES OE THE OCEAN. , SWAIK. [The following extract is a portion of a sermon of striking eloquence and beauty by the Rev. Leonard Swain, of Trovidence, Rhode Island, published in the " Bibliotheca Sacra."] The traveller who would speak of his experience in for- eign lands must begin with the sea. God has spread this vast pavement of his temple between the hemispheres, so that he who sails to foreign shores must pay a double 5 tribute to the Most High ; for through this temple he has to carry his anticipations as he goes, and his memories when he returns. The sea speaks for God ; and however eager the tourist may be to reach the strand that lies be- fore him, and enter upon the career of business or pleasure 10 that awaits him, he must check his impatience during this long interval of approach, and listen to the voice with which Jehovah speaks to him as, horizon after horizon, he moves to his purpose along the aisles of God's mighty tabernacle of the deep. 15 It is a common thing, in speaking of the sea, to call it ** a waste of waters." But this is a mistake. Instead of being an encumbrance or a superfluity, the sea is as essen- tial to the life of the world, as the blood is to the life of the human body. Instead of being a waste and desert, it 20 keeps the earth itself from becoming a waste and a desert. It is the world's fountain of life and health and beauty ; and if it were taken away, the grass would perish from the mountains, the forests would crumble on the hills, the harvests would become powder on the plains, the continent hillaiid's sixth header 251 would be one vast Sahara of frosts and fire, and the solid globe itself, scarred and blasted on every side, would swing in the heavens, silent and dead as on the first morn- ing of creation. 5 Water is as indispensable to all life, vegetable or ani- mal, as the air itself. From the cedar on the mountains to the lichen that clings to the wall ; from the elephant that pastures on the forests, to the animalcule that floats in the sunbeam ; from the leviathan that heaves the sea 10 into billows, to the microscopic creatures that swarm, a million in a single foam-drop, — all alike depend for their existence on this single element and must perish if it be withdrawn. This element of water is supplied entirely by the sea. 15 The sea is the great inexhaustible fountain which is con- tinually pouring up into the sky precisely as many streams, and as large, as all the rivers of the world are pouring into it. The sea is the real birthplace of the clouds and the 20 rivers, and out of it come all the rains and dews of heaven. Instead of being a waste and an encumbrance, therefore, it is a vast fountain of fruitfulness, and the nurse and mother of all the living. Out of its mighty breast come the re- sources that feed and support the population of the world. 25 Omnipresent and everywhere alike is this need and bless- ing of the sea. It is felt as truly in the centre of the con- tinent, — where, it may be, the rude inhabitant never heard of the ocean, — as it is on the circumference of the wave-beaten shore. 30 We are surrounded, every moment, by the presence and bounty of the sea. It looks out upon us from every violet in our garden-bed ; from every spire of grass that drops upon our passing feet the beaded dew of the morning ; from the bending grain that fills the arm of the reaper; from bursting 35 presses, and from barns filled with plenty ; from the broad foreheads of our cattle and the rosy faces of our children; 252 hillard's sixth reader. from the cool dropping well at our door ; from the brook that murmurs from its side, and from the elm or spreading maple that weave their protecting branches beneath the sun, and swing their breezy shadows over our habitation. 6 It is the sea that feeds us. It is the sea that clothes us. It cools us with the summer cloud, and warms us with the blazing fires of winter. We make wealth for ourselves and for our children out of its rolling waters, though we may live a thousand leagues away from its shore, and never 10 have looked on its crested beauty, or listened to its eternal anthem. Thus the sea, though it bears no harvest on its bosom, yet sustains all the harvests of the world. Though a desert itself, it makes all the other wildernesses of the earth to bud and blossom as the rose. Though its own 15 waters are as salt and wormwood, it makes the clouds of heaven to drop with sweetness, opens springs in the val- leys and rivers among the hills, and fountains in all dry places, and gives drink to all the inhabitants of the earth. The sea is a perpetual source of health to the world. 20 Without it there could be no drainage for the lands. It is the scavenger of the world. Its agency is omnipresent. Its vigilance is omniscient. Where no sanitary committee could ever come, where no police could ever penetrate, its myriad eyes are searching, and its million hands are busy 25 exploring all the lurking-places of decay, bearing swiftly off the dangerous sediments of life, and laying them a thousand miles away in the slimy bottom of the deep. The sea is also set to purify the atmosphere. The winds, whose wings are heavy and whose breath is sick 30 with the malaria of the lands over which they have blown, are sent out to range over these mighty pastures of the deep, to plunge and play with its rolling billows, and dip their pinions over and over in its healing waters. There they rest when they are weary, cradled into sleep on that 35 vast swinging couch of the ocean. There they rouse them- selves when they are refreshed, and lifting its waves upon hillard's sixth reader. 253 their shoulders, they dash it into spray, and hurl it hack- wards and forwards through a thousand leagues of sky. Thus their whole substance is drenched, and bathed, and washed, and winnowed, and sifted through and through, by 5 this glorious baptism. Thus they fill their mighty lungs once more with the sweet breath of ocean, and, striking their wings for the shore, they go breathing health and vigor along all the fainting hosts that wait for them in mountain and forest and valley and plain, till the whole 10 drooping continent lifts up its rejoicing face, and mingles its laughter with the sea that has waked it from its fevered sleep, and poured its tides of returning life through all its shrivelled arteries. The ocean is not the idle creature that it seems, with 15 its vast and lazy length stretched between the continents, with its huge bulk sleeping along the shore, or tumbling in aimless fury from pole to pole. It is a mighty giant, who, leaving his oozy bed, comes up upon the land to spend his strength in the service of man. He there allows 20 his captors to chain him in prisons of stone and iron, to bind his shoulders to the wheel, and set him to grind the food of the nations, and weave the garments of the world. The mighty shaft, which that wheel turns, runs out into all the lands ; and geared and belted to that centre of power, 25 ten thousand times ten thousand clanking engines roll their cylinders, and ply their hammers, and drive their million shuttles. Thus the sea keeps all our mills and factories in mo- tion. Thus the sea spins our thread and weaves our cloth. 30 It is the sea that cuts our iron bars like wax, rolls them out into proper thinness, or piles them up in the solid shaft strong enough to be the pivot of a revolving planet.' It is the sea that tunnels the mountain, and bores the mine, and lifts the coal from its sunless depths, and the 35 ore from its rocky bed. It is the sea that lays the iron track, that builds the iron horse, that fills his nostrils^ 22 254 hillard's sixth reader. with fiery breath, and sends his tireless hoofs thundering across the longitudes. It is the power of the sea that is doing for man all those mightiest works that would be else impossible. It is by this power that he is to level the 5 mountains, to tame the wildernesses, to subdue the conti- nents, to throw his pathways around the globe, and make his nearest approaches to omnipresence and omnipotence. LXXXV. — SCENE AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER. Norton. [Andrews Norton was born in Hingham, Mass., December 31, 1786, and died September 18, 1853. He was for many years a professor in the divinity school of Harvard College, and remarkable for the union of deep devotional feeling with sharp critical spirit in the interpretation of the Scriptures. His prose style is admirable for precision, vigor, and elegance. His poems are few, but of uncommon beauty in conception and expression.] 1 The rain is o'er — How dense and bright Yon pearly clouds reposing lie ! Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight, Contrasting with the dark blue sky I ^2 In grateful silence earth receives The general blessing ; fresh and fair, Each flower expands its little leaves, As glad the common joy to share. '3 The softened sunbeams pour around A fairy light, uncertain, pale ; The wind flows cool ; the scented ground Is breathing odors on the gale. 4 Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, Methinks some spirit of the air Might rest to gaze below awhile, Then turn to bathe and revel there. hillakd's sixth reader. 255 6 The sun breaks forth : from off the scene. Its floating vale of mist is flung ; And all the wilderness of green With trembling drops of light is hung. 6 Now gaze on Nature — yet the same, — Glowing with life, by breezes fanned, Luxuriant, lovely, as she came Tresh in her youth from God's own hand. 7 Hear the rich music of that voice Which sounds from all below, above ; She calls her children to rejoice, And round them throws her arms of love. 8 Drink in her influence : low-born care. And all the train of mean desire, Kefuse to breath this holy air, And mid this living light expire. LXXXYI — JOHN HAMPDEN. Macaulay. [Thomas Babington Macaulay, was born in the village of Rothley, in the county of Leicester, England, October 25, 1800, and died December 28, 1859. He was educated at Cambridge University, and was called to the bar in 1826. In 1830 he became a member of parliament, and took an active part in the de- bates on the Reform Bill. In 1834 he was sent to India as a member of the supreme council. Returning home in 1838, he was again elected to parliament in 1839, and was appointed secretary of war. At the election of 1847 he was de- feated, and remained out of parliament till 1852, when he again became a mem- ber. He was created a peer of England, with the title of Baron Macaulay of Rothley, in 1857. His principal literary work is a History of England, in five volumes, the last a fragmentary volume published since his lamented death. No historical work in the English language has ever enjoyed so wide a popu- larity. It is written in a most animated and attractive style, and abounds with brilliant pictures. It embodies the results of very thorough research, and its tone and spirit arc generous and liberal. ; His essays, most of which were originally contributed to the " Edinburgh Eeview," have had a popularity greater even than that of Ms History. They 256 hillard's sixth reader. are remarkable for brilliant rhetorical power, splendid coloring, and affluence of ilfustration. "" Lord 3Iacaulay has also written " Lays of Ancient Rome," and some bal- lads in the same style, which are full of animation and energy, and have the true trumpet ring which stirs the soul and kindles the blood. His parliamen- tary speeches have been also collected and published, and are marked by the same brilliant rhetorical euer