RELATIVE POSITIONS OF THE HAND AND ARM H :'.IOTION.— (See Par. 104-6, and Page vi.) Arm rising— Hand bauging downwardB, Arm falling — Hand pointing upward Ann moving outwards — Hand pointing across the body. Wi p- kroj moving inwfirde— Hand p^iating outwards. BELL'S STANDARD ELOCUTIONIST. PRINCIPLES AND EXERCISES, (from " ELOCUTIONARY MANUAL ; ") FOLLOWED BT A COPIOUS SELECTION OP EXTRACTS IN PROSE AND POETRY, CLASSIFIED AND ADAPTED FOB READING AND EECITATION. DAVID CHARLES BELL, PROFESSOR OP ELOCUTION AND ENGLISH LITERATURE, DUBLIN, Author of"Tht Theory of Elocution," " The Clots-Book of Poatry," Jet., S-^ Co.^ Sampson Low, Soti, ^ Ma? Kent &^ Co., Johtt Menzies (S^ Co., John Menzies Sr' Co., Porleotts Brothers, VV. H. Smith >S^ 6"^;;, Gill 5- Son, . Philip, Son, &- Nephew., John Heyzvood, Lewis Smith, Campbell &^ Son, Dawson Brothers, Robert Miller, George Robertson, J. J. Moore, ion. . London. . L^ondon. . London. . London. . Edinburgh. . Glasgow. . Glasgow. . Dublin. . Dublin . Liverpool. . Manchester. . Aberdeen. . Toronto. . Montreal. , Montreal. . Melbourne. . Sydney. mil PREFACE. Q The following Work embraces, besides a large variety (()¥(. of Original Selections and Adaptations from Modern Autliors, a copious collection of Extracts from older flfS compilations, the merits or peculiar fitness of which for Elocutionary Exercise have established them aa />}^//V favourites for Reading or Eecitatioii. To Authors and Publishers the Compilers return thanks for the readiness with which permission to in- troduce new passages has been granted. The attention of Teachers is specially directed to the Table of Vowel Sounds, at page 15, and to the principle of a Numerical Nomenclature of Vowels (par. 31) as a simple means of imparting a definite and accurate pro- nunciation of syllables. The first Table of Inflexions, at page 20, may be introduced to the youngest classes ; it will be found effectual in developing the voice, and im- parting flexibility and natural expressiveness in reading. The prosaic mode of printing many of the poetical Extracts, besides tending to prevent or correct the habit of reading Verse with sing-song tones, may be also rendered subservient to the study of Measure, by exer- cising the pupils in discriminating and marking the poetic lines. The present Edition has undergone a thorough revisal. New Extracts have been introduced in the various sections of Kecitations ; and selections of Dialogues from Shakspeare, and Extracts from Milton, have besides been added. The Dramatic, Humourous, and other Recitations, have been carefully adapted for use in Schools, by the avoidance of objectionable words or phrases. All the Extracts have been chosen with special reference to their practical value as Elocutionary Exercises, and they have been condensed, or sometimes extended, wherever increased effectiveness in Delivery could be secured. ^''"- \ 252 TABLE OF SYMBOLS FOR THE NOTATION OF GESTURE. I. The Feet, and Trunk. (Notation written below the line.) ["Close'- 4«)sition, feet 5 or6 inches apart ; "opea," 10 or 12: "extended," 20 or more.] Riglit foot (wei,i;:lit on left, (close) R.1, (open) R.3, (extended) R.5. in front, (weiglit on riglit, " R.-i, "• R.4, " R.6. Left foot Uveight on right, " L.l, " L 3, " L.5. in front, "j weight on left, " L.2, " L.4, " L.6. aifficult Words and Sentences, Exercises on Inflexion, Exercises on the Notation of d Exercises on the Notations of Inflexion. Jlodulation, 29 Force, and Time, 30 Exercises on Imitative T'tter- 31 ance. Expressive Saine- 33 ness, and Staccato Pro- 34 nunciation. 35 Recapitulation of the Secret 36 of Good Reading, IIL MISCELLANEOUS READINGS IN PROSE.* Twenty Kxtracts. On the Tones of the Human Voice, The Art of Reading Well, . On Study, Means of Acquiring Distinction, Uncertainties of Fortune, On Labour, The Lamp of Truth, The Fate of Bums, . 'I'he Blank Bible, The Elder's Deathbed. On British History, . A Wild Night at Sea, Humourous Incongruities, The Island, . On Human Grandeur, The Apjtroac'h of Evening, Sorrow for the Dead, Liberty and Slavery, The Power of Little Things, Ossian's Address to the Sun, IV. READINGS IN PULPIT ELOQUENCE, Twentvoiie Kxtracts. Ood is Love, . ("Jonsolations of Relie;ion, ^Tnjesty of the Redeemer, Tlic Poetry of the Bible, fncfliciency of Human Works, Latent Principles of Religion, Insignificance of this World, Wealth not Productive of Eujoj-- ment, Umx-rtainty of Life, . Swoet and Bitter Memories, The Pursuit of Happiness, . r>9 I The Doctrines of the Gospel, ib. I The Crucifixion, 70 I On Infidelity, . "" On War, The Slavery of Sin, . The Grace and Glory of Salviv- tion. On Autumn, . On Death, The De.ith of the Wicked. . Sympathy Taught by Sufler- * The names of the Authors are given at the head of the Extracts. V. READINGS IN ANCIENT'AND MODERN ELOQUENCE. Twenty-eight Extracu. On the Character of Caiu« Verres, ... 9ft Ou Philip of Macedou, . 101 On the Catiline Conspiracy, lf)3 Scipio to tlie llonmii Arnn% 105 The Scytliian Ambassadors to Alexander, . . 100 Hannibal to his Soldiers, . HI8 On Nea,To Slavery, . . K'O On Law Reform. . .110 On Coiiriliatinir the Colonit-s, 112 On the Slave Trade, . .118 On the Present Age, . 115 On the Theatre, . . IIG On the American War, . 117 On Universal Emanciiiatioii, 119 On Precedents. . . 120 Ou National Character, . 121 On Literature and Liberty, . Ou the Defence of Britaiu from Invasion, . . _ • On British Government in America, . On the Poetry of City and Country Life, On the British Press, On Napoleon Bonaparte, Pitt, on being Taunted by Mr Walpole, , On Irish Valour and Loyalty, On the Condition of India, . On the Fui,'it.ive Slave Bill, . On the Influence of Great Actions, . On True Eloquence, . 123 127 128 129 131 132 133 135 137 138 VL MISCELLANEOUS READINGS IN POETRY. Kurty-four Exlracta. On the Being of a God, , 139 The Messiah, . . 140 Thauatopsis — A View of Death, 142 Human Life, . . 144 On Proscrastination, . . 145 To-morrow, . . . 146 Address to Independence, . ib. On Slavery, . . .147 The Bridge of Sighs, . . 149 David and Absalom, . . 150 Spring Raiu, . . . 151 On Man, . . .152 The Dying Christian to his Soul, . . . 153 The Skylark, . . . 154 The Three Sons, . . ib. The Mother and her Dead Child, . . . 15(i Death's Final Conquest, . 157 Retreat of the French Army from Moscow, . . ib. Ode to Adversity, . ,159 Instability of Friendship, . lUO »)de in Imitation of Alcoeus, . IHI The Cloud, . . . ib. Address to the Ocean, To the Nightingale, . The Skvlark, . The Holly Tree, Thunder-storm on the Lake of Geneva, On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye Beauty and Expression, The Deserted Village, Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Cliamouni, The Fountain, Pompeii, The Shores of Greece, To Mary in Heaven, The Country Clergyman, The Last Minstrel, Satan's Address to the Sun, . The Pulpit, . Waiting for the May, Flight of Imagination, The Forging of the Anchor, 1 The Cataract of Lodore, ' Our Country and our Homo, VIL RECITATIONS FOR JUNIOR PUPILS, Korty-three Extracts. 187 ib. The Temple of Nature, Saul's A.idress, .lephtha's Daujrhter, . . ib. The Star of Heaven, . . 188 The Dying Chief, . . ib. Destruction of Sennaclierib, ib. The Star of Bethlehem. . 189 Casabianca, . , . ih. The Orphau Boy, . . VM The Soldier's Funeral, Christian Warfare The Fall of D'Assae, The Mother of the Macabees, Jliriam's Song, A Psalm of Life. Gertrude Von der Wart, Excelsinlaklava. Fifth of Nov. at liilicrmiiiai, The Battle, . Execution of Montrose, Tlie Downfall of Poland, . Ode to Eloquence, . The Last Days of ilerculaueura, The Bard, . Alexander's Feast, . The Baron's Last Banquet, The World for Sale, The Last Man, The Raven, , The Bells, . The Leaguer of Lucknow, Ode for St Cecilia's D;i y, . The Death of Minnehaha, The Leper, . Tubal Cain, . Time and the Sea Tide, The Passions HUMOUROUS RECITATIONS. Forty-flve Extracts. An Orator's First Speech, . 299 i A Dear Dinner, The Astronomical Alderman The Chameleon, The Country Squire, . 301 The Razor Seller, . . 302 The Doctor and his Apprentice, Jb. The Newcastle Apothecary A Waterloo Ballad, • 304 Toby Tosspot, . • 305 Rustic Logic, . • 30G ]\Iodern Logic, . . 307 Faithless Nelly Gray, The Widow's Choice, Ask Mamma, The Confession, The Husband's Petition The Maiden's Request, The Lover's Sacrifice, Cornelius Agrippa, . The Alarm, . Tlie Quarrel, The Well of St Keyne, A Cheap Dinner, ib. 310 311 ib. 312 ib. ib. 313 ib. 314 315 I XL DRAMATIC SPEECHES AND SOLILOQUIES. Sixty-tive Extracts. The Farmer's Blundei, The Farmer and the Barrister, The Collegian and the Porter, The Frenchm:in and the Rats, Lodgings for Single Gentlemen Yorksliire Angling, A Rara Avis, The Spirit of Contradiction, Goody Grim v. Lapstone, . Blind-man's Bulf, . Dining by Steam, . The Two Cats, Number One, The Spider and the Fly, . Contest between Nose & Eyes, The Duel, . Black Beer for " Brown Stout," The Bachelor's Complaint, Bullum versus Boatum, Sjieech of Sergeant Buzfuz, The Bashful Man, . The Seven Ages, . . 343 Cato on Imnuirtality, . ib. A Plea for Mercy, , . 344 Douglas's Account of Himself, ib. Soliloquy of King Claudius, ib. Queen Mab, . . 345 The Slave's Remonstrance, 340 MaruUus to the Roman Mob, ib. Cassius Instigating Brutus, ib. BrutuB on the Death of Csesar, 347 Antony on the Death of Cresar, Tell to his Native Mountains, Clarence's Dream, Richmond to his Soldiers Henry IV. on Sleep, Henry V. at Harfleur, Macbeth to the Dagger Vision, Rolla to the Peruvians, Othello's Defence, Defence of King Richard II, 277 ib. 279 ib. 281 ib, 282 284 286 287 288 ib. 289 291 292 293 294 296 297 ib. 298 316 317 318 319 320 321 322 ib. 824 325 328 329 330 331 332 333 ib. 334 335 ib. 337 347 349 350 351 ib. ib. 352 ib. 35.^ 354 XU CONl Hamleton his Mother'sMarriage,354 Hamlet on the Players, , ib. llumlet on a Future State, . 355 Ilamlet to the Players, . 356 Ilomeo on seeing J uliet . ib. Macbeth before the Murder uf King Duncan, . . 357 MacbethPlaiiuingtheMurder of liauquo, . . ib. Henry V. ou Royal Ceremony, ib. SPKECnES ADAPTEI Menenius to the Tribunes, . Mark Antony over Cawar, . Laertes to Ills Sister Ophelia, I'olonius to his Sou Laertes, Cassio on his Dismissal, King Lear to Goueril King Lear to his Daughters, King Lear on being Sliut out, Macbeth ouAttainintcthe first of his foretold Honours, Lady Macbeth Meditatingthe Murder of Duncan, Macbeth instigating to the Murder of Banquo, Macbeth on seeing the Ghost, Constance on Ignoble Peace, King John Instigating Hubert, Prince Arthur to Hubert, Lord Chief Justice to Henry V. 371 Henry VI. on Royalty, 358 Gloster on Lis Ambitious Projects, . . 359 Master Walter to Julia, . 360 Kieuzi to the Romans, . ib. Bobadil's l^lodo of Warfare. 361 Lucius Junius Brutusoverthe Body of Lucretia, . 362 Claude Melnotte to Paulino, ib. 1 KKOM DIALOGUE. Henry V. before Agincourt, 371 The Duke of Gk^ter medi- tating Clarence's Death, 372 King liichatd III. awaldng from ill-boding Dreams, 373 Earl of Richmond awaking from fair-bdding Dreams, ib. The Duke of Buckingham before his Executicm, . 374 Queen Catheiiue to Henry VIII. and Cardinal Wolsey, ib. Cardinal Wolsey on his Fall, 375 Wolsey to his Secretary, , ib. Portia on her Suitors, . 376 Lorenzo on Music, . . ib. Speech of the Exiled Duke, 377 Jaques on the Fool, . . ib. Prospero's Abjuration of Magic, 378 Touchstone on Quarreling, . ib. XIL DIALOGUES AND DRAMATIC SCENES. Seventeen Extracts. King and Miller, . . 379 Lochiel's Warning, . • 380 From the Iliad of Homer, . 382 From the Tragedy of " Catiline," ib. Fioni the Tragedy of " Cato," 384 Frem the Tragedy of " Douglas," 385 From " Venice Preserved," 387 From " The Iron Chest," . 388 From " William Tell," , 390 j From the play of " Money, XIII. DRAMATIC SCENES FROM SHAKSPEARE. From " The Englishman Re- turned from Paris," From " The Poor Gentleman,' From " The Rivals," B'rom " Tlie Critic," , From " The Heir at Law," , From " The School for Scanda From " The Honeymoon," . 392 393 396 398 400 1," 401 404 406 1. From " Merchant of Venice," 40S 2. Do. do. . 410 3. From " Hamlet." . 414 4. From " As you like it," . 416 5. From " Julius C.usar," . 418 XIV. SELECTIONS FROM MILTON'S "PARADISE LOST." From " Coriolanns," From •' Macbeth," From " Henry the Fourth,' Do. do. 420 421 422 423 1. The Introduction, , 426 2. Speech of Satan in Hell, ili, 3. Speech of Satan to his Legions, ib. 4. Description of Satan, , 427 5. Satan in Pandemonium, ib. 6. Moloch's Orati'ret :>Tor!p. Second Mode. First Mode. Second Mode. V. e.l ( Ah I All right ? Away ? Compound Rise. Assertive Appeal, ies. «,o! Just so. Go on ! CoMPoiixD Fall. Appfltalory Assertion. First ]\In,lP. S.M'oiid IMode. First ?>!. ;.!.■. Sprnii.l l\rod.'. • "\ / ^_/~^ * f^ C5^-y- Ay c J \ \ou! Not I ! 67. The next inflexion, as moi syllable towards require a good " Simple Rise. luterrogntion. Surprise. 1 ! Beware I Oil! You will I Indeed. diagram distinguishes the four degrees of each litied by the progression of the pre-accentual or from the pitch of the accent. Tliese varieties ear" for their discrimination. GAMUT OF INFLEXIONS. First Mope. Second Mode. Ist degree. 2ud degree. 3rd degree. 4th degree. i .> |--=N-i ■?^r Behold I Behold! Behold! Behold I CoMPotiNP Risk. I Antithetic Appeal <- Insiuuation. ! Compound F'all Antitketic Assertion. San-asm. "\ 7T"\;], \n^ - Rememl)L'rl Remember I Remember I Remember t ....«/..\. »- ■jW Impossible I Impossible I Impossible I Impo-wiUel 21 NOTATION OF THE INFLEXIONS. 68. The inflexions are represented by the marks (•^ •v •^ a^ ) written above or below the inflected word, in accord- ance with the pitch of the tone above or below the middle of the voice. Thus : — Simple Rise, {^ ) (First mode, — mark above the word. '} Second mode, " below " Simole Fall ( "i 5-^'^**- '"0<3e, " below " P i \.^^ ) ^Second mode, " above " n^r^^^^r. 1 T?;.« / \ f First mode, " below " Compound Rise. (^ ) 1^^^^^^^^^^^ " above " • n A V M f ^ ^ First mode, " above " C«'"P«""'iF^"'(*^Msecondmode, " below " 69. Besides the above regular varieties of Inflexion, a Rising Double Wave, consisting of a Compound Falling accent with a rising termination, is occasionally employed. The efieet of this tone is highly expressive, t^arcastic interrogation is the senti- ment it conveys, or antithetic assertion with incompleteness. Thus :— " One murder makes a villain : Millions a hero! GENERAL PKINCIPLES FOR THE APPLICATION OF THE INFLEXIONS TO SENTENCES. 70. The Rising turn connects what has been said with what is to be uttered, and is thus the tone of incompleteness of state- ment ; or it intimates eu-jjectaiieij of something to be inferred or supplied by the hearer, and is thus associated with appeal to the hearer's will or knowledge; with dubiety, interrogation, or eupphcation. 71. The Falling turn disconnects what has been said from whatever may follow, and is thus the tone of completeness of statement ; or it intimates absoluteness, and communication of t]\e speaker^s will or knowledge; and is thus associated with confidence, afiirmation, or connnand. 72. The melody of speech consists of contrasted tones. A rise precedes a fall, a fall precedes a rise. 73. All sentences belong to one of the three classes, (1.) In- terrogative, (2.) Assertive, (3.) Imperative; as (1.) Are you coming? (2.) I am coming. (3.) Come. 74. Interrogative sentences oi^peal for the hearer's assent or dissent to the proposition they contain, and therefore take a rising termination ; but when they do not imply doubt or desire -J fiaNClfLES OF of assurance, they take a falling termination, as in assertion of wliat the hearer's consciousness must affirm. 75. Assertive sentences affirm the speaker's will or knowledge, and therefore take a fallini^ termination ; but when they do not imply absoluteness, or do not communicate information, they take a rising termination, as in appeal to the hearer's consciousness. 76. Imperative sentences convey the speaker's will or desire, with or without reference to the will of the hearer. They take a felling termination when they are absolute and exclude appeal, as in command ; and a rising termination when they imply appeal, and solicit rather than enjoin, as iu supplication. 77. Interrogative sentences that cannot be auswered by " yes" or " no," are of the nature of Imperative sentences, and follow the same law. 78. The Reader must not be guided by the rhetorical forms of sentences ; for interrogative construction may l)e strongly assertive in meaning, and declarative construction may be emphatically interrogative. MODULATION. 79. Modulation is to sentences what emphasis is to the members of a sentence, or accent to the syllables of a word. It distinguisjies the more important from the subordinate passages b}' a change of key. 80. Modulation has also an imitative or analogical expres- siveness, making the sound " an echo to the sense." As a general rule, high modulation renders prominent the speaker or the subject spoken, and is expressive of egotism, boldness, or importance; and low modulation is retiring, solemn, or exple- tive in effect. 81. All varieties of emphasis, inflexion, force, time, &c., may be given in any modulative pitch. 82. A change of modulation should take place at all changes of style ; at tlie commencement of a paragraph ; on parenthetic sentences and similes ; and to distinguish question and answer, or different speakers in dialogue. 83. The reader or speaker should be able to discriminate and adopt at will the following five degrees of modulation : the middle or conversational pitch, — a considerably higher and a considerably lower key, — and a pitch intermediate to the con- versational and the highest and lowest keys. Thus, 5_ high, — passionate. 4 important. 3 conversational. 2 subordinate. 1 —low, — solemn. ELOCUTION. 23 FORCE. 84. Force depends on the pressure of the breath. It is an entirely different quality from modulation or pitch. A low key may be accompauied by extreme force, or a high key by feeble force. 85. Force may be merely accentual, or it may be iraitatively or analogically expressive; as of straining and laborious effort, pliysical languor, &c. 86. The reader or speaker should discriminate five degrees of force, — a middle or moderate degree, — two degrees relatively stronger — and two relatively weaker. Thus : — V — vehement, e — energetic. t — temperate, f — feeble, p — piano. 87. Time, or rate of utterance, is a source of mucn pleasing variety and expressiveness. The time of syllabic utterance de- pends on the length of the vowels, and the nature and arrange- ment of succeeding consonants ; the time of sentential utterance depends on the taste of the speaker, and his appreciation of the nature of the sentence, whether principal or subordinate, emphatic or expletive, expressive of motion or repose, deliber- ation or promptitude, calmness or passion, levity or solemnity. 88. As a general rule, explanatory clauses and parenthetical eentences are pronounced in quicker time than the principal sub- jects or predicates of a sentence. Sentiments of veneration and awe are pronounced in slow time: griefisslow,joy is quick, passion is rapid and impetuous, love and delight are lingering, aversion and distaste are hurried, meditation is slow, decision quick. 89. Five degrees of Time, aa of Force and Pitch, will iiiclude the leading varieties. Thus : — r — rapid, q — quick. ra — moderate. s — slow. a — adagio (very slow.) 90. Habitual uniformity of Modulation, Force, or Time, is dull and unintellectual. Variety is necessary to the just expression of the simplest prose, as well as of the most artful combinations of poetry. There is a Vocal Logic, a Rhetoric of Inflexion, a ■ Poetry of Modulation, a Commentator's explanatoriness of Tone ; and these are combined in effective reading. The voice of the Reader adds to lamj^naje a commentary on its sentiment, and a judgemcui on us reasouing. '1 ue ouiward sij^ub ot cmutiua 24' PKINClPLEri or and sympathetic eensibility must accompany every utterance that is ludurdlly delivered. But there is an expressive sanieutna of Tone and Force that is sometimes appropriate. expressive sameness of tone and force. (monotone.) 91. The style must be suited to the thought : if the latter i,.:itt3 ot tiie head, handi;, arms, or KLOCUTION. 27 feet, should be carefully avoided. The speaker must learn to " stand at ease," — to stjiiid still. Repose is a chief element of effect. 1 13. The face and the whole body must sympathetically accord ■with the sentiment illustrated by the motions of the limbs. Isolated actions of the arms, &c. are ungraceful and unnatural. The impulse that moves the hand will not be unfelt by every muscle in the frame. " To this sure standard make your just appeal ; Here lies the golden secret, — learn tofeeW* 114. In the application of Gesture, the speaker's aim should be to realize the scene or incident described. His action should never — with tautology of expression — depict the literal meaning of words, or illustrate what the words themselves sufficiently describe ; but rather suggest such naturally attendant partic- ulars as are not formally expressed. Thus, in speaking of the heart, he should not point to the locality of that organ, but illustrate the feeling in connection with which the word "heart" is used, or which its use suggests. The principle of imitativehj suiting the action to the "word" is only le;!;itimate for comio effect; the principle of appropriately "suiting" the action to the word, — i.e. the utterance, — demands such an aiiaptation as is consistent with time, place, speaker, hearer, object, and all attendant circumstances of the utterance. 115. Motions towards the body indicate self-esteem, egotism, or invitation; from the body, command or repulsicm; expanding gestures express liberality, disti-lbution, acquiescence or can- dour ; contracting gestures, frugality, reserve, or collection ; rising motions express suspension, climax, or appeal ; falling motions, completion, declaration, or response ; a sudden stop expresses doubt, meditation, or listening; a sudden movement, decision or discovery , a broad and sweeping range of gesture illustrates a general statement, or expresses boldness, freedom, and self-possession ; a limited range denotes diffidence or constraint, or illustrates a subordinate point; rigidity of the muscles indicates firmness, strength, or effort ; laxity denotes languor or weakness ; slow motions are expressive of gentleness, caution, deliberation, &c. ; and quick motions, of harshness, temerity, &c. MISCELLANEOUS DIRECTIONS FOR READING. lie. Hold the book in the left hand, and use the right hand to turn the pages. 117. Keep the book flatly open, so as not to cover the lace; and hold the book sufficiently high to secure perfect vision without any bending of the neck or body. 118. Open the mouth gently, raise the chest before beginning, and take breath silently at every pause. 28 PRINCIPLES OF ELOCUTIOX. 119. Pronounce one thouglit at a time; and do not run together clauses that liave not a mutual reference. 120. The words expressive of each member of a sentence, — Subject, Predicate, or Circumstance, — should be accentually united, and the members themselves kept distinct. 121. Do not keep the eye constantly fixed on the page, but carry the words of a clause in your mind, and address the eye to your hearers. 122. Do not pronounce the last word or clause of a page, until you have turned over the leaf, lest you sever words connected in sense. 123. To a Speaker, the thought precedes and dictates the words ; and words or clauses are instinctively grouped and accented so as to express the thought. But to a Header, tho words precede and dictate the thought ; and constant care and discernment are necessary to discover precisely the thouglit intended to be expressed, and so to collocate the words as neither to separate those which should be accentually associated, nor to unite those which are unconnected in sense. The most important grammatical words are not necessarily the principal «kr emphatic words in a sentence. ON THE READING OF VERSE. 124. Verse, or metrical composition, consists of sense in connection with the music of rhythm, or the consonance of syllables. The reader's business is to express tiie sense — by uniting or separating words exactly as in reading prose. In strictly following the sense, there should be no discord between the reader's voice and the poet's rhythm. If any want of harmony exist, the poet is in fault. One rule is connnon to both poet and reader, " Make the sound an echo to the sense." The reader must often accommodate his pronunciation to suit the rhythmical necessities, — but he should never sacrifice the sense for the sake of ill-adapted melody. MISCELLANEOUS DIRECTIONS FOR RECITATION. 125. Do not stand up hurriedly, or consequentially, or be in haste to begin, but take your position with leisurely grace ; pause, and bow before commencing. A few deep in.spirations, slowly taken, especially through the nostrils, will assist in sub- duing nervous agitation. 126. Surround yourself by tne imagery of your subject, and take no further thouglit of your auditors until" the close. Then bow and leisurely retire. 127. Never turn your back to your hearers. Arrange your gesticulative pictures, as far as possible, neither behind you, nor directly in front, nor in the line of the shoulders, but to right and lelt of tlie centre before yon. MISCELLANEOUS EXERCISES. ACTION OP THE TEETH. 128. Tronounce the names of the days of the week, the months of the year, or a series of numbers, &c., with an opening of tlie teeth before, and a pause after, each word. ACTION OF THE LIPS. 129. Pronounce the following labial syllables rapidly and distinctly, without any action of the nostrils or superfluous motion of the lips. Vary the voice, and shift the accent. pe be me f'e ve whe we, &c. ip ib iin if iv, &c. ACTION OF THE TONGUE. 130. Pronounce the following lingual syllables rapidly and distinctly, with the teeth open, and without any action of the lips or protrusion of the tongue. Give vocal and accentual variety. 1 te de ne le re the, &c. it id in il ith. &c. ORAL GYMNASTICS. 131. Pronounce each of the following difficult coiubinatioiis of pyllables five or six times without any superfluous motion of the articulating organs. Vary the accents and tones. ip it, ip ik, it ik, it ip, ik it, ik ip. ip it ip, ip ik ip, it ik it, it ip it, ik it ik, ik ip ik. ip it ik, ip ik it, it ip ik, it ik ip, ik it ip, ik ip it, ip it it ip, ip ik ik ip, it ik ik it, it ip ip it, ik it it ik, ik ip ip ik. ip if, if ip, it ith, ith it, if ith, ith if. ip if ip, if ip if, it ith it, ith it ith, if ith if, ith if ith. ip if if ip, if ip ip if, it ith ith it, ith it it ith, if ith ith if, ith if if ith ith iss, iss ith. ith ish, ish ith, iss ish, ish iss. ith iss ith, iss ith iss, ith ish ith, ish ith ish, iss ish iss, ish iss ish. ith iss ish, ith ish iss, iss ith ish, iss ish ith, ish iss ith, ish ith iss. ith ies iss ith, iss ith ith iss, ith ish ish ith, ish ith ith ish, iss ish ish iss, ish iss iss ish. im in, in im. in ing, ing in, im ing, ing im, im in im, in im in, in ing in. ing in ing, im ing im, ing im ing. im in ing, im ing in, in ira ing, in ing im, ing in im, ing im in. im in in im, in im im in, in ing ing in, ing in in ing, im ing ing im, ing im im ing. EXEKCISES. in il, il in, ib iv, iv ib, im iv, iv im. in il in, il in il, ib iv ib, iv ib iv, im iv im, iv im iv. in il il in, il in in il, ib iv iv ib, iv ib ib iv, im iv iv im, iv im im iv, ve we, we ve, re le, le re, re ne, ne re. ve we ve, we ve we, re le re, le re le, re ne re, ne re ne. re le ue, re ne le, le re ne, le ne re, ne le re, ne re le ve we we ve, we ve ve we, re le le re, le re re le, re ne ne re, ne re re na pip tit, pip kik, tit pip, tit kik, kik tit, kik pip. pit kit, pik tik, tip kip, tlk pik, kit pit, kip tip. pit pik, pik pit, tip tik, tik lip, kit kip, kip kit. thith sis, thith shish, sis tliith, sis shish. shish sis, shish thith. tliii* shis. thish sish, sith sliith, sish thish, shis this, shith Mth. this thish, thish this, sith sish, sish sith, shith shis, shis shith. Ill nin, nin lil, mim nin, nin mim, min lin, lin niin. rin lin, lin rin. nil ril, ril nil, rin ril, ril rin. nirrin linnil, nirril rinnil, rillin lirrin, nilliii lirril. EXERCISES ON VOWELS. First Vowel, as in eel: — eve, fatigue, minutise, aerie, quay, field, antceci, turquoise, aureola, sphere, shire, belief, unique, priest, seizure, a?gis, amphisboena, oedema, meagre, league, freeze, trustee, ennui, pique, Csesar, demesne, impregii. Second Vowkl, as in ill: — cabbage, pretty, women, busy, mountain, Monday, guineas, breeches, parliament, England, miniature, business, vineyard, cygnet, abyss, miracle, vigil, visor, dynasty, tyrannj'-, clef, sieve. Third Vovvli., as in ale: (a^ee) — gaol, guage, steak, vein, connoisseur, halfpenny, complacent, azure, ache, baize, chaise, vagrant, dismay, mveigh, grange, hasten, arraign, aorist, aviary, bravado, dictator, ukase, vase, emigrate, portrait. Fourth Vowel, as in ell, ere: — many, any, bury, said, says, ne'er, heir, heifer, leopard, eyre, jeopardy, feoli, etiquette, burial, beryl, legend, brethren, chary, tiiere, bestial, epoch, foetid, wainscot, again, against, Aaron, j\lichaelmas. Fifth Vowel, as in an : — Canaan, raillery, banian, patent, tapestry, waft, altitude, balcony, galaxy, album, gaseous, plaid, harangue, wrap, bade, sacrament, pacify, acrid, aloe, baron, atlantean, translate, arid, scandal, value, actual. Sixth Vowel, as in Uiik: — bath, cast, castle, brass, fasten, master, pass, repast, samyde, stafl', task, vast, surpass, oasis, pagoda, paralysis, saliva, saloon, syllable, sofa, drama, charade, dragoon, abode, adopt. Seve.nth Vowel, as in aJi: — ardour, clerk, haunt, hearty, guardian, parhelion, artifice, heartii, hearken, aunt, ain't, drauglit, laugh, s«rgeant, alms, balm, malmsey, quahn, salve, almond, jaundice, artiticer, barbaric. EXERCISES. 31 Eighth Vowel, as in her, earn: — air, ear, ire, oar, pear, here, earnest, guerdon, zephyr, martyr, cliirp, earth, bird, fertile, merchant, vertex, virtue, myrtle, gherkin, irksome, firm, verge, dirge, early, pearl, sterling, whirlwind, myrrh, prefer, stir. Ninth Vowel, as in up, urn: — world, done, furnace, cherub, parrot, felon, nation, sermon, factious, cupboard, avoirdupoi.-^c, blood, journey, colonel, doubloon, tough, chough, couple, subtle, luscious, mulct, borough, thorough, colander, surfeit. Tenth Vowel, as in on, all :— troth, yacht, chaps, wratli, hostile, jocund, prologue, monologue, quality, quantity, groat, extraordinary, twattle, quadrant, chord, swarthy, auction, falcon, vaunt, balsam, plaudit, yawn, faugh, pacha, spa. Eleventh Vowel, as in ore: — oar, sewer, door, tour, sword, sonorous, court, forth, hoarse, source, portly, bourn, liorde, corjis, floor, decorum, deportment, victorious, proportion, original, oriental, forebode, glorious, gourd, mourn. Twelfth Vowel, as in old: (o^oo)— rogue, host, ghost, gross, Pharaoh, hauteur, show, beau, brooch, philosopher, rondeau, oasis, cocoa, engross, bolster, poultry, won't, hautboy, olio, onyx, comb, droll, knoll, parasol, bureau, dough, holloa, trow. Thirteenth Vowel, as in pull, pool .•—rheumatism, shoe, manoeuvre, ambush, bivouac, ferula, cushion, pulpit, bosom, should, pull, croup, recruit, rhubarb, ruthless, bouse, gouge, lose, peruse, shrewd, ado, brew, halloo, ormolu, ragout. Diphthong, 7-1, as in isle: — height, naivety, choir, gnido, psychology, hierarch, bias, lyre, cycle, viscount, finite, blithe, gyve, rhyme, bye, awry, thigh, piebald, shver, aisle, idyl, condign, indict, oblige, satiety, iiypochondriacal. Diphthong, 7-13, as hi owl: — accoimtant, bower, coward, vowel, couch, cowslip, doughty, bounteous, countenance, fountain, cloudy, owlet, thousand, browse, lounge, avow, bougli, plough, endow, arouse, without, renown. Diphthong, 10-1, as in ov7:— coin, boy, oboe, hurgeois, envoy, rhomboid, boyish, loyalty, moiety, cloister, doit, hoisr, oyster, anoint, jointure, embroider, foible, toilsome, avoid, noiseless, alloy, joy, destroy, aroynt, troy, buoy. Combination, y-13, as in use: — tube, tune, duty, curate, cubic, confusion, dupe, duke, education, music, feud, Tuesday, pursuit, repute, abuse, impugn, reduce, pursuit, imbue, ridicule, pure, cure, ewer. EXERCISES ON ARTICULATIONS. First. — K, (whispered,) as in call: — car, coil, ache, music, echo, talk, vaccine, flaccid, choler, choir, chord, chorus, anarchy, distich, hemistich, pentateuch, archives, co(iuette, etiquette, masquerade, conquer, quadrille, exile, oxercise, lough, pique, orchestra. 82 EXFRCISES. Second. — G, (vocalized,) as in gull: — gate, game, bag, gag, bigot, plague, vague, ghost, guerdon, guinea, guarantee, guilt, prologue, epilogue, gewgaw, ragged, craggy, groat, gibbous, gimblet, gibcat. TuiUD. — NG, (nasal,) as in gong:—\i\ng, fang, ring, flinging, ringing, singing, hanger, length, strength, lengtlien, strengthen, reading, writing, drawing, dancing, singing. Ng-k; ancle, ban quet, ink, donkey, monk, uncle, succinct, relinquish. Ng-g, anger, anguish, strangle, finger, distinguish, extinguish, con- gregate, congress. FouKTH. — Y, (vocalized,) as in ?/ei;— year, young, your, you, use, utility, yield, humour, youth, spaniel, million, poniard, fuchsia, celestial, graduate, question, feudal, neuter, yew-tree. Fifth. — SH, (whispered,) as in mission: — censure, nauseate, associate, Asia, Persia, mansion, pension, anxious, obnoxious, ocean, Decii, chaise, chagrin, chivalry, schedule, fluxion, adventi- tious. Tsh. March, chamber, charity, attach, witch, which, scutcheon, inch, bunch, filch. Sixth. — ZH, (vocalized,) as in v;s2ora .-—pleasure, leisure, rasure, fusion, explosion, osier, treasure, persuasion, adhesion. Dzh. Judge, jury, perjure, refuge, soldier, jejune, pledge, oblige, age, doge, divulged, exchanged. Seventh. — R, (vocalized,) smooth as mfar: — power, mayor, pure, lure, virtue, commei"ce, colonel, pardon, warden, mercy, farm, term, storm, mortgage, appear. Trilled, as in rough ;— roar, whirring, spring, wrangle, wrack, wreck, wrestle, priory, rheum, rhubarb, tremendous, rugged, Russian. Eighth. — L, (vocahzed,) as in light:— \\y&\y, lovely, nestle, epistle, thistle, jostle, rustle, victual, needle, drivel, devil, evil, gravc4, hazel, housel, ousel, ravel, shovel, shrivel, swivel, weasel, earl, marl, leave, loins, isle, longing, lingering, look. Ninth. — T, (whispered,) as in tame : — debt, satiety, Thames, Thomas, Ptolemy, receipt, yacht, subtle, indict, victuals, phthisis, jjlithisic, titillate, taciturn, tutelar, indebted, indictment, tempter thyme, chopped, wrecked. Tenth. — D, (vocalized,) as in r/n-me :— bade, would, should twanged, harangued, buzzed, caged, lodged, suggest, exaggerate, courage, damage, rigged, writ lied, bdellium, condemned, intrigued, fatigued, impugned, abridged. Eleventh. — N, (nasal,) as in name: — penance, nonentity, gnomon, condign, stolen, fallen, swollen, gnarl, gnaw, kneel, iiestorian, aspen, happen, sudden, kitchen, chicken, hyphen, sloven, heaven, pattens, mittens. Twelfth. — S, (whispered,) as in seal: — sin, sign, design, Fuit, soot, dose, sceptre, transgress, transcend, psalm, precedent, schism, tacit, Styx, mists, flaccid. Chersonese, scintillate, exist'st, etriv'st, psalmist. Psyche, rescind, vaccinate, scimitar. Thiktef.nth. — Z\ (vocalized.) as in zro/ .-—zephyr, dissolve, hussars, damson, residue, president, mechanism, dismay, refusal, anxiety, houses, prizes, dances, scissors, disraal, complaisance, oiouurcliizc, us, hle^ loae. EXERCISES 33 FouRTEENxn. — TH, (whispered,) as in tMgli: — thank, thaw, theatre, thought, bath, path, mouth, tooth, faith, breatli, panther, orthoepy, apathy, ether, rhythm, ethics, atheist, length, strength, width, breadth, thesis, Lethe, amethyst, orthodox, labyrinth. Fifteenth. — TH, (vocalized,) as in iliy: — there, thine, thither, thougli, beneath, booth, either, tithe, wreathe, brethren, farthing, heathen, weather, breathe, clothe, unsheathe; also in these plurals, baths, paths, laths, oaths, mouths. Sixteenth. — F, (whispered,) as in fine: — fame, feud, fanci- ful, proffer, crafty, chafe, enough, chough, rough, cough, trough, laughter, draught, phial, phlegm, nymph, dwarf, sphinx, epitaph, phaeton, febrifuge, whereof, thereof. Seventeenth. — V. (vocalized,) as in vine: — vane, veer, vivid, pave, weave, halve, livid, votivo, nephew, twelve, revolve, nerve, Stephen, void, of, (but in tha compound* whereof, &c., the /is not changed into v.) Eighteenth. — WH, (whispered,) as in whey : — whale, what, when, while, where, whirl, whist, which, whether, whither, whirlwind. Nineteenth. — W, (vocalized,) as in way: — war, waft, wall, wonder, one, once, swan, swagger, sweet, twig, twine, dwarf, dwell, buoy, buoyance, quotation, quality, choir, suite, cuirass, cuirassier, quorum, quagmire. Twentieth. — P, (whispered,) as mpay: — peer, pound, happy, rapid, tropic, monophthong, diphthong, triphthong, naphtha, sheplierd, ophtliahnic, populous, papacy, puritan, turpitude, pippin, slipper, steeple, proper, span, spoil, scarp. Twenty-first. — B, (vocalized,) as in bay: — bought, beast, beg, inhabit, bound, stab, ebb, subtile, babbler, glebe, cupboard, bulb, superb, verb, proverb, tube, barb, baboon, barbarous, barbican, abrogate, ebony, fabulous, obstacle. Twenty-second. — M, (nasal,) as in may: — man, mom, move, mound, charm, mammon, moment, blame, hymn, solemn, phlegm, drachm, chasm, realm, film, farm, worm, rhythm, comb, womb, mimic, matrimony. H, (whispered,) — Hate, haunt, hall, high, whole, hair, huge, hothouse, hartshorn, heritage, hospital, humanize, Hudibras. In the following words and their derivatives, H is silent : — heir, honest, honour, hostler, hour, humour, and, by many speakers, humble. EXERCISES ON ACCENT. WORDS LIABLE TO MAL-ACCENTUATION. Abdo'men, accep'table, ac'cessary, ad'mirable, coadju'tor, ad'ver- tise, ad'vertiser, adver'tisement, ancbo'vy, antip'odes, a'lienable, apothe'osis, aro'ma, aspi'rant, asyn'deton, bal'cony, banian', bitu'men, blas'phenioua, brevet', («) bruv'et, (jatlj.) cam'elopard, caWic, 84 EXERCISE?. cel'ibacy, centrifugal, centrip'etal, commen'dable, commit'tee, com'- parable, chas'tisement, clandes'tine, complaisant', complaisance', compen'sate, con'fessor, consum'mate, con'trary, contem'plate, con'- vcrsant, cor'ollary, deco'rous, des'uetude, elegi'ac, euer'vate, epi- cure'an, ex'emplary,, extir'pate, fanat'ic, fari'na, gon'dola, heg'ira, hori'zon, hymene'al, imbecile', im'pious, indis'soluble, interfb'rence, inter'stice, invalid', (s.) inval'id, (adj.) irreme'diable, lab'oratory, lam'entable, machi'nist, Mahom'et, martinet', met'onymy, mis'cellauy, mis'chievous, o'asis, ob'durate, or'ison, pacha', panace'a, pancgyr'ic, pan'egyrize, per'emptory, prolix', quanda'ry, recep'tacle, recitative', recon'dite, rep'ertory, ref'ragable, rev'enue, sali'va, seques'trate, sono'rous, stalac'tite, stalag'mite, sub'altem, subjec'ted, eynec'doche, the'atre, uten'sil, verti'go. TRANSPOSITION OF ACCENT IN CONTRASTED WORDS. Giving, for'giving ; plausibility, prob'ability ; done, un'done ; justice, in'juslice ; mortal, im'mortal ; simulation, dis'simulation ; visible, in'visible ; accuse, ex'cuse ; decrease, in'crease ; proportion, dis'proportion ; religion, ir'religion ; untaught, ill'-taught ; compre- hend, ap'prehend ; expel, im'pel ; deduce, ad'duce ; avenge, re'venge. DIFFICULT WORDS AND SENTENCES. Repeat each several times, quickly, and with firm accentuation. Acts, chaise, copts, fifths, judged, knitting, laurel, literal, literally, literary, literarily, peacock, quick, railroad, raillery, rural, ruler, sash. Bashes, sects, sixths, statistics, vivification. Five wives weave withes. Such pranks Frank's prawns play in the tank. Put the cut pumpkin in a pipkin. Pick pepper peacock. Coop up the cook. A knapsack strap. Pick up the pips. A school coal-scuttle. Six thick thistle sticks. She says she shall sew a sheet. A sure sign of sunshine. The sun shines on the shop signs. A shot-silk sash-shop. I snuff shop snuff : do you snuff shop snuff? She sells sea-shells. Some shun sunshine. A rural ruler. Truly rural. A laurel-crowned clown. A lump of raw red liver. Literally literary. Don't run along the wrong lane. Let little Nelly run. Laid in the cold ground, (not coal ground.) Half I see the panting spirit sigh, (not spirit's eye.) Be the same in thine own act and valour as thou art in desire, (not thy known.) Oh, the torment of an ever-metldling memory, (not a never meddling.) All night it lay an ice-drop there, (not a nice drop.) Would that all ditterence of sects were at an end, (not sex.) Oh studied deceit, (not study.) A sad dangler, (not angler.) Goodness centres in the heart, (not enters. 11 is crime moved me, (not cry.) Chaste stars, .' (not chase tars.) She could pain nobody, (not pay.) Make clean our hearts, (not lean.) ilia beard defiwaiiUng swept his aged breaafr. (not beer.) EXEKCISES. 35 SXERCISES ON INFLEXION. 132. Pronounce the names of the days of the week, the months of the year, the cardinal or ordinal numbers, or any unconnected words, with the expressiveness of the Simple and Compound Rising and Falling Inflexions, and with as much as possible of variety in the pitch, extent, and force of each tone. 133. To give smoothness and natural efiect to the inflexions, the following logical formulas may be prefixed to the words in practice : For the Simple Kise, " Is it " For the Simple Fall, •' It is " For the Compound Rise, " It is not " For the Compound Fall, " But it is " ' 134. The formulas are to be pronounced softly, and in the opposite pitch to that of the accented word, — high before a low 'accent, low before a high accent. Thus : Firstl Sunday?'*" "'•°" Wednesday Alodes:) uit Monday. Tuesday. b,iiii. Second y^^** February. March. ■•*'"• Modes:] January? u\» uwm* April, &c 135. The following antithetic sentences should be practised, with alternate rising and falling tones, — simple and compound. 'Thus:— First Modes: Not able but Abel. Not axe but acta. r^ Second Modes : Not add but had. Not airy but hairy. •Not able but Abel. Not eminent but emanent. 'Not axe but acts. Not fetor but feature. Not add but had. Not gamble but gambol. Not airy but hairy. Not gluttonous but glutinooi. Not artless but heartless. Not holy but wholly. Not assistance but assistants. Not idle but idol. Not ballot but ballad. Not impassible but impassable. Not bridle but bridal. Not impostor but imposture. Not captor but capture. Not innocence but innocents. Not coffin but coughing. Not islands but highlands. Not conventicle but conventical. Not jester but gesture. Not coral but choral. Not juggler bui jugular. Not coward but cowherd. Not juvenile bnt Juvenal. Not devisable but divisible. Not lair bat layer. Not eddy but heady. Not legislator but legislature. Not elegy but elogy. Not liniment but Uneamcac 86 EXEnciSES. Not lore but lower. Not plaintive but plaintiff. Not mag'"3t but magnate. Not poplar but popular. Not mantle but mantel. Not precedent but president (z.) ■Not mare but mayor. Not principle but principal. Not matin but matting. Not regimen but regiment. Not meddle but medal. Not relic but relict. Not mines but minda. Not sentry but century. Not moles but moulds. Not track but tract. Not ooze but whose. Not weigh but whey. Not oracle but auricle. Not weather but whether. Not pastor but pasture. Not witch but which. Not patience but patients. Not world but whirled. EXERCISES ON THE NOTATION OP THE INFLEXIONS. 136. The following Exercises are minutely marked for ad- ditional vocal discipline and practice in the use of the inflective Notation. When the mark is above a word, the inflexion is pitched above the middle of the voice ; and when the mark is below the word, the inflexion is pitched below the middle of the voice. Syllables before the accent are always to be pronounced in the opposite pitch to that of the accent, — low before a high accent, high before a low accent. Syllables after the accent are pronounced with the accentual inflexion continued to the end of the word or clause. Will you go. Will you go. Will you go. Will you go. Will you go. Will you go. Will you go. Will you go. Were you there. W ere you there. Were you there. Were you there. Were you there. Were you there. Were you there. Were you there. Were you there. Were you there. Is it right. Is it right. Is it right. Is it right. Is it right. Is it right. Is it right. Is it right. Is it right. Is it possible. Is it possible. Is it possible. Is it possible. Is it possible. Is it possible. Is it possible. Is it possible. Is it possible. How do you do. How do you do. How do you do. How do you do. How do you do. How do you do. How do you do. How do you do. How do you do. Gone away. Gone away. Gone away. Gone away. Gone Rway. Gone away. Gone away. Gone away. EXERCISES. 37 No more. No more. No more. JNo more. No more. No •N '^ ^ -^ *^ "^ more. No more. No more. No more. No more. •""-' ^, *^^ Have patience. Have patience. Have patience. Have patience. Have patience. Have patience. Have patience. Have patience. He reads correctly, lie reads correctly. He reads correctly. He reads correctly. He reads correctly when be likes. He reads correctly when he likes. He reads correctly when he likes. He reads correctly when he likes to pay attention. He reads correctly when he likes to pay attention. He reads cor- rectly when he likes to pay attention. The Christian's hope. The Christian's hope. The Christian' '^ •^ *^ hope. The Christian's hope. The Christian's hope. Ths •• «-^ •^ •-. Christian's hope is fixed. The Christian's hope is fixed. The Christian's hope is fixed on heaven. The Christian's hope is fixed on heaven. EXERCISES ON THE NOTATIONS OF INFLEXION, MODULATION, FORCE, AND TIME. [The following additional marks are introduced: Plaintive, (pi.) Break, (...) Pause, (v)] To practise virtue is the sure way to love it. A true friend unbosoms freely, advises justly, assists readily, adventures bodily. His energies as a man, his afiection asa fether, his solicitude as a King, his zeal as a Christian, were never equalled. All partial evil is universal good. They that sow in tears shall reap in joy. Eend your heart and not your garments. 38 EiERCISES. If to do were as easy as to know what 'twere good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor mea s cottages prmces' palaces. We can do nothing against the truth. Strength and majesty belong to man. He requires a voluntary service. 4 I could not treat a dog ill. Enter not into judgement with thy ssrvant, Lord! God is able of these stones to raise up children unto Abraham. Those governments that curb not evils, cause ; And a rich knave's a libel on our laws. As no man is alike unfit for every employment, eo there is not any man unfit for all. When people are determined to quarrel, & straw will furnish the occasion. The labour of years is often insufficient for a complete refor- mation. Consult your whole nature. Consider yourselves not only as sensitive, but as rational beings ; not only as rational, but social ; not only as social, but immortal. You are not left alone to climb the arduous ascent ; God is with you. A friend cannot be known in prosperity, and an enemy can- not be hidden in adversity. Why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but perceivest not the beam that is in thine own eye ? Extended empire, like expanded gold, exchanges aolid strength for £eeble splendour. EXERCISES. 39 The true consideration is, Has he abused hia power I Thou fool I will thy discovery of the cause Suspend the effect, or heal it ? Open your lips, ye wonderful and fair I Speak I speak I the mysteries of those starry worlds •^2 3 Unfold ! 'T-No language ? Everlasting light, •^ ^ ^ 2.. And everlasting silence ? — Yet the eye May read and understand. Judge me, ye gods ! wrong I mine enemies. 2 3 ^ And if not so, how should I wrong my brother? It well becomes a person, truly, who has spent his life in the indulgence of every vicious propensity, to set up for a judge, and a reprover of others I So, then, you are the author of this conspiracy against me. It is to you that I am. ..indebted for all the... mischief that ha/ befallen me. EXERCISES ONiraXATIVE UTTERANCE, EXPRESSIVE SAMENESS, AND STACCATO PRONUNCIATION. ^ P ^ Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows . And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows : *e But, when loud surges lash the sounding shore , The hoarse, rough verse should, like the torrent, roar. * V 8 "When Ajax str ives some rock's va s t weight to thro w, The line, too, labours, and the words move slow ; 8 q Not so when swift Camilla scours the plai n, FUes o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main 40 EXERCISES. 8 Methought I heard a voice cry, * s" Sleep no more f Macbeth does murder sleep — ^the innocent sleep — Sleep, that knits up the ravelled sleave of care — The death of each day's life — sore labour's bath — Balm of hurt minds — great Nature's second course — Chief nourisher in life's feast." — 2 Still it cried, 4« Sleep no more !" 2to all the house : * " Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor I Till Shall sleep no more ! — ^jjacbeth shall sleep no more 1" II I I T I I * If they speak but truth of her. These hands shall.. .Svtear her; ^if they wrong her honour The proudest of them shall well hear of it. ^ Gone to be married I ^Gone to swear a peace ? I Till I e False blood to false blood joined I ' I I 7 T What men could do I I » Is done already : heaven and earth will witness, II II * If Kome must fall, that we are innocent. RECAPITULATION OF THE SECRET OF GOOD READING.— ORATORICAL WORDS. 137. Attention is again directed — in conclusion — to the most important element of good reading — the combination uF WORDS INTO GRAMMATICAL GROUPS, and THE SEPARATE PRONUNCIATION OF SUCH " ORATORICAL WORDS." (See par. 5, 40, 43, 118, 119, 120, 123.) The Distinct Articulation of SYLLA.BLKS, and the Logical Enunciation of clauses, are the primary requisites for effectiveness, as well as for ease in reading. The principles of grouping may be thus briefly comprehended : — No WORDS should be united between which a grammatical government, or mutual relation, DOES NOT subsist ; and NO SUCU GRA.M.MATICALLY RELATED words should be SEPARATED. (But see par. 94.) These principles render the reader independent of the Marks of Punctuation. [Teachers and Students (if tlie Theory of Elocution, are referred 1o the "Elocutionaky JIanual," (by A. M. IJell,) in accordance with wliioh the precediug Outlino of Principles and Exercises has been prepared.] 41 MISCELLANEOUS READINGS IN P E S E. [In many cases throughout the Book, the Extracts have been condensed, to render them more effective as Exercises in Keading and Kecitation.] I.— ON THE TONES OF THE HUMAN VOICE.— Alison. There is a sublimity or beauty felt in particular notes or tones of the human voice. That this arises from the nature of the qualities which the tones express, and not from the nature of the sounds themselves, may perhaps appear from the following observations. Such sounds are beautiful or sublime, only as they ex- press passions or affections which excite our sympathy. If we inquire what are the particular tones which are beautiful, it will universally be found that they are such only as are expressive of pleasing or interesting affections. The tones peculiar to anger, peevishness, malice, envy, misanthropy, deceit, &c., are neither agreeable nor beauti- ful. The tone of good-nature, though very agreeable, is not beautiful but at particular seasons, because the quality itself is in general rather the source of complacence than pleasure ; we regret the want of it, but we do not much enjoy its presence. — On the contrary, the tones peculiar tO' hope, joy, humility, gentleness, modesty, melancholy, &c., though extremely different, are all beautiful ; because the qualities they express are the objects of universal interest and approbation. In the same manner, the tones peculiar to magnanimity, fortitude, self-denial, patience, resignation, &c., are all sublime; and for a similar reason. This coincidence of the beauty and sublimity of the tones of the human voice, with those qualities of mind that are interesting or affecting to us, if it is not a formal proof, is yet a strong presumption that from the expression of such qualities these sounds derive their sublimity or beauty. The effect of such sounds in producing these emotions, instead of being permanent, is limited by the particular temper of mind we happen to be in, or by the c Dincidence 42 MISCELLANEOUS READING8 between that temper and the peculiar qualities of which the sounds are expressive. To most men, for instance, the tone of hope is beautiful. To a man in despair, it would be far from being so. To a man in grief, the tone of cheerfulness is simply painful. The tone of indignation, though in particular situations strongly sublime, to a man of a quiet and placid temper is unpleasant. To men of an ardent and sanguine cfearacter, the tone of patience is contemptible. To peevish and irritable spirits, the voice of humility, so pecuKarly beautiful, is provoking. If the beauty or sublimity of tones were independent of the qualities of mind we thus associate with them, such diver- sities could not happen ; the same sounds would produce uniformly the same emotions, as the same colours or smells produce uniformly the same sensations. There is yet a further consideration. We know either from nature, or from experience, that particular sounds or tones are the expression of particular passions and aifec- tions ; and the perception of such sounds is immediately accompanied with the belief of corresponding aiTections in the person from whom they proceed. Our sympathy, oui interest, it is plain, depend on our opinion of the propriety or impropriety of such affections in such circumstances. All this, however, does not in any degree affect the nature of the sound, which is still the same, whether the affection is proper or improper. No tone of passion or affection is beautiful, with which we do not sympathize. The tone of joy, for instance, is beautiful, in most cases where it is heard. Suppose we find that such a sound proceeds from some very trifling or ridiculous cause, our sense of its beauty is instantly destroyed with our opinion of its propriety. The tone of melancholy, or moderated grief, is affecting and beautiful beyond most others: — assign some frivolous reason for it, and instantly it becomes contemptible. The tone of patience is sublime in a great degree : — tell us that it is pusillanimity, and its effect is instantly gone. The high imperious note of rage is often sublime: — a trifling cause renders it simply ludicrous. The same observation may be extended to the tones of all our passions. It ia therefore extremely difficult, if not impossible, to account for this change of emotion, on the principle of the original and independent beauty of sounds. With regard to the human voice* however, it is to be IN PROSB„ 43 observed that, besides all this, there is also a beauty in particular degrees of the same tones. As we are naturally led to judge of the character of a person from his peculiar tones, and to believe that those passions have the principal dominion of his mind which have the most prevalent expression in his voice ; so we are led in the same way to judge of the degree or force of these passions, by the degree or strength of his tones. Thus, we feel a beauty in chastened degrees of sound, as they are expressive of moderation and self-command, — of habit more than im- mediate impulse; but they are beautiful only in those cases where temperance of emotion, of which they are the sign, is considered manly and proper. II.— THE ART OF READING WELL.— Mrs Ellis. If, in our ideas of the fine arts, we include all those embellishments of civilized life which combine, in a high degree, the gratification of a refined taste, with the exer- cise of an enlightened intellect ; then must reading aloud hold a prominent place amongst those arts which impart a charm to social intercourse, and purify the associations of ordinary life. But it must be good reading, or the enjoyment is exchanged for unspeakable annoyance ; not pompous or theatrical reading, but easy, familiar, and judicious reading; such reading as best conveys to the hearers the true meaning of the writer. It certainly does appear strange that those who speak every day with the tone of right reason and the emphasis of truth, should so pervert that beautiful instrument of music, the human voice, as to read aloud with any tone and emphasis but those which are right and true. Yet so it is ; and many a youth now sent home from school or college, after a costly, and what is called a finished, educa- tion, is wholly incapable of reading so as not at the same time to disgrace himself, and offend his hearers. It is sometimes said that nothing can be easier than to read well, if persons understand what they are read- ing. But where, then, are the good readers who find it so easy ? or where, in other words, are the people of under- standing ? for certainly many of our readers would be ut- terly unable to understand themselves, were not the sense of what they utter conveyed to their minds through the medium of sight. 44: MISCELLANEOUS READINGS The art of reading, as it is too generally treated, would seem to consist in the mere recognition and utterance of verbal signs of ideas, as they appear to us in their printed form. But it should never be forgotten, that, unless a right utterance is given to these signs, they fail to represent ideas ; they are mere words, and nothing more. When all the necessary requisites for a good reader are taken into account, we wonder not so much that this ac- complishment is neglected, as that it does not constitute, with all who look upon education in ixs true light, an important means of refining and elevating the mind, of cultivating the sympathies, and of improving those habits of perception and adaptation which are so valuable to all. Eeading aloud, and reading well, ought not to be con- sidered as mere amusement. A good book well read is like the conversation of an intelligent friend, and ought to be treated with the same respect. It forms, in fact, a rallying point, around which different tempers, feelings, and con- stitutions, can meet without discord ; it tends to draw each mind out of its petty cares and perplexities, to meet with other minds on common ground ; where a wider extent of interest, and often a nobler range of thought, have the effect of showing, by contrast, how trivial and unimportant are the thingsof Self, when compared with the great aggregate of human happiness and misery. III.— ON STUDY.— Lord Baco!?. Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief use for delight, is in privateness and retiring ; for ornament, is in discourse ; and for ability, is in the judgement and disposition of business. For, expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of particulars one by one ; but the general councils, and the plots, and marshaling of affairs, come best from those that are learned. To spend too much time in studies, is sloth ; to use them too much for ornament, is affectation ; to make judgement wholly by their rules, is the humour of a scholar. They perfect nature, and are perfected by experience ; for natural abili- ties are like natural plants, that need pruning by study; and studies themselves do give forth directions too much at large, except they be bounded-in by experience. Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire them, and wis* IN PROSE. 45 men use them ; for they teach not their own use, — but that is a wisdom without them, and above them, won by obser- vation, Kead, — not to contradict and refute, not to believe and take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, — but to weigh and consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested: that is, some books are to be read only in parts ; others to be read — but not curiously; and some few, to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. Some books also may be read by deputy, and extracts of them made by others ; but that should be only in the less important argu- ments, and the meaner sort of books ; else, distilled books are like common distilled waters, — flashy things. Eeading maketh a full man ; conference, a ready man ; and writing, an exact man. And therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a present wit ; if he confer little, he had need have a good memory ; and if he read little, he had need have much cunning to seem to know what he doth not. IV.— MEANS OF ACQUIRING DISTINCTION.— Sydney Smith. It is natural in every man to wish for distinction ; and the praise of those who can confer honour by their praise, is, in spite of all false philosophy, sweet to every human heart; but, as eminence can be only the lot of a few, patience of obscurity is a duty, which we owe not more to our own happiness, than to the quiet of the world at large. Give a loose, if you are young and ambitious, to that spirit which throbs within you ; measure yourself with your equals; and learn, from frequent competition, the place which Nature has allotted to you ; make of it no mean battle, but strive hard ; strengthen your soul to the searcn of Truth, and follow that spectre of Excellence which beckons you on, beyond the walls of the world, to some- thing better than man has yet done. It may be you shall burst out into light and glory at the last: but, if frequent failure convince you of that mediocrity of nature, which is incompatible with great actions, submit wisely and cheer- fully to your lot ; let no mean spirit of revenge tempt you to throw off your loyalty to your country, and to prefer a vicious celebrity to obscurity crowned with piety and virtue. If you can throw new light upon moral truth, or, by any exwtions, multiply the comforts or confirm the happiness of laankind, this fame guides you to the true 46 MISCELLANEOUS BBACINaS. ends of your nature ; but, in the name of Heaven, as you tremble at retributive justice ; and in the name of mankind, if mankind be dear to you, seek not that easy and accursed fame which is gathered in the vork of revolutions : and deem it better to be for ever unknown, than to found a momentary name upon the basis of anarchy and irreligion. v.— UNCEKTAINTIES OF FORTUNE.— Lord Bolingbrokb. The sudden invasion of an enemy overthrows such as are not on their guard ; but they who foresee the war, and pre- pare themselves for it before it breaks out, stand, without difficulty, the first and the fiercest onset. I learned this important lesson long ago ; and never trusted to Fortune, even while she seemed to be at peace with me. The riches, the honours, the reputation, and all the advantages, which her treacherous indulgence poured upon me, I placed so, that she might snatch them away without giving me any disturbance. I kept a great interval between me and them. She took them, but she could not tear them from me. No man suffers by bad fortune, but he who has been deceived by good. If we grow fond of her gifts ; if we fancy that they belong to us, and are perpetuaUy to remain with us ; if we lean upon them, and expect to be considered for them ; we shall sink into all the bitterness of grief, as soon as these false and transitory benefits pass away, — as soon as our vain and childish minds, unfraught with solid pleasures, become destitute even of those which are imagirr ary. But, if we do not suffer ourselves to be transported with prosperity, neither shall we be reduced by adversity. Our souls will be proof against the dangers of both these states : and, having explored our strength, we shall be sure of it ; for, in the midst of felicity, we shall have tried how we can bear misfortime. Ignominy can take no hold on Virtue ; for Virtue is in every condition the same, and challenges the same respect. We applaud the world when she prospers ; and when she falls into adversity we applaud her. Like the temples of the gods, she is venerable even in her ruins. After this, must it not appear a degree of madness to defer, one moment, acquir- ing the only arms capable of defending us against attacks, to which at every moment we are exposed ? Our being miserable or not miserable, when we fall into misfortunes, depends on the manner in which we have enjoyed prosperity. IK PKOBB. 47 VI. ON LABOUR.— Thomas Caeltlb. There is a perennial nobleness, and even sacredness, in work. Were a man ever so benighted, or forgetful of his high calling, there is always hope in him who actually and earnestly works; in idleness alone is there perpetual despair. Consider how, even in the meanest sorts of labour, the whole Boul of a man is composed into real harmony. He bends himself with free valour against his task; and doubt, desire, sorrow, remorse, indignation, despair itself, shrink mur- muring far off into their caves. The glow of labour in him is a purifying fire, wherein all poison is burned up ; and of sour smoke itself, there is made a bright and blessed flame. Destiny has no other way of cultivating us. A formless chaos, once set revolving, grows round, ranges itself into Ptrata, and is no longer a chaos, but a compacted world. "What would become of the earth, did it cease to revolve ? So long as it revolves, all inequalities disperse themselves, aE irregularities incessantly become regular. Of an idle, unrevolving man, destiny can make nothing more than a mere enamelled vessel of dishonour, let her spend on him what colouring she may. Let the idle think of this. VII. THE LAMP OF TRUTH.— Etjskin. There is a marked likeness between the virtue of man and the enlightenment of the globe he inhabits;— the same diminishing gradation in vigour up to the limits of their domains, — the same essential separation from (heir con- traries, — the same twilight at the meeting of the two; a something wider belt than the line where the world rolls into night: that strange twilight of the virtues; that dusky debatable land wherein zeal becomes impatience, and temperance becomes severity, and justice becomes cruelty, and faith superstition, and each and all vanish into gloom. Nevertheless, with the greater number of the virtues, though the dimness increases gradually, we may mark the moment of sunset; and, happily, may turn the shadow back by the way which it had gone down : but, for one, the line of the horizon is irregular and undefined ; and this, too, the very equator and girdle of them all, — Truth : — that only one of which there are no degrees ; but breaks and rents continually; that pillar of the earth, yet a cloudy 48 EXERCISE?. pillar ; that golden ana narrow line whicli the very powers and virtues that lean upon it bend, which Policy and Prudence conceal, which Kindness and Courtesy modify, which Courage overshadows with his shield, Imagination covers with her wings, and Charity dims with her tears. How difficult must the maintenance of that authority be, which, while it has to restrain the hostility of all the worst principles of man, has also to control the disorders of hia best; — which is continually assaulted by the one and betrayed by the other, and which regards with the same severity the lightest and the boldest violations of its law I There are some faults slight in the sight of Love, some errors trivial in the estimate of Wisdom ; but Truth forgives no insult and endures no stain. We do not enough consider this ; nor enough dread the slight and continual occasions of offence against her. We are too much in the habit of looking at falsehood in its darkest associations, and through the colour of its worst pui-poses. That indignation which we profess to feel at deceit absolute, is indeed only felt at deceit malicious. We resent calumny, hypocrisy, and treachery, because they harm us, not because they are untrue. Take the detraction and the mischief from the untruth, and we are little offended by it ; turn it into praise, and we may be pleased with it. And yet it is not calumny nor treachery that does the largest sum of mischief in the world ; but it is the glis- tening and softly-spoken lie; the amiable fallacy; tho patriotic lie of the historian, the provident lie of the poli- tician, the zealous lie of the partizan, the merciful lie of the friend, and the careless lie of each man to himself, that cast that black mystery over humanity, through which any man who pierces, we thank as we would thank one who dug a well in a desert; happy that the truth still remains with us, even when we have wilfully left its fountains. It would be well if moralists less frequently confused the greatness of a sin with its unpardonableness. The two characters are altogether distinct. The greatness of a fault depends partly on the nature of the person against whom it is committed, partly on the extent of its conse- quences. Its pardonableness depends, humanly speaking on the degree of temptation to it. One class of circum- stances determines the weight of the impending punish- IN rnosE. 49 ment; the other, the claim to remission of punishment. Since it is not easy lor men to estimate the relative weight, or possible for them to know the relative consequences, of crime, it is usually wise in them to quit the care of such nice measurements, and to look to the other clearer condition of culpability, — esteeming those faults worst which are committed under least temptation. I do not mean to diminish the blame of the injurious and malicious sin, of the selfish and deliberate falsity ; yet it seems to me that the shortest way to check the darker forms of deceit is to ectwatch more scrupulous against those which have mingled, unregarded and unchastised, with the currents of our life. Do not let us lie at all. Do not think of one falsity as harmless, and another as slight, and another as unintended. Cast them all aside : it is better that our hearts should be swept clean of them, without over-care as to which is largest or blackest. To speak and to act truth with constancy and precision are nearly as difficult, and perhaps as meritorious, as to speak it under intimidation or penalty ; and it is a strange thought, how many men there are, as I trust, who would hold to it at the cost of fortune or life, for one who would hold to it at the cost of a little daily trouble 1 And, eeeiug, that, of all sin, there is, perhaps, no one more flatly opposite to the Almighty, no one more " wanting the good of virtue and of being," than this of lying, it is surely a strange insolence to fall into the foulness of it on light or on no temptation ; and surely becoming an honourable man to resolve that, whatever semblances or fallacies the necessary course of his life may compel him to bear or to believe, none shall disturb the serenity of his voluntary actions, or diminish the reality of his chosen delights. VIII.— THE FATE OF BURNS.— Thomas Cabltlk, Contemplating the sad end of Burns — how he sank un- aided by any real help, uncheered by any wise sympathy, — • generous minds have sometimes figured to themselves, with a reproachful sorrow, that much might have been done for him ; that, by counsel, true afTection, and friendly ministra- tions, he might have been saved to himself and the world. But it seems dubious whether the richest, wisest, most be- nevolent individual could have lent Burns any effectual help. Counsel, — which seldom profits any one, — he did not need. In his understanding, he knew the right from the 60 MISCELiANEOnS READINGS wrong, as well, perhaps, as any man ever did; but the persuasion which would have availed him, lies not so much in the head as in the heart, where no argument or expostu- lation could have assisted much to implant it. As to money, we do not believe that this was his essential want ; or well see that any private man could have bestowed on him an independent fortune, with much pros- pect of decisive advantage. It is a mortifying truth, that two men, in any rank of society, can hardly be found virtuous enough to give money, and to take it as a necessary gift, without an injury to the moral entireness of one or both. But so stands the fact : Friendship, in the old heroic eense of the term, no longer exists; it is in reality no longer expected, or recognised as a rirtue among men. A close observer of manners has pronounced " patronage," — that is, pecuniary or economic furtherance, — to be " twice cursed ;" cursing him that gives, and him that takes ! And thus, in regard to outward matters, it has become the rule, fts, in regard to inward, it always was and must be the rule, that no one shall look for effectual help to another; but that each shall rest contented with what help he can afford himself. Such is the principle of modem Honour; naturally enough growing out of the sentiment of Pride, which we inculcate and encourage as the basis of our whole social morality. We have already stated our doubts whether direct pecuniary help, had it been offered, would have been accepted, or could have proved very effectual. We shall readily admit, however, that much was to be done for Burns ; that many a poisoned arrow might have been ward- ed from his bosom ; many an entanglement in his path cut asunder by the hand of the powerful ; light and heat, shed on him from high places, would have made his humble atmosphere more genial ; and the softest heart then breath- ing might have lived and died with fewer pangs. Still we do not think that the blame of Burns's failure lies chiefly with the world. The world, it seems to us, treated him with more, rather than with less kindness than it usually bIiows to such men. It has ever, we fear, shown but small favour to its teachers: hunger and nakedness, perils and reviling, the prison, the poison-chalice, the Cross, have, in most times and countries, been the market-price it has offered for wisdom — th« welcom* with which it haa treated IN PROSE. 61 those who have come to enlighten and purify it. Homer and Socrates, and the Christian Apostles, belong to old days ; but the world's martyrology was not completed with these. So neglected, so " persecuted they the prophets," not in Judea only, but in all places where men have been. We reckon that every poet of Burns's order is, or should be, a prophet and teacher to his age ; that he has no right to expect kindness, but rather is bound to do it ; that Burns, in particular, experienced fully the usual proportion of good- ness ; and that the blame of his failure, as we have said, lies not chielly with the world. Where then does it lie ? We are forced to answer, with himself: it is his inward, not his outward misfortunes, that bring him to the dust. Seldom, indeed, is it otherwise; seldom is a life morally wrecked, but the grand cause lies in some internal mal-arrangement, — some want, less of good fortune than of good guidance. Nature fashions no creature without implanting in it the strength needful for its action and duration ; least of all does she neglect her master-piece and darling — the poetic soul ! Neither can we believe that it is in the power of any external circum- Btances utterly to ruin the mind of a man; nay, — if proper wisdom be given him, — even so much as to affect its essential health and beauty. The sternest sum-total of all worldly misfortunes is Death ; nothing more can lie in the cup of human woe: yet many men, in all ages, have triumphed over death, and led it captive ; converting its physical victory into a moral victory for themselves — into a seal and immortal consecration for all that their past lifo bad achieved. What has been done may be done again ; nay, it is but the degree, and not the kind, of such heroism, that differs in different seasons: for, without some portion of this spirit, not of boisterous daring, but of silent fear- lessness — of SELF-DENIAL in all its forms, no great man, in any scene or time, has ever attained to be good. IX.— THE BLANK BIBLE.— Rogkrs. I thought I was at home, and that, on taking up my Bible one morning, I found, to my surprise, what seemed to be the old familiar book was a total blank: not a character Wiis inscribed in it or upon it. On going into the street, I found every one complaining in similar perplexity of the same loss ; and before night it became evident that a great 52 MISCELLANEOUS READINGS and wonclerful miracle had been wrought in the world : the hand which had written its awful menace on the walls of Belshazzar's palace had reversed the miracle, and expunged from our Bibles every syllable they contained ; — thus re- claiming the most precious gift that Heaven had bestowed, and ungrateful man had abused, I was curious to watch the effects of this calamity on the varied characters of mankind. There was, however, universally, an interest in the Bible, now it was lost, such as had never attached to it while it was possessed. Some, to whom the Sacred Book had been a blank for twenty years, and who never would have known of their loss but for the lamentations of their neighbours, were not the least vehe- ment in their expressions of sorrow. The calamity not only stirred the feelings of men, but it immediately stimulated their ingenuity to repair the loss. It was very early sug- gested that the whole Bible had again and again been quoted piecemeal in one book or other ; that it had impressed its image on human literature, and had been reflected on its surface, as the stars on a stream. But alas! on inspection, it was found that every text, every phrase which had been quoted, whether in books of theology, poetry, or fiction, had been remorselessly obliterated. It was with trembling hand that some made the attempt to transcribe the erased texts from memory. They feared that the writing would surely fade away ; but to their unspeakable joy, they found the impression durable ; and people at length came to the conclusion, that God left them at liberty, if they could, to reconstruct the Bible for them- selves out of their collective remembrances of its contents. Some obscure individuals who had studied nothing else but the Bible, but who had well studied that, came to be objects of reverence among Christians and booksellers ; and he who could fill up a chasm by the restoration of words which were only partially remembered, was regarded as a public bene- factor. At length, a great movement was projected amongst the divines of all denominations, to collate the results of these partial recoveries of the Sacred Text. But here it was curious to see the variety of difierent readings of the same passages insisted on by conflicting theologians. No doubt the worthy men were generally unconscious of the influence of prejudice ; yet somehow the memory was seldom so clear IN PROSE. 53 in relation to texts which told against, as in relation to those which told for, their several theories. It was curious, too, to see by what odd associations, Bometimes of contrast, sometimes of resemblance, obscure texts were recovered. A miser contributed a maxim of prudence, which he recollected principally from having systematically abused. All the ethical maxims were soon collected ; for though, as usual, no one recollected his own peculiar duties or infirmities, every one kindly remembered those of his neighbours. As for Solomon's " times for every thing," few could recal the whole, but everybody remem- bered some. Undertakers said there was " a time to mourn ;" and comedians said there was " a time to laugh ;" young ladies innumerable remembered there was " a time to love ;" and people of all kinds, that there was " a time to hate ;" everybody knew there was " a time to speak ;" and a worthy quaker added, that there was also " a time to keep silence." But the most amusing thing of all was, to see the variety of speculations which were entertained respecting the object and design of this strange event. Many gravely questioned whether it could be right to attempt the reconstruction of a Book of which God himself had so manifestly deprived the world ; and some, who were secretly glad to be relieved of so troublesome a monitor, were particularly pious ou this head, and exclaimed bitterly against this rash attempt to counteract the decrees of Heaven. Some even maintained that the visitation was not in judgement but in mercy ; that Grod, in compassion, and not in indignation, had taken away a book which men had regarded with an extravagant admiration and idolatry ; and that, if a rebuke at all was intended, it was a rebuke to a rampant Bibliolatry. This last reason, which assigned, as the cause of Grod's resump- tion of his own gift, an extravagant admiration and rever- ence of it on the part of mankind — it being so notorious that even the best of those who professed belief in its Divine origin and authority had so grievously neglected it — struck me as so exquisitely ludicrous, that I broke into a fit of laughter, which awoke me. The morning sun was streaming in at the window, and shining upon the open Bible which lay on the table ; and it was with joy that my eyes rested on those words, which I read through grateful tears, — " The gifts of God are without repentance." 54 MISCELLANEOUS READINGS X.— THE ELDER'S DEATH-BED.— Peofebsob Wilson. For six years' Sabbaths, I had seen the Elder in Lis accustomed place beneath the pulpit ; and, with a sort of solemn fear, had looked on his steadfast countenance, during sermon, psalm, and praj^er. I met the Pastor, going to pray by his death-bed : — and, with the privilege which nature gives us to behold, even in their last extremity, the loving and beloved, I turned to accompany him to the house of sorrow, of resignation, and of death. And now, for the first time, I observed, walking close to the feet of his horse, a little boy about ten years of age, who kept frequently looking up in the Pastor's face, with his blue eyes bathed in tears. A changeful expression of grief, hope, and despair, made almost pale, cheeks which otherwise were blooming in health and beauty; and I recognised, in the small features and smooth forehead of childhood, a resemblance to the aged man, who, we under- stood, was now lying on his death-bed. " They had to send his grandson for me through the snow, mere child as he is," eaid the minister, looking tenderly on the boy ; " but love makes the young heart bold ; — and there is One who tem- pers the wind to the shorn lamb." As we slowly approached the cottage through a deep snow-drift, we saw, peeping out from the door, brothers and sisters of our little guide, who quickly disappeared ; and then their mother showed herself in their stead; expressing, by her raised eyes and arms folded across her breast, how thankful she was to see, at last, the pastor, — beloved in joy and trusted in trouble. A few words sufficed to say who was the stranger: — and the dying man, blessing me by name, held out to me his cold shrivelled hand, in token of recognition. I took my seat at a small distance from the bed-side, and left a closer station for those who were more dear. The pastor sat down near his Elder's head ; — and by the bed, leaning on it vnih gentle hands, stood that matron, his daughter-in-law ; a figure that would have sainted a higher dwelling, and whose native beauty was now more touching in its grief. " If the storm do not abate," said the sick man after a pause, " it will be hard for my friends to carry me over the drifts to the church-yard." This sudden approach to the grave, struck, as with a bar of ice, the heart of the loving boy: — and, with a long deep sigh, he fell down, his face like ashes, on the bed ; while the old man's palsied right IK FROSE, 55 hand had just strength enougti to lay itself upon his head. "God has been gracious to me, a sinner!" said the dying man. " During thirty years that I have been an Elder in your church, never have I missed sitting there one Sabbath. When the mother of my children was taken from me, it was on a Tuesday she died, and on Saturday she was buried. "We stood together, when my Alice was let down into the narrow house made for all living. On the Sabbath, I joined in the public worship of G-od. She commanded me to do 60, the night before she went away. I could not join in the p&alm that Sabbath, for her voice was not in the throng. — Her grave was covered up, and grass and flowers grew there." The old man then addressed himself to his grandchild: — "Jamie, thy own father has forgotten thee in thy infancy, and me in my old age ; but, Jamie, forget not thou thy father or thy mother ; for that, thou knowest and feelest, is the commandment of God." The broken-hearted boy could give no reply. He had, gradually, stolen closer and closer unto the loving old man ; and now was lying, worn out with sorrow, drenched and dissolved in tears, in his grandfather's bosom. His mother had sunk down on her knees, and hid her face with her hand. "Oh! if my husband knew but of this, he would never, never desert his dying father!" — And I now knew that the Elder was praying, on hie death-bed, for a dis- obedient and wicked son. The door was suddenly opened, and a tall fine-looking man entered ; but with a lowering and dark countenance, seemingly in sorrow, in misery, and remorse. Agitated, confounded, and awe-struck by the melancholy scene, he eat down on a chair, and looked with a ghastly face towards his father's death-bed. The Elder said with a solemn voice, " Thou art come in time to receive thy father's bless- ing. May the remembrance of what will happen in this room, before the morning again shine over the Hazel-glen, win thee from the error of tby ways! Thou art here to witness the mercy of tby God and thy Saviour, whom thou HAST forgotten." The young man, with much effort, advanced to the bed- side ; and, at last, found voice to say, " Father, I am not without the affections of nature ; and I hurried home, the moment I heard that the minister had been seen riding towards our house. J hope that you will yet recover; 56 MISCELLAXEODS READINGS and if I have ever made you unhappy, I ask your forgive- ness ; for, though I may not think as you do on matters of religion, I have a human heart. Father, I may have been unkind, but I am not crueh I ask your forgiveness." " Come near to me, "William ; kneel down by the bed- side, and let my hand feel the head of my beloved son ; for blindness is coming fast upon me. Thou wast my first- born, and thou art my only living child. All thy brothers and sisters are lying in the church-yard, beside her, whose sweet face, thine own, William, did once so much resemble. Long wast thou the joy, the pride of my soul, — ay, too much the pride ; for there was not, in all the parish, such a man, such a son, as my own William. If thy heart haa since changed, God may inspire it again with right thoughts. I have sorely wept for thee — ay, William, when there was none near me ; — even as David wept for Absalom — for thee, my son ! my son I" A long deep groan was the only reply; but the whole body of the kneeling man was convulsed ; and it was easy to see his sufferings, his contrition, his remorse, and his despair. The pastor said, with a sterner voice and austerer countenance than were natural to him, " Know you whose hand is now lying on your rebellious head? But what signifies the word ' father,' to him who has denied G-od, the Father of us all ?' — " Oh ! press him not too hardly," said his weeping wife, coming forward from a dark corner of the room, where she tried to conceal herself in grief, fear, and shame. " Spare, oh ! spare my husband ! — he has ever been kind to ME ;" and, with that, she knelt down beside him, with her long, soft, white arms, mournfully and affec- tionately laid across his neck. " Go thou likewise, my sweet little Jamie," said the Elder, " go even out of my bosom, and kneel down beside thy father and thy mother ; so that I may bless you all at once, and with one yearning prayer." The child did as the solemn voice commanded, and knelt down somewhat timidly by his father's side ; nor did the unhappy man decline encircling with his arm his son, too much neglected, but still dear to him as his own blood — in spite of the deadening and debasing influence of infidelity! " Put the Word of God into the hands of my son, and let him read aloud, to his dying father, the eleventh chap- ter of the Gospel according to St John." The pastor went up to the kneelers, and said, " There was a time when none, IN mosB. o7 "William, could read the Scriptures better than couldst thou ; — can it be that the son of my friend hath forgotten the lessons of his youth T He had not forgotten them ; there was no need of the repentant sinner to lift up his eyes from the bed-side. The sacred stream of the Gospel had worn a channel in his heart, and the waters were again flowing. With a choked voice, he read, " Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life; and whosoever liveth, and believeth in me, shall never die. Believest thou this? She said unto him, Yea, Lord: I believe thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the world." " That is not an unbeliever's voice," said the dying man triumphantly ; " nor, William, hast thou an unbeliever's heart. Say that thou believest in what thou hast read, and thy father will die happy!" "I do believe, and as THOU forgivest me, so may I be forgiven by my Father, who is in heaven." The Elder seemed like a man suddenly inspired with a new life. His faded eyes kindled, — his pale cheeks glowed, — his palsied hands seemed to wax strong, — and his voice was clear, as that of manhood in its prime. — "Into thy hands, God! I commit my spirit — " and so saying, he gently sank back on his pillow ; — and I thought I heard a sigh. There was then a long, deep silence ; and the father, the mother, and the child, rose from their knees. The eyes of us all were turned towarda the white, placid face of the figure, now stretched in ever- lasting rest ; and without lamentations, save the silent lamentations of the resigned soul, we stood around the DEATH-BED OF THE ElDER. XI.— ON BRITISH HISTORY.— Eev. C. Wolfk. Great was the benefit of historical retrospect in ancient days, but its value is now incalculably augmented ; for, of the sciences, history is that which is always advancing. Poetry and the arts are often stationary, often retrograde ; but every year, every month, every day, is contributing its knowledge to the grand magazines of historical experience. With what an accession of beauty does History invite the Briton to the study of her charms, while she recounts the acts and heroism and glories of his country! Let the energies of England be extinct, — let her armiea be overwhelmed, — let her navy become the spoil of the enemy and the ocean, — let the national credit become a 58 MISCELLANEOUS READINGa by-word, — let tlae last dregs of an exhausted treasury be wrung from her cofiers, — let the constitution crumble, — let the enemy ride in her capital, and her frame fall asunder in political dissolution ; — then stand, with History on one hand, and Oratory on the other, over the grave in which her energies lie entombed, — and cry aloud! Tell her that there was a time when the soul of a Briton would not bend before the congregated world: — tell her that she once called her sons around her, and wrung the charter of her liberties from a reluctant despot's hand : — tell her that she was the parent of a band of brothers that fought on Crispin's day : — tell her that Spain sent forth a nation upon the seas against her, and that England and the elements overwhelmed it: — tell her that six centuries were toiling to erect the edifice of her constitution, and that at length the temple arose: — tell her that there are plains in every quarter of the globe where Victory has buried the bones of her heroes: — tell her that when the enemy of human liberty arose, the freedom of the whole world took refuge with her ; that, alone and unaided, she flung back the usurper, till recreant Europe blushed with shame : — tell her all this ; and I say that the power of lethargy must be omnipotent, if she does not shake the dust from her neck, and rise in flames of anni- hilating vengeance on her destroyer. For him who peruses history, every hero has fought, — every philosopher has instructed, every legislator has organized; — every blessing was bestowed, every calamity was inflicted, for his information. In public, he is in the audit of his counsellors, and enters the senate with Pericles, Solon, and Lycurgus ; in private, he walks among the tombs of the mighty dead, and every tomb is an oracle. XII— A WILD NIGHT AT SEA.— Dickens. A dark and dreary night: people nestling in their beds or circling late about the fire ; Want, colder than Charity, shivering at the street corners ; church-towers humming with the faint vibration of their own tongues, but newly resting from the ghostly preachment — " One!" The earth covered with a pable pall, as for the burial of Yesterday ; the clumps of dark trees, — its giant phimes of funeral feathers — waving sadly to and fro: all huslied, all noise- less, and in deep repose, save the swift clouds that skim a^iross the moon ; and the cautious wind, as, creeping after IN PROSE. 69 them upon tlie ground, it stops to listen, and goes rustling on, and stops again, and follows, like a savage on the trail. Whither go the clouds and wind so eagerly ? If, like guilty spirits, they repair to some dread conference with powers like themselves, in what wild region do the elements hold council, or where unhend in terrible disport ? Here! Free from that cramped prison called the earth, and out upon the waste of waters. Here, roaring, raging, shrieking, howling, all night long. Hither come the sound- ing voices from the caverns on the coast of that small island, sleeping a thousand miles away so quietly in the midst of angiy waves ; and hither, to meet them, rush the blasts from unknown desert places of the world. Here, in the fury of their unchecked liberty, they storm and bullet with each other ; until the sea, lashed into passion like their own, leaps up in ravings mightier than theirs, and the whole scene is whirling madness. On, on, on, over the countless miles of angry space, roll the long heaving billows. Mountains and caves are here, and yet are not ; for what is now the one, is now the other ; then all is but a boiling heap of rushing water. Pursuit, and flight, and mad return of wave on wave, and savage struggling, ending in a spouting up of foam that whitens the black night ; incessant change of place, and form, and hue; constancy in nothing but eternal strife; on, on, on they roll, and darker grows the night, and louder howl the winds, and more clamorous and fierce become the million voices in the sea — when the wild cry goes forth upon the storm, "A ship!" Onw^ard she comes, in gallant combat with the elements, her tall masts trembling, and her timbers starting on the strain ; onward she comes, now high upon the curling bil- lows, now low down in the hollows of the sea, as hiding for the moment from its fury ; and every storm- voice in the air and water cries more loudly yet, " A ship!" Still she comes striving on: and at her boldness and the spreading cry, the angry waves rise up above each other's hoary heads to look ; and round about the vessel, far as the mariners on her decks can pierce into the gloom, they press upon her, forcing each other down, and starting up, and rushing forward from afar, in dreadful curiosity. High over her they break, and round her surge and roar; and, giving place to others, meaningly depart, and dash them- selves to fragments in their bulllud anger: still she comes 60 MlBCELIaANEOUS READINGS onward bravely. And though the eager multitude crowd thick and fast upon her all the night, and dawn of day discovers the untiring train yet bearing down upon the ship in an eternity of troubled water, onward she comes, with dim lights burning in her hull, and people there, asleep: as if no deadly element were peering-in at every seam and chink, and no drowned seamen's grave, with but a plank to cover it, were yawning in the unfathomable depths below. XIII.— HUMOUEODS INCONGKUITIES.— Stdset Ssith. To see a young officer of eighteen years of age come into company in full uniform, and with such a wig as is worn by grave and respectable clergymen advanced in years, would make everybody laugh ; because it certainly is a very unusual combination of objects, and such as would not atono for its novelty by any particular purpose of utility to which it was subservient. It is a complete instance of incon- gruity. Add ten years to the age of this incongruous officer, the incongruity would be very faintly diminished ; — make him eighty years of age and a celebrated military character of the last reign, and the incongruity almost entirely vanishes: I am not sure that we should not be rather more disposed to respect the peculiarity than to laugh at it. As you increase the incongruity, you increase the humour; as you diminish it, you diminish the humour. If a tradesman of a corpulent and respectable appearance, with habiliments somewhat ostentatious, were to slide down gently into the mud, and dedecorate a pea-green coat, I am afraid we should all have the barbarity to laugh. If his hat and wig, like treacherous servants, were to desert their falling master, it certainly would not diminish our propen- sity to laugh ; but if he were to fall into a violent passion, and abuse everybody about him, nobody could possibly resist the incongruity of a pea-green tradesman, very respectable, sitting in the mud, and threatening all the passers-by with the elfects of his wrath. Here, every in- cident heightens the humour of the scene — the gaiety of his dress, the general respectability of his appearance, the rills of muddy water which trickle down his cheeks, and the harmless violence of his rage! But if, instead of this, we were to observe a dustman falling into the mud, it would hardly attract any attention, because the opposition of ideas is so trilling, aud the incongruity so slight. IN PROSE. Gl XIV.— THE ISLAND.— Hood. Tf the author of the Irish Melodies had ever had a little isle so much his own as I have possessed, he might not have found it so sweet as the song anticipates. It has heen my fortune, like Kobinson Crusoe, to be thrown on such a desolate spot ; and I felt so lonely, though I had a follower, that I wish Moore had been there. I had the honour of being in that tremendous action oS Finisterre, which proved the end of the earth to many a brave fellow. I was ordered with a boarding party forcibly to enter the Santissima Trinidada ; but in the act of climbing into the quarter- gallery, which, however, gave no quarter, was rebutted by the but-end of a gun — a marine's ; who remained the quarter- master of the place. I fell senseless into the sea, and should no doubt have perished in the waters of oblivion, but for the kindness of John Monday, who picked me up to go adrift with him in one of the ship's boats. All our oars were carried away, — that is to say, we did not carry away any oars ; and while shot was raining, our feeble hailing was unheeded. As may be supposed, our boat was anything but the jolly-boat ; for we had no provisions to spare in the middle of an immense waste. We were, in fact, adrift in the cutter, with nothing to cut. We had not even junk for junketing, and nothing but salt-water, even if the wind should blow fresh. Famine indeed seemed to stare each of us in the face, — that is, we stared at one another. We were truly in a very disagreeable pickle, with oceans of brine and no beef; and, I fancy, we would have exchanged a pound 01 gold for a pound of flesh. No bread rose in the east, and in the opposite point we were equally disappointed. We could not compass a meal any how, but got mealy- mouthed, notwithstanding. Time hung heavy on our hands, for our fast days seemed to pass very slowly ; and our strength was rapidly sinking, from being so much afloat. Still we nourished Hope, though we had nothing to give her. But at last we lost all prospect of land, if one may say so when no land was in sight. The weather got thicker as we were getting thinner; and though we kept a sharp watch, it was a very bad look-out. We could see nothing before us but nothing to eat and drink. At last the fog cleared off, and we saw Bomething like land right a-head ; but, alas! the wind was in our teeth as well as in our stomachs. We could do nothing but " keep her near," and as we could not keep our- 62 MISCELLANEOUS READINGS selves full, we luckily suited the course of the boat ; bo that, after a tedious beating about — for the wind not only gives blows, but takes a great deal of beating — we came to an island. Here we landed, and our first impulse on coming to dry land was to drink. There was a little brook at hand to which we applied ourselves till it seemed actually to murmur at our inordinate thirst. Our next care was to look for some food ; for though our hearts were full at our escape, the neighbouring region was dreadfully empty. We succeeded in getting some natives out of their bed, but with difficulty got them open ; a common oyster- knife would have been worth the price of a sceptre. Ouf next concern was to look out for a lodging ; and at last we discovered an empty cave, reminding me of an old inscrip- tion at Portsmouth, " The hole of this place to let." We took the precaution of rolling some great stones to the entrance, for fear of last lodgers, — lest some bear might come home from business, or a tiger to tea. Here, under the rock, we slept without rocking ; and when, through the night's failing, the day broke, we saw, with the first install ment of light, that we were upon a small desert isle, now for the first time an Isle of Man. XV.— ON HUMAN GRANDEUR.— Goldsmith. An alehouse-keeper, near Islington, who had long lived at the sign of the French King, upon the commencement of the last war pulled down his old sign, and put up that of the Queen of Hungary. Under the influence of her red face and golden sceptre he continued to sell ale, till she was no longer the favourite of his customers ; he changed her, therefore, some time ago, for the king of Prussia, who may probably be changed, in turn, for the next great man that shall be set up for vulgar admiration. In this manner the great are dealt out, one after the other, to the gazing crowd. When we have sufficiently wondered at one of them, he is taken in, and another exhibited in his room, who seldom holds his station long; — for the mob are ever pleased with variety, I must own, I have such an indifl'erent opinion of the vulgar, that I am ever led to suspect that merit which raises their shout ; at least I am certain to find those great, and sometimes good men, who feel satisfaction in such acclamations, made worse by it; and history has too frequently taught me, that the head which has grown this m PROSE. 63 ^ay giddy with the roar of the million, has, the very next, been fixed upon a pole. There is scarce a village in Europe, and not one uni- versity, that is not furnished with its little great men. The head of a petty corporation, who opposes the designs of a prince, who would tyrannically force his subjects to save their best clothes for Sundays; the puny pedant, who finds one undiscovered quality in the polypus, or describes an unheeded process in the skeleton of a mole, and whose mind, like his microscope, perceives nature only in detail ; the rhymer, who makes smooth verses, and paints to our imagination when he should only speak to our hearts ; — all equally fancy themselves walking forward to immortality, and desire the crowd behind them to look on. The crowd takes them at their word. Patriot, philosopher, and poet, are shouted in their train. *' Where was there ever so much merit seen? no times so important as our own! Ages, yet unborn, shall gaze with wonder and applause!" To such music the important pigmy moves forward, bustling and swelling, and aptly compared to a puddle in a storm. I have lived to see generals, who once had crowds hal- looing after them wherever they went, who were bepraised by newspapers and magazines, — those echoes of the voice of the vulgar, — and yet they have long sunk into merited obscurity, with scarce even an epitaph left to flatter. A few years ago the herring-fishery employed all G-rub-street ; it was the topic in every coffee-house, and the burden of every ballad. TVe were to drag up oceans of gold from tl^e bottom of the sea ; we were to supply all Europe with herrings upon our own terms. At present we hear no more of all this. We have fished up very little gold, that I can learn ; nor do we furnish the world with herrings as was expected. Let us wait but a few years longer, and we shall find all our expectations — a herring-fishery! XVI.— THE APPEOACn OF EVENING.— Hkrvet. Every object, a little while ago, glared with light ; but now, all appear with softened lustre. The animals har- monize with the insensible creation ; and what was gay in those, as well as glittering in this, gives place to a universal gravity. Should I, at such a season, be vain and trifling, the heavens and the earth would rebuke my unseasonable levity. Therefore, be this moment devoted to thoughts, solemn as the close of day, sedate as the face of thjjigs. C4 MISCELLAKEOUS READINCS However my social hours are enlivened with innocent pleasantry, let the evening, in her sober habit, toll tho bell to serious consideration. Every meddling and intru- sive avocation is excluded. Silence holds the door against tho strife of tongues, and all the impertinences of idle conversation. The busy swarm of vain images and cajoling temptations, which beset us, with a buzzing importunity, amid the gayeties of life, are chased by these thickening shades. Here I may, without disturbance, commune with my own heart, and learn that best of sciences — to know myself. XVII.— SORROW FOR THE DEAD.— Washington Ibvino. The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal — every other affliction to forget ; but this wound w^e con- sider it a duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang ? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament ? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns ? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved ; when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal ; — who would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness ? ^}o, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights ; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection; when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness — who would root out such a sorrow from the heart ? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the briglit hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom ; yet who would exchange it, even for a song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry ? No, there is a voice from tlie tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead, to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh, the grave! — the grave 1 It buries every crroi' — covers every defect — extinguishes every resentment. From IX PROSE. 65 i its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave, even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth, that lies mouldering before him 1 But the grave of those we loved — what a place for medi- tation. There it is that we call up, in long review, the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us — almost unheeded — in the daily intercourse of intimacy ; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness — the solemn, awful tenderness — of the parting scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs — its noiseless attendance — its mute, watchful assi- duities. The last testimonies of expiring love ! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling — oh, how thrilling ! — pressure of the hand. The last, fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us, even from the threshold of existence ! The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection ! Ay! go to the grave of buried love and meditate ! There settle the account with thy conscience, for every past benefit unrequited — every past endearment unregarded — of that departed being, who can never — never — never return, to be soothed by thy contrition ! If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the eoul, or a furrow to the silvered brow, of an affectionate parent, — if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth, — if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee, — if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; — then be sure that every unkind look, everyungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul ; then be sure that thou wilt lie down, sorrowing and repentant, on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the un- availing tear — more deep, more bitter, because unheard and un;ivailing ! Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave ; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret : but, take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite X H6 MTSCET.T.AXEOUS READIXOS affliction over the deaa, ana nenceiorth De more faithful and aflectionate in the discharge of thy duties to tht living. XVIII.— LIBERTY AND SLAVERY.— Stkrnk. Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery! still thou art H 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, Liberty! — thrice sweet and gracious goddess, whom all in public or in private worship, — whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so till Nature herself shall change. No tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chemic 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! grant me but health, thon Great Bestower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion ; and shower down thy mitres, — if it seem guud unto thy divine providence, — upon those heads whicl? are aching for them. Pursuing these ideas, I sat down close by my table, and, leaning my head upon ray hand, I began to figure to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination. J was going to begin with the millions of my fellow- creatures, born to no inheritance but slavery ; but find- ing, however aflfecting the picture was, that I could not bring it near me, and that the multitude of sad groujis in It did but distract me — I took a single captive, and, having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture. I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it is, which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish: in thirty years 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. He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the farthest corner of hie dungeon, which was alternately IN I'KOSB. 6' I his chair and hed: a little calendar of small sticks waa laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there: he had one of these little sti'cks 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 legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle. He gave a deep sigli — 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. XIX.— THE POWER OF LITTLE THINGS.— Smiles, The close observation of little things is the secret of success in business, in art, in science, and in every pursuit in life. Human knowledge is but an accumulation of small facts, made by successive generations of men, the little bits of knowledge and experience, carefully treasured up, growing at length into a mighty pyramid. Though many of these facts and observations may have seemed in the first instance to have but slight eignifictuce, they are all found to have their eventual uses, and to fit into their proper places. Even many speculations seemingly remote, turn out to be the basis of results the most obviously prac- tical. Had not mathematicians toiled so long, and, to uninstructed observers, apparently so fruitlessly, over the abstract relations of lines and surfaces, few of our mechan- ical inventions would ever, probably, have seen the light. "When Franklin made his discovery of the identity of lightning and electricity, it was sneered at, and people asked, " Of what use is it T To which his apt reply was, "What is the use of a child? It may become a man!" When Galvani discovered that a frog's leg twitched when placed in contact with difi'erent metals, it could scarcely have been imagined that so apparently insignificant a fact could have led to important results. Yet therein lay the germ of the Electric Telegraph, which binds the intelligence of continents together, and probably, before many years elapse, will " put a girdle round the globe." So too, little bits of stone and fossil, dug out of the earth, intelligently interpreted, have issued in the science of geology and the practical operations of mining, in which large capitals are invested, and vast numbers of persons profitably employed 68 MISCF.IJ.ANEOnS nEADIXflS IN PROHE. The gigantic machinery employed in pumping our mines, working our mills and manufactories, and driving our steam- ehips and locomotives, in like manner depends for its supply of power upon so slight an agency as particles of water ex- panded by heat. The steam which we see issuing from the common tea-kettle, when pent up within an ingeniously contrived mechanism, displays a force equal to that of millions of horses, and contains a power to rebuke the waves, and to set even the hurricane at defiance. Nay, it is the same power at work within the bowels of the earth which has been the cause of many of those semi-miraculous catastrophes, — volcanoes and earthquakes, — that have played so mighty a part in the history of the globe. XX.— OSSTAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN.— Macphersoh. thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, Sun! thy everlasting light ? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty — the stars bide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinkp in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone: who can be a companion of thy course ? The oaks of the mountains fall ; the mountains them- selves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again ; the moon herself is lost in heaven : but thou art for ever the same — rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. "When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder rolls, and lightning 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 yellow hairs flow on the Eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the West. But thou art perhaps like me — for a season: thy years will have an end ; thou shalt sleep in the 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: the mist is on the bills; the bhist of the north is on the plain; the traveller shriuks io cne midst of his journey. 69 READINGS IN PULPIT ELOQUENCE I.— GOD IS LOVE.— RiOHABD Watson. Where ehall we go for manifestations of the tenderness, the sympathy, the benignity of God ? The Philosopher of this world leads us to Nature, its benevolent final causes, and kind contrivances to increase the sum of animal hap- piness; and there he stops — with half his demonstration! But the Apostle leads us to the Gift bestowed by the Father for the recovery of man's intellectual and moral nature, and to the Cross endured by the Son on this high behalf. Go to the heavens, which canopy man with grandeur, cheer his steps with successive light, and mark his festivals by their chronology; go to the atmosphere, which invigorates bis spirits, and is to him the breath of life ; go to the Kmiling fields, decked with verdure for his eye, and covered with fruits for his sustenance ; go to every scene which spreads beauty before his gaze, which is made harmoniously vocal to his ear, which fills and delights the imagination by its glow or by its greatness : we travel with you, we admire with you, we feel and enjoy with you, we adore with you, — but we stay not with you. We hasten onwards, in search of a demonstration more convincing that " God is love ;" and we rest not till we press into the strange, the mournful, the joyful scenes of Calvary ; and, amidst the throng of invisible and astonished angels, weeping disciples, and the mocking multitude, under the arch of the darkened heaven, and with earth trembling beneath our feet, we gaze upon the meek, the resigned, but fainting Sufferer ; and exclaim, *' Herein is love!" — herein, and no- where else, is it 60 afi'ectingly, so unequivocally demonstrated. — " not that we loved God, but that God loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins." II.— CONSOLATIONS OF RELIGION.- Finlatbos. What is it, child of sorrow, — what is it that now wrings thy heart, and bends thee in sadness to the ground ? What- ever it be, if thou knowest the truth, the truth shall give thee relief. Have the terrors of guilt taken hold of thee ? Dost thou go all the daylong, mourning for thy iu^piities, refusing to be comforted ? And, in thy bed at ni^ld, do visions of remorse disturb thy rest, and haunt thee with the fears of a judgement to come ? Behold, the Eedeemer hath borne thy sins in his own body on the tree ; and if thou art willing to forsake them, thou knowest, with certainty, that they shall not be remembered in the judgement against thee. Ilast thou, with weeping eyes, committed to the grave the child of thy affections, the virtuous friend of thy yuuth, or the tender partner whose pious attachment lightened thy load of life? Behold, they are not dead! Thou knowest that they live in a better region, with their Saviour and their God ; that still thou boldest thy place in their re- membrance ; and that thou shalt soon meet them again, to part no more. Dost thou look forward with trembling to the days of darkness — when thou shalt lie on the bed of sickness — when thy pulse shall have become low — when the cold damps have gathered on thy brow — when the mournl'ul looks of thy attendants have told thee that the hour of thy departure has come ? To the mere natural man, this sceu'-, is awful and alarming. But, if thou art a Christian, if thou knowest and obeyest the truth, thou shalt fear no evil. The shadows which hang over the Valley of Death, shall retire at thy approach ; and thou shalt see beyond it tho spirits of the just, and an innumerable company of angels, — the future companions of thy bliss, — bending from their thrones to cheer thy departing soul, and to welcome thee into everlasting habitations. III.-MAJESTY OF THE REDEEMEK.— W. Aecher Butlkr. On such a subject as this, what can one say which is not unworthy ? It is far vaster than our largest conception, infinitely grander than our loftiest; yet, overpoweringly awful as it is, how familiarity reconciles us to hearing it without awe! We must endeavour to devise some mode of meeting this miserable influence of habit, by forcing the mind to make an effort — faint though it may be — to realize the infinite magnificence of the subject. You are wandering (I will suppose) in some of the wretched retreats of poverty, upon some mission of busi- ness or charity. Perplexed and wearied amid its varieties of misery, you chance to come upon an Individual whose conversation and mien attract and surprise you. Your Rtleutiou, enkindled by the gracious benevolence of the PtJLriT EI.OQUKNCE. 71 stranj^or't> manner, you inquire; and the astounding fact reveals itself, that, in this lone and miserable scene, you have, by some stranpje conjuncture, met with one of the great lights of the age, one of the leaders of universal opinion ; on whom your thoughts had long been bus'ed, and whon) you had for years desired to see. The singular accident of an interview so unexpected, fills and agitntes your mind. You form a thousand theories as to what strange cause could have brought him there. You recul how he spoke and looked ; you call it an epoch in your life to have witnessed so startling an occurrence — to have beheld one so distinguished, in a scene so much out of all possibility of anticipation. Yet again: a loftier Personage may be imagined. In the wild revolutions of fortune, even monarchs have been wanderers. Suppose this then, — improbable indeed, hut not impossible surely. And then, what feelings of respect- ful pity, of deep and earnest interest, would thrill your frame, as you contemplated such a one cast down from all that earth can minister of luxury and power, from the head of councils and of armies, to seek a home with the homeless, to share the bread of destitution, and feed on the charity of the scornful! How the depths of human nature are stirred by such events! how they find an echo in the recesses of our hearts, — these terrible espousals of majesty and misery! But this will not suffice. There are beings that far overpass the glories of the statesman and the monarch of our earth. Conceive, then, no longer the mighty of our world in this strange union with misery and degradation, but the presiding Spirit of one of those orbs that are spread in their myriads through infinity; or multiply his power, and make him the deputed Governor, the vicegerent Angel, of a million of suns. Think what it would be to find this lord of a million worlds the actual inhaliitunt of our own ; to find, in him, an interest, a real interest in the affairs of our little corner of the universe ; nay, to find Lira willing to throw aside his glorious toils of empire, iu order to meditate and achieve our welfare. This surely would be wondrous, appalling, and yet transporting; so that, when it had passed away, life would seem to have nothing more it could offer, compared to being blessed with such an intercourse! And now mark, — behind all the visible scenery of Nature. 72 REAI)IN<;S IN beyond all the sj'steins of all the stars ; around this whole universe, and through the infinity of infinite space itself; from all eternity and to all eternity; — there lives a Being, compared to whom that mighty Spirit just described, with his empire of a million suns, is infinitely less, than to you is the minutest mote that floats in the sunbeam. Hear his o\vn voice attesting his eternal sovereignty: " Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my words shall not pass away," — But who is He that thus builds the throne of his glory u])on the ruins of earth and heaven ? who is He that thus triumphs over a perishing universe, himself alone eternal and impassible ? The child of a Jewish woman ; — even He who was laid in a manger at Bethlehem ! IV.— THE POETRY OF THE BIBLE.— Guftllas. That 60 much of Scripture should be written in the language of poetry has excited some surprise, and created some inquiry; and yet in nothing do we perceive more clearly than in this, the genuineness, power, and divinity of the oracles of our faith. As the language of poetry is that into which all earnest natures are insensibly betrayed, Bo it is the only speech which has in it the power of per- manent impression. The language of the imagination ia the native language of man. It is the language of his excited intellect, — of his aroused passions, — of his devotion, — of all the higher moods and tem})eraments of his mind. It was meet, therefore, that it should be the language of his revelation from God. The language of poetry is thus the language of the inspired volume. The Bible is a mass of beautiful figures ; — its words and its thoughts are alike poetical; — it has gathered around its central truths all natural beauty and interest; — it is a Temple with one altar and one God, but illuminated by a thousand varied lights, and studded with a thousand ornaments. It has substantially but one declaration to make, but it utters that in the voices of the creation. It has pressed into its service the animals of the forest, the flowers of the field, the stars of heaven, all the elements of nature. The lion spurning the sands of the desert, the wild roe leaping over the mountains, the lamb led in silence to the slaughter, the goat speeding to the wilderness; the rose blossoming in Sharon, the lily drooping in the valley, the apple-tree bowing under its fruit; the great rock shadowing a weary laud, the river gladdening the PULI'lT ELOQUENCE. i H dry place ; the moon and the morning star ; Caimel by the sea, and Tabor among the mountains ; the dew from tho womb of the morning, the rain upon the mown grass, tlie rainbow encompassing the landscape; the light, God's ehadow; the thunder. His voice; the wind and the earthquake His footsteps: — all such varied objects are made — as if naturally so designed from their creation — to represent Him to whom the Book and all its emblems point. Thus the quick spirit of the Book has ransacked creation to lay its treasures on Jehovah's altar; — united the innumerable raya of a far-streaming glory on the little hill. Calvary ; — and woven a garland for the bleeding brow of Immanuel, the flowers ot which have been culled from the gardens of a universe. v.— INEFFICIENCY OF HUMAN WORKS.— Melville. Some persons think, that, if they repent of their sins, they shall be pardoned. In other words, they suppose that there is a virtue in repentance, which causes it to procure forgiveness. Thus, repentance is exhibited as meritorious ; and how shall we simply prove that it is not meritorious ? Why, allowing that man can repent of himself, — which he can not, — what is the repentance on which he presumes ? What is there in it of his own ? The tears ? they are but the dew of an eye, which is God's. The resolutions ? they are but the workings of faculties, which are God's. The amendment? it is but the better employment of a life, which is God's. Where, then, is the merit? Oh, find something which is, at the same time, human and excellent in the oS'ering, and you may speak of desert; but, until then, away with the notion of there being merit in repent- ance! — seeing that the penitent man must say, "All things come of Thee, and of thine own, God, do I give thee." Again, some men will speak of being justified by faith, till they come to ascribe merit to faith. By faith, is inter- preted as though it meant on account of faith; and thus the great truth is lost sight of, that we are justified freely *' through the redemption that is in Christ." But how can faith be a meritorious act ? What is faith, but such an assent of the understanding to God's word, as binds the heart to God's service ? And whose is the understanding, if it be not God's ? Whose is the heart, if it be not God's? And if faith be nothing but the rendering to God that iutellect, and that energy, which we have received from God, how c;in faith deserve of God? Oh, as with repent ance, so with faith: away with the notion of merit! He who believes, so that he can dare the grave, and grasp eternity, must pour fortl. the confession, " All things come of Thee, and of thine ovn, God, do I give thee." And once more: what merit can there be in works ? If you give much alms, whose is the money ? " The silver is mine, and the gold is mine, saith the Lord of Hosts." If you mortify the body, whose are the macerated limbs? If you put sackcloth on the soul, whose is the chastened spirit? If you be moral, and honest, and friendly, and generous, and patriotic, whose are the dispositions which you exercise — whose the powers, to which you give culture and scope ? And if you use only God's gifts, can that be meritorious ? You may say, " Yes — it is meritorious to use them aright, whilst others abuse them." But, is it wickedness to abuse ? Then, it can only be duty to use aright; and duty will be merit, when debt is donation! You may bestow a fortune in charity, but the wealth is already the Lord's. You may cultivate the virtues which adorn and sweeten human life, but the employed powers are the Lord's. You may give time and strength to the enterprises of philanthropy ; each moment is the Lord's, each sinew is the Lord's. You may be upright in every dealing of trade, scrupulously honourable in all the intercourses of life ; but, " a just weight and balance are the Lord's ; all the weights of the bag are His work." And where, then, is the merit of works ? Oh, throw into one heap each power of the mind, each energy of the body ; use, in God's service, each grain of your substance, each second of your time ; give, to the Almighty, every throb of the pulse, every drawing of the breath ; labour, and strive, and be instant in season, and out of season ; and let ttie steepness of the mountain daunt you not, and the swellings of the ocean deter you not, and the ruggedness of the desert appal you not; — but, on! still on, in toiling for your Maker! and dream, and talk, and boast of merit, when you can find that particle in tlie heap, or that shred in the exploit, which you may exclude from the confession, — " All things come of Thee, and of thine own, God, have I given thee." PULllT liLOyl ENCE. 75 VT.-LATENT PRINCIPLES OF KELIGTON-Catbd. In order to lead a religious life in the world, every action must be governed by religious motives. It is not by any means implied, that, in all the familiar actions of our daily life, religion must form a direct and conscious ol)ject of thought: the mind can no more think of heaven and earth at the same moment, than the body can be in heaven and earth at the same time. Moreover, there are few kinds of work in the world that to be done well must not be done heartily; — many that require, in order to excellence, the whole condensed force and energy of the highest mind. But although we cannot, in our worldly work, be alwaj's thinking of religion, yet, unconsciously, insensibly, we may be at^titig under its ever-present control. Many of the thoughts and motives, that most powerfully impel and govern us in the common actions of life, are latent thoughts and motives. Have you not often ex- perienced that curious law, by which a secret thought or feeling may lie brooding in j'^our mind, quite apart from the particular work in which you are nevertheless diligently employed? Think of the work in which I am at this moment occupied. Amidst all the mental exertions of the ^ablic speaker, — underneath the outward workings of his mind, so to speak, — there is the latent thought of the presence of his auditory. Perhaps no species of exertion requires greater concentration of thought, or undividedness of attention than this; and yet, amidst all the subtle pro- cesses of intellect, the excogitation or recollection of ideas, — the selection, right ordering, and enunciation of words ; — • there never quits his mind for one moment, the idea of the presence of the listening throng. And have not you, too, my friends, an auditor, — it may be "a great cloud of wit- nesses," but at least one all-giorious Witness and Listener, ever present, ever watchful, as the discourse of life pro- ceeds? Why, then, in this case, too, while the outward business is diligently prosecuted, may there not be on your spirit a latent and constant impression of that awful inspection ? What worldly work so absorbing as to leave no room in a believer's spirit for the hallowing thought of that glorious Presence, ever near? l)o not say that you do not see God, — that the presence of the Divine Auditor is not forced upon your senses, as that of the human auditory on the speaker. For, the same process goes on in the secret meditations, as in the public addresses of the 76 tfEADlNCS IN preacher; — the same latent reference to those who shall listen to his words dwells in his mind, when in his solitary retirement he thinks and writes, as when he speaks in their immediate presence. And, surely, if the thought of an earthly auditory, — of human minds and hearts that shall respond to his thoughts and words, — can intertwine itself with all the activities of a man's mind, and flash back inspiration on his soul ; at least as potent and as pene- trating may the thought be of Him, the great Lord of Heaven and Earth, who not only sees and knows us now, but before whose awful presence, in the last great congre- gation, we shall stand forth to recount, and answer-for, our every thought and deed. VII.— INSIGNIFICANCE OF THIS WORLD.— Dk. Chalmkks. Though the earth were to be burned up, though the trumpet of its dissolution were sounded, though yon sky were to pass away as a scroll, and every visible glory which the finger of the Divinity has inscribed on it, were ex- tinguished for ever — an event, so awful to us, and to every world in our vicinity, by which so many suns would be extinguished, and so many varied scenes of life and population would rush into forgetfulness, — what is it in the high scale of the Almighty's workmanship ? A mere shred, w-hich, though scattered into nothing, would leave the universe one entire scene of greatness and of mpjesty. Though the earth and the heavens were to disappear, there are otter worlds which roll afar ; the light of other suns eliines upon them, and the sky which mantles them is garnished with other stars. Is it presumption to say, that the moral world extends to these distant and unknown regions ? that they are occupied with people ? that the charities of home and of neighbourhood flourish there ? that the praises of God are there lifted up, and his goodness re- joiced in ? that there piety has its temples ana its oflerings ; and the richness of the Divine attributes is there felt and admired by intelligent worshippers? And wliat is this world, in the immensity which teems with them ? and what are they who occupy it ? The uni- verse at large would suffer as little in its splendour and variety, by the destruction of our planet, as the verdure and Bublime magnitude of a forest would suffer by the fall of a single leaf. The leaf quivers on the branch which supports it ; it lies at the mercy of the slightest accident •. a breath FTTLPIT KLOQUEKCK. VY of wind tears it from its stem, and it lights on the stream of water which pnsses underneath. In a moment of time, tlie life, which we know by the microscope it teems with, is extinguished ; and an occurrence, so insignificant in the eye of man and on the scale of his observation, carries in it, to the myriads which people this little leaf, an event as terrible and as decisive as the destruction of a world. Now, on the grand scale of the universe, we — the occupiers of this ball, which performs its little round among the suns and the systems that astronomy has unfolded — Ave may feel the same littleness and the same insecurity. We differ from the leaf only in this circumstance, that it would require the operation of greater elements to destroy us. But these elements exist. The fire which rages within, may lift its devouring energy to the surface of our planet, and transform it into one wide and wasting volcano. The sudden formation of elastic matter in the bowels of the earth — and it lies within the agency of known substances to accomplish this — may explode it into fragments. The exhalation of noxious air from below, may impart a virulence to the air that is around us ; it may affect the delicate proportion of its ingredients ; and the whole of animated nature may wither and die under the malignity of a tainted atraosphere. These are changes which may happen in a single instant of time, and against which nothing known in the present system of things provides us with any security. They might not annihilate the earth, but they would unpeople it ; and we, who tread its surface with such firm and assured footsteps, are at the mercy of devouring elements, which, if let loose upon us by the hand of the Almighty, would spread Bolitude, and silence, and death, over the dominions cf the world. Now, it is this littleness, and this insecurity, which make the protection of the Almighty bo dear to us, and bring, with such emphasis, to every pious bosom, the holy lessons of humility and gratitude. The God who sitteth above, and presides in high authority over all worlds, is mindful of man ; and though at this moment. His energy is felt in the remotest provinces of creation, we may feel the same security in his providence as if we were the objects of His undivided care. It is not for us to bring our minds up to this mysterious agency. But such is the incomprehensible fact, that the same Being, whose eye is abroad over the whole universe, 78 RK.VDIN.IS TN gives vegetation to every blade of grass, and motion to every particle of blood which circulates through the veins of the minutest animal ; that, though His mind takes into its comprehensive grasp immensity and all its wonders, I am as much known to Him as if I were the single object of His attention ; that He marks all my thoughts ; that He gives birth to every feeling and every movement within me; and that — with an exercise of power which I can neither describe nor comprehend — the same G-od, who sit8 in the highest heaven, and reigns over the glories of the firmament, is at my right hand, to give me every breath which I draw, and every comfort which I enjoy, VIII.— WEALTH NOT PRODUCTIVE OF ENJOYMENT.— Jerkmy Tatlok. Suppose a man gets all the world, what is it that he gets ? It is a bubble and a phantasm, and hath no reality beyond a present transient use ; — a thing that is impossible to be enjoyed, because its fruits and usages are transmitted to us by parts and by succession. He that hath all the world (if we can suppose such a man) cannot have a dish of fresh summer fruits in the midst of winter, not so much as a green fig: and very much of its possessions is so hid, so fugacious, and of so uncertain purchase, that it is like the riclios of the sea to the lord of the shore; all the fish and wealth within all its hoUownesses are his, but he is never the better for what he cannot get ; all the shell-fishes that produce pearls, produce them not for him ; and the bowels of the Earth hide her treasures in undiscovered retirements ; 60 that it will signify as much to this great proprietor, to be entitled to an inheritance in the upper region of the air: he is so far from possessing all its riches, that he does not so much as know of them, nor understand the philosophy of its minerals. I consider that he who is the greatest possessor in the world, enjoys its best and most noble parts, and those which are of most excellent perfection, but in common with the inferior persons, and the most despicable of his kingdom. Can the greatest prince enclose the sun, or set one little star in his cabinet for his own use, or secure to himself the gentle and benign influence of any one constellation ? Are not his subjects' fields bedewed with the same showers that wafer his gardens of plf.isure ? Nay, those things which he esteems his ornament and rui,nT Ki.(;yuENCE. 79 the singularity of his possessions, are tbo}' not of more use to others than to himself V For, suppose his garments eplendid and shining, like the robe of a cherub, or the clothing of the fields — all that he that wears them enjoys, is, that they keep him warm, and clean, and modest: and all this is done by clean and less pompous vestments ; and the beauty of them, which distinguishes him from others, is made to please the eyes of the beholders : the fairest face or the sparkling eye cannot perceive or enjoy its o\vn beauties, but by reflection. It is I that am pleased with beholding his gayety ; and the gay man, in his greatest bravery, is only pleased because I am pleased with the sight: so borrowing his little and imaginary complacency from the delight that I have, not from any inherency in his own possession. The poorest artisan of Rome, walking in Caesar's gardens, had the same pleasures which they ministered to their lord ; and although, it may be, he was put to gather fruits to eat from another place, yet his other senses were delighted equally with Caesar's: the birds made him as good music, the flowers gave him as sweet smells ; he there sucked as good air, and delighted in the beauty and order of the place, for the same reason, and upon the same perception, as the prince himself; save only that Cassar paid, for all that pleasure, vast sums of money, — the blood and treasure of a province, — which the poor man had for nothing. And so it is if the whole world should be given to any man. He knows not what to do with it ; he can use no more but according to the capacities of a man ; he can use nothing but meat, and drink, and clothes. He to whom the world can be given to any purpose greater than a private estate can minister, must have new capacities created in him: he needs the understanding of an angel to take the accounts of his estate; he had need have a stomach like fire or the grave, for else he can eat no more than one of his healthful subjects; and unless he hath an eye like the sun, and amotion like that of a thought, and a bulk as big as one of the orbs of heaven, — the pleasures of his eye can be no greater than to behold the beauty of a little prospect from a hill, or to look upon a heap of gold packed up in a little room, or to dote upon a cabinet of jewels ; better than which, there is no man that sees at all, but sees every day. For, not to name the beauties and sparkling diamonds of heaven, a man's, or a woman's, or a hawk's eve, is more beauteous and 80 READINGS IN excellent than all the jewels of liis crown. Understanding and knowledge are the greatest instruments of pleasure; and he that is most knowing, hath a capacity to become happy, which a less knowing prince, or a rich person, hath not ; and in this only a man's capacity is capable of en- largement. But then, although they only have power to relish any pleasure rightly who rightly understand th( nature, and degrees, and essences, and ends of things ; yet they that do so, understand also the vanity and unsatisfy- ingness of the things of this world : so that the relish, which could not be great but in a great understanding, appears contemptible, because its vanity appears at the same time : the understanding sees all, and sees through it. DC— UNCERTAINTY OF LIFK— Kirwan. Every thing human admits of change and vicissitude ; states and empires, arts and sciences, customs and manners, laws and governments, feel, without ceasing, this inevitable principle acting upon them. God, from the throne of his immutability, sports with all the works and enterprises of man ; and, wilUng to show us the little value we should set on things perishable, has decreed that there should be nothing permanent on the face of the earth, but the very vicissitude that marks and agitates it. My brethren, the true source of all our delusion is a false and deceitful security of life. Thousands pass their accounts around us, and we are not instructed : some are struck in our very arms — our parents, our children, our friends ; and yet we stand as if we had shot into the earth an eternal root. Even the most sudden transitions from life to dust, produce but a momentary impression on the dust that breathes. No examples, however awful, sink into the heart. Every instant we see health, youth, beauty, titles, reputation, and fortune, disappear like a flash. Still do we pass gaily on in the broad and flowery way — the same busy, thought- less, irreclaimable beings; panting for every pleasure as before; thirsting for riches and pre-eminence; rushing on the melancholy ruins of one another; intriguing for the employments of those whose ashes are scarce cold ; nay, often, I fear, keeping an eye on the very expiring, with the •nfamous view of seizing the earliest moment to solicit .heir spoils. Great God ! as if the all-devouring tomb, instead of solemnly pronouncing on the vanity of all human pursuits, PULPIT ELOQUENCE. 81 on llie contrary emitted sparks to rekindle all onr attach- ment to a perishable world ! Let me suppose, my brethren, that the number of man's days were inscribed on his brow ! Is it not clear that an awful certainty of that nature roust necessarily beget the most profound and operative reflec- tion? Would it be possible to banish, even for a moment, the fatal term from his thought 1 The nearer he approached it, what an increase of alarm ! what an increase of light — on the folly of every thing but immortal good ! This much we all know, that, whatever length of days we promise ourselves, go we must ; and, what is perhaps equally certain, at the moment we least expect it. Even examples of instant death in all the vigour of health, in the very bosom of security, are far from being uncommon. The scythe is suspended over our heads by a slender and imperceptible thread, which many causes, internal and external, often dissever without allowing us a breath for recollection. But, admitting that a misfortune so terrible is the lot of the fewer numbei', are we, therefore, more secure from surprise 1 There is not one individual in ten thousand, when obliged to lie down under illness however alarming, who can bring himself to believe it will prove fatal. No ! wedded to this miserable scene of existence, our hopes are afloat to the last ; our eyes are opened, only when they are ready to close for ever. Perhaps an instant of reflection to be made the most of ; perhaps to be divided between the disposition of worldly afi'airs, and the business of eternity ! An instant of reflection ! — just God ! — to bewail an entire life of disorder ! to inspire faith the most lively, hope the most firm, love the most pure ! An instant of reflection — when reason is half eclipsed, and all the faculties palsied by the strong grasp of death ! Oh, my brethren, terrible is the fate of those, who are only roused from a long and criminal security, by the sword of Divine Justice already gleaming in their eyes ! It is to the incomprehensible obli^don of our mortality, that the world owes all its fascination. Observe for what man toils. Observe what it often costs him to become rich and great; — dismal vici.>8itudes of hope and disappoint- ment — often all that can degrade the dignity of his nature, and offend his God ! Study the matter of the pedestal, and the instability of the statue. Scarce is it erected, — scarce presented to the stare of the multitude — when death, starting like a massy fragment from the summit of a mounr F 82 READINGS in tain, dashes the proud colossus into dust I "Where, then, in the promised fruit of all his toil ? Where the wretched and deluded being, who fondly promised himself that he had *' laid up much goods for many years ?" — Gone, my brethren, to his account! — a naked victim, trembling in the hands of the living Grodl Yes, my brethren, the final catastrophe of all human passions is rapid as it is awful. Fancy yourselves on that bed from which you never shall rise ; and the reflection will exhibit, like a true and faithful mirror, what shadows we are and what shadows we pursue. Happy they who meet that great, inevitable transition, full of days 1 Unhappy they who meet it but to tremble and despair I Then it is that man learns wisdom, when too late ; then it is that every thing will forsake him, but his virtues or his crimes. To him the world is past ; dignities, honours, pleasure, glory! — past like the cloud of the morning! — nor could all that the great globe inherits, afford him, at that tremendous hour, as much consolation, as the recollection of having given but one cup of cold water to a child of wretchedness, in the name of Christ Jesus 1 X.— SWEET AND BITTER MEMORIES.— Bishop Bloomfield. "When Jacob arose from his sleep, acknowledging the Presence in which he was, he marked the spot, and vowed a vow, that he would, indeed, give himself to G-od, to whom he felt he had been lorought so very near ; and he not only vowed the vow, but, through the changing and falling-ofif of his after-life, he still kept it. Years passed, and he re- turned to the spot, and built an altar there, and called upon the name of God, the God of Bethel ! — for he could find no dearer name than that of this place, in which his soul was turned from death to life. It is ever so ; the place, the times that have been blessed for our spiritual refreshment, will be ever dear to our me- mories 1 How true, also, is the opposite ! how often does f . man, as he advances in life, feel unwilling to revisit a place known in his youth, because it reminds him of many sins — sins of which he may have long since repented, but the effects of which upon others may continue through eternity I It is not only the undetected murderer who will be afraid to go back to the place of his secret deed of darkness ; every man who has a heart will loathe the places and the times, which are fraught with the memory of past sins ; sins which might have sunk his ovra soul into utter ruin, PULPIT ELOQUENCE, 83 and which may have been destructive to the souls of others. And as the thoughts of such times and places are full of bitter memories, so, very pleasant is the thought of the time, the place, the friend, that spoke to us of God's mercy in the Lord Jesus Christ, XI.— THE PURSUIT OP H APPINESS.— Stetiot, The great pursuit of man is Happiness : it is the first and strongest desire of his nature ; — in every stage of life, he searches for it as for hidden treasure ; courts it under a thousand different shapes, and, though perpetually disap- pointed, still persists ; runs after and inquires for it afresh ; asks every passenger that comes in his way, " Who will show me any good 1 who will assist me in the attainment of it 1 or direct me to the discovery of this great end of all my wishes'?" He is told by one, to search for it among the more gay and youthful pleasures of life, in scenes of mirth and sprightliness, where Happiness ever presides, and is ever to be known by the joy and laughter painted in her looks, A second, with a graver aspect, points to the costly dwell- ings which Pride and Extravagance have erected ; — tells the inquirer, that the object he is in search of inhabits there ; that Happiness lives only in company with the great, in the midst of much pomp and outward state ; that he will easily find her out by the coat of many colours she has on, and the great luxury and expense of equipage and furniture with which she always sits surrounded. The Miser blesses God ! — wonders how any one would mislead, and wilfully put him upon so wrong a scent — convinces him that Happiness and Extravagance never in- habited under the same roof ; that, if he would not be disap- pointed in his search, he must look into the plain and thrifty dwellings of the prudent man, who knows and understands the worth of money, and cautiously lays it up against an evil hour : that it is not the ])rostitution of wealth upon the passions, or the parting with it at all, that constitutes hap- piness; — but that it is the keeping it together, and the having and holding it fast to him and his heijs for ever, which aro the chief attributes that form this great idol of human wor- ship, to which so much incense is offered up every day. The Epicure, though he easily rectifies so gross a mistake, yet, at the same time, plunges him, if ])ossible, into a greater : for. hearing the object of his pursuit to be Hap- 8-1 READINGS IN pincss, and knowing of no other happiness than what ia seated immediately in the senses — he sends the inquirer there ; tells him 'tis vain to search elsewhere for it, than ■where Nature herself has placed it — in the indulgence and gratification of the appetites which are given us for that end ; and, in a word — if he will not take his opinion on the matter — he may trust the word of a much wiser man, who has assured us, that there is nothing better in this world than that a man should eat, and drink, and rejoice in his works, and make his soul enjoy good in his labour ; for that is his portion. To rescue him from this brutal experiment, Ambition takes him by the hand, and carries him into the world — shows him all the kingdoms of the earth, and the glory of them — points out the many ways of advancing his fortune, and raising himself to honour — lays before his eyes all the charms and bewitching temptations of power — and asks, if there can be any happiness in this world like that of being caressed, courted, flattered, and followed ? To close all, the Philosopher meets him, bustling in the full career of his pursuit — stops him, — tells him, if he is in search of Happiness, he is gone far out of bis way ; that this deity has long been banished from noise and tumults, where there was no rest found for her, and was fled into solitude, far from all commerce of the world ; and, in a word, if he would flnd her, he must leave this busy and in- triguing scene, and go back to the peaceful scene of retire- ment and of books. In this circle, too often does a man nm, — tries all experi- ments, and, generally, sits down wearied and dissatisfied with them all, in utter despair of ever accomplishing what he wants ; not knowing what to trust after so many disap- pointments, nor where to lay the fault — whetlier in the in- capacity of his own nature, or the insufliciency of the enjoyments themselves. XII.— THE DOCTRINES OF THE GOSPEL.— Dr. Gcthrib. Having scattered over an open field the bones of the human body, bring an anatomist to the scene. Observe the man of science how he fits bone to bone, and part to part ; till, from those scattered members, he constructs a frameworlc, which — apart from our horror at the eyeles3 sockets and ilesliless form, — appears perfectly, divinely beautiful. In hands M'hich have the patience to collect, PCLPIT ELOQUENCE. 8;) and the skill to arrange these materials, how perfectly they fit! bone to bone, and joint to joint, — till the whole figuro rises to the polished dome, and the dumb skeleton seems to say, " I am fearfully and wonderfully made." Now, as with these parts of the human frame, so is it with the doctrines of the Gospel. From the pages of Scripture over which they are 8cattered, let these doctrines be collected ; arrange them in systematic order; how bea" tifully they fit ! doctrine to doctrine, duty to duty ; till - connected with each other, all " members one of another " — they rise into a form of perfect symmetry, presenting that very system which, with minor difl'erences but sub Btantial unity, is embodied in the Confessions, Creeds, and Catechisms of Evangelical Christendom. But there is a difference, which even childhood may dis- cern, between the manner in which the doctrines and duties of the Gospel are set forth in the Word of God, and their more formal arrangement in our Catechisms and Confessions. They are scattered here and there over the face of Scripture, much as the plants of Nature are distributed upon the sur- face of our globe. There, for example, we meet with nothing that corresponds to the formal order, systematic classification, and rectangular beds of a botanical garden ; on the contrary, the creations of the vegetable kingdom lie mingled in what, although beautiful, appears to be wild confusion. On the same moor, on the surface of the same meadow, the naturalist collects grasses of many forms — he finds the soil enamelled with fiowers of every hue ; and in those primeval forests, which have been planted by the hand of God, and beneath whose silent and solemn shades man still walks in savage freedom, trees of every form and foliage stand side by side like brothers. With the Sabbath hills around us, far from the dust and din, the splendour and squalor of the city, we have sat on a rocky bank, to ■wonder at the varied and rich profusion with which God had clothed the scene. Nature, like Joseph, was dressed in a coat of many colours: — lichens gray, black, and yellow, clad the rock ; the glossy i\'y, like a child of ambition, had planted its foot on the crag, and, hanging on by a hundred arms, had climbed to its stormy summit ; mosses, of hues surpassing all the colours of the loom, spread an elastic carpet around the gushing fountain; the wild thyme lent abed to the weary, and its perfume to the air; heaths opened their bhiehing bosoms to the bee; the primrose, 86 HEADINGS IN liVn modesty, looked out from its leafy shade; at the foot of the weathered stone the fern raised its plumes, and on its summit the foxglove rang his beautiful bells ; %yhile the birch bent to kiss the stream, as it ran laughing to hide itself in the lake below, or stretched out her arms to embrace the mountain ash and evergreen pine. By a slight exercise of fancy, in such a scene one could see Nature engaged in her adorations; — we could hear her singing " The earth is full of the glory of God!" " How manifold are thy works. Lend God Almighty ! in wisdom thou hast made them all!" Now, although over the whole surface of our globe, plants of every form and family seem confusedly scattered ; amid this apparent disorder, — the eye of science discovers a, perfect system in the floral kingdom : and just as there is 111 Nature a botanical system, so there is as certainly, in the Bible a theological system, although its doctrines and duties are not classified according to dogmatic rules. Hence we are commanded to " search the Scriptures," to compare "si)iritual things with spiritual," to dig for the treasures, and to dive for the pearls. XIII.— THE CRUCIFIXION.— liosRCET. When our Redeemer expired on the cross, sympathizing Nature was convulsed! The sun was suddenly enveloped in midnight darkness, and confusion reigned! But I shall psws these terrific events, in order to lead your attention to more important objects. The Cross erected on Mount Calvary was the standard of victory, to which even Thought was to be led captive, and before which Imaginations were to be cast down ; — that is to say, human wisdom and sceptic reluctance. No voice sublime was heard sounding from a thunder-bearing cloud, as of old from the heights of Sinai! Ni) approach was observed of that formidable Majesty, before whom the mountains melt as wax! Where, where was the warlike preparation of that power, which was to subdue the world ? See the whole artillery collected on Mount Calvary — in the exhibition of a Cross, of an agon- izing Sufferer, and a crown of thorns! Keligious truth was exiled from the earth, and idolatry sat brooding over the moral world. The Egj'ptians, the fathers of philosophy; the Grecians, the inventors of tho fine arts; the Romans, the conquerors of the universe; were all unfortunately celebrated for the perversion of religious worship, — for the gross errors they admitted into PDLPIT ELOQUENCE. 87 their belief, and the indignities they offered to the true religion. Minerals, vegetables, animals, the elements, became objects of adoration ; even abstract visionary forms, Buch as fevers and distempers, received the honours of deification ; and to the most infamous vices, and dissolute passions, altars were erected. The world, which God had made to manifest his power, seemed to have become a temple of idols, where every thing was god but God himself I The mystery of the crucifixion was the remedy the Al- mighty ordained for this universal idolatry. He knew the mind of man, and knew that it was not by reasoning that an error must be destroyed, which reasoning had not estab- lished. Men gave the Divinity their own figure, and attributed to Him their vices and passions. Reasoning had no share in so brutal an error. It was a subversion of reason, a delirium, a phrensy. Argue with a phrenetic person, you do but the more provoke him, and render the distemper incurable. Neither will reasoning cure the delirium of idolatry. "What has learned antiquity gained by her elaborate discourses ? her reasonings so artfully framed ? Did Plato, with that eloquence which was styled divine, overthrow one single altar where monstrous divinities were worshipped ? Experience hath shown that the overthrow of idolatry could not be the work of reason alone. Far from commit- ting to human wisdom the cure of such a malady, God com- pleted its confasion by the mystery of the Cross. Idolatry (if rightly understood) took its rise from that profound self- attachment inherent in our nature. Thus it was that the Pagan mythology teemed with deities, who were subject to human passions, weaknesses, and vices. When the mys- terious Cross displayed to the world an agonizing Redeemer, incredulity exclaimed, it was foolishness! But the dark- ening sun, Nature convulsed, the dead arising from their graves, said, it was wisdom I XIV.— ON INFIDELITY.— Thomsoi.. It is amidst trials and sorrows that infidelity appears in il8 justest and most frightful aspect. When subjected to the multifarious ills " which flesh is heir to," what is there \o uphold our spirit, but the discoveries and the prospects that are unfolded to us by revelation ? What, for this pur- pose, can be compared with the belief that every thing here below is under the management of Infinite Wisdom and 88 READINGS IN Goodness, and that there is an immortality of bliss awaiting us in another Avorld ? If this conviction be taken away, what is it that we can have recourse to, on which the mind may patiently and safely repose in the season of adversity? Where is the balm which I may apply with effect to my wounded heart, after I have rejected the aid of the Almighty Physician? Impose upon me whatever hardships you please ; give me nothing but the bread of sorrow to eat ; take from me the friends in whom I had placed my co!i- fidence ; lay me in the cold hut of poverty, and on the thorny bed of disease ; set death before me in all its terrors ; do all this, — only let me trust in my Saviour, and " pillow my head on the bosom of Omnipotence," — and I will " fear no evil" — I will rise superior to affliction, — "I will rejoice in my tribulation." But, let infidelity interpose between God and my soul, and draw its imiienetrable veil over a future state of existence, and limit all my trust to the creatures of a day, and all my expectations to a few years as uncertain as they are short ; and liuw shall I bear up, with fortitude or with cheerfulness, under the burthen of distress ? Or, where shall I find one drop of consolation to put into the bitter draught, which has been given me to drink ? I look over the whole range of this wilderness in wliich I dwell ; but I see not one covert from the storm, nor one leaf for the healing of my soul, nor one cup of water to refresh me, in the weariness and the fain tings of my pilgrimage. XV.— ON WAR.— Dr. Channtnq. Public war is not an evil which stands alone, or has nothing in common with other evils. It belongs to a great family. It may be said that society, through its whole extent, is deformed by war. Even in families, we see jarring interests and passions, invasions of right, resistance of authority, violence, force ; and, in common life, how continually do we see men struggling with one another for property or distinction — injuring one another in word or deed — exasperated against one another by jealousies, neglects, and mutual reproach! All this is essentially war, but war restrained, hemmed in, disarmed, by the opinions and institutions of society. To limit its ravages, to guard reputation, property, and life, society has instituted govern- luent, erected the tribunal of justice, clothed the legislature with the power of enacting equal laws, put the sword into PULPIT ELOQUENCE. 89 the hands of the magistrate, and pledged its whole force to its support. Human wisdom h;is been manifested in nothing more conspicuously than in civil institutions for repressing war, retaliation, and passionate resort to force, among the citizens of the same state. But here it has stopped. Govern- ment, which is ever at work to restrain the citizen at home, often lets him loose, and arms him with fire and sword, against other communities ; sends out hosts for desolation and slaughter, and concentrates the whole energies of a people in the work of spreading misery and death. Grovernment, the peace-officer at home, breathes war abroad, organizes it into a science, reduces it to a system, makes it a trade, and applauds it, as if it were the most honourable work of nations. Strange, that the wisdom which has so successfully put down the wars of individuals, has never been inspired and emboldened, to engage in the task of bringing to an end the more gigantic crimes and miseries of l>ublic war! What gives these miseries pre-eminence among human woes — what should compel us to look on them with peculiar terror — is, not their awful amount, but their origin, their source. They are miseries inflicted by man on man. They spring from depravity of will. They bear the impress of cruelty, of hardness of heart. The distorted features, wi-ithing frames, and shrieks of the wounded and dying — these are not the chief horrors of war ; they sink into unimportance, compared with the infernal passions which work this woe. Death is a light evil, when not joined with crime. Had the countless millions destroyed by war been swallowed up by floods or yawning earthquakes, we should look back, awe-struck but submissive, on the mys- terious Providence which had thus fulfilled the mortal sentence, originally passed on the human race. But that man, born of woman, bound by ties of brotherhood to man, and commanded — by an inward law and the voice of God — to love and do good, should, through selfishness, pride, or revenge, inflict these agonies, and shed these torrents of human blood ; — here is an evil which combines, with ex- quisite suffering, fiendish guilt. All other evils fade before it. The idea of honour is associated with war. But to whom does the honour belong ? If to any, certainly not to the mass of the people, but to those who are particularly engaged in it. The mass of a people who stay at home, and hire others to fight — who sleep in their warm beds, and hire others to sleep on the cold and damp earth — who sit at 90 READINGS IN their well-spread boards, and hire others to take the chance of starving — who nurse the slightest hurt in their own bodies, and hire others to expose themselves to mortal wounds, and to linger in comfortless hospitals^-certainly this mass reaps little honour from war. The honour belongs to those who are immediately engaged in it. Let me ask, then, What is the chief business of war ? It is to destroy human life, to mangle the limbs, to gash and hew the body, to plunge the sword into the heart of a fellow-creature, to strew the earth with bleeding frames, and to trample them under foot with horses' hoofs. It is to batter down and burn cities, to turn fruitful fields into deserts, to level the cottage of the peasant, and the magnificent abode of the opulent, to scourge nations with famine, to multiply widows and orphans. Are these honourable deeds ? Were you called to name exploits worthy of demons, would you not naturally select such as these ? Grant that a necessity for them may exist: it is a dreadful necessity, such as a good man must recoil from, with instinctive horror; and though it maj exempt them from guilt, it cannot turn them into glory. We have thought that it was honourable to heal, to save, to mitigate pain, to snatch the sick and sinking from the jaws of death. We have placed among the reverend bene- factors of the human race, the discoverers of arts which alleviate human sufi"erings, which prolong, comfort, adorn, and cheer human life ; and if these arts are honourable, where is the glory of multiplying and aggravating tortures and death ? XVI.— THE SLAVERY OF SIN.— Moberlt. Those who enslave the body, like those that kill the body, have no more that they can do. Their control stops with the outside : the mind and the heart of man are in such sort their own place, that the most exalted freedom of the soul is compatible with the most complete and utter sub- jection of the body. But there is a slavery deeper, more inward, more pain- ful, more hopeless by far than this, — when the soul of a man is enslaved to sin. It is deeper, for it penetrates into the recesses of the heart. There is neither thought nor feeling which is not poisoned by it ; neither affection, nor natural love, nor sense of beauty, nor anything in which man naturally takes pleasure, which is not utterly debased and ruined by it. It is more inward, for its home is in the PCIJ'IT ELOgCENCE, 91 conscience. The sinner feels the fetters upon his most secret being ; the iron is upon his soul. It is more painful, because there is no pain like the constant biting of un- mitigated remorse; — and it is more hopeless, because neither change of state or fortune, neither change of masters nor earthly accident, nor even death itself, offers any hope of cessation or relief. Whosoever committeth sin is the servant, the slave, the bondman of sin. If a man allows himself to give way, time after time, to sin, and does not repent, he submits himself to a stern and terrible master, whose dominion admits of no relaxation, no comfort, and no end. If you commit sin, brethren, and do not repent of your sin, you may boast as you will of your freedom ; you may be as indignant as you please with those who would call you bondmen; you are a free citizen, a free-born Briton perhaps ; you may boast of your liberty, your free press, your trial by jury, your house your castle, your freedom to move to and fro without question or passport; your very soil of freedom, the mere touch of which emancipates the slave of other lands ; — you may boast as you please of all these things, and others like them, — as you do! — and yet, if you commit sin, and will not be set free from it, — if you will not accept God's loving offer of repentance and forgiveness, you can be nothing but a miserable slave within; a wretched, covrering, spirit-broken slave in heart, to Sin, — your savage, stern, and unpitying master. XVII.— THE GRACE AND GLORY OF SALVATION.— Eyre. It is one thing, by the sheer exercise of royal clemency, to arrest the process of law, when just passing to its utter- most exactment, and — giving free pardon to the criminal — to place him again amidst the unchallenged by justice, and the free. I3ut it is quite another and far more difficult task for benevolence to cast out the unclean spirit, to dis- cipline the evil habit, to reclaim and reform the character, —when vice has taken such a mastery that it has the force of nature, and, like a poison in the blood, works in every part and organ of the man's being, — and to bring the man onward to that calm of conscience, that freedom from all fear, that conscious guilelessness and integrity which speak to us through the frank countenance, the honest look, the answering eye which shrinks not from our fixed glftQces, and the manly open words which are the tokens 92 REAUINaS IN of felt, firm, independent uprightness. "What profits liherty through the suspension of justice, without reformation through a godly discipline and influence ? The man will be again your scourge, and his own misery and curse. You have saved the criminal, not when you have merely re- leased him from his sentence, but when you have won him from the love and habit of his crime. Thus, salvation is not merely the deliverance of the guilty from the arrest and sentence of justice, but it is the deliverance of the man from his own former self. It is both purity and par- don ; remission of sin and release from it ; safeness from the wrath to come, and a title to heaven ; but more than this, " meetness for the inheritance of the saints in light." Salvation may be resolved into two united gifts : — one is the bud, and the other the flower, of the same plant of Paradise; one is the dawn, and the other the noon, of the same end- less day. One is a state of grace, the other a state of glory. Grace is the earthly part of salvation ; glory is the heavenly part. Grace is the assurance of pardon and the pledge of it ; glory is the enjoyment of pardon and the proof of it. Grace is the spring-tide of holiness and happiness, the eowing-time of struggle; glory is the autumn-tide of holi- ness and happiness, the reaping-time of their perfection. In a word, salvation is pardon, peace, and purity to a human spirit in this life ; and holiness, happiness and glory perfect and eternal, in the life to come. XVIII.— ON AUTUMN.— Alison. Let the young go out, in these hours, under the desefitia- ing sun of the year, into the fields of Nature. Their hearts are now ardent with hope, — with the hopes of fame, of honour, or of happiness; and, in the long perspective which is before them, their imagination creates a world where all may be enjoyed. Let the scenes which they now may witness, moderate, but not extinguish their ambition ; — while they see the yearly desolation of Nature, let them see it as the emblem of mortal hope ; — while they feel the dis})roportion between the powers they possess, and the time they are to be employed, let them carry their ambi- tious eye beyond the world; — and while, in these sacred solitudes, a voice in their own bosom corresponds to the voice of decaying Nature, let them take that high decision which becomes those who feel themselves the inhabitants of a greater world, and who look to a being inoapa]>le of decay. PULMT t.i.uiwtt.M.J!-. 93 Let the busy and the active go out, and pause for a time amid the scenes which surround them, and learn the high lesson ■whicli Nature teaches in the hours of its fall. They are now ardent with all the desires of mortality ; and fame, and interest, and pleasure, are displaying to them their shadowy promises ; and, in the vulgar race of life, many weak and many worthless passions are too naturally en- gendered. Let them withdraw themselves, for a time, from the agitations of the world ; let them mark the desolation of summer, and listen to the winds of winter, which begin to murmur above their heads. It is a scene, which, with all its powers, has yet no reproach ; — it tells them, that such is also the fate to which they must come ; that the pulse of passion must one day beat low; that the illusions of time must pass ; and that " the spirit must return to Him who gave it." It reminds them, with gentle voice, of that innocence in which life was begun, and for which no pros- perity of vice can make any compensation ; and that Angel who is one day to stand upon the earth, and " to swear that time shall be no more," seems now to whisper to them, amid the hollow winds of the year, what manner of men ought they to be, who must meet that decisive hour. There is " an even-tide" in human life — a season when the eye becomes dim, and the strength decays ; and when the winter of age begins to shed, upon the human head, its prophetic snow. It is the season of life to which the pre- sent is most analogous ; and much it becomes, and much it would profit you, to mark the instructions which the season brings. The spring and the summer of your days are gone ; and with them, not only the joys they knew, but many of the friends who gave them. You have entered upon the autumn of your being ; and whatever may have been the profusion of your spring, or the warm intemper- ance of your summer, there is yet a season of stillness and of solitude, which the beneficence of Heaven affords you, in which you may meditate upon the past and the future, and prepare yourselves for the mighty change which you are soon to undergo. If thus you have the wisdom to use the decaying season of Nature, it brings with it consolations more valuable than all the enjoyments of former days. In the long retrospect of your journey, you have seen, every day, the shades of the evening fall, and, every year, the clouds of winter gather. But you have seen also, every succeeding day, 94 READINGS IS the morning arise in its brightness, and, in every succeed- ing year, the spring return to renovate the winter of Nature. It is now you may understand the magnificent language of Heaven ; it mingles its voice with that of Revelation ; it summons you, in these hours when the leaves fall, and the winter is gathering, to that evening study which the mercy of Heaven has provided in the book of salvation : and, while the shadowy valley opens, which leads to the abode of Death, it speaks of that hand which can comfort and can save, and which can conduct to those " green pas- tures, a«d those still waters," where there is an eternal Spring for the children of G-od. XIX.— ON DEATH.— Blaib. Children of men! it is well known to you that you are a mortal race. Death is the law of your nature, the tribute of your being, the debt which all are bound to pay. On these terms you received life — that you should be ready to give it up, when Providence calls you to make room for others ; who, in like manner, when their time is come, shall follow you. He who is unwilling to submit to death when Heaven decrees it, deserves not to have lived. You might as reasonably complain that you did not live before the time appointed for your coming into the world, as lament that you are not to live longer, when the period of your quitting it is arrived. What Divine Providence hath made neces- sary, human prudence ought to comply with cheerfully. Submit, at any rate, you must ; and is it not better to follow of 3'^our own accord, than to be dragged reluctantly and by force ? What privilege have you to plead, or what reason to urge, why you should possess an exemption from the common doom ? All things around you are mortal and perishing. Cities, states, and empires, have their periods set. The proudest monuments of human Art moulder into dust. Even the works of Nature wax old and decay. In the midst of this universal tendency to change, could you expect that, to your frame alone, a permanent duration should be given ? All who have gone before you have sul)- mitted to the stroke of death. All wlio come after you shall undergo the same fate. The great and the good, the prince and the peasant, the renowned and the obscure, travel alike the road which leads to the grave. At the moment when you expire, thousands throughout the world, shall, with you, be yielding up their breath. Can that be held to be a greut PULI'IT KLOQt:ENCE. 95 calamity, which is common to you with every thing that lives on earth ? — which is an event as much according to the course of Nature, as it is that leaves should fall in autumn, or that fruit should drop from the tree when it is fully ripe. The pain of death cannot be very long, and is probably less severe than what you have at other times experienced. The pomp of death is more terrifying than death itself. It is to the weakness of our imagination that it owes its chief power of dejecting the spirits ; for, when the force of the mind is roused, there are few passions in our nature that have not been able to overcome the fear of death. Honour has defied death ; Love has despised it ; Shame has rushed upon it ; Eevenge has disregarded it ; Grief has a thousand times wished for its approach. Is it not strange that Reason and Virtue cannot give strength to surmount that fear, which, even in feeble minds, so many passions have conquered ? What inconsistency is there in com- plaining so much of the evils of life, and being at the same time so afraid of what is to terminate them alll Who can tell whether his future life might not teem with disasters and miseries, as yet unknown, were it to be prolonged according to his wish ? At any rate, is it desirable to draw life out to the last dregs, and to wait till old age pour upon you its whole store of diseases and sorrows ? You lament that you are to die ; but, did you view your situation properly, you would have much greater cause to lament, if you were chained to this life for two or three hundred years, without possibility of release. Expect, therefore, calmly, that which is natural in itself, and which must be fit, — because it is the appoint- ment of Heaven I Perform your duty as a good subject to the Deity, during the time allotted to you ; and rejoice that a period is fixed for your dismission from the present war- fare. Eemember, that a slavish dread of death destroys all the comfort of that life which you seek to preserve. Better to undergo the stroke of death at once, than to live in perpetual misery from the fear of dying. XX.— THE DEATH OF THE WICKED.— Massillon. The remembrance of the past, and the view of the present, would be little to the expiring sinner, could he confine him- self to these; but the thouglits of a futurity convulse him with horror and despair. That futurity, that inconipre- hensible region of darkness, which he now approaches, — 3b HEADINGS IS conscience his only companion ; that futurity, that unknown land from which no traveller has ever returned, where he knows not whom he shall find, nor what awaits him; that fu- turity, that fatliomless abyss, in which his mind is lost and bewildered, and into which he must now plunge, ignorant of his destiny ; that futurity, that tomb, that residence of horror, where he must now occupy his place amongst the ashes and the carcasses of his ancestors; that futurity, that incomprehensible eternity, even the aspect of which he cannot support ; that futurity, in a word, that dreadful judgement, to which, before the wrath of God, he must now appear, and render account of a life of which every moment almost has been occupied by crimes: — Alas! while he only looked forward to this terrible futurity at a distance, he made an infamous boast of not dreading it ; he continually demanded, with a tone of blasphemy and derision. Who is returned from it ? He ridiculed the vulgar apprehensions, and piqued himself upon his undaunted courage. But, from the moment that the hand of Grod is upon him ; from the moment that death approaches near, that the gates of eternity open to receive him, and that he touches upon that terrible futurity against which he seemed so fortified — ah] he then becomes either weak, trembling, dissolved in tears, raising up suppliant hands to Heaven! — or, gloomy, silent, agitated, revolving within himself the most dreadful thoughts, and no longer expecting more consolation or mercy from his weak tears and lamentations, than from his frenzies and despair! In vain the minister of the Church endeavours to soothe his terrors, by opening to him the bosom of divine mere}-- ; — a secret and terrible voice resounds from the bottom of hia heart, and tells him that there is no salvation for the impious : his friends and relations are assembled round his bed to receive his last sighs, and he turns away from them his eyes, because he finds still amidst them the remembrance of hia crimes. Death, however, approaches: the minister en- deavours to support by prayer that spark of life which still remains: " Depart, Christian soul!" says he: he says not to him, " Prince, grandee of the world, depart!" During his life, the public monuments were hardly sufficient for the number and pride of his titles. In this last moment, thej give him that title alone which he had received in baptism; the only one to which he had paid no attention, and the ouly one which can remain to him for ever. " Depart PULPIT ELOQUENCK. 97 Christian £Oul !" You had looked upon the Earth as your country, and it was only a place of pilgrimage from which you must depart. The Church thought to have annoHinced glad tidings to you, — the expiration of your exilement. — in announcing the dissolution of your earthly frame. ^ las! and it only hrings you melancholy and frightful news, and opens the commencement of your miseries and anguish. Then the expiring sinner, finding, in the remembrance of the past, only regrets which overwhelm him; in all which takes place around him, only images which afflict him ; in the thoughts of futurity, only horrors which appal him; no longer knowing to whom to have recourse; — neither to created beings, who now leave him ; nor to the world, which vanishes ; nor to men, who cannot save him from death ; nor to the just God, whom he looks upon as a de- clared enemy, and from whom he has no indulgence to expect : — a thousand horrors occupy his thoughts ; he tor- ments, he agitates himself, in order to fly from Death which grasps him, or at least to fly from himself. From his ex- piring eyes issues something, I know not what, of dark and gloomy, which expresses the fury of his soul ; in his anguish he utters words, interrupted by sobs, which are unintelli- gible, and to which they know not whether repentance or despair gives birth. He deeply sighs ; and they know not whether the remembrance of his past crimes, or the despair at quitting life, forces from him such groans of anguish. At last, in the midst of these melancholy exertions, his eyes fix, his features change, his countenance becomes disfigured, his livid lips convulsively separate ; his whole frame quivers ; and, by this last effort, his unfortunate soul tears itself reluctantly from that body of clay, falls into the hands of its God, and finds itself alone at the foot o f the awful tribunal ! XXI.— SYMPATHY TAUGHT BY SUFFERING.— alfoeo The Divine Son of God, before his incarnation in our flesh, was, in his own personal being, separate from the sons of men. One link was wanting to bind Him to us: — a gulf of vast extent lay yet between us. No cry of suffer- ing had ever arisen from Him; but, from man, every hour since the Fall had sent up its utterance of woe. Personal experience is the prerogative of personal being, with which none can intermeddle^ and which God himself infringeu not Ever since the dawn of thought its exercise haa 98 READINGS IN PDLPIT ELOQUENCE been enriching each one of us. Its fruits are our own, in a manner in which nought else is our own. We live iu them: we reason upon them: we respond to others hy means of them. We bring into the world our personal being, as it were an untuned harp of many strings. About each of those wondrous instruments are ever busied God's messengers ; the angels of His providence, and the ministering spirits of His grace. One after another, the tangled and jarring strings are brought into place and tone. First one, and then another, is made to answer to God's harmonies around us. As years pass on, the Divine Spirit touches them with a wider sweep and a firmer hand, till at last, the confusion is reduced, the work is completed, and the instrument is taken into the choir of heaven, where not a note jars in the expression of everlasting truth. But all this is according to each man's measure. In one, there may be a thousand answering notes ; in another, but ten ; in another, but five. Yet, many or few, these are the real possessions of a man in life: these his tokens of progress: these his own treasures, of which neither time nor eternity can rob him. And according to these, so is the man. In feeling, in sympathy, in power for good, he is as he has grown to be. Ask the poor victim of sufi'ering and pain, ■vrhere lies the charm in that face, pale, and wan, and with no outward beauty, which above all others he iove.s to see bending over his bed, and ministering to him ? Others bring gifts : she, it may be, can bring none : others speak many words of studied kindness, she perhaps speaks but little and seldom : but, there is that in the calm face, in the ordinary casual word, in the quiet and gentle help, which is better, and more precious, and more powerful, and more be- loved, than all on earth besides. Yes ; that face has known sorrow ; that sympathy flowing so still, comes from the deep fountains of personal suffering ; that one, having sufiered, knows how to succour them that suffer : — she is gifted with a power which angel never inherited, and which the Son of God left heaven to obtain. Yes, brethren, this was the power with which it was his aim to clothe himself, when He became man. He can be touched with a feeling of our infirmities, not merely be- cause, as God, He knows them, — and not one pang of the suffering heart is hidden from Ilim, — but far more, because, a« our Brother, He has felt them : He himself has been " a man of sorrows, and acquainted with gnef." 9'J READINGS ANCIENT AND MODERN ELOQUENCE. I.— ON THE CHARACTER OF CAIUS VERRES.— Cickeo, The time is come, Fathers, when that which has long been wished for, towards allaying the envy your order has been subject to, is eflfectually put in our power. An opinion has long prevailed, not only here at home, but likewise in foreign countries, both dangerous to you, and pernicious to the state, viz. — that, in prosecutions, men of wealth are always safe, however clearly convicted. There is now to be brought upon his trial before you, — to the confusion, I hope, of the propagators of this slanderous imputation, — one, whose life and actions condemn him in the opinion of all impartial persons ; but who, according to his own reckoning, and declared dependence upon his riches, is already acquitted ; I mean Caius Verres. I have under- taken this prosecution. Fathers, at the general desire, and with the great expectation, of the Eoman people ; not that I might cast envy upon that illustrious order, of which the accused happens to be; but with the direct design of clearing your justice and impartiality before the world. I demand justice of you. Fathers, upon the robber of the public treasury, the oppressor of Asia Minor and Pamphylia, the invader of the rights and privileges of Eomans, the scourge and curse of Sicily. If that sentence is passed upon him which his crimes deserve, your authority. Fathers, will be venerable and sacred in the eyes of the public. But, if his great riches should bias you in his favour, I shall still gain one point, viz. — to make it apparent to all the world, that ■what was wanting, in this case, was not a criminal, nor a prosecutor ; but justice, and adequate punishment. To pass over the shameful irregularities of his yowth, w^hat does his quasstorship — the first public employment he held, — what does it exhibit, but one continued scene of villanies ? — Cneius Carbo plundered of the public money by his own treasurer ; a consul stripped and betrayed ; an 100 READINGS IN army deserted and reduced to want ; a province robbed ; the civil and religious rights of a people violated. — The employment he held in Asia Minor and Pamphylia, what did it produce but the ruin of those countries ? There he acted over again the scene of his quaestorship ; bringing, by his bad practices, Cneius Dolabella, whose substitute he was, into disgrace with the people, and then deserting him ; not only deserting, but even accusing and betraying him. — What was his conduct in his preetorship at home ? Let the plundered temples and the public works neglected, that he might embezzle the money intended for carrying them on, bear witness. — How did he discharge the office of a judge ? Let those who suffered by his injustice answer. But his prastorship in Sicily crowns all his works of wickedness, and finishes a lasting monument to his infamy. His nod has decided all causes in Sicily for these three years ; and his decisions have broken all law, all precedent, all right. The sums he has, by arbitrary taxes and unheard- of impositions, extorted from the industrious poor, are not to be computed. — The most faithful allies of the common- wealth have been treated as enemies. Eoman citizens have, like slaves, been put to death with tortures. — The most atrocious criminals have, for money, been exempted from their deserved punishments ; and men of the most unex- ceptionable characters condemned and banished, unheard. — The harbours, though sufficiently fortified, and the gates of strong towns, opened to pirates and ravagers. — The soldiery and sailors, belonging to a province under the protection of the commonwealth, starved to death. — Whole fleets, to the great detriment of the province, suffered to perish. — The ancient monuments, of either Sicilian or lloman greatness, the statues of heroes and princes, carried off ; and even the Temples stripped of their images. Having, by his iniquitous sentences, filled the prisons with the most industrious and deserving of the people, ho then proceeded to order numbers of Eoman citizens to be strangled in the gaols ; so that the exclamation, " I am a citizen of Eome," which has often, in the most distant regions, a'-d among the most barbarous people, been a protection, was of no service to them ; but, on the contrary, brought a speedier and more severe punishment. Had any prince, or any state, committed the same outrage against the privilege of Eoman citizens, should we not think we had sufficient ground for declaring immediate war against ANCIENT AND MODERN ELOQUENCE. TOl it ? What punishment ought then to be inflicted upon a tyrannical and wicked praetor, who dared, at no greater distance than Sicily, within sight of the Italian coast, to put to the infamous death of crucifixion, that unfortunate and innocent citizen, Puhlius Gavins Cosanus, only for his having asserted his privilege of citizenship, and declared his intention of appealing to the justice of his country against a cruel oppressor, who had unjustly confined him in prison at Syracuse, whence he had just made his escape ? It was in vain that the unhappy man cried out, "I am a Koman Citizen ; I have served under Lucius Pretius, who will attest my innocence." The blood-thirsty praetor, deaf to all defence, ordered the infamous punish- ment to be inflicted. liberty! — sound once delightful to every Eoman ear! — sacred privilege of Eoman citizenship! — Once sacred ! — now trampled upon ! — But what then ? Is it come to this ? Shall neither the cries of innocence expiring in agony, nor the tears of pitying spectators, nor the majesty of the Koman commonwealth, nor the fear of the justice of his country, restrain the licentious and wanton cnielty of a monster, who, in confidence of his riches, strikes at the root of liberty, and sets mankind at defiance ? I con- clude with expressing my hopes that your wisdom and justice, Fathers, will not, by sufl'ering the atrocious and unexampled insolence of Caius Verres to escape due punishment, leave room to apprehend the danger of a total subversion of authority, and introduction of general anarchy and confusion. II.— ON PHILIP OF MACEDON.— Demosthewkb. If there is a man in this assembly, who thinks that we must find a formidable enemy in Philip, while he views on one hand the numerous armies which surround him, and on the other the weakness of our state, despoiled of so much of its dominions, I cannot deny that he thinks justly. Yet let him reflect on this ; — there was a time, Athenians! when many of the states now subjected to him were free and inde- pendent, and more inclined to our alliance than to his. If Philip, at that time weak in himself and without allies, had desponded of success against you, he would never have en- gaged in those enterprises which are now crowned with success, nor could have raised himself to that pitch of grandeur at which you now behold him. But he knew well 102 BEADINQS IN that the strongest places are only prizes laid between the combatants, and ready for the conqueror. He knew that the dominions of the absent devolve naturally to those who are in the field ; the possessions of the supine, to the active and intrepid. Animated by these sentiments, he overturns whole nations. If you, my countrymen, will now, at length, be persuaded to entertain the like sentiments ; if each of you be disposed to approve himself a useful citizen, to the utmost that his station and abilities enable him ; if the rich will be ready to contribute, and the young to take the field ; in one word, if you will be yourselves, and banish those hopes which every single person entertains, that the active part of public business may lie upon others, and he remain at ease; — you may then, by the assistance of the gods, recal those oppor- tunities which your supineness hath neglected, regain your dominions, and chastise the insolence of this man. But when, my countrymen! will you begin to exert your vigour ? Do you wait till roused by some dire event ? till forced by some necessity ? "What then are we to think of our present condition ? To free men, the disgrace attending on misconduct is, in my opinion, the most urgent necessity. Or say, is it your sole ambition to wander through the public places, each inquiring of the other, " What new advices?" Can an^^thing be more new than that a man of Macedon should conquer the Athenians, and give law to Greece ? " Is Philip dead ?" " No — but he is sick." Pray, what is it to you whether Philip is sick or not ? Supposing he should die, you would raise up another Philip, if you continue thus regardless of your interest. Some cry, Philip hath joined with the Lacedemonians, and they are concerting the destruction of Thebes. Others assure us, he hath sent an embassy to the king of Persia ; others, that he is fortifying places in Illyria. I do believe, indeed, Athenians! that he is intoxicated with his greatness, and does entertain his imagination with many such visionary projects, because he sees no power rising to oppose hinu But I cannot bo persuaded that he hath so taken his mea- sures, that the weakest among us (for the weakest they are who spread such rumours) know what he is next to do. Let us disregard their tales. Let us only be persuaded of this, that he is our enemy ; that we have long been subject to his insolence ; that whatever we expected to have been done foi us by others, hath turned against us ; that all the resource ANCIENT AND MODERN ELOQUENCE. 103 left US is in ourselves ; and that, if we are not inclined to carry our arms abroad, we should be forced to engage him at home. Let us be persuaded of these things, and then we shall come to a proper determination, and be no longer guided by rumours. We need not be solicitous to know what l)articular events are to happen. We may well be assured that nothing good can happen, unless we give due attention to our affairs, and act as becomes Athenians. Ill— ON THE CATILINE CONSPIRACY.- Cickro. Catiline, how far art thou to abuse our forbearance? How long are we to be deluded by the mockery of thy madness? Where art thou to stop, in this career of un- bridled licentiousness? Has the nightly guard at the Palatium nothing in it to alarm you? the patrols through- out the city, nothing; the confusion of the people, nothing; the assemblage of all true lovers of their country, nothing; the guarded majesty of this assembly, nothing; and all the eyes that at this instant are riveted upon yours — have they nothing to denounce, nor you to apprehend? Does not your conscience inform you, that the sun shines upon your secrets? And do you not discover a full knowledge of your conspiracy, revealed on the countenance of every man around you? Your employment on the last night— your occupations on the preceding night — the place where you met — the persons who met — and the plot fabricated at the meeting : — of these things, I ask not, who knows? I ask, who, among you all, is ignorant? But, alas ! for the times thus corrupted ; or rather, for mankind, who thus corrupt the times! The senate knows all this ! The consul sees all this 1 And yet the man who sits there — lives. Lives ! Ay — comes down to your senate-house ; takes his seat aa councillor for the common- wealth ; and, with a deliberate destiny in his eye, marks out our members, and selects them for slaughter ; while for us, and for our country, it seems glory sufficient to escape from his fury — to find an asylum from his sword. There has — yes, there has been, and lately been, a vin- dicatory virtue, an avenging spirit in this republic, that never failed to inflict speedier and heavier vengeance on a noxious citizen, than on a national foe. Against you, Catiline, and for your immediate condemnation, what therefore, is wanting? Not the grave sanction of tho 104 READINGS IN senate — not tbe voice of the country — not ancient prece- dents — not living law. But we are wanting — I say it more loudly — we, the consuls ourselves. Conscript Fathers, a camp is pitched against the Eoman republic within Italy. The commander of that encamp- ment walks within the walls of Rome, takes his seat in this senate, the heart of Eome ; and, with venomous mis- chief, rankles in the inmost vitals of the commonwealth. Catiline, should I, on the instant, order my lictors to seize and drag you to the stake, some men might, even then, blame me for having procrastinated punishment ; but no man could criminate me — for a faithful execution of the laws. They shall be executed. But I will neither act, nor will I suffer, without full and sufficient reason. Trust me, they shall be executed ; and then, even then, when there shall not be found a man so flagitious, so much a Catiline, as to say, you were not ripe for execution. Good and great gods, where are we? What city do we inhabit? Under what government do we live? Here — here. Conscript Fathers, mixed and mingled with us all — in the centre of this most grave and venerable assembly — are men sitting, quietly incubating a plot against my life, against all your lives — the life of every virtuous senator and citizen ; while I, with the whole nest of traitors, brood- ing beneath my eyes, am parading in the petty formalities of debate ; and the very men appear scarcely vulnerable by my voice, who ought long since to have been cut down with the sword. Proceed, Catiline, in your honourable career. Go where your destiny and your desire are driving you. Evacuate the city for a season. The gates stand open. Begone ! Take all your loving friends along with you ; or, if that be a vain hope, take, at least, as many as you can, and cleanse the city for some short time. Let the walls of Rome be the mediators between me and thee ; for, at present, you are much too near. Lucius Catiline, away ! Begin as soon as you are able this shameful and unnatural war. Begin it, on your part, under the shade of every dreadful omen ; on mine, with the sure and certain hope of safety to my country, and glory to myself: and, when this you have done, then, do Thou, whose altar was first founded by the founder of our state — Thou, the establisher of this city, pour out thy vengeance upon this man, and all his adherents. Save us from his fury ; our public altars, our sacred temples, our ANCIENT AND MOt>ERN ELOQUENCE. 105 houses, and houseliold gods, our liberties, our lives. Pur- Bue, Tutelar God! pursue them — these foes to the gods and goodness — these plunderers of Italy — these assassins of Ivome ! Erase them out of this life ; and, in the next, let thy vcugeance pursue them, insatiable, implacable, immortal ! IV.— SCIPIO TO THE ROMAN ARMY. Were you, soldiers, the same army that I had with me in Gaul, I might well forbear saying anything to you at this time. For, what occasion could there be to use exhor- tation to a cavalry that had so signally vanquished the 6(luadrons of the enemy upon the Ithoue — or to legions by whom that same enemy, i3ying before them to avoid a battle, did, in effect, confess themselves conquered? But as these troops, having been enrolled for Spain, are there, (as was the will of the senate and people of Rome,) I, that you might have a consul for your captain against Hannibal and the Carthaginians, have freely ofi'ered myself for this war. You, then, have a new general, and I, a new army. On this account, a few words from me to you will be ueithei improper nor unseasonable. That you may not be unapprised of whet sort of enemies you are going to encounter, or of what is to be feared from them , — they are the very same whom, in a former war, you vanquished both by land and sea ; tlie same from whom you took Sicily and Sardinia, and who have been these twenty years your tributaries. Conquered and enslaved, it is not boldness, but necessity, that urges them to battle; unless you can believe, that those who avoided fighting when their army was entire, have acquired better hope by the loss of two-thirds of their horse and foot in the passage of the Alps. But you have heard, perhaps, that, though they are few in number, they are men of stout hearts and robust bodies — heroes of such strength and vigour, as nothing is able to resist. Mere efiSgies ! nay, shadows of men ! wretches emaciated with hunger, and benumbed with cold ! bruised and battered to pieces among the rocks and craggy cliffs ; their weapons broken, and their horses weak and foundered! Such are the cavalry, and such the infantry, with which you are going to contend : not enemies, but the fragments of enemies. There is nothing which I more apprehend, than that it will be thought Hannibal was vanquished by the Alps, before we had any conflict with him. But, per- 106 READINGS IN haps, it was fitting that it should be so; and that, -with a people and a leader who had violated leagues and covenants, the gods themselves, without man's help, should begin the war, and bring it to a near conclusion ; and that we, who, next to the gods, have been injured and offended, should happily finish what they have begun. I could wish, indeed, that the war we are now engaged in concerned only our glory, and not our preservation. But the contest at present is not for the possession of Sicily and Sardinia, but of Italy itself. Nor is there behind us another army, which, if we should not prove the conquerors, may make head against our victorious enemies. There are no more Alps for them to pass, which might give us leisure to raise new forces. No, soldiers; here you must make your stand, as if you were just now before the walls of Kome. Let every oue reflect that he is now to defend, not his own person only, but his wife, his children, his helpless infants. Yet let not private considerations alone possess our minds. Let us remember that the eyes of the senate and people of Eome are upon us ; and that, as our force and courage shall now prove, such will be the fortune of that city, and of the Eoman empire. v.— THE SCYTHIAN AMBASSADOES TO ALEXANDER. Q. CUKTIUS. If your person were as gigantic as your desires, the world itself would not contain you. Your right hand would touch the East, and your left the "West, at the same time. You grasp at more than you are equal to. From Europe you reach to Asia; from Asia you lay hold on Europe. And if you should conquer all mankind, you seem disposed to wage war with woods and snows, with rivers and wild beasts, and to attempt to subdue Nature. But have you considered the usual course of things? Have you reflected that great trees are many years in growing to their height, and are cut down in an hour? It is foolish to think of the fruit only, without considering the height you have to climb to come at it. Take care lest, while you strive to reach the top, you fall to the ground with the branches you have laid hold on. The lion when dead is devoured by ravens ; and rust consumes the hardness of iron. There is nothing so strong, but it is in danger from what is weak. It will, therefore, be your wisdom, to take care how you venture beyond your reach ANCIENT AND MODERN ELOQUENCE. 107 That you may understand the genius of the Scyiliians, we present you with a j'oke of oxen, an arrow, and a goblet. We use these respectively in our commerce with friends and with foes. We give to our friends the corn, which we raise by the labour of our oxen. With the goblet we join with them in pouring drink-offerings to the gods ; and with arrows we attack our enemies. We have conquered those who have attempted to tyrannize over us in our own coun- try, and likewise the kings of the Medes and Persians, when they made unjust war upon us ; and we have opened to ourselves a way into Egypt. You pretend to be the punisher of robbers, and are yourself the general robber of mankind. You have taken Lydia; you have seized Syria ; you are master of Persia ; you have subdued the liactrians, and attacked India. All this will not satisfy you, unless you lay your greedy and insatiable hands upon our flocks and our herds. You grasp at riches, the posses- sion of which only increases j'our avarice. Y^'ou increase your hunger by what should prod ace satiety. Your victories serve no other purpose than to find you employ- ment by producing new wars. For, the business of every conquest is twofold, — to win and to preserve. And though you may be the greatest of warriors, you must expect that the nations you conquer will endeavour to shake off the yoke as fast as possible. For, what people chooses to ho under foreign dominion? If you will cross the Tanais, you may travel over Scythia, and observe how extensive a territoiy we inhabit. Eut to conquer us is quite another business. We command the borders of both Europe and Asia. If you decline attacking us in a hostile manner, you may have our friendship. — Nations which have never been at war are on an equal footing. But it is in vain that confidence is reposed in a conquered people. There can be no sincere friendship be- tween the oppressors and the oppressed. Even in peace, the latter think themselves entitled to the rights of war against the former. We will, if you think good, enter into a treaty with you, according to our manner ; which is, not by signing, sealing, and taking the gods to witness, as is the Grecian custom, but by doing actual services. The Scythians are not used to promise, but to perform without promising. And they think an appeal to the gods super- fluous; because those who have no regard for the esteem of men will not hesitate to offend the gods by perjury. 1 08 READINGS IN You may therefore consider with yourself, whether yoa liad better have a people of such a character, and so situ- ated, as to have it in their power either to serve you or to annoy you, according as you treat them, for allies, or for enemies. VI.— HANNIBAL TO HIS SOLDIERS.— Livr. I know not, soldiers, whether you or your prisoners be encompassed by fortune with the stricter bonds and neces- sities. Two seas enclose you on the right and left ; — not a ship to flee to for escaping. Before you is the Po, a river broader and more rapid than the Rhone ; behind you are the Alps, over which, even when your numbers were un- diminished, you were hardly able to force a passage. — Here then, soldiers, you must either conquer or die, the very flrst hour you meet the enemy. But the same fortune which has laid you under the necessity of fighting, has set before your eyes those rewards of victory, than which no men are ever wont to wish for greater from the immortal gods. Should we by our valour recover only Sicily and Sardinia, which were ravished from our fathers, those would be no inconsiderable prizes. Yet, what are these ? The wealth of Eome, whatever riches she has heaped together in the bpoils of nations, all these, with the masters of them, will be yours. You have been long enough employed in driving the cattle upon the vast mountains of Lusitania and Celti- beria ; you have hitherto met with no reward worthy of the labours and dangers you have undergone. The time is now come to reap the full recompense of your toilsome marches over so many mountains and rivers, and through BO many nations, all of them in arms. This is the place wliich fortune has appointed to be the limit of your labours ; it is here that you will finish your glorious warfare, and receive an ample recompense of your completed service. For I would not have you imagine, that victory will be as difficult as the name of a Eoman war is great and sounding. It has often happened, that a despised enemy has given a bloody battle, and the most renowned kings and nations have by a small force been overthrown. And if you but take away the glitter of the Roman name, what is there wherein they may stand in competition with you ? For, from the very Pilhirs of Hercules, from the ocean, from the utmost bounds of the earth, through so many warlike nations of Spain and Gaul, are you not come hither victorious V ANCIENT AND MODERN ELOQUENCffi. 109 And with whom are you now to fight? With raw soldiers, an undisciplined army, beaten, vanquished, besieged by tho Gauls the very last summer ; an army unknown to their leader, and unacquainted with him. On what side soever I turn my eyes, I behold all full of courage and strength ; — a veteran infantry, a most gallant cavalry ; you, my allies, most faithful and valiant ; you, Carthaginians, whom not only your country's cause, but tho justest anger, impels to battle. The hope, the courage of assailants, is always greater than that of those who act upon the defensive. With hostile banners displayed, you are come down upon Italy ; you bring the war. Grief, injuries, indignities, fire your minds, and spur you forward to re- venge. — First, the Komans demand me ; that I, your general, should be delivered up to them ; next, all of you who had fought at the siege of Saguntum ; — that they may put us to death by the extremest tortures. Proud and cruel nation ! You are to prescribe to us with whom we shall make war, with whom we shall make peace ! You are to set us bounds ; to shut us up within hills and rivers ; but you — you are not to observe the limits which yourselves have fixed ! " Pass not the Iberus." What next? •' Touch not the Saguntines :" is Saguntum upon the Iberus ? " Move not a step towards that city." Is it a small matter, then, that you have deprived us of our ancient possessions, Sicily and Sardinia? you ■would have Spain too ? Well, we shall yield Spain ; and then— you will pass into Africa! Will pass, did I say? — this very year they ordered one of their consuls into Africa, the other into Spain. No, soldiers! there is nothing left for us but what we can vindicate with our swords. Come on, then ; — be men ! The Eomans may with more safety be cowards; they have their own country behind them, have places of refuge to flee to, and are secure from danger in the roads thither ; but for you there is no middle fortune between death and victory. Let this be but well fixed in your minds, and, once again I say, you are conquerors ! VII.— ON NEGRO SLAVERY.— Brougham. I trust that, at length, the time is come, when parliament will no longer bear to be told that slave-owners are the best law"-iver3 on slavery ; no longer suffer our voice to roll across the Atlantic, in empty warnings and fruitless orders. Tell me not of rights — talk not of the property of the planter in his slaves. I deny his richt — I acknowledge not the 110 RRAniNOS IN property. The principles, the feelingsof our common nature, rise in rehellion against it. Be the appeal made to the un- derstanding or to the heart, the sentence is the same — that rejects it! In vain you tell me of laws that sanction such a claim 1 There is a law, above all the enactments of human codes — the same, throughout the world — the same, in all times: such as it was, before the daring genius of Columbus pierced the night of ages, and opened, to one world, the sources of power, wealth, and knowledge; to another, all unutterable woes, — such is it at this day: it is the law written by the finger of God on the heart of man ; and by that law, unchangeable and eternal — while men despise fraud, and loathe rapine, and hate blood — they shall reject, with indignation, the wild and guilty fantasy, that man can bold property in man ! In vain you appeal to treaties — to covenants between nations. The covenants of the Almight}', whether the old covenant or the new, denounce such unholy pretensions. To these laws did they of old refer, who maintained the African trade. Such treaties did they cite — and not untruly ; for, by one shameful compact, you bartered the glories of Blenheim for the traftio in blood. Yet, in despite of law and of treaty, that infernal traffic is now destroyed, and ita votaries put to death like other pirates. How came this change to pass ? Not, assuredly, by parliament leading the way. But the country at length awoke ; the indignation of the people was kindled ; it descended in thunder, and smota the traffic, and scattered its guilty profits to the winds. Now, then, let the planters beware — let their assemblies beware — let the government at home beware — let the parliament beware ! The same country is once more awake — awake to the condition of Negro slavery ; the same indig- nation kindles in the bosom of the same people ; the same cloud is gathering, that annihilated the slave trade ; ami if it shall descend again, they on whom its crash may fall will not be destroyed before I have warned them : but I pray that their destruction may turn asvay from us the mora terrible judgements of God! VIII.— ON LASV REFORM —Bkoitguam. After a long interval of various fortune, and filled witk vast events, we are again called to the grand labour of surveying and amending our laws. For this task, it well becomes \is to begird ourselves, as the honest representatives ASCIENT AKD MODERN ELOQUENCE. Ill of the people. Despatch and vigour are imperiously de- manded ; but that deliberation, too, must not be lost sight of, which so mighty an enterprise requires. When we shall have done the work, we may fairly challenge the utmost approval of our constituents ; for, in none other have they 60 deep a stake. In pursuing the course which I now invite you to enter upon, I avow that I look for the co-operation of the King's government. But whether I have the support of the Ministers or no, to the House I look, with confident ex- pectation, that it will control them, and assist me ; if I go too far, checking my progress ; if I go too fast, abating my speed ; but heartily and honestly helping me, in the best and greatest work which the hands of the lawgiver can undertake. The course is clear before us ; the race is glorious to run. You have the power of sending your name down through all times, illustrated by deeds of higher fame and more useful import than ever were done within these walls. You saw the greatest warrior of the age — conqueror of Italy — humbler of G-ermany — terror of the North — you saw him account all his matchless victories poor, compared with the triumph which you are now in a condition to win! — saw him contemn the fickleness of Fortune, while, in despite of her, he could pronounce his memorable boast — " I shall go do'mi to posterity, with my code in my hand!" You have van- quished him in the field ; strive now to rival him in the sacred arts of peace! Outstrip him as a lawgiver, whom in arms you overcame! The lustre of the Eegency will be eclipsed by the more solid and enduring splendour of the Eeign. The praise which false courtiers feigned for our Edwards and Harrys, — the Justinians of their daj', — will be the just tribute of the wise and the good, to that monarch under whose sway so mighty an undertaking shall be ac- complished. Of a truth, sceptres are chiefly to be envied, for that they bestow the power of thus conquering and ruling. It was the boast of Augustus — it formed part of the glare, in which the perfidies of his earlier years were lost . — that he found Rome of brick, and left it of marble; a praise not unworthy a great prince, and to which the present reign has its claims also. But how much nobler will be our sovereign's ooast, when he shall have it to say, that he found law dear, and left it cheap ; found it a sealed book, — left it an open letter ; found it tne patrimony of the rich, — left it the inheritance of the poor ; found it the two-edged 112 READINGS IN Bword of craft and oppression, — left it the staff of honesty, and the shield of innocence! To me, much reflecting on these things, it has always seemed a worthier honour to he the instrument of making you bestir yourselves in this high matter, than to enjoy all that office can bestow — office, of which the patronage would be irksome incumbrance, the emoluments superfluous, to one, content, with the rest of his industrious fellow-citizens, that his own hands minister to his wants : and as for the power supposed to follow it — I have lived nearly half a century, and I have learned that power and place may be severed. But, one power I do prize — that of being the advocate of my countrymen here, and their fellow-labourer elsewhere, in those things which con- cern the best interests of mankind. That power, I know full well, no government can give — no change take away! IX.— ON CONCILIATING THE COLONIES.— Bukkb. My hold of the colonies is in the close affection which grows from common names, from kindred blood, from similar privileges, and equal protection. These are ties, which, though light as air, yet are as strong as the links of iron. Let the colonies always keep the idea of their civil rights associated with your government, — they will cling and grapple to you ; and no force under heaven vdW be of power to tear them from their allegiance. But let it be once understood, that your government may be one thing, and their privileges another ; that these two things may exist without any mutual relation ; — the cement is gone, the cohesion is loosened ; and every thing hastens to decay and dissolution. As long as you have the wisdom to keep the sovereign authority of this country as the sanctuary of liberty, wherever that chosen race — the sons of England — worship freedom, they will turn their faces towards you. The more they multiply, the more friends will you have ; the more ardently they love liberty, the more perfect will be their obedience. Slavery they can have anywhere : it is a weed that grows in every soil. But, until you become lost to all feeling of your true interest and your natural dignity, freedom they can have from none but you. This is the commodity of price, of which you have the monopoly. This is the true act of navigation, which binds to you the commerce of the colonies ; and, through them, secures to you the wealth of the world. It is the spirit of the English constitution, whkh, infused through the mij>;hty mass, per- ANCIENT AND MODERN ELOQUENCB- 113 vades, feeds, unites, invigorates, vivifies every part of the empire, even down to tl)c minutest member. Is it not the same virtue which does every thing for us here in England ? Do you imagine that it is the land-tax act which raises your revenue ? that it is the annual vote in the committee of supply which gives you your army V or that it is the mutiny bill which inspires it with bravery and discipline? No! surely no ! It is the love of tlm {leople ; it is their attachment to their government, from the sense of the deep stake they have in such a glorious institution, which gives you your army and your navy ; and infuses into both that liberal obedience, without which your army would be a base rabble, and your navy nothing but rotten timber. All this, I know well enougli, will sound wild and chi- merical, to the profane herd of those vulgar and mechanical politicians, who have no place among us; a sort of people, who think that nothing exists, but what is gross and material ; and who, therefore, far from being qualified to be directors of the great movement of empire, are not fit to turn a wheel in the machine. But, to men tnily initiated and rightly taught, these ruling principles — which, in the opinion of such men as I have mentioned, have no eub- plantial existence — are, in truth, every thing, and alHn all. JIagnanimity in politics is not seldom the truest wisdom: and a great empire, and little minds, go ill together. We ought to elevate our thoughts to the greatness of that trust, to which the order of Providence has called us. By adverting to the dignity of this high calling, our ancestors have turned a savage wilderness into a glorious empire ; and have made the most extensive, and the only honourable conquests, not by destroying, but by promoting the wealth, the number, the happiness of the human race. X.— ON THE SLAVE TRADE.— Cannino. Little, indeed, did I expect to hear the remote origin and long duration of the Slave Trade brought forward with triumph ; to hear the advocates of the Slave Trade put in tlieir claim for the venerableness of age, and the sacredne^ss ol' prescription. What are the principles upon which we allow a certain claim to our respect, to belong to any institution which has subsisted from remote times? What is the reason why, when any such institutions had, by the change of circumstance*, or of mannerB, become useless, we 114 -lEADINGS iN still tolerated them, nay, cherished them, with something of affectionate regard, and even when they became burdensome, did not remove them without regret ? What, but because, in such institutions, for the most part, we saw the shadow of departed worth or usefulness ; the monument and memorial of what had, in its origin, or during its vigour, been of service or credit to mankind. Was this the case with the Slave Trade ? was the Slave Trade originally begun upon some principle of public justice or national honour, which the lapse of time, which the mutations of the world, have alone impaired and done away ? Has it to plead former merits, services and glories, in behalf of its present foulness and disgrace ? Was its infancy lovely, or its manhood useful, though, in its age, it is become thus loviithsome and perverse? No; its infant lips were stained with blood. . Its whole existence has been a series of rapacity, cruelty, and murder. And in what cases is it, where any existing order of things, though violent and unjust in its original institution had, by lapse of time, been so meliorated and softened down, and reconciled to the feelings of mankind — that the re- membrance of its original usurpation was lost, in the ex- perience of present harmlessness or utility? Conquest was often of this nature. Violent and unjustifiable in its introduction, it often happened that the conquerors and the conquered became blended into one people, and that a system of common interest arose out of the conciliated differences of parties, originally hostile. But, was this the case with the Slave Trade? Was it in its outset only, that it had any thing of violence, of injustice, or of oppression ? — Are the wounds which Africa felt in the first conflict, healed, and skinned over ? Or, are they fresh and green, as at the moment when the first slave-ship began its ravages upon the coast ? Are the oppressors and the oppressed so reconciled to each other, that no trace of enmity remains ? Or, is it in reason, or in common sense, to claim a pre- Bcriptive right, — not to the fruits of an ancient and forgotten crime, committed long ago, and traceable only in its con- sequences ; — but to a series of new violences, to a chain of fresh enormities, to ci-uelties — continued — repeated; and of which every individual instance, inflicted a fresh calamity, and constituted a fresh, a separate, and substantive crime ? Certainly not ; — and I cannot conceive, that, in refusing to sanction the continuance of such a system, the House will feel itself, in the smallest degree, impairing the respect ANCIENT Arm MODERN ELOQUENCE. 115 due to the establishments of antiquity, or shaking the foundations of the British Constitution. XI.— ON THE PRESENT AGE.— Channiho. The Present age! In these brief words what a world of thought is comprehended! What infinite movements! what joys and sorrows! what hope and despair! what faith and doubt! what silent grief and loud lament! what fierce con- flicts and subtle schemes of policy! what private and public revolutions ! In the period through which many of us have passed, what thrones have been shaken ! what hearts have bled ! what millions have been butchered by their fellow- creatures ! what hopes of philanthropy have been blighted ! And at the same time what magnificent enterprises have been achieved! what new provinces won to science and art! what rights and liberties secured to nations I It is a privilege to have lived in a crisis so stirring, so pregnant, 60 eventful. Ours is an age never to be forgotten. Its impression on history is indelible. Amidst its events, the American Kevolution, — the first distinct, solemn assertion of the rights of men, — and the French Revolution — that volcanic force which shook the earth to its centre, — are never to pass from men's minds. Over this age the night will indeed gather more and more as time rolls away ; but in that night two forms will appear, Washington and Na- poleon, — the one a lurid meteor, the other a benign, serene, and undecaying star. Another American name will live in history, — Franklin; and the kite which brought lightning from heaven vail be seen sailing in the clouds by remote posterity, when the city where he dwelt may be known only by its ruins. The glory of an age is often hidden from itself. Perhaps some word has been spoken in our day which we have not deigned to hear, but which is to grow clearer and louder through all ages. Perhaps some silent thinker among us is at work in his closet whose name is to fill the earth. Perhaps there sleeps in his cradle some re- former, who is to move the church and the world, who is to open a new era in history, who is to fire the human mind with new hope and new daring. We are encompassed with darkness. The issues of our time, how obscure ! The fu- ture into which it opens, who can foresee ? To the Father of all ages let us commit this future, with humble, yet courageous and unfaltering hope. 116 READINGS IN XII.— ON THE THEATBE.— Chahninq. In its present state, the theatre deserves no encourage- ment. In saying this, I do not mean that the amusement ia radically, essentially eviL I can conceive of a theatre ■which would be the noblest of all amusements, and would take a high rank among the means of refining the taste and elevating the character of a people. The deep woes, the mighty and terrible passions, and the sublime emotions of genuine tragedy, are fitted to thrill us with human sympathies, with profound interest in our nature, with a consciousness of what man can do, and dare, and suffer — with an awed feeling of the fearful mysteries of life. The soul of the spectator is stirred from its depths ; and the lethargy in which so many live is roused, at least for a time, to some intenseness of thought and sensibility. The Drama answers a high purpose, when it places us in the presence of the most solemn and striking events of human history, and lays bare to us the human heart in its most powerful, appalling, or glorious workings. But how little does the Theatre accomplish this end! How often is it disgraced by monstrous distortions of human nature; and still more disgraced by profaneness, coarseness, indelicacy, and low wit, such as none take pleasure in without self-degradation. That the theatre exists in its present condition is a re- proach to the community. Were it to fall, a better drama might spring up in its place. In the meantime, is ther , not an amusement, having an afl&nity with the drama, which might be usefully introduced among us? I mean, Eecitation. A work of genius, recited by a man of fine taste, enthusiasm, and powers of elocution, is a very pure and high gratification. Were this art cultivated and encouraged, great numbers, now insensible to the most beautiful compositions, might be waked up to their excellence and power. It is not easy to conceive of a more effectual way of spreading a refined taste through a community. The drama undoubtedly ap- peals more strongly to the passions than recitation; but tiie latter brings out the meaning of the author more. Shakspere, worthily recited, would be better understood than on the stage. Then, in recitation, we escape the weariness of listening to incompetent performers, who, after all, fill up most of the time at the theatre. Eecitation, suiriciently varied, so as to include pieces of chaste wit, as well as of pathos, beauty, and sublimity, is adapted to our present intellectual progress, a« much as the drama falls below it. ANCIENT AND MODERN ELOQUENCE, 117 Should this exhibition be introduced among us successfully, the result would be, that the power of recitation would be extensively called forth, and this would be a valuable addition to our social and domestic pleasures. XIII.— ON THE AMERICAN WAR.— Chatuam. I cannot, my Lords, I will not, join in congratulation on misfortune and disgrace. This, my Lords, is a perilous and tremendous moment. It is not a time for adulation: the smoothness of flattery cannot save us in this rugged and awf\d crisis. It is now necessary to instruct the throne in the language of truth. We must, if possible, dispel the delusion and darkness which envelop it ; and display, in its full danger and genuine colours, the ruin which is brought to our doors. Can ministers still presume to expect sup- port in their infatuation ? Can parliament be so dead to its dignity and duty, as to give its support to measures thus obtruded and forced upon it ? Measures, my Lords, which have reduced this late flourishing empire to scorn and contempt ! " But yesterday, and Britain might have stood against the world : now, none so poor as do her reverence !" — The people, whom we at first despised as rebels, but whom we now acknowledge as enemies, are abetted against us, supplied with eveiy military store, have their interests consulted, and their ambassadors entertained, by our inveterate enemy ; and ministers do not — and dare not — interpose with dignity or effect. The desperate state of our army abroad is in part known. No man more highly esteems and honours the British troops than I do ; I know their virtues and their valour ; I know they can achieve any thing but impossibilities ; and I know that the con- quest of British America is an impossibility. You cannot, my Lords, you can not conquer America. "What is your present situation there ? We do not know the worst ; but we know that in three campaigns we have done no- thing, and suffered much. You may swell every expense, accumulate every assistance, and extend your traffic to the shambles of every German despot : your attempts will be for ever vain and impotent — doubly so, indeed, from this mercenary aid on which you rely; for it irritates, to an incurable resentment, the minds of your adversaries, to over-run them with the mercenary sons of rapine and plunder, devoting them and their possessions to the rapacity of hireling cmeltv. Tf I were an American, as I am an 118 READINGS IS Englishman, while a foreign troop was landed in my country, I never would lay down my arms ; — never, never, never! But, my Lords, who is the man, that, in addition to the dis.graces and mischiefs of the war, has dared to authorize and associate to our arms the tomahawk and scalping-knifo 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 ? My Lords, these enormities cry aloud for redress and punish- ment. But, my Lords, this barbarous measure has been defended, not only on the principles of policy and neces- sity, but also on those of morality ; " for it is perfectly allowable," says Lord Suffolk, " to use all the means which God and nature have put into our hands." I am aston- ished, I am shocked, to hear such principles confessed ; to hear them avowed in this House, or in this country. My Lords, I did not intend to encroach so much on your attention, but I cannot repress my indignation — I feel myself impelled to speak. My Lords, we are called upon, as members of this House, as men, as Christians, to protest against such horrible barbarity! — "That God and nature have put into our hands !" What ideas of God and nature that noble Lord may entertain, I know not ; but I know, that such detestable principles are equally abhorrent to religion and humanity. What! to attribute the sacred sanction of God and nature to the massacres of the Indian Bcalping-knife! — to the cannibal savage, torturing, murder- ing, devouring, drinking the blood of his mangled victims! Such notions shock every precept of morality, every feeling of humanity, every sentiment of honour. These abominable principles, and this more abominable avowal of them, demand the most decisive indignation. I call upon that Eight Reverend, and this most Learned Bench, to vindicate the religion of their God, — to support the justice of their country. I call upon the bishops, to interpose the unsullied sanctity of their lawn ; — upon the judges, to interpose the purity of their ermine, to save us from this pollution. I call upon the honour of your Lord- Bhips to reverence the dignity of your ancestors, and to maintain your own. I call upon the spirit and bumanity of my country, to vindicate the national character. I invoke the Genius of the Constitution] From the tapestry ANCIENT AND MODEIIN ELOQUENCE. 119 tliat adorns these walls, the immortal ancestor of this noble lord frowns with indignation at the disgrace of his country. To send forth the merciless cannibal, thirsting for blood! Against whom? — your brethren! — to lay waste their country, to desolate their dwellings, and extirpate their race and name, by the aid and instrumentality of these horrible hounds of war! Spain can no longer boast pre-eminence iu barbarity. She armed herself with blood-hounds, to extir- pate the wretched natives of Mexico ; we, more ruthless, loose these dogs of war against our countrymen in America, endeared to us by every tie that can sanctify humanity. I solemnly call upon your Lordships, and upon every order of men in the state, to stamp, upon this infamous procedure, the indelible stigma of the Public Abhorrence. More particularly, I call upon the holy prelates of our religion to do away this iniquity ; let them perform a lustration, to purify the country from this deep and deadly sin. XIV.— ON UNIVEESAL EMANCIPATION.— Cpkran. I put it to your oaths : — do you think that a blessing of that kind — that a victory obtained by justice, over bigotry and oppression — should have a stigma cast upon it, by an ignominious sentence upon men bold and honest enough to propose that measure ? — to propose the redeeming of Eeligion from the abuses of the Church, the reclaiming of three millions of men from bondage, and giving liberty to all who had a right to demand it ? — giving, I say, in the so much censured words of this paper, giving " Universal Emancipation !" I speak in the spirit of the British law, which makes liberty commensurate with, and inseparabla from, British soil ; — which proclaims, even to the stranger and sojourner, the moment he sets his foot upon British earth, that the ground on which he treads is holy, and consecrated by the genius of Universal Emancipation. No matter in what language his doom may have been pro- nounced ; — no matter what complexion, incompatible with freedom, an Indian or an African sun may have burnt upon him ; no matter in what disastrous battle his liberty may have been cloven down ; — no matter with what solemnities he may have been devoted upon the altar of slavery ; — the first moment he touches the sacred soil of Britain, the altar and the god sink together in the dust ; his soul walks abroad in her own majesty; his body swells beyond the measure ol the chains that burst from around bim ; and he stands — 120 HEADINGS IX redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled, by the irresist- ible genius of " Universal Emancipation." XV.— ON PRECEDENTS— Erskine. Gentlemen — If precedents in bad times are to be followed, why phould the Lords and Commons have investigated these charges, and the Crown have put them into this course of judicial trial ? since, without such a trial, and even after «n acquittal upon one, they might have attainted all the ]irisoners by act of parliament : they did so in the case of Lord Strafibrd. There are precedents, therefore, for all such things; but such precedents as could nOt, for a moment, survive the times of madness and distraction which gave them birth ; and, which, as soon as the spurs of the oc- casion were blunted, were repealed and execrated even by parliaments, which, little as I think of the present, ought not to be compared with it ; — parliaments sitting in the darkness of former times — in the night of freedom — before the principles of government were developed, and before the constitution became fixed. The last of these precedents, and all the proceedings upon it, were ordered to be taken off the file and burned, to the intent that the same might no longer be visible in after-ages: an order dictated, "no doubt, by a pious tenderness for national honour, and meant as a charitable covering for the crimes of our fathers. But it WC.3 a sin against posterity, it was a treason against society ; for, instead of commanding them to be burned, they should rather have directed them to be blazoned, in large letters, upon the walls of our courts of justice ; that, like the characters deciphered by the Trophet to the Eastern tyrant, they might enlarge and blacken in your sights, to terrify you from acts of injustice. In times, when the whole habitable earth is in a state of change and fluctuation ; when deserts are starting up into civilized empires around j'ou ; and when men — no longer slaves to the prejudices of particular countries, much less to the abuses of particular governments — enlist themselves, like the citizens of an enlightened world, into whatever communities their ci\^l liberties may be best protected ; it never can be for the advantage of this country to prove that the strict, unextended letter of her laws, is no security to her inhabitants. On the contrary, when so dangerous a hire is everywhere holding out to emigration, it will be found to be tho wisest policy of Groat Britain to set up her ANCIENT AND MODERN ELOQUENCE. 121 happy constitution — the strict letter of her guardian laws, and the proud condition of equal freedom, which 'In^r highest and her lowest subjects ought alike to enjoy; — it will be her wisest policy, to set up these first of human blessings, against those charms of change and noveUy, which the varying condition of tlie world is hourly dis- playing, and which may deeply affect the population and prosperity of our country. In times when the subordination to autliority is said to be everywhere too little felt, it will be found to be the wisest policy of G-reat Britain, to instil into the governed an almost superstitious reverence for the strict security of the law^s ; which, from their equality of principle, beget no jealousies or discontents ; which, from their equal administration, can seldom work injustice ; and which, from the reverence groAving out of their mildness and antiquity, acquire a stability in the habits and affections of men, fai beyond the force of civil obligations : whereas, severe penal- ties, and arbitrary constructions of laws intended for security, lay the foundations of alienation from every human govern- ment, and have been the cause of all calamities that have come, and are coming, upon the earth. To conclude, my fervent wish is, that we may not conjuro up a Spirit to destroy ourselves. Let us cherish the old and venerable laws of our forefathers ; let our judicial administration be strict and pure ; and let the jury of the land preserve the life of a fellow subject, who only asks it from them upon the same terms under which they hold their own lives, and all that is dear to them and their pos- terity for ever. Let me repeat the wish, with which I began my address to you, and which proceeds from the very bottom of my heart : — May it please Him, who is the Author of all mercies to mankind — whose Providence, I am persuaded, guides and superintends the transactions of the world, and whose Gruardian Spirit has ever hovered over this prosperous Island — to direct and fortify your judgements ! XVI.— ON NATIONAL CHARACTER.— Everett. How is the spirit of a free people to be formed, and animated, and cheered, but out of the store-house of its historic recollections! Are we to be eternally ringing the changes upon Marathon and Thermopylae ; and going back to read, in obscure texts of Greek and Latin, of the exemplars of patriotic virtue? We can find them nearer home, in our own country, on our OAvn soil ; — strains of the noblest 122 READINGS IN Bentiment that ever swelled in the breast of man, are breathing to us out of every page of our country's history, in the native eloquence of our mother tongue. Here we ought to go for our instruction : — the lesson is plain, it is clear, it is applicable. When we go to ancient history, we are bewildered with the difference of manners and institu- tions. "We are willing to pay our tribute of applause to the memory of Leonidas, who fell nobly for his country in the face of his foe. But, when we trace him to his home, we are confounded at the reflection, that the same Spartan heroism to which he sacrificed himself at Thermopylee, would have led him to tear his own child, if it had happened to be a sickly babe, — the very object for which all that is kind and good in man rises up to plead, — from the bosom of its mother, and carry it out to be eaten by the wolves. We feel a glow of admiration at the heroism displayed at Marathon, by the ten thousand champions of invaded Greece ; but we cannot forget that the tenth part of the number were slaves, unchained from the work-shops and door-posts of their masters, to go and fight the battles of freedom. I do not mean that these examples are to destroy the interest with which we read the history of ancient times ; they possibly increase the interest by the very contrast they exhibit: but they do warn us, if we need the warning, to seek our great practical lessons of patriotism at home ; out of the exploits and sacrifices of which our own country is the theatre ; out of the characters of our own fathers. Them we know, — the high-souled, natural, unafi'ected, the citizen- heroes. We know what happy firesides they left for the cheerless camp. We know with what pacific habits they dared the perils of the field. There is no mystery, no romance, no madness under the name of chivalry, about them. It is all resolute, manly resistance, for conscience' and liberty's sake, not merely of an overwhelming power, but of all the force of long-rooted habits, and native love of order and peace. Above all, their blood calls to us from the soil which we tread ; it beats in our veins; it cries to us not merely in the thrilling words of one of the first victims in this cause, — " My sons, scorn to be slaves!" — but it cries T,\ath a still more moving eloquence, — " My sons, forget not your fathers 1" XVII.— ON LITERATURE AND LIBERTY.— Evekktt. Literature is the voice of the age and the state. The ANtlENT AND MODERN ELOQUENCE. 123 character, energy, and resources of the country are reflected and imaged forth in the conceptionR of its great minds. They are organs of the time; they speak not their own language, they scarce think their own thoughts ; but, under an impulse like the prophetic enthusiasm of old, they must feel and utter the sentiments which society inspires. They do not create, they obey the Spirit of the age ; — the serene and beautiful Spirit descended from the highest heaven of liberty, who laughs at our preconceptions, and, with the breath of his mouth, sweeps before him the men and the nations that cross his path. By an unconscious instinct, the mind, in the action of its powers, adapts itself to the number and complexion of the other minds with which it is to enter into communion or conflict. As the voice falls into the key which is suited to the space to be filled, the mind, in the various exercises of its creative faculties, Btrives with curious search for that master-note, which will awaken a vibration from the surrounding community, and which, if it do not find it, is itself too often struck dumb. For this reason, from the moment, in the destiny of nations, that they descend from their culminating point and begin to decline, from that moment the voice of crea- tive genius is hushed, and, at best, the age of criticism, learning, and imitation succeeds. When Greece ceased to be independent, the forum and the stage became mute. Nay, though the fall of greatness, the decay of beauty, the waste of strength, and the wreck of power, have ever been among the favourite themes of the pensive Muse, yet not a poet arose in Greece to chant her own elegy. The free- dom and the genius of a country are thus invariably gathered into a common tomb. XVIIL— ON THE DEFENCE OF BRITAIN FEOlil INVASION.— Hall. By a series of criminal enterprises, by the success of guilty ambition, the liberties of Europe have been gradually extinguished ; and we are the only people in the eastern hemisphere, who are in possession of equal laws, and a free constitution. Freedom, driven from every spot on the continent, has sought an asylum in the country she always chose for her favourite abode ; but she is pursued even here. The inundation of lawless power, after covering the whole earth, threatens us now. We are most exactly, most critic- ally, placed in the only aperture where it can be successfully 124 READINGS rN repellecl — in the Thermopj'lre of the world. As far as the interof:t,s of frcodom are concerned — the most important by far of sublunary interests — j'ou, my countrymen, stand in the capacity of the representatives of the human race ; for you it is to determine — under God — in what condition the latest posterity shall be born. It remains with you to decide, ■whether that Freedom, at whose voice the kingdoms of Europe awoke from the sleep of ages, to run a career of virtuous emulation in everything great and good — that Freedom which dispelled the mists of superstition, and in- vited the nations to behold their God, and whose magic torch kindled the rays of genius, the enthusiasm of poetry, and the flame of eloquence — that Freedom which poured into our lap opulence and arts, and embellished life with innumerable institutions and improvements, till it became a theatre of wonders ; — it is for you to decide, whether that Freedom shall yet survive, or be covered with a funeral pall, and wrapped in eternal gloom. It is not necessary to await your determination. In tlie solicitude you feel to approve yourselves worthy of such a trust, every thought of what is afflicting in warfare, every apprehension of danger, must vanish ; you are impatient to mingle in the battle of the civilised world. Go then, ye defenders of your country, accompanied by every aus- picious omen; advance with alacrity into the field, where God himself musters the host to war. Religion is too much interested in your success, not to lend you her aid. She will shed over this enterprise her selectest influence. "While you are engaged in the field, many will repair to the closet — many to the sanctuary. The faithful of every name will employ that praj^er which has power with God. The feeble hand, unequal to any other weapon, will grasp the sword of the Spirit ; from myriads of humble contrite hearts, the voice of intercession, supplication, and weeping, will mingle in its ascent to heaven, with the shouts of battle, and the shock of arms. The extent of your resources, under God, is equal to the justice of your cause. But, should Providence determine otherwise, sliould 3'ou fall in this struggle, sliouhl the nation fall — you will have the satisfaction — the purest allotted to man — of having performed your part ; your names will be enrolled with the most illustrious dead, while posterity to the end of time, as olten as they revolve the events of this period — and they will incessantly revolve them — will turn AVCIENT AND MODERN ELOQUENCE, I'J,') to you a reverential eye, while thev mourn over tho freedom entombed in j'our sepulchre. XIX.— ON BRITISH GOVERNMENT IN AMERICA.— Heniit. Mr President — It is natural to man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to tlio song of that Syren, till she transforms us to beasts. Is this the part of wise men, en- gaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed to be of the number of those who, having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which so neai-ly concern our temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth ; to know the worst, and to provide for it. I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided ; and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future, but by the past. And judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the con- duct of the British ministry for the last ten years, to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to golace themselves and the House ? Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received? Trust it not, sir ; it will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be ** betrayed with a kiss I" Ask your- eelves. How this gracious reception of our petition, com- ports 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 our- selves so unwilling to be reconciled, that force must be called in to win back our love ? Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and subjugation , the last arguments to which kings resort, I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to submission ? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? Has G-reat Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are meant for us : they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and to rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry have been so long forging. And what have we to oppose to them? Shall we try argu- ment? -Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have w« anvUiinij new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. 126 READINGS IK We have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable ; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find which have not been already exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have done every thing that could be done, to avert the storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned, we have remonstrated, we have supplicated, we have prostrated our- selves before the throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and parlia- ment. Our petitions have been slighted; our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult ; our suppli- cations have been disregarded ; and we have been spurned with contempt from the foot ot tlie throne. In vain, after tuese things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free, if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending ; if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained, we must fight ; I repeat it, sir, we must fight ! An appeal to arms, and to the God of Hosts, is all that is left us ! They tell us, sir, that we are weak — " unable to cope with so formidable an adversary !" But when shall we be stronger ? 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 house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction ? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance, by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper use of those means which the God of Nature hath placed in our power. Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of Liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just Power who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone ; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it ifl now too late to retire from ANCIENT AND MODERN ELOQUENCE. 127 the contest. There is no retreat, but in submission and slavery. Our chains are forged. Their chinking may be heard on the phains of Boston. The war is inevitable ; and let it come ! I repeat it, sir, let it come I It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry " Peace, peace !" but there is no peace ! The war is actually begun ! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life 60 dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery ? Forbid it, Almighty Powers ! — I know not what course others may take ; but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death I XX.— ON THE POETRY OF CITY AND COUNTEY LIFE.— Longfellow, Where should the scholar live ? In solitude, or in society? In the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of Nature beat ; or in the dark, gray city, where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man ? I will make answer for him, and say, in the dark, gray city. Oh, they do greatly err who think that the stars are all the poetry which cities have ; and therefore, that the poet's only dwell- ing should be in sylvan solitudes, under the green roof of trees. Beautiful, no doubt, are all the forms of Nature, when transfigured by the miraculous power of poetry ; hamlets and harvest fields, and nut-brown waters flowing ever under the forest vast and shadowy, with all the sights and sounds of rural life. But, after all, what are these but the de- corations and painted scenery in the great theatre of human life ? What are they but the coarse materials of the poet's song ? Grlorious, indeed, is the world of Grod around us, — but more glorious the world of God within us. There lies the land of song ; there lies the poet's native land. The river of life, that flows through streets tumultuous, bearing along so many gallant hearts, so many wrecks of humanity ; the many homes and households, each a little world in itself, revolving round its fireside, as a central sun ; all forms of human joy and sufiering, brought into that narrow compass ; and to be in this and be a part of this ; acting, thinking, rejoicing, sorrowing with his fellow-men ; — such, Buch should be the poet's life. If he would describe the world, he should live in the world. The mind of the 12^ readinob in scholar, also, if you would have it large and liberal, should come in contact with other minds. It is better that his armour should be somewhat bruised even by rude encoun- ters, than hang for ever rusting on the wall. Nor will his themes be few or trivial, because apparently shut-in between the walls of houses, and having merely the decorations of fitreet scenery. A ruined character is as picturesque as a ruined castle. There are dark abysses and yawning gulfs in the human heart, which can be rendered passable only by bridging them over with iron nerves and sinews ; as island channels and torrent ravines are spanned with chain bridges. These are the great themes of human thought ; not green grass, and flowers, and moonshine. Besides, the mere external forms of Nature we make our own, and carry with us into the city, by the power of memory XXI.— ON THE BEITISH PRESS.— Mackintosh. Unfortunately for the repose of mankind, great states are compelled to consider the military spirit and martial habits of their people, as one of the main objects of their policy. Frequent hostilities seem almost the necessary con- dition of greatness ; and, without being great, they cannot remain safe. Smaller states, exempted from this necessity, devoted themselves to the arts of peace, to the cultivation of literature, and the improvement of reason. They became places of refuge for free and fearless discussion ; they were tlie impartial spectators and judges of the various contests of ambition, which, from time to time, disturbed the quiet of the world. If wars of aggrandizement were undertaken, their authors were arraigned in the sight of Europe. If acts of internal tyranny were perpetrated, they resounded, from a thousand presses, throughout all civilized countries. Princes, on whose will there were no legal checks, thus found a moral restraint which the most powerful of them could not brave with absolute impunity. No elevation of power, no depravity however consummate, no innocence however spotless, can render man wholly independent of the praise or blame of his fellows. These feeble states, these monuments of the justice of Europe, the asylum of peace, of industry, and of literature, the organs of public reason, the refuge of op])ressed innocence and persecuted truth, — have perished, with those ancient principles which were their sole guardians and protectors. They have been Bwallowod up b^ that fearful convulsion, which has shaken ANCIENT AND MODERN ELOQUENCE. 129 the uttermost corners of the earth. They are destroyed and gone for ever! One asylum of free discussion is still inviolate, — There is still one spot in Europe where man can freely exercise his reason on the most important concerns of society ; where he can boldly publish his judgements on the acts of the proudest and most powerful tyrants. The press of England is still free. It is guarded by the free constitution of our forefathers; it is guarded by the hearts and arms of Englishmen ; and 1 trust I may venture to say, that, if it be to fall, it will fall only under the ruins of the British empire. — It is an awful consideration, gentlemen ! — every other monument of European liberty has perished. That ancient fabric, which haj? been gradually reared by the wisdom and virtue of our fathers, still stands ; — it stands, thanks be to Heaven! solid and entire — but — it stands alone, — and it stands amid ruins! XXII.— ON NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.— Phillin. He is fallen ! We may now pause before that splendid prodigy, which towered amongst us like some ancient ruin, whose frown terrified the glance its magnificence attracted. G-rand, gloomy, and peculiar, he sat upon the throne, a sceptred hermit, wrapped in the solitude of his own original- ity. A mind bold, independent, and decisive — a will, despotic in its dictates, — an energy that distanced ex- pedition, and a conscience pliable to every touch of interest, marked the outline of this extraordinary character — the most extraordinary, perhaps, that, in the annals of the world, ever rose, or reigned, or fell. Flung into life in the midst of a Kevolution that quickened every energy of a people who acknowledged no superior, he commenced his course a stranger by birth, and a scholar by charity. With no friend but his sword, and no fortune but his talents, he rushed into the lists where rank and geniug had arrayed themselves ; and competition fled from him ag from the glance of destiny. He knew no motive but interest — he acknowledged no criterion but success — he worshipped no God but ambition ; and with an Eastern devotion he knelt at the altar of his idolatry. Subsidiary to tliis, there ■was no creed that he did not profess — there was no opinion that he did not promulgate. In the hope of a d^-nasty, he upheld the Crescent ; for the sake of a divorce, he bowed before the Cross ; the orphan of St Louis, he became the I 130' READINGS IN adopted child of the Eepublic; and, with a parricidal ingratitude, on the ruins both of the crown and the tribune, be reared the throne of his despotism. A professed Catholic, he imprisoned the Pope; a pretended patriot, he im- poverished the country ; and under the name of Brutus, he grasped without remorse, and wore without shame, the diadem of the Caesars I Cradled in the field he was to the last hour the darling of the army ; and whether in the camp or the cabinet, he never forsook a friend, or forgot a favour. Of all his soldiers, not one abandoned him, till affection was useless ; and their lirst stipulation was for the safety of their favourite. They knew well that, if he was lavish of them, he was prodigal of himself; and that if he exposed them to peril, he repaid them with plunder. For the soldier, he subsidized every people; to the people, he made even pride pay tribute. The victorious veteran glittered with his gains ; and the capital, gorgeous with the spoils of art, became the miniature me- tropolis of the universe. In this wonderful combination, his affectation of literature must not be omitted. The gaoler of the press, he affected the patronage of letters ; the proscriber of books, he encouraged philosophy ; the persecutor of authors, and the murderer of printers, he yet pretended to the patronage of learning. Such a medley of contradictions, and at the same time such an individual consistency, were never united in the same character. A royalist, a republican, and an emperor — a Mahometan, a Catholic, and a patron of the Synagogue — a traitor and a tyrant — a Christian and an Infidel — he was, through all his vicissitudes, the same stem, impatient, inflexible original — the same mysterious, incomprehensible self — the man with- out a model, and without a shadow. His fall, like his life, baffled all speculatio'ti. In short, his whole history was like a dream to the world ; and no man can tell how or why he was awakened from the reverie. Kings may learn from him that their safest study, aa well as their noblest, is the interest of the people ; the people are taught by him that there is no despotism, however stupendous, against which they have not a re- source ; and to those who would rise upon the niins of both, he is a living lesson, that, if ambition can raise them from the lowest station, it can also prostrate them from the highest. ANCIENT AND MODERN ELOQUENCE. 131 XXTTI.— ON BEING TAUNTED BY M«. WALPOLE.— Pitt. Sir — The atrocious crime of being a young man, which the honourable gentleman has, with such ppirit and decency, charged upon me, I shall neither attempt to palliate nor deny ; but content myself with wishing, that I may be one of those whose follies may cease with their youth, and not of those who continue ignorant in spite of age and experience. "Whether youth can be attributed to any man as a re- proach, I will not. Sir, assume the province of determining ; but surely, age may justly become contemptible, if the opportunities which it brings have passed away without improvement, and vice appear to prevail when the passions have subsided. The wretch who, after having seen the consequences of a thousand errors, continues still to blunder, and in whom age has only added obstinacy to stupidity, is surely the object either of abhorrence or contempt ; and deserves not that his grey head should secure him from in- Bults, Much more, Sir, is he to be abhorred, who, as he has advanced in age, has receded from virtue, and become more wicked with less temptation ; who prostitutes himself for money which he cannot enjoy, and spends the remains of his life in the ruin of his country. But youth, Sir, is not my only crime: I have been accused of acting a theatrical part. — A theatrical part may either imply some peculiarities of gesture, or a dissimula- tion of my real sentiments, and the adoption of the opinions and language of another man. In the first sense, Sir, the charge is too trifling to be confuted, and deserves to be mentioned only that it may be despised. I am at liberty, like every other man, to use my own language ; and though I may, perhaps, have some ambi- tion to please this gentleman, I shall not lay myself under any restraint, nor very solicitously copy his diction or his mien, however matured by age or modelled by experience. But if any man shall, by charging me with theatrical behaviour, imply that I utter any sentiments but my owti, I shall treat him as a calumniator and a villain ; nor shall any protection shelter him from the treatment which he deserves. I shall, on such an occasion, without scruple, trample upon all those forms with which wealth and dignity entrench them- selves, nor shall any thing, but age, restrain my resentment; age, which always brings with it one privilege — that of being insolent and supercilious without punishment. But with regard, Sir, to those whom I have offended, I 182 READINGS TS am of opinion that if I had acted a borrowed part, I should have avoided their censure : the heat which offended them is the ardour of con\'iction, and that zeal for the service of my country which neither hope nor fear shall influence jne to suppress. I will not sit unconcerned while my liberty is invaded, nor look in silence upon public robbery. — I will exert my endeavours, at whatever hazard, to repel the ag- gressor, and drag the thief to justice, whoever may protect him in his villany, and whoever may partake of his plunder. XXIV.— ON IBISH VALOUR AND LOYALTY. (BEPLY TO LORD LYNDHURST.)— Shkil. The Duke of Wellington is not, I am inclined to believe, a man of excitable temperament. His mind is of a cast too martial to be easily moved ; but, notwithstanding his habitual inflexibility, I cannot help thinking, that, when he heard his countrymen, (for we are his countrymen,) designated by a phrase as offensive as the abundant vo- cabulary of his eloquent confederate could supply — I cannot help thinking that he ought to have recollected the many I fields of fight in which we have been contributors to his ■^ renown. Yes, " the battles, sieges, fortunes," that he baa passed, ought to have brought back upon him — he ought to have remembered — that, from the earliest achievement in which he displayed that military genius which has placed him foremost in the annals of modem warfare, down to that last and surpassing combat which has made his name im- perishable — from Assaye to Waterloo — the Irish soldiers, with whom our armies are filled, were the inseparable auxiliaries to the glory with which his unparalleled successes have been crowned. Whose were the athletic arms that drove your bayonets at Vimiera through those phalanxes that never reeled in the shock of war before ? "What de&- perate valour climbed the steeps and filled the moats of Badajos ? All — all his victories should have rushed and crowded back upon his memory: — Vimiera, Badajos, Sala- manca, Albuera, Toulouse, and last of all the greatest! — Tell me, for you were there, — I appeal to the gallant soldier* before me, from whose opinions I differ, but who bears, I know, a generous heart in an intrepid breast ; tell me, for you must needs remember, — on that day, when the destinies of mankind were trembling in the balance — while death fell in showers upon them — when the artillery of France, * Sir n. Hardins*?. ANCIENT AND MODERN ELOQUENCE. 133 levelled with a precision of the most deadly science, played upon them — when her legions, incited by the voice, and inspired by the example of their mighty leader, rushed again and again to the onset — tell me, if, for an instant, when to hesitate for that instant was to be lost, the " aliens" blenched ? And when at length the moment for the last and decisive movement had arrived, and the valour which had so long been wisely checked was at length let loose — when with words familiar but immortal, the great captani exclaimed: " Up, lads, and at them!" — tell me, if Ireland, with less heroic valour than the natives of your own glorious Isle, precipitated herself upon the foe? The blood of England, of Scotland, and of Ireland, flowed in the same stream — on the same field. When the still morning dawned, their dead lay cold and stark together — in the same deep pit their bodies were deposited ; — the green corn of spring is now breaking from their commingled dust — the dew falls from heaven upon their union in the grave. Partakers in ©very peril — in the glory shall we not be permitted to parti- cipate ? and shall we be told as a requital, that we are estranged from the noble country for who?p salvation our life-blood was poured out ? XXV.— ON THE CONDITION OF INDIA.— Shekidait. Had a stranger, at this time, gone into the province of Oude, ignorant of what had happened since the death of Sujah Dowla — that man who, with a savage heart, had still great lines of character; and who, with all his ferocity in war, had yet, with a cultivating hand, preserA'ed to his countrj' the riches which it derived from benignant skies and a prolific soil ; — if this stranger, ignorant of all that had hap- pened in the short interval, and observing the wide and general devastation, and all the horrors of the scene — of plains unclothed and brown — of vegetables burned up and extinguished — of villages depopulated and in ruins — of temples unroofed and perishing — of reservoirs broken down and dry, he would naturally inquire. What war has thus laid waste the fertile fields of this once beautiful and opulent country ? — what civil dissensions have happened, thus to tear asunder and separate the happy societies that once possessed these villages ? — what disputed succession, what religious rage, has, with unholy violence, demolished those temples, and disturbed fervent, but unobtruding piety, in the exercise of its duties ? — what mercileBS enemy has thus 184 READIN08 IN spread the horrors of fire and sword ? — what severe visita- tion of Providence has dried up the fountain, and taken from the face of the earth every vestige of verdure ? — Or, rather, what monsters have stalked over the country, tainting and poisoning, with pestiferous breath, what the voracious appetite could not devour? To such questions, what must be the answer ? No wars have ravaged these lands, and depopulated these villages — no civil discords have been felt— no disputed succession — no religious rage, no merciless enemy — no affliction of Providence, which, while it scourged for the moment, cut off the sources of resuscitation — no voracious and poisoning monsters; — no! — all this has been accomplished by the friendship, generosity, and kindness of the English nation. They have embraced us with their protecting arms, and, lo! — those are the fruits of their alliance. What, then ! shall we be told, that, under such circumstances, the exasperated feelings of a whole people, thus goaded and spurred-on to clamour and resistance, were excited by the poor and feeble influence of the Begums ? When we hear the description of the fever — paroxysm — delirium, into which despair had thrown the natives, when, on the banks of the polluted Ganges, panting for death, they tore more widely open the lips of their gaping wounds to accelerate their dissolution; and, while their blood was issuing, presented their ghastly eyes to Heaven, — breathing their last and fervent prayer, that the dry earth might not be suffered to drink their blood, but that it might rise up to the throne of God, and rouse the eternal Providence to avenge the wrongs of theii country: — will it be said that this was brought about by the incantations of those Begums, in their secluded Zenana? or that they could inspire this enthusiasm and this despair, into the breasts of a people who felt no grievance, and had suffered no torture? What motive, then, could have such influence in their bosom ? What mo- tive! That, which Nature — the common parent — plants in the bosom of man ; and which, though it may be less active in the Indian than in the Englishman, is still congenial ■vrith, and makes part of, his being. That feeling, which tells him, that man was never made to be the property of man ; but that when, through pride and insolence of power, one human creature dares to tyrannize over another, it ia a power usurped, and resistance is a duty. That feeling, which tells him that all power ia delegated for the good, ANCIENT AND MODERN ELOQUENCE. 1^5 not for the injury, of the people ; and that, when it is con- verted from the original purpose, the compact is broken, and the right is to be resumed — That principle, which tells him, that resistance to power usurped is not merely a duty which he owes to himself and to his neighbour, but a duty which he owes to his God, in asserting and maintaining the rank which He gave him in the creation! — to that common God, who, where He gives the form of man, what- ever may be the complexion, gives also the feelings and the rights of man — That principle, which neither the rudeness of ignorance can stifle, nor the enervation of refinement extinguish — That principle, which makes it base for a man to suffer, when he ought to act — which, tending to presei-ve to the species the original designations of Providence, spurns at the arrogant distinctions of man, and vindicates the independent quality of his race! XXVI.— ON THE FUGITIVE SLAVE BILL.— Sdmnkb. With every attempt to administer the Slave Act, it con- stantly becomes more revolting, particularly in its influence on the agents it enlists. The spirit of the law passes into them, as the devils entered the swine. Clemency, grace, and justice, die in its presence. All this is observed by the world. Not a case occurs which does not harrow the souls of good men, and bring tears of sympathy to the eyes — also those other noble tears which " patriots shed o'er dying laws." It is a sorry fact, that the *' mercantile interest," in its unpardonable selfishness, twice in English history, frowned upon the endeavours to suppress the atrocity of Algerine slavery ; that it sought to baffle Wilberforce's great effort for the abolition of the African slave-trade ; and that, by a sordid compromise, at the formation of our constitution, it exempted the same detested heaven-defying traffic from American judgement. And now, representatives of this " interest," forgetful that commerce is the child of freedom, join in hunting the slave. But the great heart of the people recoils from this enactment. It palpitates for the fugitive, and rejoices in his escape. Sir, I am telling you facts. The literature of the age is all on his side. The songs, more potent than laws, are for him. The poets, with voices of melody, are for freedom. Who could sing for slavery? They who make the permanent opinion of the country, who mould our youth, whose words, dropped into the Boul^ are the germs of character, supplicate for the slave. 136 HEADINGS IN Sir, the sentiment is just. Every escape from slarery necessarily and instinctively awakens the regard of all who love freedom. The endeavour, though unsuccessful, reveals courage, manhood, character. No story is read ■vrith more interest than that of our own Lafayette, when, aided by a gallant South Carolinian, in defiance of the despotic ordinances of Austria, kindred to our Slave Act, he Btrove to escape from the bondage of Olmutz. Litera- ture pauses with exultation over the struggles of Cervantes, the great Spaniard, while a slave in Algiers, to regain the liberty for which he says, in his immortal work, " we ought to risk life itself, slavery being the greatest evil that can fall to the lot of man." Science, in all her manifold triumphs, throbs with pride and delight, that Arago, the astronomer and philosopher — devoted republican also — ^waa redeemed from barbarous slavery to become one of her greatest sons. Religion rejoices serenely, with joy un- speakable, in the final escape of Vincent de Paul. Exposed in thd public square of Tunis to the inspection of the traffickers in human flesh, this illustrious Frenchman was Bubjected to every vileness of treatment, — like a horse compelled to open his mouth, to show his teeth, to trot, to run, to exhibit his strength in lifting burthens, and then, like a horse, legally sold in market overt. Passing from master to master, after a protracted servitude, he achieved his freedom, and, regaining France, commenced that re- splendent career of charity by which he is placed among the great names of Christendom. Princes ^nd orators have lavished panegyrics upon this fugitive slave; and the Catholic Church, in homage to his extraordinary virtues, has introduced him into the company of saints. Less by genius or eminent services, than by sufferings, are the fugitive slaves of our country now commended. For them every sentiment of humanity is aroused : rude and ignorant they may be ; but in their very efforts for freedom, they claim kindred with all that is noble in the past They are among the heroes of our age. Eomance has no stories of more thrilling interest than theirs. Classical antiquity has preserved no examples of adventurous trial more worthy of renown. Among them axe men vrhose names will be treasured in the annals of their race. By the elo- quent voice they have already done much to make their wrongs known, and to secure the respect of the world. History will soon loud them her avenging pyn. Proscribed ANCIENT AND MODERN ELOQUENCE. 137 by you during life, they will proscribe you through all time. Sir, already judgement is beginning. A righteous public sentiment palsies your enactment. XXVII.— ON THE INFLUENCE OF GKEAT ACTIONS.— Wkbsteb. Great actions and striking occurrences, having excited a temporary admiration, often pass away and are forgotten, because they leave no lasting results, affecting the welfare of communities. Such is frequently the fortune of the most brilliant military achievements. Of the ten thousand battles which have been fought ; of all the fields fertilized with carnage ; of the banners which have been bathed in blood ; of the warriors who have hoped that they had risen from the field of conquest to a glory as bright and as durable as the stars, how few continue long to interest man- kind 1 The victory of yesterday is reversed by the defeat of to-day ; the star of military glory, rising like a meteor, like a meteor has fallen ; disgrace and disaster hang on the heels of conquest and renown ; victor and vanquished presently pass away to oblivion, and the world holds on its course, with the loss only of so many lives and so much treasure. But there are enterprises, military as well as civil, that sometimes check the current of events ; that give a new turn to human affairs, and transmit their consequences through ages. We see their importance in their results, and call them great, because great things follow. There have been battles which have fixed the fate of nations. These come down to us in history with a solid and permanent influence, not created by a display of glittering armour, the rush of adverse battalions, the sinking and rising of pennons, the flight, the pursuit, and the victory ; but by their effect in advancing or retarding human knowledge, in overthrow- ing or establishing despotism, in extending or destroying human happiness. "When the traveller pauses on the plains of Marathon, what are the emotions which strongly agitate his breast ? what is that glorious recollection that thrills through his frame, and sufl'uses his eyes ? Not, I imagine, that Grecian skill and Grecian valour were here most signally displayed; but that Greece herself was saved. It is because to this spot, and to the event which has rendered it im- mortal, he refers all the succeeding glories of the republic. It is because, if that day had gone otherwise, Greece had perished. It is because he perceives that her philosophers 138 READINGS IN and orators, her poets and painters, her sculptors and architects, her government and free institutions, point back- ward to Miirntbon, and that their future existence seems to have been suspended on the contingency, whether the Persian or Grecian banner should wave victorious in the beams of that day's setting sun. And as his imagination kindles at the retrospect, he is transported back to the interesting moment; he counts the fearful odds of the contending hosts; his interest for the result overwhelms him ; he trembles as if it were still uncertain, and seems to doubt whether he may consider Socrates and Plato, Demosthenes, Sophocles, and Phidias, as secure yet, to himself and to the world. XXVIII.— ON TRUE ELOQUENCE.— LoTELL. "When public bodies are to be addressed on momentous occasions ; when great interests are at stake, and strong passions excited; nothing is valuable, in speech, farther than it is connected with high intellectual and moral endow- ments. Clearness, force, and earnestness, are the qualities which produce conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It cannot be brought from afar. Labour and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. Words and plirases may be marshalled in every way, but they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it — they cannot reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force. The graces taught in the schools, the costly orna- ments, and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children, and their country, hang on the decision of the hour. Then, words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities. Then patriotism is eloquent; then, self- devotion is eloquent. The clear conception, outrunning the deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward to his object — this, this is eloquence; or rather, it is something greater and higher than all elo- quence, — it is action, noble, sublime, godlike action. 139 MISCELLANEOUS READEVGS IN POETRY. [Ifany of tlie Poetical Extracts throup^hout the Book are printed PR08AICALLT, as a mode of obviating the t-oo rliythinical delivery which is often associated with metrically printed links; and as an assintance to the habitual use of pauses and tones in strict accordance with the 8KNSK.] I.— ON THE BEING OF A GOD.— Db. Youno. Eetire ; — the world shut out; — thy thoughts call home! Imagination's airy wing repress ; lock up thy senses — let no passion stir — wake all to Keason, let her reign alone: then, in thy soul's deep silence, and the depth of Nature's silence, midnight, thus inquire, as I have done, — and shall inquire no more. In Nature's channel, thus the questions run. What am I ? and from whence ? — I nothing know, but that I am ; and, since I am, conclude something eternal. Kad there e'er been nought, nought still had been : eternal there must be. But what, eternal ? — Why not human race, and Adam's ancestors without an end ? — That's hard to be conceived ; since every link of that long-chained succession is so frail. Can every part depend, and not the whole ? Yet, grant it tnie, new difficulties rise: I'm still quite out at sea, nor see the shore. Whence earth, and these bright orbs ? — eternal too ? — Grant, matter was eternal ; still these orbs would want some other father. Much design is seen in all theii motions, all their makes. Design implies in- telligence and art, that can't be from themselves — or man: — that art man scarce can comprehend, could man bestow ? And nothing greater, yet allowed, than man. Who, motion, foreign to the smallest grain, shot through vast masses of enormous weight ? Who bade brute matter's restive lump assume such various forms, aod gave it wings to fly ? Has matter innate motion ? then, each atom, asserting its in- disputable right to dance, would form a universe of dust. Has matter none ? then, whence these glorious forms and boundless flights, from shapelesfl and reposed ? Has mattet 140 MISCELLANEOUS READINGS more than motion? Has it thought, judgement, and genius? Is it deeply learn'd in mathematics ? Has it framed such laws, which, but to guess, a Newton made immortal ? — If so, how each sage atom laughs at me, who think a clod inferior to a man ! If art, to form, — and counsel, to con- duct, — and that with greater far than human skill, — resides not in each block ; a Godhead reigns. And, if a God there is, that God how great! II.— THE MESSIAH.— PoPB, Ye nymphs of Solyma, begin the song: To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades, The dreams of Pindus and the Aonian maidsi. Delight no more — Thou my voice inspire, "Who touch'd Isaiah's hallowed lips with firel Kapt into future times, the Bard begun : — A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a sonl From Jesse's root behold a branch arise, Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skieg; The ethereal Spirit o'er its leaves shall move. And on its top descends the mystic Dove. Ye heavens! from high the dewy nectar pour, And in soft silence shed the kindly shower! The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid, From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade. All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail j Returning Justice lift aloft her scale ; ■ Peace o'er the world her olive-wand extend, And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend. Swift fly the years, and rise the expected mora! Oh, spring to light; auspicious Babe, be born! See, Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, With all the incense of the breathing spring : See lofty Lebanon his head advance. See nodding forests on the mountains dance ; See Bpicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise, And Carmel's flowery top perfume the skios! Hark! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers: " Prepare the way! a God — a God appears!" " A God — a God!" the vocal hills reply, The rocks proclaim the approaching Deity. 141 Lo, earth receives liim from the bending skies 1 Sink doAvn, ye mountains! and, ye valleys, rise! With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay ; Be smooth, ye rocks! ye rapid floods, give way! The Saviour comes! by ancient bards foretold: Hear him, ye deaf! and, all ye blind, behold! He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, And on the sightless eye-ball pour the day: 'Tis he the obstructed paths of sound shall clear, And bid new music charm the unfolding ear: The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, And leap exulting, like the bounding roe. No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear ; From every face he wipes off every tear: In adamantine chains shall Death be bound. And hell's grim tyrant feel the eternal wound. As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air, Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs, By day o'ersees them, and by night protects ; The tender lambs he raises in his arms, Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms ; Thus shall mankind His guardian care engage, The promised Father of the future age. No more shall nation against nation rise, Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes ; Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er, The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more ; But useless lances into scythes shall bend, And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end. Then palaces shall rise ; the joyful son Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun ; Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield. And the same hand that sow'd, shall reap the field: The swain in barren deserts with surprise See lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise ; And start, amidst the thirsty wilds, to hear New falls of water murmuring in his ear. On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes, The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods. Waste sandy valleys, once perplex'd with thorn. The spiry fir and stately box adorn ; 142 MISCELLANEOUS READINGS To leafless shrubs the flowering palms succeed, And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead. And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead. The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet. The smiling infant in his hand shall take The crested basilisk and speckled snake ; Pleased, the green lustre of their scales survey, And with their forky tongue shall innocently play. Eise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise! Exalt thy towery head, and lift thine eyes! See a long race thy spacious courts adorn ; See future sons, and daughters yet unborn, In crowding ranks on every side arise. Demanding life, impatient for the skies! See barbarous nations at thy gates attend, Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend ; See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings, And heap'd with products of Sabsan springs! For thee Idume's spicy forests blow. And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. See heaven its sparkling portals wide display, And break upon thee in a flood of day. No more the rising sun shall gild the mom. Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays. One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze, O'erflow thy courts; the Light Himself shall shine Keveai'd, and God's eternal day be thine! The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, Eocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away ; But fix'd His word. His saving power remains; — Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns! IIT.— THANAT0PSI8,— A VIEW OF DEATH.— Bbtant. To him who, in the love of Nature, holds communion with her visible forms, she speaks a various language: for 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 and gentle sympathy, that steals away their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts of nSI POETBY. 143 the last bitter liour come like a blight over thy spirit ; and Bad images of the stern 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, — earth, and her waters, and the depths of air, — comes a Btill 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, 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, thou shalt go to mix for ever 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 ahall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. " Yet not to thine 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 ; — fair forms — and hoary seers of ages past ; — all in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun ; the vales, stretching in pensive quietness be- tween ; the venerable woods ; rivers, that move in majesty ; and the complaining brooks, that make the meadows green; and, poured round all, old ocean's grey 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, 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 bosom. Take the wings of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce ; 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 soKtudes, since first the flight of years began, have laid them down 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 when thou art gone ; the solemn brood of care plod on ; and each one, aa before, will chase his favourite phantom: 144 MISCELLANEOUS READINGS yet all these shall leave their mirth and their employments, and shall come and make their bed with thee. As the long train of ages glides 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 life cut off, — 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 caravans that move to the pale realms of Shade, where each shall take his chamber in the silent halls of Death, — thou go, not like the quarrj'-slave at night, scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed by an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave like one who wi-aps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to pleasant dreame." IV.— HUMAN LIFE.— RoGEKs, The lark has sung bib carol in the sky. The bees have hummed their noontide lullaby: Still, in the vale, the village bells ring round. Still, in Llewellyn-hall, the jests resound: For, now, the caudle-cup is circling there ; Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer And, crowding, stop the cradle, to admire The babe, — the sleeping image of his sire ! A few short years, and then these sounds shall hail The day again, and gladness fill the vale ; So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, Eager to run the race his fathers ran: Then, the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin ; The ale (now brewed) in floods of amber shine ; And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze, 'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days. The Nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, " 'Twas on these knees he sat so oft and smiled!"* And soon, again, shall music swell tlie breeze: Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung. And violets scattered round ; and old and j'oung, In every cottage porch, with garlands, green, Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene; "While, her dark eyes declining, by his side Moves, in her virgin veil, the gentle bride. IN POETRY. 145 And once, alas! nor in a distant hour, Another voice shall come from yonder tower ; When, in dim chambers, long black weeds are seen, And weepings heard, where only joy hath been ; When, by his children borne, and from his door Slowly departing to return no more, He rests in holy earth, with them who went before. And such is Human Life! So gliding on, It glimmers, like a meteor — and is gone! v.— ON PROCRASTINATION.— YouNO. Be wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer: next day, the fatal precedent will plead ; thus on, — till Wisdom is pushed out of life. Procrastination is the thief of Time. Year after year it steals, till all are fled ; and, to the mercies oi a moment, leaves the vast concerns of an eternal scene. Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears the palm, — That all men are about to live: for ever on the brink of being born. All pay themselves the compliment to think, they, one day, shall not drivel ; and their pride on tliia reversion takes up ready praise ; at least their own : theii future selves applaud, how excellent that life — they ne'er will lead 1 Time lodged in their own hands is Folly's vails ; that lodged in Fate's, to Wisdom they consign: the thing they can't but purpose, they postpone. 'Tis not in Folly not to scorn a fool, and scarce in human Wisdom to do more. All promise is — poor dilatory man, and that through every stage. When young, indeed, in full content we Bometimes nobly rest, unanxious for ourselves ; and only wish, as duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. At thirty, man suspects himself a fool ; knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; at fifty, chides his infamous delay -, pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; in all the magnanimity of thought, resolves, and re-resolves, then — dies the same! And why ? Because he thinks himself immortal. All men think all men mortal, but themselves ; themselves, •when some alarming shock of fate strikes through their ■wounded hearts the sudden dread : but, their hearts wounded, — like the wounded air, — soon close: where passed the shaft, no trace is found. As from the wing no scar the eky retains, the parted wave no furrow from the keel ; so dies in human hearts the thought of death. Even with the tender tear, which Nature sheds o'er those we love, we droj) it — in their gravel E 146 MISCELLAMEOOH HEADINGS VI.— TO-MOREOW.— Cotton. To-morrow, didst thou eay ? Methought 1 heard Horatio say, To-morrow. Go to — I will not hear of it — To-morrow! Tis a sharper, who stakes his penury Against thy plenty ; who takes thy ready cash, And pays thee nought, but wishes, hopes, and promises,— The currency of idiots: injurious bankrupt, That gulls the easy creditor! — To-morrow! It is a period no-where to be found In all the hoary registers of Time, Unless, perchance, in the fool's calendar! Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society "With those who own it. No, my Horatio, 'Tis Fancy's child, and folly is its father ; Wrought of such stuif as dreams are, and baseless As the fantastic visions of the evening. But soft, my friend — arrest the present moments ; For, be assured, they all are arrant tell-tales: And, though their flight be silent, and their path Trackless as the winged couriers of the air, They post to heaven, and there record thy folly ; — Because, though stationed on the important watch, Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel. Didst let them pass, unnoticed, unimproved. And know, for that thou slumberedst on the guard, Thou shalt be made to answer, at the bar. For every fugitive ; and when thou thus Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal Of hood-winked Justice, who shall tell thy audit ? Then, stay the present instant, dear Horatio! Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings ; 'Tis of more worth than kingdoms ! far more precious Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain! — ! let it not elude thy grasp ; but, like The good old patriarch upon record. Hold the fleet angel fast, until he bless theel VI.— ADDRESS TO INDEPENDENCE.— Smollbtt. Thy spirit. Independence, let me share : lord of the lion heart and eagle eye ! thy steps I foUow with my bosom bare, nor heed the sturin that howls along the sky. Thou, guardian yenius, thou didst teach my youth pomp and her IN POETKY. 147 tinsel livery to despise : my lips, by thee chastised to early truth, ne'er paid that homage which the heart denies. Those sculptured halls my feet shall never tread, where varnished Vice and Vanity, combined to dazzle and seduce, their banners spread, and forge vile shackles for the free- born mind: where Insolence his wrinkled front uprears, and all the flowers of spurious fancy blow ; and Title his ill-woven chaplet wears — full often wreathed around the miscreant's brow: where ever-dimpling Falsehood, pert and vain, presents her cup of stale profession's froth ; and pale Disease, with all his bloated train, torments the sons of gluttony and sloth. In Fortune's car behold the minion ride, with either India's glittering spoils oppressed: so moves the sumpter-mule, in harnessed pride, that bears the treasure which he cannot taste. For him let venal bards disgrace the bay, and hireling minstrels wake the tinkling string ; her sensual snares let faithless Pleasure lay, and all her jingling bells fantastic Folly ring ; — disquiet, doubt, and dread shall intervene ; and Nature, still to all her feelings just, in vengeance hang a damp on every scene, ehook from the baneful pinions of Disgust. Nature I'll court in her sequestered haunts, by mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or cell ; where the poised lark his evening ditty chants, and Health, and Peace, and Con- templation dwell. There Study shall with Solitude recline, and Friendship pledge me to his fellow-swains ; and Toil and Temperance sedately twine the slender cord that flut- tering life sustains ; and fearless Poverty shall guard the door ; and Taste unspoiled the frugal table spread ; and Industry supply the humble store ; and Sleep, unbribed, his dews refreshing shed: white-mantled Innocence, ethereal sprite, shall chase far ofi' the goblins of the night ; and Independence o'er the day preside :-'-vropitious power! my patron and my pride. VIII.— ON SLAVERY.— CowPKR. Oh ! for a lodge in some vast wilderness. Some boundless contiguity of shade. Where rumour of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war, Might never rea<3h me morel My ear is pained, My soul is sick, with every day's report Of wrong and outrage, with which earth is filled. 148 MIRCELLANF.nUS READINGS There is no flesh in man's ohdurate heart: It does not feel for man. That natural bond Of brotherhood is severed, as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty — of a skin Not coloured like his own ; and, having power To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause, 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 mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; And, worse than all, and most to be deplored, As human nature's jjroadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat "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 ? 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 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 That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. Slaves cannot breathe in England ; if their lungr Eeceive our air, that moment they are free ; They touch our country, and their shackles falll That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 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. IN POETRY. 2.|Q IX.— THE BRIDGE OF SIGIIR.— Hood. Oue more unfortunate, weary of breatli, raslily importun- ate, gone to her death! Take her up tenderly — lift her with care: fashioned so slenderly, young, and so fair! Look at her garments, clinging like cerements ; whilst the wave constantly drips from her clothing. Take her up in- stantly, loving, not loathing. Touch her not scornfully, think of her mournfully, gently and humanly; not of the stains of her: — all that remains of her now is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny into her mutiny, rash and undutiful: past all dishonour, Death has left on her only the beautiful. Still, — for all slips of hers, one of Eve's family, — wipe those poor lips of hers, oozing so clammily. Loop up her tresses escaped from the comb — her fair auburn tresses! — whilst wonderment guesses, "Where was her home ? who was her father ? who was her mother ? had she a sister ? had she a brother ? or was there a dearer one still, and a nearer one yet than all other? Alas! for the rarity of Christian charity under the sun! Oh! it was pitiful ! near a whole city full, home she had none. Sisterly, brotherly, fatherly, motherly feelings had changed: love, by harsh evidence, thrown from its eminence: even God's providence seeming estranged! Where the lamps quiver so far in the river, with many a light from window and casement, from garret to base- ment, she stood with amazement, houseless by night. The bleak wind of March made her tremble and shiver; but not the dark arch, or the black-flowing river: mad from life's history, glad to death's mysteiy ; swift to be hurled any where, any where, out of the world! In she plunged boldly, no matter how coldly the rough river ran : — over the brink of it, picture it, think of it, dissolute Man ! lave in it, drink of it, then, if you can! Take her up tenderly, lift her with care: fashioned so slenderly, young, and so fair! Ere her limbs frigidly stiffen too rigidly, decently, kindly, smooth and compose them ; and her eyes — close them, staring so blindly! Dreadfully staring, through muddy impurity ; as when, with the darino- last look of despairing, fixed on futurity. Perishing gloomily; spurred by contumely, cold inhumanity, burning insanity, into her rest. — Cross her hands humbly, as if praying dumbly, over her breast ; owning her weakness, he-- evil behaviour — and leaving, with meekness, her sins to her Saviour 1 150 MISCELLANEOUS READIXr.S X.— DAVID AND ABSALOM.— Willis. The pall was settled. He who slept beneath "Was straightened for the grave; and, as the foldfl Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed The matchless symmetry of Absalom. His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls "Were floating round the tassels as they swayed To the admitted air ; as glossy now As when, in hours of gpritle dalliance, bathing The snowy fingers of Judea's girls. His helm was at his feet; his banner, soiled "With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid Eeversed beside him: and the jewel'd hilt, "Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, Eested, like mockery, on his covered brow. The soldiers of the king trod to and fro. Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief. The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, As if be feared the slumberer might stir. — A slow step startled him! He grasped his blade As if a trumpet rang ; but the bent form Of David entered, — and he gave command, In a low tone, to his few followers, "Who left him with his dead. The king stood still Till the last echo died: then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child, He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe: "Alas! my noble boy, that thou shouldst die! Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye. And leave his stillness in this clustering hairl How could he mark thee for the silent tomb. My proud boy, Absalom! " Cold is thy brow, my son ; and I am chill. As to my bosom I have tried to press thee. How was 1 wont to feel my pulses thrill, — Like a rich haqistring, — yearning to caress thee ; And hear thy sweet " my father" •'"rom these dumb And cold lips, Absalom I IN rOETRY. 151 " Tbe grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young ; And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ; But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom! "And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as 1 depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom I "And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death, so like a gentle slumber, on thee : Aijd thy dark sin! — Oh! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom!" He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child : then, giving hiiu A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hand convulsively, as if in prayer; And, as if strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall Pirmly and decently — and left him there — As if liis rest had been a breathing sleep. XL— SPBIKG RAIN.— Anonymous. All day, the low-hung clouds have dropt their garnered fulness down ; all day, that soft, grey mist hath wrapt hill, valley, grove, and town. There has not been a sound to-day to break the cairn of nature ; nor motion, I might almost say, of life, or living creature; of waving bough, or warbling bird, or cattle faintly lowing: I could have half believed I heard the leaves and blossoms growing. I Btood to hear — I love it well — the rain's continuous sound ; email drops, but thick and fast they fell, do^vn straight upon the ground ; for leafy thickness is not yet, Earth's naked breast to screen, though every dripping branch is set with shoots of tender green. Sure, since I look'd, at early morn, thcbe honeysuckle buds have swelled to double growth ; 1 52 TIISCELLANEOnS READINGS that thorn hath put forth larger studs ; that lilac's cleav- ing cones have burst, the milk-white flowers revealing; 'even now upon my senses first, methinks their sweets are stealing. The very earth, the steamy air, are all with fragrance rife ; and grace and beauty every where are bursting into life. Down, down they come, those fruitful stores, those earth-rejoicing drops: a momentary deluge pours, then thins, decreases, stops ; and ere the dimples on the stream have circled out of sight, lo ! from the west, a parting gleam breaks forth of amber light. XII.— ON MAN.— Pope. Let us (since life can little more supply Than just to look about us, and to die) Expatiate free o'er all this scene of Man: A mighty maze! but not without a plan ; A wild, where weeds and flowers promiscuous shoot ; Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit. Together let us beat this ample field. Try what the open, what the covert yield ; The latent tracts, the giddy heights explore, Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar ; Eye Nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies. And catch the manners living as they rise ; Laugh where we must, be candid where we can ; But vindicate the ways of God to Man. Say, first, of God above, or Man below, What can we reason, but from what we know ? Of Man, what see we, but his station here, From which to reason, or to which refer ? Through worlds unnumbered though the God be known, 'Tis ours to trace Him only in our own. He, who through vast immensity can pierce, See worlds on worlds compose one universe, Observe how system into system runs, What other planets circle other suns ; What varied being peoples every star, — May tell why Heaven has made us as we are. But of this frame, the bearings and the ties. The strong connexions, nice dependencies, Gradations just, — has thy pervading soul Looked through ? or, can a part contain the whole ? Is the great chain that draws all to agree. And, drawn, supports, upheld by God. or thee 9 IN rOETRY. 153 Presumptuous Man! the reason wouldst tliou find "Why formed so weak, so little, and so blind ? First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess, Why formed no weaker, blinder, and no less. Ask of thy mother Earth, why oaks are made Taller and stronger than the weeds they shade ? Or ask of yonder argent fields above, Why Jove's satellites are less than Jove ? Of systems possible, if 'tis confessed That wisdom infinite must form the best ; Where all must fall, or not coherent be, And all that rises, rise in due degree ; Then, in the scale of reasoning life, 'tis plain There must be, somewhere, such a rank as man: And all the question (wi-angle e'er so long) Is only this — If God has placed him wrong ? Eespecting Man, whatever wrong we call. May — must, be right, as relative to all. In human works, though laboured-on with pain, A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain: In God's, one single can its end produce. Yet serves to second too some other use. So Man, who here seems principal alone, Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown, Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal: 'Tis but a part we see, and not the whole. When the proud steed shall know why Man restrains His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains ; When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod, Is now a victim, and now Egj^pt's god ; Then shall Man's pride and dulness comprehend His actions', passions', being's use and end ; Why doing, sufiering ; checked, impelled ; and why This hour a slave, the next a deity. Then say not Man's imperfect, Heaven in fault ; Say rather, Man's as perfect as he ought ; His knowledge measured to his state and place ; His time a moment, and a point his space. XIII.— THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.— Pope. Vital spark of heavenly flame, quit, oh, quit this mortal frame! — trembling, hoping, — lingering, flying; oh, the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond nature! cease thy strife and let me languish into life! Hark, they whisper! 154 MISCELLANEOUS READINGS Angels say, "Sister spirit, come away!" What is this absorbs me quite, steals my senses, shuts my sight, drowns my spirit, draws my breath ? Tell me, my soul — can this be death? The world recedes! — it disappears! — heaven opens on my eyes! — my ears with sounds seraphic ring! Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! Grave! where is thy victory ? Death ! where is thy sting ? XIV.— THE SKYLARK.— James Hooa. Bird of the wilderness, blithesome and cumberless, sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea: emblem of happiness, blest is thy dwelling-place — oh to abide in the desert with thee ! Wild is thy lay, and loud, far in the downy cloud ; love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where, on the dewy wing, — where art thou journeying ? thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen, o'er muir and mountain green, o'er the red streamer that heralds the day, over the cloudlet dim, over the rainbow's rim, musical cherub, soar, singing away! Then, when the gloaming comes, low in the heather blooms, sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! Emblem of happiness, blest is thy dwelling-place — oh to abide in the deisert with thee ! ^V.— THE THREE SONS.— MocLxniK. I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould ; They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart, beyond his childish years. I cannot say how this may be: T know his face is fair, And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air. I know his heart is kind and fond ; I know he loveth me, But loveth yet his mother more, with grateful fervency: But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills his mind : The food tor grave inquiring spoech,he everywhere doth find. Strange questions doth he ask of mo, when we together walk; He scarcely thinks as children think,or talks as children talk. Nor cares he murh fur childishspqrts, dotes not on bat or ball, liutlooks on manhood's vva.\s and works, aud aptly mimics alL IX roETUY. 155 His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next. He kneels at his dear mother's knee ; she teacheth him to pray, And strange, and sweet, and solemn then, are the words which he will say. Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be ; And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now. I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be. How silver sweet those tones of his, when he prattles on my knee: I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brother's, keen, Nor his brow so full of childish thought, as his hath ever been; But his little heart 's a fountain pure, of kind and tender feeling, And his every look 's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing. When he walks with me, the country folk who pass us in the street, Will speak their joy, and bless my boy — he looks so mild and sweet. A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone. Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone. His presence is like sunshine, sent to gladden home and hearth, To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove As sweet a home for heavenly grace, as now for earthly love : And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him. I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot tell. For they reckon not by years and months, where he is gone to dwell. To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given, And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven. 156 MISCELLANEOUS READINQS I cannot tell what form his is, what looks he weareth now, Nor guess howLright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow. The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth^fecl, Are number'd with the secret things which God will not reveal. But I know (for Grod hath told me this) that he is now at rest, Where other blessed infants are — on their Saviour's loving breast. I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh, But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh. I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings, And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's divinest things. "We trust that we shall meet our babe, (his mother dear and I,) Where Grod for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Whate'er befals his brethren twain, his bliss can ne^^er cease ; Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. When we think of what our darling is, and what we gtill must be ; When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and thia world's misery ; When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain ; Oh ! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again. XVI.— THE MOTHER AND HER DEAD CHILD.— Moib. With ceaseless sorrow, uncontrolled, the mother mourned her lot ; she wept, and would not be consoled, because her child was not. She gazed upon its nursery floor — but there it did not play ; the toys it loved, the clothes it wore, all void and vacant lay. Her house, her heart, were dark and drear, without their wonted light ; the little star had left its sphere, that there had shone so bright. Her tears, at each returning thought, fell like the frequent rain ; Time on its wings no healing brought, and Wisdom spoke in vain. Even in the middle hour of night she sought no soft relief ; but, by the taper's misty light, sat nourishing her grief. 'Twas then a sight of solemn awe rose near her like a cloud: — the image of her child she saw, -wi-apped in its little shroud ! It sat within its favourite chair ; it sat, and seemed to sigh ; and turned upon its mother there a meek, imploring eye. " child ! what brings that breathless IN rOETRY. 157 form back from its place of rest ? for, well I know, no life can warm again that livid breast. The grave is now your bed, my child ; go, slumber there in peace !" — " I cannot go," it answered mild, " until your sorrow cease. I've tried to rest in that dark bed, but rest I cannot get ; for always, with the tears you shed, my winding-sheet is wet. The drops, dear mother! trickle still into my coffin deep: it feels so comfortless, so chill, I cannot go to sleep!" "0 child! those words— that touching look, my fortitude restore : I feel and own the blest rebuke, and weep thy loss no more." She spoke, and dried her tears the while ; and, as her passion fell, the vision wore an angel smile, and looked a fond farewell ! XVII.— DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.— Shirley. The glories of our birth and state, are shadows, not substantial things : there is no armour against fate : Death lays his icy hands on kings ; — sceptre and crown must tumble down, and in the dust be equal made with the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, and plant fresh laurels where they kill; but their strong nerves at last must yield: they tame but one another still : early or late, they stoop to Fate ; and must give up their murmuring breath, when they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow, then boast no more your mighty deeds ; upon Death's purple altar, now, see where the victor victim bleeds. All heads must come to the cold tomb ; only the actions of the just emell sweet and blossom in the dust. XVIIL— RETEEAT OF THE FRENCH ARMY FROM MOSCOW.— Dk. CiiOLT. Magnificence of ruin ! What has time, In all it ever gazed upon, — of war, Of the wild rage of storm, or deadly clime, Seen, with that battle's vengeance to compare ? How glorious shone the /nvaders' pomp afar! Like pampered lions from the spoil they came ; The land before them, silence and despair, The land behind them, massacre and tlame: Blood will have tenfold blood: — What are they now? A name. Homeward by hundred thousands, — column deep, Broad squaje, loose squadron, — rolling like the flood 158 MISCELLANEOUS READINGS When mighty torrents from their channels leap, Eushed through the land the haughty multitude, Billow on endless billow: on, through wood, O'er rugged hill, down sunless marshy vale. The death-devoted moved ; to clangour rude Of drum, and horn, and dissonant clash of mail, Glancing disastrous light before that sunbeam pale. Again they reached thee, Borodino! Still Upon the loaded soil the carnage lay ; The human harvest, now stark, stiff, and chill — Friend, foe, stretched thick together, clay to clay I In vain the startled legions burst away ; The land was all one naked sepulchre: The shrinking eye still glanced on grim decay — Still did the hoof and wheel their passage tear, Thro' cloven helms, and arms, and corpses mouldering drear The field was as they left it: fosse and fort Streaming with slaughter still, but desolate ; The cannon flung dismantled by its port: Each knew the mound, the black ravine, whose strait Was won, and lost, and thronged with dead ; till Fate Had fixed upon the victor, half undone. There was the hill, from which their eyes elate Had seen the burst of Moscow's golden zone ; — But Death was at their heels ! — they shuddered and rushed oa- The hour of vengeance strikes! Hark to the gale, As it bursts hollow through the rolling clouds, That from the north in sullen grandeur sail, Like floating Alps! Advancing darkness broods Upon the wild horizon ; and the woods. Now sinking into brambles, echo shrill. As the gust sweeps them ; and those upper floods Shoot on the leafless boughs the sleet-drops chill, That, on the hurrying crowds, in freezing showers distil. They reach the wilderness! The majesty Of solitude is spread before their gaze — Stem nakedness, dark earth, and wrathful sky! If ruins were there, they had ceased to blaze ; If blood were shed, the ground no more betraya, E'en by a skeleton, the crime of man: Behind them, rollfl the deep, ajid drenching haze, IX rOETBY. 159 "Wrapping their rear in night ; before their van, The struggling daylight shows the unmeasured desert wan Still on they sweep, as if the hurrying march Could bear them from the rushing of His wheel. Whose chariot is the whirlwind. Heaven's clear arch At once is covered with a livid veil ; In mixed and fighting heaps the deep clouds reel: Upon the dense horizon hangs the sun In sanguine light, an orb of burning steel ; The snows wheel down through twilight thick and dun : Now tremble, men of blood! — the Judgement has begun! The trumpet of the northern winds has blown^ And it is answered by the dying roar Of armies, on that boundless field o'erthrown: Now, in the awful gusts, the desert hoar Is tempested — a sea, without a shore. Lifting its feathery waves. The legions fly! Volley on volley down the hailstones pour! Blind, famished, frozen, mad, the wanderers die, And, dying, hear the storm more wildly thunder by. Such is the hand of Heaven! — A human blow Had crushed them in the fight, or flung the chain Eound them, where Moscow's stately towers were low, And all be stilled. Napoleon ! thy war plain Was a whole empire: thy devoted train Must war, from day to day, with storm and gloom, (Man following, like the wolves, to rend the slain ;) Must lie, from night to night, as in a tomb ; Must fly, toil, bleed for home — yet never see that home! XIX.— ODE TO ADVERSITY.— Gbat. Daughter of Jove! relentless Power, thou tamer of the human breast ; whose iron scourge and torturing hour the bad aflfright, aflaict the best! Bound in thy adamantine chain, the proud are taught to taste of pain ; and purple tyrants vainly groan with pangs unfelt before, — unpitied, and alone. When first thy sire to send on earth Virtue, — his darling child — designed, to thee he gave the heavenly birth, and bade thee form her infant mind. Stern, rugged nurse! thy rigid lore with patience many a year she bore: what sorrow was thou bad'st her know, and from her own^ 160 MISCELLANEOUS HEADIlJOn she learned to melt at others' woe. Scared at thy frown terrific, fly self-pleasing Foll/s idle brood, — wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, — and leave us leisure to be good. Light they disperse ; and with them go the summer friend, the flattering foe ; by vain Prosperity received, to her they vow their truth, and are again believed. Wisdom, in sable garb arrayed, immersed in rapturous thought pro- found ; and Melancholy, silent maid, with leaden eye that loves the ground; otill on thy solemn steps attend: — warm Charity, the general friend ; with Justice, to herself severe; and Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear. Oh, gently, on tUy rappliant's head, dread Goddess, lay thy chastening hand! not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, not circled with the veugeful band (as by the impious thou art Been) with thundoring voice and threatening mien ; with screaming Horror's timeral crj'. Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly PoTWt}! Thy form benign, oh Goddess, wear! thy milder influence impart! thy philosophic train be there, to soften, not to wound my heart. The generous spark, extinct, revive ; teach me to love, and to forgive ; exact my own defeclH to scan ; what others are, to feel ; wid know myself — a man ! XX.— INSTABILITY OF FRIENDSHIP.— Thomas Mooeb. Alas ! how light a cause may move dissension between hearts ihat love! Hearts, that the world in vain had tried, and sorrow but more closely tied; that stood the storm when waves were rough, yet in a sunny hour fall off: — like ships that have gone doAvn at sea, when heaven is all tranquillity! A something light as air — a look — a word unkind, or wrongly taken — oh! love, that tempests never shook, a breath, a touch like this, hath shaken. And ruder words will soon rush in, to spread the breach that words begin ; and eyes forget the gentle ray they wore in court- ship's smiling day ; and voices lose the tone that shed a tenderness round all they said ; till, fast declining, one by one, the sweetnesses of love are gone ; and hearts, so lately mingled, seem like broken clouds — or like the stream that smiling left the mountain's brow, as though its waters ne'er could sever ; yet, ere it reach the plain below, breaks into floods, that pai-t for ever I IN POETRY. 161 XXI.— ODE IN IMITATION OF ALCCEUS.—Sm W. Jokm. What constitutes a state ? Not high-raised battlement, or laboured mound. Thick wall, or moated gate ; Not cities proud, with spires and turrets crowned; Not bays, and broad-armed ports, "Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; Not starred and spangled courts, Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride: — No: — Men, high-minded men, With powers as far above dull brutes endued, In forest, brake, or den, As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude : Men, who their duties know, But know their rights, and knowing dare maintain; Prevent the long-aimed blow. And crush the tyrant, while they rend the chain. These constitute a state ; And sovereign Law, that state's collected will. O'er thrones and globes elate Sits empress, crowning Good, repressing 111: Smit by her sacred frown The fiend, Dissension, like a vapour, sinks ; And e'en the all-dazzling Crown Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.— Such was this heaven-loved Isle, Than Lesbos fairer, and the Cretan shore: No more shall Freedom smile ? Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ? Since all must life resign, Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 'Tis folly to decline. And steal inglorious to the silent grave. XXII.— THE CLOUD.— SnEtLET. I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, from the seas and the streams ; I bear light shade for the leaves, when laid in their noon-day dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that v/aken the sweet birds every one, when rocked to rest on their mother's breast, as she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of lashing hail, and whiten the green plains under ; and then again I dissolve it in rain, and laugh as I pass in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below, and their great pines groan aghast; and 162 SnSCELLAKBOUS EEADINOfl all the night 'tis my pillow white, while I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, Lightning, my pilot, sits; in a cavern under ia fettered the Thunder ; it struggles and howls by fits : over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, this pilot is guiding me, lured by the love of the genii that move in the depths of the purple eea: over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, over the lakes and the plains, wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, the Spirit he loves remains ; — and I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, whilst he is dissolving in rains. The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor-eyes, and his burning plumes outspread, leaps on the back of my sailing rack, when the morning star shinea dead: — as on the jag of a mountain-crag, which an earth- quake rocks and swings, an eagle alit, one moment may git in the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, its ardours of rest and of love, and the crimson pall of eve may fall from thp depth of heaven above ; with wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, as still as a brooding dove. That orbed maiden with white fire laden, whom mortals call the Moon, glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, by the midnight breezes strewn ; and wherever the beat of her unseen feet, which only the angels hear, may have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, the stars peep behind her and peer ; and I laugh to see them whirl and flee, like a swarm of golden bees, when 1 widen the rent in my wind-built tent, till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, are each paved with the moon and these. I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, and the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; the volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, when the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, over a torrent sea, sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof — the mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march with hurricane, fire, and snow, when the powers of the air are chained to my chair, is the million-coloured bow ; the sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, while the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of earth and water and the nursling of the eky ; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when, with never a stain, the pavilion of heaven is bare, and the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, build up the blue IN POETRY. 163 dome of air, I eilently laugh at my own cenotaph ; and out of the caverns of rain, like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I rise and unbuild it again. XXIII.— ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN.— Btbom. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods; there isarapturo on the lonely shore ; there is society, where none intrudes — by the deep Sea, — and music in its roar. I love not Man the less, but Nature more, from these our interviews ; in which I steal from all I may be, or have been before, to mingle with the Universe — and feel what I can ne'er ex- press, yet cannot all conceal. EoU on! thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; man marks the earth with ruin — his control stops with the shore: upon the watery plain the wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain a shadow of man's ravage — save his own ; when, for a moment, like a drop of rain, he sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown 1 His steps are not upon thy paths; thy fields are not a spoil for him ; thou dost arise and shake him from thee: the vile strength he wields for earth's destruction thou dost all despise, spuming hijn from thy bosom to the skies: and send'st him, shivering, in thy playful spray, and howling, to his gods, where haply lies his petty hope in some near port or bay ; then dashest him again to earth — there let him lay! The armaments which thunderstrike the walls of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, and monarchs tremble in their capitals ; the oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make their clay creator the vain title take of lord of thee, and arbiter of war, — these are thy toys ; and, as the snowy flake, they melt into thy yeast of waves — which mar alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. Thy shores are empires, changed in all, save thee: Assyria, G-reece, Eome, Carthage, what are they ? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, and many a tyrant since ; their shores obey the stranger, slave, or savage; their decay has dried up realms to deserts: — not so thou, unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play ; Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — such as Creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form glasses itself in tempests ; in all time — calm or convulsed ; in breeze, or gale, or storm ; icing the pole, or in the torrid 164 MI8CELLANEOD8 READINGS clime dark-heaving — boundless, endless, and sublime ; the image of Eternity, the throne of the Invisible 1 Even from out thy slime the monsters of the deep are made ; each zone obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless — alone! XXIV.— TO THE NIGHTINGALE.— Keats. 0, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth. Tasting of Flora and the country green. Dance, and Provencal song, aud sunburnt Mirth! 0, for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim And purple stained mouth ; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away, into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known— The weariness, the fever, and the fret. Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; Where Palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs ; Where Youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies ; Where but to think, is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs ; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, — Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, — But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! Tender is the night. And haply the queen Moon is on her throne Clustered around by all her starry fays ; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown. Through verdurous blooms, and winding mossy waya* Darkling, I listen ; and, for many a time, I have been half in love with easeful Death ; Called him soft names in many a musrd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath : IN POETRY. 165 Now, more than ever, seeme it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Stni wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — To thy high requiem become a sodl Thou wast not born fur death, immortal bird! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night, was heard In ancient days, by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song, that found a path Through the sad heart of Euth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn. " Forlorn !" — The very sound is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self: Adieu! — the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! Thy plaintive anthem fades — Past the near meadows, — over the still stream, — Up the hill side ; — and now, 'tis buried deep In the next valley's glades : — "Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? Fled is that music ! — Do I wake or sleep ? XXV.— THE SKYLARK.— Shkllkt. 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 the blue deep thou wingest, and singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightening of the sunken sun, o'er which clouds are brightening, thou dost float and run, like an unbodied Joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple Even melts around thy flight; like a star of heaven in the broad daylight, thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight: — keen as are the arrows of that silver sphere, whose intense lamp narrows in the white dawn clear, until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air with th^ voice is loud, 166 MI9CELLAWEOUS READlNOfl as, when night is bare, from one lonely cloud the mocn 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! — Like a poet hidden in the light of thought, singing hymns un- bidden, till the world is wrought to sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. Like a high-bom maiden in a palace tower, soothing her love-laden soul in secret hour, with music, sweet as love, which overflows her bower. Like a glow-worm golden in a dell of dew, scattering unbeholden its aerial hue among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view. Like a rose embowered in its own green leaves, by warm Winds deflowered, till the scent it gives makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers on the twinkling grass, rain-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. Chorus hymeneal, or triumphal chant, matched with thine, would be all but an empty vaunt — a thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains of thy happy strain ? what fields, or waves, or mountains ? what shapes of sky or plain ? what love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of pain ? With thy clear keen joyance, languor cannot be : shadow of annoyance never came near thee : thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, thou of death must deem things more true and deep than we mortals dream ; or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? We look before and after, and pine for what is not: our sincerest laughter with some pain is fraught ; our sweetest Kongs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet, if we could scorn hate, and pride, and fear ; if we were things born not to shed a tear ; I know not how thy joys we ever should come near. Better than all measures of delightful sound, better than all treasures that in books are found, thy skill to poet were, thou scoruer of the ground ! Teach me half the gladness that thy brain must know ; such harmonious madness from my lips would flow, the world should listen then — aa I am listening now I nr POETRY. 167 XXVI.— THE HOLLY TREE— Socthet. reader! hast thou ever stood to see the holly tree? The eye that contemplates it well perceives its glossy leaves, ordered by an Intelligence so wise as might confound the atheist's sophistries, lielow, — a circling fence, — its leaves are seen wrinkled and keen ; no grazing cattle, through their prickly round, can reach to wound; but, as they grow where nothing is to fear, smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves appear. I love to view these things with curious eyes, and moralize: and in this wisdom of the holly tree can emblems see wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme,— one which may profit in the after-time. Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear harsh and austere; to those who on my leisure would intrude, re- served and rude ; gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, like the high leaves upon the holly tree. And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, some harshness show, all vain asperities, I, day by day, would wear away ; till the smooth temper of my age should be like the high leaves upon the holly tree. And as, when all the summer trees are seen so bright and green, the holly-leaves their fadeless hues display less bright than they ; but when the bare and wintry woods we see, what then so cheerful as the holly tree? — So, — serious should my youth appear among the thoughtless throng ; so would I seem, amid the young and gay, more grave than they ; that in my age as cheerful I might be as the green winter of the holly tree. XXVII.— THUNDER-STOKM ON THE LAKE OF GENEVA.— Byeok. The sky is changed! — and such a change 1 Night, And Storm, and Darkness, ye are wondrous strong. Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman I Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder I — not from one lone cloud. But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, that call to her aloud ! And this is in the night! — most glorious Night, Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — A portion of the Tempest and of theel 168 MISCEI-LANEOTTS READIUaS How the lit lake shines, — a phosphoric sea, And the big rain conaes dancing to the earth! And now again 'tis black, — and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, A.C if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. XXVIIL— ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE.— WOEDSWOBTH. Five years have passed; five summers, with the length of five long winters ; and again I hear these waters, rolling from their mountain-springs with a sweet inland murmur. Once again do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, which, on a wild secluded scene, impress thoughts of more deep ieclusion, and connect the landsca}>e with the quiet of the eky. The day is come when I again rejwse here, under this dark sycamore, and view these plots of cottage ground, these orchard-tufts; which, at this season, with their unripe fruits, are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves among the woods and copses, nor disturb the wild green landscape. Once again I see these hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little Vines of sportive wood run wild ; these pastoral farms, green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke sent up in silence from among the trees, with some uncertain notice, as migl)t seem, of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, or of Bome hermit's cave, where, by his fire, the hermit sits alone. Though absent long, these forms of beauty have not been to me as is a landscape to a blind man's eye ; but oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din of towns and cities, I have owed to them, in hours of weariness, sensations sweet, felt in the blood, and felt along the heart, and passing even into my purer mind with tranquil restoration : — feelings, too, of unremembered pleasure ; such, perhaps, as may have had BO trivial influence on that best portion of a good man's life — his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, to them I may have owed another gift of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world, is lightened; — that serene and blessed mood in which the affections gently lead us on, until the breath of this corporeal frame, and even the motion of our human blood, almost suspended, we are laid asleep in body, and become a living soul; while, with an eye made giuiet by the power IN rOETRY. 1C9 of hannony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things. If this be but a vain belief — yet, oh ! how oft, in dark- ness, and amid the many shapes of joyless daylight, when the fretful stir unprofitable, and the fever of the world, have hung upon the beatings of my heart, how oft in spirit have I turned to thee, sylvan Wye ! — thou wanderer througli the woods; how often has my spirit turned to thee! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, with many recognitions dim and faint, and somewhat of a sad per- plexity, the picture of the mind revives again ; while here I stand, not only with the sense of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts that, in this moment, there is life and food for future years. And so I dare to hope, though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers and the lonely streams — wherever Nature led ; more like a man flying from Bomething that he dreads, than one who sought the thing he loved. For Nature then (the coarser pleasures of my boyish days, and their glad animal movements all gone by) to me was all in all. I cannot paint what then I was. The Bounding cataract haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock, the mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, their colours, and their forms, were then to me an appetite ; a feeling and a love, that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, or any interest unborrowed from the eye. That time is past, and all its aching joys are now no more, and all its dizzy raptures. Not for this faint I, nor mourn, nor murmur ; other gifts have followed — for such loss, I would believe, abundant recompense. For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes the still sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and Bubdue. And I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfdsed, whose dwelling is the light of Betting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man; a motion and a spirit that impels all thinking things, all objects of all thought, and rolls through all things. Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows, and the woods, and mountains, and of all that we behold from this green earth ; of all the mighty world of eye and ear, both what they half create, and what 170 MISCELLANEOUS READINGS perceive; well pleased to recognise, in Nature and the language of the sense, the anchor of my purest thoughts — ■ the nurse, the guide, the guardian of my heart — and eoul of all my moral being. XXIX.— BEAUTY AND EXPRESSION.— Thomas Moobk. There's a beauty for ever unchangingly bright, like the long, sunny lapse of a summer-day's light, shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender: that was not her beauty— that sameness of splendour; but the loveliness ever in motion, which plays like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days ; now here and now there giving warmth, as it flies from the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes. When pensive, it seemed as if that very grace, that charm of all others, was born with her face; and when angry, — for e'en in the tranquilest climes light breezes will ruflSe the flowers sometinies — the short, passing anger but seemed to awaken new beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when shaken. If tenderness touched her, the dark of her eye at once took a darker, a heavenlier dye ; from the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings from innermost shrines, came the liglat of her feelings. Tht-n her mirth — oh! 'twas sportive as ever took wing from the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in spring ; while hei laugh, full of life, \\dthout any control but the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul: and where it most sparkled no glance could discover, in lip, cheek, or eyes ; for she brightened all over, like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, when it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun. XXX.— THE DESEETED VILLAGE.— Goldbmith. Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, "Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain ; "Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid. And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed; J^ Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please; How often have 1 loitered o'er thy green. Where humble happiness endearfd each scenel How often have I paused on every charm :— The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that toi)pcd tiic ueighbouring hill ; IN POETRT. 171 The hawthorn hush, with seats honeath the shade, For talking age and wliispering lovers madel How often have I blessed the coming day, When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play; And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree; "While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending, as the old surveyed; And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round ; And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired: — The dancing pair, that simply sought renown, By holding out to tire each other down ; The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face, "While secret laughter tittered round the place; The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love ; The matron's glance that would those looks reprove; — These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these, With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please. Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, "CFp yonder hill the village murmur rose ; There as I passed, with careless steps and slow. The mingling notes came softened from below: The swain, responsive as the milk-maid sung ; The sober herd, that lowed to meet their young; The noisy geese, that gabbled o'er the pool ; The playful children, just let loose from school ; The watch-dog's voice, that bayed the whispering wind; And the loud laugh, that spoke the vacant mind; — These, all, in sweet confusion, sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made. XXXI.— HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI.— COLKEIDGB. Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star in his steep course ? — so long he seems to pause on thy bald, awful head, sovran Blanc! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base rave ceaselessly: but thou, most awful form! risestfrom forth the silent sea of pines, how silently! Around thee and above, deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, — an ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, as with a wedge! But when I look again, it is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, thy habitation from eternity! — dread and silent mount 1 1 172 MISCEMANEOUS READINGS gazed upon ttee, till thou, still present to the bodily sense, didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer, I worshipped the Invisible alone. Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, so sweet we know not we are listening to it, thou, the meanwhile, wast blend- ing with my thought, yea, with my life and life's own secret joy; till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused into the mighty vision passing, — there, as in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven. Awake, my soul! not only passive praise thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, mute thanks and secret ecstasy 1 Awake, voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn ! Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale ! 0, struggling with the darkness all the night, and visited all night by troops of stars, or when they climb the sky, or when they sink ; — companion of the morning-star at dawn, thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn co-herald, — wake. wake, and utter praise! — "Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? Who filled thy countenance with ros^i light ? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! who called you forth from night and utter death ? from dark and icy caverns called you forth, down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, for ever shattered, and the same for ever ? Who gave you your invulnerable life, your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy ; unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? And who commanded (and the silence came), " Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ?" Te ice-falls I ye that from the mountain's brow adown enormous ravines slope amain — torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice, and stopped at once amid their mad- dest plunge ! motionless torrents! silent cataracts! — who made you glorious as the gates of heaven, beneath the keen, full moon ? Who bade the sun clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet! — God! Let the torrents, like a shout of nations, answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! — God! Sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice! ye pine- groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, and in their perilous fall shall thunder, God! Ye living flowers, that skirt the eternal frost! ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! ye eagles, playmates IN POETRY. 173 of the mountain-storm! ye li^^htnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! ye signs and wouders of the element! — utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! Once more, hoar mount, with thy sky-pointing peaks, eft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast — thou too, again, stupendous mountain! thou, that, as I raise my head, awhile bowed low in adora- tion, upward from thy base slow travelling, with dim eyes BuflFused with tears, solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, to rise before me, — rise, ever, rise! rise like a cloud of incense from the earth ! Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills! thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven! great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, and tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises Grod! XXXII.— THE FOUNTAIN,— WoRDSWOKTH. We talked with open heart, and tongue affectionate and true ; — a pair of friends, though I was young, and Matthew seventy-two. We lay beneath a spreading oak, beside a mossy seat; and from the turf a fountain broke, and gurgled at our feet. " Now, Matthew," said I, " let us match this water's pleasant tune, with some old Border song or catch, that suits a summer's noon ; or, of the church-clock and the chimes, sing here beneath the shade that half-mad thing of witty rhymes, which thou last April made," In silence Matthew lay, and eyed the spring beneath the tree ; and thus the dear old man replied, the gray-haired man of glee: "Down to the vale this water steers: how merrily it goes! 'twill murmur-on a thousand years, and flow as now it flows. And here on this delight- ful day, I cannot choose but think, how oft, a vigorous man, I lay beside this fountain's brink. My eyes are dim with childish tears, my heart is idly stirred ; for the same sound is in my ears, which in those days I heard. Thus fares it still in our decay ; and yet the wiser mind mourns less for what age takes away, than what it leaves behind. The blackbird in the summer trees, the lark upon the hill, let loose their carols when they please — are quiet when they will. With Nature never do they wage a foolish strife ; they see a happy youth, and their old age is beautiful and free: but we are pressed by heavy laws, and often, glad no more, we wear a face of jov, because we have been glad of 174 MISCELLANEOUS READINGS yore. If there is one who need bemoan his kindred laid in eartlj — the household hearts that were his own, it is the man of mirth. My days, my friend, are almost gone ; my life has been approved, and many love me ; but by none am I enough beloved." " Now both himself and me he wrongs, the man who thus complains! I live and sing my idle songs upon these happy plains: and, Matthew, for thy children dead, I'll be a son to thee !" At this he grasped my hand, and said, " Alas, that cannot be." We rose up from the fountain side, and down the smooth descent of the green sheep-track did we glide, and through the woods we went ; and, ere we came to Leonard's Kock, we sang these witty rhymes about the crazy old church-clock, and the bewildered chimes. XXXIII.— POMPEII.— Ltkioal Gems. The shroud of years thrown back, thou dost revive, Half-raised, half-buried, dead, yet still alive 1 Gathering the world around thee, to admire Thy disinterment, and, with hearts on fire, To catch the form and fashion of the time When Pliny lived, and thou wert in thy prime ; So strange thy resurrection, it may seem Less waking life than a distressful dream. Hushed is this once-gay scene, nor murmur moro The city's din, the crowd's tumultuous roar. The laugh convivial, and the chiming sound Of golden goblets with Falernian crowned ; The mellow breathings of the Lydian flute. And the sweet drip of fountains, as they shoot From marble basements, — these, all these are mute I Closed are her springs, unnumbered fathoms deep, Her splendid domes are one dismantled heap. Her temples soiled, her statues in the dust. Her tarnished medals long devoured by rust ; Its rainbow-pavements broken from the bath, The once-thronged Forum — an untrodden path; The fanes of love — forgotten cells ; the shrines Of vaunted gods — inurned in sulphur mines; The abodes of art, of luxury, and taste — Tombs of their once glad residents — a waste. O'er which compassionate years have gradual thro"wii The trailing vine, and bid the mjnrtle moan. IK POETRY. 175 XXXIV.— THE SnOEES OF GKEECE.— Bykon. He who hath bent him o'er tho dead, ere the first day of death is fled, — the first dark day of nothingness, the last of danger and distress ; — (hefore decay's eflacing fingers have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) and marked the mild angelic air — the rapture of repose that's there — the fixed yet tender traits that streak the languor of the placid cheek; and — but for that sad shrouded eye, that fires not — wins not — weeps not — now; — and but for that chill changeless brow, whose touch thrills with mortality, and curdles to the gazer's heart, as if to him it could impart the doom he dreads, yet dwells upon: — Yes — but for these and these alone, some moments — ay — one treacherous hour, he still might doubt the tyrant's power: so fair — so calm — so softly Bealed, the first — last look — by death revealed 1 Such is the aspect of this shore: — 'tis Greece — but living Greece no morel So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, we start — for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death, that parts not quite with parting breath ; but beauty, with that fearful bloom, that hue which haunts it to the tomb — expression's last receding ray, a gilded halo hovering round decay, the farewell beam of feeling past away! Spark of that flame, perchance, — of heavenly birth — which gleams — but warms no more its cheriehed earth! XXXV.— TO MAEY IN HEAVEN.— Biibns. Thou lingering star, with lessening ray that loVst to greet the early morn! again thou usher'st in the day, my Mary from my soul was torn! Mary! dear, departed shade! where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? That sacred hour can I forget ? — can I forget the hallowed grove, where, by the winding Ayr, we met to live one day of parting love ? Eternity will not efface those records dear of transports past! thy image at our last embrace — ah! little thought we, 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, o'er-hung with wild woods, thickening green ; the fragrant birch, and hawthora hoar, twined amorous 'round the raptured scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed; the birds sang love on every spray ; till, too, too soon, the glowing west pro- claimed the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scene3 my memory wakes, and fondly broods with miser care ; time but the impression deeper makes, — as streams their 176" MISCELLANEOUS READINGS channels deeper wear. My Mary ! dear, departed shade I where is thy blissful place of rest ? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? XXXVI.— THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN.— Goldsmith. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village Preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear. And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; Eemote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place ; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power. By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train ; He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain. The long-remembered beggar was his guest. Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; Tho ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talked the night away, "Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won! Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow. And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave, ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. And even his failings leaned to Virtue's side ; But, in his duty prompt at every call. He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all: And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, The reverend champion stood. At his control, Despair aud oiiKuiab tied the struggling soul ; IN POETRT. 177 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his hist faltering accents whispered praise. At church, with meek and unaflected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway; And fools, who came to scolf, remained to pray. * The Service past, around the pious man, With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; Even children followed with endearing wile, And plucked his gown, to share the good man's Bmile: His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed. Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed ; To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven: As some tall clifl', that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm ; Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. XXXVIL— THE LAST MINSTREL.— Scott. The way was long, the wind was cold, the Minstrel was infirm and old ; his withered cheek and tresses gray seemed to have known a better day: the harp, his sole- remaining joy, was carried by an orphan boy: the last of all the bards was he, who sung of Border chivalry. For, well-a-day! their date was fied, his tuneful brethren all were dead ; and he, neglected and oppressed, wished to be with them, and at rest. No more, on prancing palfrey borne, he carolled, light as lark at morn ; no longer, courted and caressed, high-placed in hall, a welcome guest, he poured, to lord and lady gay, the unpremeditated lay; old times were changed — old manners gone — a stranger filled the Stuarts' throne. The bigots of the iron time had called his harmless art — a crime: a wandering harper, Bcorned and poor, he begged his bread from door to door ; and tuned, to please a peasant's ear, the harp, a king had loved to hear. He passed, where Newark's stately tower looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower: the Minstrel gazed with wishful eye — no humbler resting-place was nigh. With hesitating step, at last, the embattled portal-arch he passed ; whose ponderous grate and massy bar had oft rolled back the tide of war, but never closed the iron door against the desolate and poor. Tho Duchess marked his weary pace, his timid 178 MISCELLAKEOUS READINGS mien and reverend face ; and bade her page the menials tell that tbey should tend the old man well : — for she had known adversity, though born in such a high degree ; in pride of power, in beauty's bloom, had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb. When kindness had his wants supplied, and the old man ■was gratified, began to rise his minstrel pride ; and he began to talk, anon, of good Earl Francis, dead and gone ; and of Earl Walter — rest him God ! — a braver ne'er to battle rode : and how full many a tale he knew of the old warriors of Buccleugh ; and, would the noble Duchess deign to listen to an old man's strain, though stiff his hand, his voice though weak, he thought, even yet, — the sooth to speak, — that, if she loved the harp to hear, he could make music to her ear. The humble boon was soon obtained ; the aged Minstrel audience gained ; but when he reached the room of state, ■where she, with all her ladies, sat, perchance he wished his boon denied ; for, when to tune his harp he tried, his trembling hand had lost the ease which marks security to please ; and scenes, long past, of joy and pain, came wilder- ing o'er his aged brain ; — he tried to tune his harp, in vain. Amid the strings his fingers strayed, and an uncertain warbling made ; and, oft, he shook his hoary head. But when he caught the measure wild, the old man raised his face, and smiled ; and lighted up his faded eye, with all a poet's ecstacy ! In varying cadence, soft or strong, he Bwept the sounding chords along; the present scene, the future lot, his toils, his wants, were all forgot ; cold diffidence, and age's frost, in the full tide of soul were lost ; each blank in faithless memory's void, the poet's glowing thought supplied ; and, while his harp responsive rung, 'twas thus the latest Minstrel sung : — " Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, who never to himself hath said. This is my own, my native land ! — whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, as home his footsteps he hath turned from wandering on a foreign strand ? If Buch there breathe, go — mark him well ; for him, no minstrel-raptures swell ; high though his titles, proud his Dame, boundless his wealth, as wish can claim ; despite those titles, power and pelf, the wretch, concentred all in Belf, living, shall forfeit fair renown, and, v^oubly dying, shall go down to the vile dust from whence he sprung, unwept, unhonoured, and unsung 1" IH POETET. 179 XXXVIII.— SATAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN.— MitTOW. thou ! that, with Burpassing glory crowned, look'st from thy sole dominion, like the god of this new world! — at whose sight all the stars hide their diminished heads! — to thee I call, but with no friendly voice, and add thy name, Sun ! to tell thee how I hate thy beams, that bring to my remembrance from what state I fell ; how glorious once — above thy sphere — till pride, and worse ambition, threw me down, warring in heaven against heaven's matchless Kingl Ah! wherefore? He deserved no such return from me, whom He created what I was in that bright eminence ; and with His good upbraided none ; nor was His service hard. "What could be less than to afford Him praise, (the easiest recompense !) and pay Him thanks, how due ! Yet, all His good proved ill in me, and wrought but malice ! Lifted up BO high, I 'sdained subjection, and thought one step higher would set me highest; and in a moment quit the debt immense of endless gratitude, so burdensome — still paying, etill to owe! Forgetful what from Him I still received; and understood not that a grateful mind by owing owes not, but still pays ; at once indebted and discharged ; — what burden then? Oh I had His powerful destiny ordained me some inferior angel, 1 had stood then happy ; no unbounded hope had raised ambition ! Yet, why not ? some other power as great might Lave aspired ; and me, though mean, drawn to his part: but other powers as great fell not, but stand unshaken ; from within or from without, Co all temptations armed. Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand ? Thou hadst. Whom hast thou then, or what, to accuse — but Heaven's free love, dealt equally to all ? Be then His love accursed! since, love or hate, (to me alike,) it deals eternal woe! Nay, curs'd be thou ! since, against His, thy will chose freely, what It now so justly rues. Me miserable! which way shall I fly infinite wrath, and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell! myself am helU and, in the lowest deep, a lower deep, still threatening to devour me, opens wide, — to which the hell I suff"er seems a heaven! Oh, then, at last relent! Is there no place left for repentance ? none for pardon left ? None left — but by sub- mission! — and that word disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced with^ other promises, and other vaunts, than to submit, boasting ' I could subdue — the Omnipotent! Ah me, they little know 180 KISCELLASEOUa READIKOB how dearly I abide that boast so vain; under what torments inwardly I groan, while they adore me on the throne of hell. With diadem and sceptre high advanced, the lower still I fall — only supreme in misery! Such joy ambition finds! But say I could repent, and could obtain, by act of grace, my former state ; how soon would height recal high thoughts! how soon unsay what feigned submission swore I Ease would recant vows made in pain, as violent and void ; — for never can true reconcilement grow, where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep ; — which would but lead me to a worse relapse and heavier fall: so should I purchase dear short intermission — bought with double smart ! This knows my Punisher, therefore as far from granting. He — as I from begging, peace ! All hope excluded thus, behold, — instead of us, outcast! exiled! — his new delight. Man- kind, created, and for him this world. So, farewell hope ! and, with hope, farewell fear! Farewell remorse! all good to me is lost ; Evil, be thou my Good ! by thee, at least divided empire with heaven's King I hold ; by thee, and more than half perhaps, will reign — as man ere long, and this new world, shall know I XXXIX.— THE PULPIT.— CowPEE. I venerate the man whose heart is warm. Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose lifei, Co-incident, exhibit lucid proof That he is honest in the sacred cause. To such I render more than mere respect, "Whose actions say that they respect themselves. But, loose in morals, and in manners vain, In conversation frivolous, in dress Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse ; Frequent in park with lady at his side, Ambling and prattling scandal as he goes! But rare at home, and never at his books. Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card ; Constant at routs, familiar with a round Of ladyships — a stranger to the poor ; Ambitious of preferment for its gold ; And well prepared, by ignorance and sloth, By infidelity and love of world, To make God's work a sinecure ; a slave To his own pleasures and his patron's prido:— From each apostles, oh, ye mitred heads, ra POETRY. 181 Preserve the Church ! and lay not careless hands On skulls that cannot teach, and will not learn. Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul, Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own, Paul should himself direct me. I would trace His master-strokes, and draw from his design. I would express him simple, grave, sincere; In doctrine uncorrupt ; in language plain, And plain in manner ; decent, solemn, chaste, And natural in gesture ; much impressed Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds May feel it too ; aifectionate in look, And tender in address, as well becomes A messenger of grace to guilty man. Behold the picture 1 — Is it like ? — Like whom ? The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, And then, skip down again ; pronounce a text ; Cry — hem ; and, reading what they never wrote. Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work. And with a well-bred whisper close the scene ! In man or woman, but far most in man, And most of all in man that ministers And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn ; Object of my implacable disgust. ■^tat ! — will a man play tricks — will he indulge A silly, fond conceit of his fair form, And just proportion, fashionable mien, And pretty face, in presence of his God 1 Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes, As with the diamond on his lily hand ; And play his brilliant parts before my eyes. When I am hungry for the bread of life ] He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames His noble office, and, instead of truth. Displaying his o\vn beauty, starves his flock I Therefore, avaunt all attitude, and stare, And start theatric, practised at the glass ! I seek divine simplicity in him Who handles things divine ; and all besides. Though learn'd with labour, and though much admired By curious eyes and judgements ill-informed, To me la odious, — as the nasal twang 182 MI8CELLAITE0US READIJI08 \ Heard at conventicle, where worthy men, Misled by custom, strain celestial themes Through the pressed nostril spectacle-bestrid. Some, decent in demeanour while they preach, That task performed, relapse into themselves ; And, having spoken wisely, at the close Grow wanton, giving proof to every eye, "Whoe'er was edified, themselves were not! Forth comes the pocket mirror. First, we stroke An eye-brow ; next, compose a straggling lock ; Then, with an air most gracefully performed, Fall back into our seat, extend an arm, And lay it at its ease, "With handkerchief in hand depending low: The better hand, more busy, gives the nose Its bergamot, or aids the indebted eye With opera-glass, to watch the moving scene, And recognise the slow-retiring fair. — Now, this is fulsome ; and offends me more Than in a churchman slovenly neglect And rustic coarseness would. A heavenly mind May be indifferent to her house of clay. And slight the hovel as beneath her care ; But how a body so fantastic, trim, And quaint, in its deportment and attire, Can lodge a heavenly mind — demands a doubt. XL. WAITING FOR THE MAY.— D. F. M'CabthY Ah! my heart is weary waiting, waiting for the May- waiting for the pleasant rambles, where the fragrant haw- thorn-brambles, with the woodbine alternating, scent the dewy way. Ah! my heart is weary waiting, waiting for the May. Ah! my heart is sick with longing, longing for the May — longing to escape from study to the fair young face and ruddy, and the thousand charms belonging to the summer's day. Ah! my heart is sick with longing, longing for the May. Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, sighing for the May — sighing for their sure returning when the summer-beams are burning, hopes and flowers that dead or dying all the winter lay. Ah! my heart is sore witn sighing, sighing for the May. Ali ! my heart is pained with throbbing, throbbing for the May - throbbing for the seaside billows, or the water-wooing willows, where in laughing and in sobbing glide thw streams away. Ah I IK POKTRT. 183 my heart is pained with throbbing, throbbing for tha May. Waiting, sad, dejected, weary, waiting for the May: — Spring goes by with wasted warnings — moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings; — summer comes, yet, dark and dreary, life still ebbs away — Man is ever weary, weary, waiting for the May. XLI.— FLIGHT OF IMAGINATION.— Akeksidk. The high-bom soul disdains to rest her heaven-aspiring wing beneath its native quarry. Tired of earth and thia diurnal scene, she springs aloft through fields of air; pursues the flying storm ; rides on the volleyed lightning through the heavens ; or, yoked with whirlwinds and th*. northern blast, sweeps the long tract of day. Then high she soars the blue profound, and, hovering round the sun, beholds him pouring the redundant stream of light ; beholds hia unrelenting sway bend the reluctant planets, to absolve the fated rounds of Time. Thence far effused, she darts her swiftness up the long career of devious comets ; thrbugh its burning signs, exulting, measures the perennial wheel of Nature, and looks back on all the stars, — whose blended light, as with a milky zone, invests the orient. Now, amazed, she views the empyreal waste, where happy spirits hold, beyond this concave heaven, their calm abode ; and fields of radiance, whose unfading light has travelled the profound six thousand years, nor yet arrives in sight of mortal things. Even on the barriers of the world, untired, she meditates the eternal depth below ; till, half recoiling, down the headlong steep she plunges: soon o'erwhelmed, and swallowed up, in that immense of being. There her hopes rest, at the fated goal. For, from the birth of mortal man, the Sovereign Maker said, — that, not in humble or ia brief Delight, not in the fading echoes of Kenown, Power's purple robes, or Pleasure's flowery lap, the soul should find enjoyment ; but from these turning disdainful to an equal Good, through all the ascent of things enlarge her view — till every bound at length should disappear, and Infinite Perfection close the scene. XLII.— THE FGRGINQ OF THE ANCHOR.— Samuel Fkbqusom. Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged — 'tis at a white heat now: The bellows ceased, the flames decreased — though on the ft)r»ro'b brow 184 MISCELLANEOUS READINGB Tlie little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound. And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round; All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare — ■ Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe: Tt rises, roars, rends all outright — 0, Vulcan, what a glow! 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright — the high sun shines not so! " Hurrah!" they shout, " leap out — leap out;" bang, bang the sledges go ; Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low — Swing in j'^our strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time ; Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime. But while you sling your sledges, sing — and let the burden be, " The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we!" Strike in, strike in — the sparks begin to dull their rustling red; Ourhammersringwithsharper din, ourworkwillsoonbe sped. Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay. In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last ; A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea! Lodger in the sea-kings' halls, couldst thou but understand Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band Slowswayingin the heaving wave, that roundabout thee bend. With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient friend — Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide wdth larger steps round thee. Thine iron side would swell with pride; thou'dst leap within the sea! Give honour to their memorieswholef t thepleasant strand To shed their blood so freely for the love of Father-land — Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church-yard grave So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave — ^ Oh, though our anchor may not be all i have fondly sung. Honour him for their memory, whose bones he goes amongl IN POBTKT. 185 XLIII.— THE CATARACT OF LODORE.— Southky. How does the water come down at Lodore ? From ita sources which well in the tarn on the fell ; from its foun- tains in the mountains, its rills and its gills ; through moss and through brake, it runs and it creeps for awhile, till it sleeps in its own little lake. And thence at departing, awakening and starting, it runs through the reeds, and away it proceeds through meadow and glade, in sun and in shade, and through the wood-shelter, among crags in ita flurry, helter-skelter, hurry-skurry. Here it comes spark- ling, and there it lies darkling; now smoking and frotlang its tumult and wrath in ; till, in this rapid race on which it is bent, it reaches the place of its steep descent. The cataract strong then plunges along ; striking and raging, as if a war waging its caverns and rocks among ; rising and leaping, sinking and creeping, swelling and sweeping, showering and springing, flying and flinging, writhing and ringing, eddying and whisking, spouting and frisking, turning and twisting, around and around with endless rebound : smiting and fighting, a sight to delight in, con- founding, astounding, dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound: collecting, projecting, receding and speeding, and shocking and rocking, and darting and parting, and threading and spreading, and whizzing and hissing, and dripping and skipping, and hitting and splitting, and shining and twining, and rattling and battling, and shaking and quaking, and pouring and roaring, and waving and raving, and tossing and crossing, and flowing and going, and run- ning and stunning, and foaming and roaming, and dinning and spinning, and dropping and hopping, and working and jerking, and guggling and struggling, and heaving and cleaving, and moaning and groaning ; and glittering and frittering, and gathering and feathering, and whitening and brightening, and quivering and shivering, and hurrying and skurrying, and thundering and floundering ; dividing* and gliding and sliding, and falling and brawling and sprawling, and driving and riving and striving, and sprink- ling and twinkling and wrinkling, and sounding and bounding and rounding, and bubbling and troubling and doubling, and grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, and clattering and battering and shattering; retreating and beat- ing and meeting and sheeting, delaying and straying and playing and spraying, advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, recoiling, turmoiling, and toiling and boiling, 186 MI8CELLAKEOtT3 READINGS and gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, and rushing and flushing and brushing and pushing, and flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, and curling and whirling and purling and twirling, and thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, and dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; — and so never ending, but always descending, sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending, all at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar ; and this way, the water comes down at Lodore. XLV.— OUR COUNTRY AND OUR HOME.— Montqomeby. There is a land, of every land the pride. Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside ; Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons emparadise the night: A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth, Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth: The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Yiews not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air: In every clime, the magnet of his soul. Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole; J'or in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace. The heritage of Nature's noblest race, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, — A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest: "Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, While in his softened looks benignly blend The sire, the eon, the husband, brother, friend ; Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife, Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life ; In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; Around her knees domestic duties meet. And fire-side pleasures gambol at her feet. "Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?" Art thou a man ? — a patriot ? — look around ; thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy Country, and that spot thy Home, 187 KECITATIONS FOR JUNIOR PUPILS. I. —THE TEMPLE OF NATURE.— Thomas Moobb. The turf sliall be my fragrant shrine ; my temple, Lord, that arch of thine ; my censer's breath the mountain airs, and silent thonijhts my only prayers. My choir shall be the moon-lit waves, when munnuriiip: home- ward to their caves ; or when the stilhiess of the sea, even more than music, breathes of Thee. I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown, all light and silence, like Thy throne ; and the pale stars shall be, at night, the only eyes that watch my rite. Thy heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look, shall be my pure and shining book ; where I shall read, in words of flame, the glories of Thy wondrous name. I'll read Thy anger, in the rack that clouds awhile the daj'-beam's track ; Thy mercy, in the azure hue of sunny brightness breaking through ! — There's nothing bright, above, below, from flowers that bloom to stars that glow, but in its light my soul can see some feature of thy Deity I There's notliing dark, below, ttbove, but in its gloom I trace Thy love ; and meekly wait that moment, when Thy touch shall turn aU bright again 1 II.— SAUL'S ADDRESS.— Bteon. Warriors and chiefs I should the shaft or the sword Pierce me when leading the hosts of the Lord, Heed not the cor&e, though a king's, in your path. Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath, Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow. Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe, Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet; Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet. Farewell to others ; but never we part, Heir to my royalty, son of my heart I Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway, Or kingly the death, that awaits us to-day. III.— JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER.— Bykon. Since our country, our God, O my sire, demand that thy daughter expire; since thy triumph was bought by thy vow, strike the bosom that's bared for thee now !— and the voice of my mourning is o'er, and the mountains behold me no more. If the hand that I love lay me low, there cannot be pain in the blow : and of this, O my father, be sure, that the blood of thy child is as pure as the blessing I beg ere it flow, and the last thought that soothes me below. Though the virgins of Salem lament, be the judge and the hero unbent : I have won tlie great battle for thee, and my fatlier and country are free ! When this blood of thy giving hath gushed, when the voice that thou lovest is hushed, let my memory still be thy pride, and forget not 1 suiiled— as I died I 188 SQOTEATIONS FOR IV.— THE STAR OF HEAVEN.— Callanah. Shine on, thou bright beacon, unclouded and free. From thy high place of calmness, o'er Life's troubled sea ; Ita morning of promise, its smooth waves are gone. And the billows roar wildly ; then, bright one, shine ou I The wings of the tempest may rush o'er thy ray. But tranquil thou smilest, undimmed by its sway ; High, high o'er the worlds where storms are unknown, Thou dwellest, all beauteous, all glorious,— alone. From the deep womb of darkness the lightning-flash leaps O'er the bark of my fortunes each mad billow sweeps. From the port ot her safety by warring-winds driven ; And no light o'er her course — but yon lone one of Heaven. Yet fear not, thou frail one ! the hour may be near. When our own sunny head-land far off shall appear ; When the voice of the storm shall be silent and past. In some island of Heaven we may anchor at last. But, bark of eternity, where art tbou now? The wild waters shriek o'er each plunge of thy prow, On the world's dreary ocean thus shatter'd and tost ; — Then, lone one, shine on I " If I lose tli»e, I'm lost 1" v.— THE DYING CHIEF.- Mks Maclean. The Btars looked down on the battle-plain, where night-winds were deeply sighing : and with shattered lance, near his war-steed slain, lay a voutliul Chieftain — dying 1 He had folded round his gallant breast the banner, once o'er him streaming ; for a noble shroud, as he sunk to rest on the couch that knows no dreaming. Proudly he lay on his broken shield, by the rushing Guadalquiver ; while, dark with the blood of his last red field, swept on the majestic river. There were hands which came to bind his wound, there were eyes o'er the warrior weeping ; but he raised his head from the dewy ground, where the land's high hearts were sleeping 1 And "Awayl" he cried; — "your aid is vain; my soul may not brook recalling, — I have seen the stately flower of Spain, like the autumn vine- leaves falling! I have seen the Moorish banners wave o'er the halla where my youth was cherished ; I have drawn a sword that could not save ; I have stood, where my king hath perished ! Leave me to die with the free and brave, on the banks of my ovra bright river! ye can give me nought but a warrior's grave, by the chainless Guadalquiver 1" VI.— THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.— Btbob The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold. And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea. When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green. That host with their banners at sunset were seen : Like the leaves of the forest when Autunm hath blown. That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, A.ad their hearts but oaoe heaved, and for uvor grew still 1 189 JUNIOR PDPILS. And there lay the steed witli his nostril all wide. But throui^h it tliere rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf. And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale. With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone. The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail. And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword. Hath melted like snow — in the glance of the Lord ! VII.— THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.— H. Kikkk Whitk. When, marshalled on the nightly plain, the glittering host bestud the elcy, one star alone, of all the train, can fix the sinner's wandering eye. Hark! hark! — to God the cliorus breaks, from every host, from every gem ; but one alone the Saviour speaks — it is the Star of Bethlehem ! Once on the raging seas I rode; the storm was loud — the night was dark— the ocean yawned — and rudely blowed the -wind, that tossed my foundering bark. Deep horror then my vitals froze; — death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem, — when, suddenly, a Star arose ! — it was the Star of Betlilehem! It was my guide — my fight— my all! it bade my dark forebodings cease; and through the storm, and danger's thrall, it led me to the port of peace. Now, safely moored, my perils o'er, I'll sing, first in night's diadem, for ever, and for evermore, the Star — the Star of Bethlehem t VIII.— CASABIANCA.— Mb8 Hemass. The hoy stood on the burning deck, whence all but him had fled ; The flames that lit the battle's wreck, shone round him o'er the dead ; Yet beautiful and bright he stood, as bom to rule the storm, — A creature of heroic blood ; a proud, though child-like form. The flames rolled on— he would not go without his father's word i That father, faint in death below, his voice no longer heard. He called aloud : — " Say, father, say, if yet my task is done?" He knew not that the chieftain lay unconscious of his son- " Speak, father !" once again he cried, " if I may yet be gone ?" But now the booming shots replied, and fast the flames rolled OQ. Upon his brow he felt their breath, and in his waving hair. And looked Irom that lone post of death in still but brave despair ; And shouted but once more aloud, " Jly father ! must I stay ?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, the wreathing fires made way. They wrapped the ship in splendour wild, they caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, like banners in the sky. There came a burst of thunder-sound ;— the boy— oh ! where was he? Ask of the winds that far around with fragments strewed the sea ! — With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, that well had borne their part; But the noblest thing; that perished there was— that young iaitliful ktwt. 190 RECITATIONS FOB IX.— THE ORPHAN BOY,— Mes Opir. Stay, Lady ! Btay for mercy's sake, and hear a helpless Orphan's talel Ab ! sure, luy looks must pity wake ; 'tie want that makes my cheek so pale. Yet I was once a mother's pride, and my brave father's hope and joy ; but in the Nile's proud fight he died — and I am now an Orphan Boy I Poor, foolish child ! how pleased was I, when news of Nelson's |vietory came, along the crowded streets to fly, and see the lighted win- dows flame I To force me home my mother sought ; she could not bear to see my joy, for with my father's life 'twas bought — and made me a poor Orphan Boy ! The people's shouts were long and loud ; my mother, Bhuddering, closed her ears: "Rejoice! rejoice!" still cried the crowd ; my mother answered with her tears. " Why are you crying thus," said I, " while others laugh, and shout with joy ?" She kissed me, and, with Buch a sigh, she called me her poor Orphan Boy 1 " What is an orphan boy?" I said; when, suddenly, she gasped for breath, and her eyes closed • — I shrieked for aid, but, ah ! her eyes were closed in death ! And now they've tolled my mother's knell, and I'm no more a parent's joy ; — oh Lady I — I have learned too well what 'tis to be an Orphan Boy I Oh were I by your bounty fed — nay, gentle Lady, do not chide ; trust me, I mean to earn my bread ; the sailor's orphan boy has pride ! Lady, you weep I — Hal — tliis to me? You'll give me clothing, food, employ? Look down, d'»ar parents I look and Bee your happy, happy Orphan Boy I X.— THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.— Mes Macleas The muflSed drum rolled on the air, Warriors with stately step were there ; On every arm was the black crape bound. Every carbine was turned to the ground : Solemn the sound of their measured tread, As silent and slow they followed the dead. The riderless horse was led in the rear, There were white plumes waving over the bier. Helmet and sword were laid on the pall. For it was a Soldier's funeral. That soldier had stood on the battle-plain, "Where every step was over the slain : But the brand and the baU bad passed him by. And he came to liis native land — to die 1 'Twas hard to come to tliat native land, And not clasp one familiar hand ! 'Twas hard to be numbered amid the dead. Or ere he could hear liis welcome said ! But 'twas something to see its cliils once more. And to lay his bones on his own loved shore ; To think that the friends of his youth might weep O'er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep. The bugles ceased their wailing sound As the coliin was lowered into the ground ; A volley was fired, a blessing said. One moment's pause — and they left the dead I — I saw a poor and aged man. His step was feeble, his lip was wan ; He knelt him down on the new-raised mound, His face was bowed to the cold damp ground : Ho raised his head, liis tears were done, — The FATBBB Lad prayed o'er hit only bod. JTTKIOB PUPILS. 191 XL— CHRISTIAN WARFARE.— Chahlotte Elizabeth, Soldier, go — but not to claim mouldering epoils of earth-bom treaBuro; not to build a vaunting name, not to dwell in tents of pleasure. Dream not that the way is smooth, hope not that the thorns are roses ; turn no wisliful eye of youth where the sunny beam reposes ; — thou hast sterner work to do, hosts to cut thy passage through : close beliind thee gulfs are burning : — forward ! there is no returning. Soldier, rest — but not for thee spreads the world her downy pillow ; on the rock thy couch must be, while around thee chal'us the billow. Thine murt be a watcliful sleep, wearier than another's waking ; such a charge as thou dost keep, brooks no moment of forsaking. Sleep, as on the battle field ; girded — grasping Bword and shield : those thou canst not name nor number, steal upon thy broken slumber. Soldier, rise — the war is done ; lo ! the hosts of hell are flying; 'twas thy Lord the battle won; Jesus vanquished them by dying. Pass the stream ; — before thee lies all the conquered land of glory! Hark, what songs of rapture rise I these proclaim the Victor's Btory. Soldier, lay thy weapons dowTi ; quit the sword, and take the crown ; triumph 1 all thy foes are banished — Death is slain — and Earth hae vanished I XII.— THE FALL OF D'ASSAS.— Mrs Hemaks. Alone, through gloomy forest shades, a Soldier went by night ; No moon-beam pierced the dusky glades, no star shed guiding light ; Yet, on his vigil's midnight round, the youth all cheerly passed. Unchecked by aught of boding sound, that muttered in the blast. Where were his thoughts that lonely hour? — In his far home, per- chance — His father's hall — Ids mother's bower, 'midst the gay vines of France. ^Hush ! hark ! did stealing steps go by? came not' faint whispers near? No ! — The wild wind hath many a sigh, amidst the foliage sere. Hark I yet again I — and from his hand what grasp hath wrenched the blade? O, single, 'midst a hostile band, young Soldier, thou'rt betrayed ! " Silence 1" in under-tones they cry ; " no whisper — not a breath ! The sound that warns thy comrades nigh shall sentence thee to death." Still at the bayonet's point he stood, and strong to meet the blow; And shouted, 'midst his rushing blood, " Arm 1 arm ! — Auvergne 1 — tho foe I" The stir — the tramp — the bugle-call — he heard their tumults grow ; And sent his dying voice through all — " Auvergne 1 Auvergne 1 the foe V XIIL— THE MOTHER OF THE MACCABEES.— Callanan. That mother viewed the scene of blood ; her six unconquered sons were gone : fearless she viewed ; — beside her stood her last — her youngest — dearest one 1 He looked upon her, and he smiled ; — oh I will she save that only child? " By all my love, my son," she said, "the breast that nursed, — the 'anus that bore, — the unsleeping care that watched thee, — fed, — till manhood's years required no more ; by all I've wept and prayed for thee, now, now, he firm, and pity me I Look, I beseech thee, on yon heaven, with its high field of azure light ; look on this earth, to manland given, arrayed in beauty and in might ; and think, nor scorn thy mother's prayer, on Him who said it — and they were 1 So shalt thou not this tyrant fear, nor, recreant, shun the glorious strife ; behold ! thy battle-field is near; then go, my son, nor heed thy life ; go, like thy faithful brothers 192 BEC1TATI0N8 FOB die, — that I may meet you all on high !" Like arrow from the bendei bow ho sprang upon the bloody pilu : — like sun-rise on the morning's snow, was tliat heroic mother's smile. He died, — nor feared the tyrants nod — for Jud&b's law and Judah's God, XIV.— MIKIAM'S SONG.— MooBE. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark seal Jehovah has triumphed — His people are free 1 Sing ! — for the pride of the tyrant is broken : His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave, — How vain was their boasting 1 — the Lord hath but spoken. And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. Sound the loud timbrel o'er EgATit's dark sea 1 Jehovah has triumphed — His people are free ! Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord f His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword { Who shall return to tell Egypt the story Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride ? For the Lord hath looked out from his pillar of glory. And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide. Sound the loud timbrel o"er Egj'pt's dark sea : Jehovah has triumphed — His people are free I XV.— A PSALM OF LIFE.— Longfellow. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, " Life is but an empty dream !" for the sonl is dead that slumbers, and things are not what they seem. Lite is real 1 life is earnest ! and the grave is not its goal : " Dust thou art, to dust returnest," was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not Borrow, is our destined end or way ; but to act, that each To-morrow finds us farther than To-day. Art is long, and time is fleeting ; and our hearts, though stout and brave, still, like muillod drums, are bearing funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, in the bivouac of Life, be not like dumb, driven cattle 1 be a hero in the strife ! TruBt DO Future, howe'er pleasant I let the dead Past bury its dead ! Act — act in the living Present ! heart within, and God o'erhead ! Lives of great men all remind us we can make our lives sublime ; and, departing, leave behind us footprints on the sands of time ; — footprints that peihaps another. Bailing o'er Life's solemn main, a forlorn and shijiwrecked brother, seeing, ehall take heart again. Let us then be up and doing, with a heart for any fate ; still achieving, still pursuing,— learn to labour and to wait XVI.— GERTRUDE VON DER WART.— Mrs Hemaits. Her hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised, the breeze threw back her hair; Up to the fearful wheel she gazed ; — all that she loved was there I The night was round her clear and cold, the holy heaven above; Its pale stars watching to behold the might of earthly lovei. •* And bid me not depart," she cried : " my Rudolph, say not so ; This is no time to quit thy side ; peace — jieace : I cannot go. Hath the world aught for me to fear, when death is on thy brow? The world — what means it ? — mine is here ; I will not leave tiice now I " I have been ■with thee in thine hour of glory and of bliss ; Doubt not its memory's living power, to strengthen me through this: And thou, mine honoured lord and true, beai on, bear nobly on I We have the blessed heaven in view, whose r«st fthall soon be wear* JUNIOR PUPILS. 193 And were not these high words to flow from woman's breaking heart ? Through all that night of bitterest woe, she bore her lofty part ; But, oh I with such a glazing eye, with such a curdling cheek. Love, love, of mortal agony, thou, only thou, shouldst speak I The wind rose high, but with it rose her voice that he might hear : Perchance that dark hour brought repose to happy bosoms near, While she sat pining with despair, beside his tortured form. And pouring her deep soul in prayer, forth on the rushing storm. Oh ! lovely are ye. Love and Faith, enduring to the last ! Slie had hVr meed ! one smile in death — and his worn spirit passed I While, even as o'er a martyr's grave, she knelt on that sad spot ; And, weeping, blessed the God who gave strength to forsake it not I XVII.— EXCELSIOR.— Longfellow. The shades of night were falling fast, as through an Alpine village passed a youth, who bore 'mid snow and ice, a banner with the strange device. Excelsior ! His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, flashed like a falchion from its sheath ; and like a silver clarion rung the accents of that unknown tongue. Excelsior! In happy homes he saw the Ught of household fires gleam warm and bright ; above, the spectral glaciers ehone ; and frord his lips escaped a groan. Excelsior 1 " Try not the pass," the old man said : " dark lowers the tempest overhead, the roaring torrent is deep and wide 1" and loud that clarion voice replied. Excelsior I " Oh, stay," the maiden feaid, " and rest thy weary head upon this breast I" A tear stood in his bright blue eye; but still he answered with a sigh. Excelsior ! " Beware the pine-tree's withered branch 1 beware the awful avalanche 1" This was the peasant's last good night ; a voice repUed far up the height, Excelsior ! At break of day, as heavenward the pious monks of Saint Bernard uttered the oft-repeated prayer, a voice cried through the startled air. Excelsior! A traveller, by the faitliful hound, half-buried in the snow was found ; still grasping in his hand of ice, the banner with the strange device. Excelsior ! There in the twilight cold and grey, lifeless, but beautiful, he lay ; and from the sky, serene and far, a voice fell, like a falling star. Excelsior I XVIII.— THE SPRING JOURNEY.— Bishop Hebkb. green was the com as I rode on my way, And bright were the dews on the blossoms of May, And dark was the sycamore's shade to behold. And the oak's tender leaf was of emerald and gi>ld. The thrush from his holly, the lark from his cloud, Their chorus of rapture sang jovial and loud : From the soft vernal slcy to the soft grassy ground, There was beauty above me, beneath, and around. The mild southern breeze brought a shower from the hill ; And yet, though it left me all dripping and chill, 1 felt a new pleasure as onward I sped, To gaze where the rainbow gleamed broad over head- O such be Life's journey, and such be our skill. To lose in its blessings the sense of its ill ; Through sunshine and shower may our progress be even. And our tears add a charm to the prospect of Heaven ! N 194 RKOITATIONS FOR XIX.— THE JACKDAW.— CowTEB, There is a bird, that, by his coat, and by the hoarseness of his note, might be supposed a crow ; a great frequenter of the church,— where, bishop-like, he finds a perch, and dormitory too. Above the steeple shines a plate that turus and turns, to indicate from what ptjint blows the weather : look up — your brains bcirfn to swim ; 'tis in the clouds— that pleases him ; he chooses it the rather. Fond of the speculative height, thither he wings his airy flight; and thence securely sees the bustle and the raree-show that occupy mankind below — secure, and at his ease. You think, no doubt, he sits and muses on future broken bones and bruises, if be should chance to fall : no, not a single thought like tliat employs his philosophic pate, or troubles it at all. He sees that this great round-about, the world, with all its motley rout, church, army, physic, law, its customs and its businesses, are no concern at all of his; and say*— what says he? Caw. Thrice happy bird I I, too, have seen much of the vanities of men ; and, sick of having seen them, would cheerfully these limbs resign, for such a pair of wings as thine, and— such a head between them, XX,— JERUSALEM.— MooBB. Fallen is thy throne, O Israel 1 silence is o'er thy plains ! Thy dwellings all lie desolate, thy children weep in chains. Where are the dews that fed thee on Etham's barren shore? That fire from heaven, which led thee, now lights thy path no more I Lord, thou didst love Jerusalem ; once she was all thine own : Her love Thy fairest heritage, her power Thy glory's throne, Till evil came, and blighted thy long-loved olive-tree. And Salem's shrines were lighted for other gods than Thee. Then sank the star of Solyma ; then passed her glory's day. Like heath that, in the wUdemess, the light wind whirls away. Silent and waste her bowers, where once the mighty trod ; And sunk those guilty towers, where Baal reigned as God. " Go," said the Lord, " ye conquerors 1 steep in her blood your swords, And raze to earth her battlements, for they are not the Lord's I Till Zion's mournful daughter o'er kindred bones shall tread, And Hinnom's vale of slaughter shall hide but half her dead." nut soon shall other pictured scenes in brighter vision rise. When Zion's eun shall sevenfold shine on all her mourners' eyes; And on her mount-ains beauteous stand messengers of peace ; " Salvation by the Lord's right hand 1" they shout and never ceaaze of murderous guns, to struggle for the right. Our spears and swords are printed words, the mind our battle-plain ; We've won such victories before, — and so we shall again. The greatest triumphs sprung from force will stain the brightest cause 'Tis not in blood that Liberty inscribes her civil laws. She writes them on the people's ..eart in language clear and plain : — True thoughts have moved the world before, — and so they shall again. We yield to none in earnest love of Freedom's cause sublime ; We join the cry, " Fhaternity I" we keep the march of Time, And yet we grasp nor pike nor spear, oiir victories to obtain ; We've won without their aid before, — and so we shall again. We want no aid of barricade to show a front to Wrong ; We have a citadel in Truth, more durable and strong. Calm words, great thoughts, unflinching faith, have never striv'n in vain ; They've won our battles many a time, — and bo they shall again. Peace, Progress, Knowledge, Brotherhood — the ignorant may sneer. The bad deny : but we rely to sec tlivir triumph near. No vridows' groans slinll I