HER' O ISM, bravery; courage.
MA LI" CIOUS, ill disposed; resentful.
AM BI" TION, eager desire.
SAR CAS' TIC, severe; cutting.
DE RIS' ION, ridicule.
CON FER' RED, bestowed.
RES' CU ED, saved; preserved.
DIS AS' TER, calamity.
IN CLIN' ED, disposed.
SYM' PA THY, fellow-feeling.
TEN' DER ED, offered.
A POL' O GY, excuse.
OSBORNE.
1. I shall never forget a lesson which I received when quite
a young lad, while attending an Academy. Among my schoolmates
were Hartly and Vincent. They were both older than myself,
and Vincent was looked up to, as a sort of leader in matters
of opinion, and in directing our sports.
2. He was not, at heart, a malicious boy; but he had a
foolish ambition of being thought witty and sarcastic; and he
made himself feared by a habit of turning things into
ridicule. He seemed to be constantly looking out for
something to occur, which he could turn into derision.
3. Hartly was a new scholar, and little was known of him
among the boys. One morning as we were on our way to school,
he was seen driving a cow along the road toward the pasture.
A group of boys, among whom was Vincent, met him as he was
passing.
4. "Now," said Vincent, "let us have a little sport with our
country rustic." So saying, he exclaimed: "Halloo, Jonathan!
[Footnote: A title frequently applied to the Yankees by the
English.] what is the price of milk? What do you feed her on?
What will you take for all the gold on her horns? Boys, if
you want to see the latest Paris style, look at those boots!"
5. Hartly waved his hand at us with a pleasant smile, and,
driving the cow to the field, took down the bars of a
rail-fence, saw her safely in the pasture, and then, putting
up the bars, came and entered the school with the rest of us.
After school, in the afternoon, he let out the cow, and drove
her away, none of us knew where. Every day, for two or three
weeks, he went through the same task.
6. The boys who attended the Academy, were nearly all the
sons of wealthy parents, and some of them were foolish enough
to look down, with a sort of disdain, upon a scholar who had
to drive a cow to pasture; and the sneers and jeers of
Vincent were often repeated.
7. One day, he refused to sit next to Hartly in school, on a
pretense that he did not like the odor of the barn. Sometimes
he would inquire of Hartly after the cow's health,
pronouncing the word "ke-ow," after the manner of some
people.
8. Hartly bore all these silly attempts to wound his feelings
and annoy him, with the utmost good nature. He never once
returned an angry look or word. One time, Vincent said:
"Hartly, I suppose your father intends to make a milkman of
you."
9. "Why not?" said Hartly. "Oh, nothing," said Vincent; "only
do not leave much water in the cans after rinsing
them—that's all!" The boys laughed, and Hartly, not in
the least mortified, replied: "Never fear; if I ever rise to
be a milkman, I will give good measure and good
milk too."
10. A few days after this conversation, there was a public
exhibition, at which a number of ladies and gentlemen from
the city, was present. Prizes were awarded by the Principal
of the Academy, and Hartly and Vincent each received one;
for, in respect to scholarship, they were about equal.
11. After the prizes were distributed, the Principal remarked
that there was one prize, consisting of a medal, which
was rarely awarded, not so much on account of its
great value, as because the instances are rare that
merit it. It is THE PRIZE FOR HEROISM. The last boy on whom
it was conferred, was Master Manners, who, three years ago,
rescued the blind girl from drowning.
12. The Principal then said, "With the permission of the
company, I will relate a short story. Not long since, some
boys were flying a kite in the street, just as a poor boy on
horseback rode by, on his way to mill. The horse took fright,
and threw the boy, injuring him so badly that he was carried
home, and confined for some weeks to his bed.
13. "None of the boys who had caused the disaster, followed
to learn the fate of the wounded boy. There was one, however,
who witnessed the accident from a distance, and went to
render what service he could. He soon learned that the
wounded boy was the grandson of a poor widow, whose only
support consisted in selling the milk of a fine cow, of which
she was the owner.
14. "Alas! what could she now do? She was old and lame, and
her grandson, on whom she depended to drive the cow to
pasture, was now sick and helpless. 'Never mind, good woman,'
said the boy, 'I can drive your cow.' With thanks, the poor
widow accepted his offer.
15. "But the boy's kindness did not stop here. Money was
wanted to purchase medicine. 'I have money that my mother
sent me to buy a pair of boots,' said the boy; 'but I can do
without them for the present.'
16. "'Oh, no!' said the old lady, 'I can not consent to that;
but here is a pair of cowhide boots that I bought for Henry,
who can not wear them. If you will buy them, giving me what
they cost, I can get along very well.' The boy bought the
boots, clumsy as they were, and has worn them up to this
time.
17. "When the other boys of the Academy saw this scholar
driving a cow to the pasture, he was assailed with laughter
and ridicule. His thick cowhide boots, in particular, were
made matters of mirth. But he kept on cheerfully and bravely,
day after day, driving the widow's cow to the pasture, and
wearing his thick boots, contented in the thought that he was
doing right, not caring for all the jeers and sneers
that could be uttered.
18. "He never undertook to explain why he drove the cow; for
he was not inclined to display his charitable motives, and
besides, in heart, he had no sympathy with the false pride
that looks with ridicule on any useful employment. It was by
mere accident that his course of conduct and
self-denial, was yesterday discovered by his teacher.
19. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, I appeal to you. Was
there not true heroism in this boy's conduct? Nay,
Master Hartly, do not steal out of sight behind the
blackboard! You were not ashamed of ridicule—you
must not shun praise. Come forth, come forth, Master
Edward James Hartly, and let us see your honest face!"
20. As Hartly, with blushing cheeks, made his appearance, the
whole company greeted him with a round of applause for his
heroic conduct. The ladies stood upon benches, and
waved their handkerchiefs. The old men clapped their hands,
and wiped the moisture from the corners of their eyes. Those
clumsy boots on Hartly's feet seemed prouder ornaments, than
a crown would have been on his head. The medal was bestowed
on him, amid the applause of the whole company.
21. Vincent was heartily ashamed of his ill-natured sneers,
and, after the school was dismissed, he went, with tears in
his eyes, and tendered his hand to Hartly, making a handsome
apology for his past ill manners. "Think no more about it,"
said Hartly; "let us all go and have a ramble in the woods,
before we break up for vacation." The boys, one and all,
followed Vincent's example, and then, with shouts and huzzas,
they all set forth into the woods—a happy, cheerful
group.
QUESTIONS.—1. In what way did Vincent try to make
derision of Hartly? 2. How did Hartly receive it? 3. For what
did Hartly receive a prize from his teacher? 4. How did the
spectators manifest their approbation of Hartly's conduct?
A VERT' ED, turned aside.
RE PENT' ANT, contrite; sorrowful.
SIN CERE', honest; true-hearted.
SE VERE', harsh; rigid
TAUNTS, scoffs; insults.
PLATE, dishes of gold or silverware.
DE SERT', forsake; abandon.
FAIL' URE, want of success.
SID' ING, taking part.
TYR' AN NY, oppression; cruelty.
CHARLES MACKAY.
1. Who would scorn his humble fellow
For the coat he wears?
For the poverty he suffers?
For his daily cares?
Who would pass him in the foot-way
With averted eye?
Would you, brother'? No`,—you would not.
If you would,—not I.
2. Who, when vice or crime repentant,
With a grief sincere,
Asked for pardon, would refuse it,
More than heaven severe?
Who, to erring woman's sorrow,
Would with taunts reply?
Would you, brother'! No`,—you would not.
If you would,—not I.
3. Would you say that Vice is Virtue
In a hall of state'?
Or, that rogues are not dishonest
If they dine off plate'?
Who would say Success and Merit
Ne'er part company?
Would you, brother'? No`,—you would not.
If you would,—not I.
4. Who would give a cause his efforts
When the cause is strong;
But desert it on its failure,
Whether right or wrong`?
Ever siding with the upmost,
Letting downmost lie?
Would you, brother'? No`,—you would not.
If you would,—not I.
5. Who would lend his arm to strengthen
Warfare with the right`?
Who would give his pen to blacken
Freedom's page of light`?
Who would lend his tongue to utter
Praise of tyranny?
Would you, brother'? No`,—you would not.
If you would,—not I.
QUESTIONS.—1. What rule for the rising and falling
inflections, first verse? See page 28. 2. Repeat the rule. 3.
What rule for the falling inflections, fifth verse? See page
29. 4. Repeat the rule. What is the meaning of the suffix
en, in the words strengthen, blacken?
See SANDERS and McELLIGOTT'S ANALYSIS OF ENGLISH WORDS, p.
132, Ex. 174.
WAR' FARE, conflict; struggle.
CLUTCH ES, paws; firm grasp.
DO MIN' ION, rule; sway.
PIN' ION, wing; as of a bird.
PRE' CIOUS, costly; valuable.
SCOFF' ER, scorner.
VA' RI ED, changing; different.
WAVES, moves to and fro.
PRO PHET' IC, (ph like f.) foretelling.
DE SPISE', scorn; disdain.
GOAL, the mark that bounds a race.
BECK' ON, motion; invite with the hand.
1. Life is onward: use it
With a forward aim;
Toil is heavenly: choose it,
And its warfare claim.
Look not to another
To perform your will;
Let not your own brother
Keep your warm hand still.
2. Life is onward: never
Look upon the past;
It would hold you ever
In its clutches fast.
Now is your dominion;
Weave it as you please;
Bid not the soul's pinion
To a bed of ease.
3. Life is onward: try it,
Ere the day is lost;
It hath virtue: buy it,
At whatever cost.
If the World should offer
Every precious gem,
Look not at the scoffer,
Change it not for them.
4. Life is onward: heed it,
In each varied dress;
Your own act can speed it
On to happiness.
His bright pinion o'er you
Time waves not in vain,
If Hope chant before you
Her prophetic strain.
5. Life is onward: prize it,
In sunshine and in storm;
Oh! do not despise it
In its humblest form.
Hope and Joy together,
Standing at the goal,
Through life's darkest weather
Beckon on the soul.
QUESTIONS.—1. What do it and them refer
to, third verse, last line? 2. Repeat the word
sunshine several times in quick succession.
AC CUS' TOM ED, used; habituated.
PLAN TA' TIONS, settlements.
PRO TEC' TION, safety; defense.
RE PROACH' FUL, reproving.
CAP' TUR ED, taken prisoners.
DE CID' ED, concluded.
COR O NET, little crown.
SA LUT' ED, greeted.
MON' ARCH, sovereign; ruler.
CON CEAL' ED, hid; secreted.
RE STOR' ED, brought back.
VI' O LENCE, outrage; wrong.
RE BUK' ED, reproved.
LEAGUE, compact; alliance.
TER' RI BLE, fearful; dreadful.
AT TEND' ANT, waiter; servant.
1. Many years ago, dining the early settlements in New
England, the children were accustomed to gather large
quantities of nuts, which grew in great abundance in the
forests that surrounded their little plantations.
2. In one of these nut-gatherings, a little boy and girl, the
one eight and the other four years of age, whose mother was
dead, became separated from their companions. On their way
home, they came across some wild grapes, and were busily
engaged in gathering them, till the last rays of the setting
sun were fading away.
3. Suddenly they were seized by two Indians. The boy
struggled violently, and his little sister cried to him for
protection; but in vain. The Indians soon bore them far
beyond the bounds of the settlement. Night was far advanced
before they halted. Then they kindled a fire, and offered the
children some food.
4. The heart of the boy swelled high with grief and anger,
and he refused to eat. But the poor little girl took some
parched corn from the hand of the Indian who held her on his
knee. He smiled as he saw her eat the kernels, and look up in
his face with a wondering, yet reproachful eye. Then they lay
down to sleep in the dark forest, each with an arm over his
little captive.
5. Great was the alarm in the colony when these children did
not return. Every spot was searched, where it was thought
possible they might have lost their way. But when, at length,
their little basket was found, overturned in a tangled
thicket, they came to the conclusion that they must have been
captured by the Indians.
6. It was decided that before any warlike measures were
adopted, the father should go peacefully to the Indian king,
and demand his children. At the earliest dawn of morning he
departed with his companions. They met a friendly Indian
pursuing the chase, who consented to be their guide.
7. They traveled through rude paths, until the day drew near
a close. Then, approaching a circle of native dwellings, in
the midst of which was a tent, they saw a man of lofty form,
with a coronet of feathers upon his brow, and surrounded by
warriors. The guide saluted him as his monarch, and the
bereaved father, bowing down, thus addressed him:
8. "King of the red men, thou seest a father in pursuit of
his lost children. He has heard that your people will not
harm the stranger in distress. So he trusts himself
fearlessly among you. The king of our own native land, who
should have protected us, became our foe. We fled from our
dear homes—from the graves of our fathers.
9. "The ocean wave brought us to this New World. We are a
peaceful race, pure from the blood of all men. We seek to
take the hand of our red brethren. Of my own kindred, none
inhabit this wilderness, save two little buds, from a broken,
buried stem.
10. "Last night, sorrow entered into my soul, because I found
them not. Knowest thou, O king, if thy people have taken my
children'? Knowest thou where they have concealed them'?
Cause them, I pray thee, to be restored to my arms. So shall
the Great Spirit bless thy own tender plants, and lift up thy
heart when it weigheth heavily on they bosom."
11. The Indian monarch, fixing on him a piercing glance,
said: "Knowest thou me'? Look in my eyes`! Look`! Answer me`!
Are they the eyes of a stranger`!" The bereaved father
replied that he had no recollection of having ever before
seen his countenance.
12. "Thus it is with the white man. He is dim-eyed. He
looketh on the garments more than on the soul.
Where your plows turn up the earth, oft have I stood watching
your toil. There was no coronet on my brow. But I was king.
And you knew it not.
13. "I looked upon your people. I saw neither pride nor
violence. I went an enemy, but returned a
friend. I said to my warriors, 'Do these men no harm.
They do not hate Indians.' Then our white-haired prophet of
the Great Spirit rebuked me. He bade me make no league with
the pale faces, lest angry words should be spoken of me,
among the shades of our buried kings.
14. "Yet, again, I went where thy brethren have reared their
dwellings. Yes; I entered thy house. And thou knowest not
this brow'? I could tell thine at midnight, if but
a single star trembled through the clouds. My ear would know
thy voice, though the storm was abroad with all its
thunders.
15. "I have said that I was king. Yet I came to thee hungry,
and thou gavest me bread. My head was wet with the tempest.
Thou badest me lie down on thy couch, and thy son, for whom
thou mournest, covered me.
16. "I was sad in spirit, and thy little daughter, whom thou
seekest with tears, sat on my knee. She smiled when I told
her how the beaver buildeth his house in the forest. My heart
was comforted, for I saw that she did not hate Indians.
17. "Turn not on me such a terrible eye. I am no stealer of
babes. I have reproved the people who took thy children. I
have sheltered them for thee. Not a hair of their head is
hurt. Thinkest thou that the red man can forget kindness'?
They are sleeping in my tent. Had I but a single blanket, it
should have been their bed. Take them, and return unto thy
people."
18. He waved his hand to an attendant, and, in a moment, the
two children were in the arms of their father. The white men
were kindly sheltered for that night, and, the next day, they
bore the children to their home, and the people rejoiced at
their safe return.
QUESTIONS.—1. By whom wore those children taken
captive? 2. Who went in search of them? 3. What did he say to
the king of the tribe? 4. What reply did the Indian monarch
make? 5. Were the children restored to their father? 6. What
is meant by the New World, 9th paragraph? 7. What by
two little buds, from a broken, buried stem, same
paragraph?
IM' AGE. form; likeness.
ELAPS' ED, glided away.
WAY' WARD NESS, perverseness.
SHUD' DER ING, chilling tremor.
PAS' SION ATE, easily excited to anger.
MAS' TER Y, rule; sway.
HEAD' STRONG, stubborn; obstinate.
UN DER WENT', experienced.
AF FEC' TION, love; attachment.
THRESH' OLD, entrance.
ANX I' E TY, care; solicitude.
PER PET' U AL, continual.
MRS. E. OAKES SMITH.
1. I was but five years old when my mother died; but her
image is as fresh in my mind, now that twenty years have
elapsed, as it was at the time of her death. I remember her,
as a pale, gentle being, with a sweet smile, and a voice soft
and cheerful when she praised me; and when I had erred, (for
I was a wild, thoughtless child,) there was a mild and tender
earnestness in her reproofs, that always went to my little
heart.
2. Methinks I can now see her large, blue eyes moist with
sorrow, because of my childish waywardness, and hear her
repeat: "My child, how can you grieve me so?" She had, for a
long time, been pale and feeble, and sometimes there would
come a bright spot on her cheek, which made her look so
lovely, I thought she must be well. But then she spoke of
dying, and pressed me to her bosom, and told me to be good
when she was gone, and to love my father, and be kind to him;
for he would have no one else to love.
3. I recollect she was ill all day, and my little hobbyhorse
and whip were laid aside, and I tried to be very quiet. I did
not see her for the whole day, and it seemed very long. At
night, they told me my mother was too sick to kiss me, as she
always had done before I went to bed, and I must go without
it. But I could not. I stole into the room, and placing my
lips close to hers, whispered: "Mother, dear mother, won't
you kiss me?"
4. Her lips were very cold, and when she put her hand upon my
cheek, and laid my head on her bosom, I felt a cold
shuddering pass all through me. My father carried me from the
room; but he could not speak. After they put me in bed, I lay
a long while thinking; I feared my mother would, indeed, die;
for her cheek felt cold, as my little sister's did when she
died, and they carried her little body away where I never saw
it again. But I soon fell asleep.
5. In the morning I rushed to my mother's room, with a
strange dread of evil to come upon me. It was just as I
feared. A white linen covered her straight, cold form. I
removed it from her face: her eyes were closed, and her
cheeks were hard and cold. But my mother's dear, dear smile
was there, or my heart would have broken.
6. In an instant, all the little faults, for which she had so
often reproved me, rushed upon my mind. I longed to tell her
how good I would always be, if she would but stay with me. I
longed to tell her how, in all time to come, her words would
be a law to me. I would be all that she had wished me to be.
7. I was a passionate, headstrong boy; and never did this
frame of temper come upon me, but I seemed to see her mild,
tearful eyes full upon me, just as she used to look in life;
and when I strove for the mastery over my passions, her smile
seemed to cheer my heart, and I was happy.
8. My whole character underwent a change, even from the
moment of her death. Her spirit seemed to be always with me,
to aid the good and root out the evil that was
in me. I felt it would grieve her gentle spirit to see me
err, and I could not, would not, do so.
9. I was the child of her affection. I knew she had prayed
and wept over me; and that even on the threshold of the
grave, her anxiety for my welfare had caused her spirit to
linger, that she might pray once more for me. I never forgot
my mother's last kiss. It was with me in sorrow; it was with
me in joy; it was with me in moments of evil, like a
perpetual good.
QUESTIONS.—1. What was the age of the person
represented in this piece? 2. What, when his mother died? 3.
What did he say of himself when a child? 4. Had he ever
grieved his mother? 5. What did he say of his faults,
after his mother's death? 6. What did he desire to tell her?
7. How ought you to treat your mother, in order to avoid the
reproaches of your own conscience?
SUR PRISE', amazement.
PER' ISH ED, died.
STINT' ED, small of size.
STERN, severe; harsh; rigid.
LOI' TER, linger; tarry.
STAG' GER ED, reeled to and fro.
FORD' ED, waded.
ES CAP ED, fled from.
MRS. E. OAKES SMITH.
1. "Dear mother, here's the very place
Where little John was found,
The water covering up his face,
His feet upon the ground.
Now won't you tell me all about
The death of little John'?
And how the woman sent him out
Long after sun was down'?
And tell me all about the wrong,
And that will make the story long."
2. I took the child upon my knee
Beside the lake so clear;
For there the tale of misery
Young Edward begged to hear
He looked into my very eyes,
With sad and earnest face,
And caught his breath with wild surprise,
And turned to mark the place
Where perished, years agone, the child
Alone, beneath the waters wild.
3. "A weakly orphan boy was John,
A barefoot, stinted child,
Whose work-day task was never done,
Who wept when others smiled.
Around his home the trees were high,
Down to the water's brink,
And almost hid the pleasant sky,
Where wild deer came to drink."
(")"And did they come, the pretty deer'?
And did they drink the water here'?"
4. Cried Edward, with a wondering eye:
"Now, mother, tell to me,
Was John about as large as I'?
Pray tell, how big was he'?"
"He was an older boy than you,
And stouter every way;
For, water from the well he drew,
And hard he worked all day.
But then poor John was sharp and thin,
With sun-burnt hair and sun-burnt skin.
5. "His mother used to spin and weave;
From farm to farm she went;
And, though it made her much to grieve,
She John to service sent.
He lived with one, a woman stern,
Of hard and cruel ways;
And he must bring her wood to burn,
From forest and highways;
And then, at night, on cold, hard bed,
He laid his little, aching head.
6. "The weary boy had toiled all day
With heavy spade and hoe;
His mistress met him on the way,
And bade him quickly go
And bring her home some sticks of wood,
For she would bake and brew;
When he returned, she'd give him food;
For she had much to do.
And then she charged him not to stay,
Nor loiter long upon the way.
7. "He went; but scarce his toil-worn feet
Could crawl along the wood,
He was so spent with work and heat,
And faint for lack of food.
He bent his aching, little back
To bear the weight along,
And staggered then upon the track;
For John was never strong;
His eyesight, too, began to fail,
And he grew giddy, faint, and pale.
8. "The load was small, quite small, 'tis true,
But John could bring no more;
The woman in a rage it threw,—
She stamped upon the floor.
(f.) 'No supper you shall have to-night;
So go along to bed,
You good-for-nothing, ugly fright,
You little stupid-head!'"
Said Edward: "I would never go;
She wouldn't dare to serve me so!"
9. "The moon-beams fell upon the child
As, weeping, there he lay;
And gusty winds were sweeping wild
Along the forest way,
When up rose John, at dead of night;
For he would see his mother;
She loved her child, although he might
Be nothing to another.
That narrow creek he forded o'er,—
'Tis nearer than around the shore.
10. "But here the shore is rough, you see;
The bank is high and steep;
And John, who climbed on hands and knee,
His footing could not keep.
He backward fell, all, all alone;
Too weak was he to rise;
(pl.) And no one heard his dying moan,
Or closed his dying eyes.
How still he slept! And grief and pain
Could never come to him again.
11. "A stranger, passing on his way,
Found him, as you have said;
His feet were out upon the clay,
The water o'er his head.
And then his foot-prints showed the path
He took, adown the creek,
When he escaped the woman's wrath,
So hungry, faint, and weak.
And people now, as you have heard,
Do call the place, THE DEAD CHILD'S FORD."
QUESTIONS.—1. Was John an orphan, or half orphan? 2.
Was he drowned at night, or in the daytime? 8. By whom was he
found? 4. What is the place called where he was drowned? 5.
Give the rule for the rising inflections, as marked in the
1st, 2d, and 4th verses. 6. Why are there no quotation marks
at the beginning of the 2d verse? 7. Why are half quotations
used in the 3d and 8th verses? 8. How should a part of the
8th and 10th verses be read, according to the notation marks?
See page 41.
EX CLAIM' ED, cried out.
DE MAND' ING, asking; requiring.
A MISS', wrong; improperly.
AC CUS' ED, charged with.
BREACH, violation.
VIS' ION, sight; view.
DE SCRIP' TION, account.
SLUG' GARD, lazy person.
[Footnote: For an explanation of the term fable, see page
236.]
1. Two beggars, LAME and LAZY, were in want of bread.
One leaned on his crutch, the other reclined on
his couch. Lame called on Charity, and humbly asked for a
cracker. Instead of a cracker, he received a
loaf.
2. Lazy, seeing the gift of Charity, exclaimed: "What`! ask a
cracker and receive a loaf'? Well, I will ask a
loaf." Lazy now applied to Charity, and called for a loaf of
bread. "Your demanding a loaf," said Charity, "proves you a
loaf-er. You are of that class and character who
ask and receive not; because you ask amiss."
3. Lazy, who always found fault, and had rather whine than
work, complained of ill-treatment, and even accused
Charity of a breach of an exceeding great and precious
promise: "Ask, and ye shall receive."
4. Charity pointed him to a painting in her room, which
presented to his vision three personages, Faith, Hope and
Charity. Charity appeared larger and fairer than her sisters.
He noticed that her right hand held a pot of honey, which fed
a bee disabled, having lost its wings. Her left hand was
armed with a whip to keep off the drones.
5. "I do not understand it," said Lazy. Charity replied: "It
means that Charity feeds the lame, and flogs
the lazy." Lazy turned to go. "Stop," said Charity, "instead
of coin, I will give you counsel. Do not go and
live on your poor mother; I will send you to a rich
ant."
6. "Rich aunt'?" echoed Lazy. "Where shall I find
her'?" "You will find a description of her," replied Charity,
"in Proverbs, sixth chapter, sixth, seventh, and eighth
verses, which read as follows: 'Go to the ant, thou sluggard;
consider her ways, and be wise; which, having no guide,
overseer, or ruler, provided her meat in summer, and
gathereth her food in the harvest.'"
7. MORAL. Instead of waiting and wishing for a rich UNCLE to
die, go and see how a rich ANT lives.
QUESTIONS.—1. Where is the quotation in the 3d
paragraph to be found? Answer. John, 16th chapter, 24th
verse. 2. Where, the quotation in the sixth paragraph? 3. Why
does it commence with a half quotation? Answer. Because it
denotes a quotation within a quotation.
HAUGH'TY, proud; disdainful.
PAR TIC' U LAR LY, especially.
TRANS ACT', do; perform.
A BASH' ED, confused.
DIS COV' ER, find out.
EX AM' INE (egz am' in), look over; inspect.
REC' TI FY, correct; make right.
REC' OM PENSE, reward.
DE SERVES', merits.
DE CLIN' ING, failing.
PRE VENT' ED, hindered.
AP PRO BA' TION, approval.
PRE'CEPTS, instructions; counsels.
BEN E FAC' TOR, friend; one that benefits.
A MASS' ED, gathered.
A DAPT' ED, suited.
CON FI DEN' TIAL, trusty; trusted.
IN TEG' RI TY, honesty.
ELIZA A. CHASE.
1. "Is Mr. Harris in'?" inquired a plainly, but neatly
dressed boy, twelve or thirteen years of age, of a clerk, as
he stood by the counter of a large bookstore.
The clerk regarded the boy with a haughty look, and answered:
"Mr. Harris is in; but he is engaged."
2. The boy looked at the clerk hesitatingly, and then said:
"If he is not particularly engaged, I would like to see him."
"If you have any business to transact, I can attend to
it," replied the clerk. "Mr. Harris can not be troubled with
boys like you."
3. "What is this, Mr. Morley?" said a pleasant-looking man,
stepping up to the clerk; "what does the boy want?"
"He insisted on seeing you, though I told him you were
engaged," returned the clerk, a little abashed by the manner
of his employer.
4. "And what do you wish to see me about, my lad?" inquired
Mr. Harris, kindly.
The boy raised his eyes, and, meeting the scornful glance of
the clerk, said timidly: "I wish you to look at the bill of
some books which I bought here, about three months since.
There is a mistake in it, which I wish to correct."
5. "Ah, my boy, I see," replied Mr. Harris; "you have
overpaid us, I suppose!"
"No, sir," answered the boy. "On the contrary, I purchased
some books which are not charged in the bill, and I
have called to pay for them."
6. Mr. Harris looked at the boy earnestly for a moment, and
then asked: "When did you discover this mistake?"
"Not until I reached home," replied the lad. "When I paid for
the books I was in a great hurry, fearing the boat would
leave before I could reach it, and I did not examine the
bill."
7. "Why did you not return before, and rectify the mistake?"
asked the gentleman, in a tone slightly altered.
"Because, sir, I live some distance from the city, and have
not been able to return till now."
8. "My dear boy," said Mr. Harris, "you have given me great
pleasure. In a long life of mercantile business, I have never
met with an instance of this kind before. You have acted
nobly and deserve a recompense."
"I ask no recompense," returned the boy. "I have done
nothing but my duty—a simple act of justice, and
that deserves no reward, but itself."
9. "May I ask who taught you such noble principles'?"
inquired Mr. Harris.
"My mother'," answered the boy, bursting into tears.
10. "Blessed is the child who has such a mother," said Mr.
Harris, "and blessed is the mother of such a child. Be
faithful to her teachings, my dear boy, and you will be the
staff of her declining years."
"Alas, sir," said the boy, "my mother is dead! It was her
sickness and death which prevented me from coming here
before."
11. "What is your name?" inquired Mr. Harris.
"Edward Delong."
"Have you a father living'?"
"No, sir. My father died when I was an infant."
12. "Where do you reside?"
"In the town of Linwood, about fifty miles from this city."
"Well, my boy, what are the books which were forgotten?"
"Tacitus and a Latin Dictionary."
13. "Let me see the bill. Ha! signed by A. C. Morley. I will
see to that. Here, Mr. Morley!" called Mr. Harris; but the
clerk was busily engaged in waiting on a customer at the
opposite side of the store, bowing and smiling in the most
attentive manner.
14. "Edward," continued Mr. Harris, "I am not going to
reward you for what you have done; but I wish to
manifest my approbation of your conduct in such a manner, as
to make you remember the wise and excellent precepts of your
departed mother. Select from my store any ten books you
choose, which, in addition to the two you had before, shall
be a present to you; and henceforth, as now, my boy,
remember and not 'despise the day of small things.' If ever
you need a friend, call on me, and I will assist you."
15. The grateful boy thanked his kind benefactor, and, with
tears in his eyes, bowed and left the store.
Edward Delong wished for knowledge, and, though the scanty
means left him by his mother, could hardly satisfy his
desire, by diligence and economy he had advanced far beyond
most boys of his age. By working nights and mornings for a
neighbor, he had amassed, what seemed to him, a large sum of
money, and this was expended in books.
16. Edward's home was now with a man who regarded money as
the chief end and aim of life, and severe and constant
physical labor as the only means of obtaining that end. For
two years Edward struggled with his hopeless condition,
toiling early and late to obtain a livelihood.
17. Edward now resolved to go to the city, to seek some
employment, better adapted to promote his education. He
entered the same store where he purchased the books, and
inquired for Mr. Harris.
"He is engaged," replied the polite clerk. "If you will wait
a moment, he will be at liberty."
18. "Did you wish to see me?" asked Mr. Harris of the boy,
whose thoughts were so intense that he had not noticed the
approach of his friend.
"Mr. Harris!" exclaimed Edward, and it was all he could say.
For the remembrance of past favors bestowed on him by his
kind benefactor, so filled his heart with gratitude, that
further utterance was denied.
"My noble Edward!" said the old gentleman. "And so you needed
a friend. Well, you shall have one."
19. Five years from that time, Edward Delong was the
confidential clerk of Mr. Harris, and, in three more, a
partner in the firm. The integrity of purpose, which first
won the regard of his benefactor, was his guide in after
life. Prosperity crowned his efforts, and happiness blessed
his heart,—the never-failing result of faithfulness
in little things.
QUESTIONS.—1. Why did Edward Delong wish to see Mr.
Harris? 2. Had he overpaid for the books he purchased? 3.
What did he say when Mr. Harris told him he deserved a
recompense? 4. What books were not charged in the bill? 5. In
what way did Mr. Harris manifest his approval of Edward's
conduct? 6. How long after this, before he again called on
Mr. Harris? 7. Why could he not, at first, talk with Mr.
Harris? 8. What did Edward finally become?
GRACE' FUL LY, beautifully.
PROUD' LY, splendidly.
FOR' EIGN (for' en), distant.
CLIMES, countries; regions.
SYM' BOL, sign; emblem.
FEAR' FUL, dreadful; terrible.
CAN' NON RY, discharge of cannon.
JU' BI LEE, season of public joy.
WIT' NESS ED, seen; beheld.
NA' TIVE, birth-giving.
BOON, gift; blessing.
PAR' A DISE, blissful abode.
SON.
Father, look up, and see that flag!
How gracefully it flies!
Those pretty stripes, they seem to be
A rainbow in the skies.
FATHER.
It is your country's flag, my boy,
And proudly drinks the light,
O'er ocean's wave, in foreign climes,
A symbol of our might.
SON.
Father, what fearful noise is that,
Now thundering in the clouds?
Why do they, cheering, wave their hat,
And rush along in crowds?
FATHER.
It is the voice of cannonry,
The glad shouts of the free;
This is a day of memory,
'Tis FREEDOM'S JUBILEE!
SON.
I wish that I was now a man,
I'd free my country too,
And cheer as loudly as the rest;
But, father, why don't you?
FATHER.
I'm getting old and weak; but still
My heart is big with joy;
I've witnessed many a day like this,
Shout you aloud, my boy!
SON.
|
(oo)
|
HURRAH, FOR FREEDOM'S JUBILEE,
|
|
God bless our native land!
|
|
And may I live to hold the boon
|
|
Of freedom in my hand.
|
FATHER.
Well done, my boy, grow up, and love
The land that gave you birth,—
A land where Freedom loves to dwell,—
A paradise on earth.
QUESTIONS.—1. Of what is our flag a symbol? 2. What is
meant by Freedom's jubilee? 3. What is the use of the
apostrophes in the words I'd, I'm, I've,
&c.
BIL' LOWS, waves; surges.
DE LIGHT', joy; pleasure.
DOOM, fate; end.
TWINK' LES, sparkles.
GLARE, bright, dazzling light.
EX PANSE', surface; extent.
SWEEP, pass or drive over.
RIFE, filled; abounding.
VOY' AGE, passage; journey.
AN' CHOR ED, moored; fixed.
HA' VEN, harbor.
PEACE' FUL LY, quietly; calmly.
WRITTEN BY A GIRL THIRTEEN YEARS OF AGE.
1.
('') Oh! the sea, the sea
Is the place for me,
With its billows blue and bright;
I love its roar,
As it breaks on the shore,
And its danger to me is delight.
2.
Oh! I love the wave,
And the sailor brave,
Who often meets his doom
On the ocean vast,
And sleeps his last
In a shell and coral tomb.
3.
And, in the night,
The moon's soft light
Smiles sweetly on the foamy billow:
And many a star,
As it twinkles afar,
Seems to rise from a watery pillow.
4.
In the noontide glare,
Oh! bright and fair
Is the wide expanse of ocean;
In the morn's first light
'Tis a glorious sight,
So full of life and motion.
5.
When the tempests sweep
The rolling deep,
And the angry billows swell,
I mind not the strife,
Which to me is rife
With thoughts that I can not tell.
6.
When life's voyage is o'er,
And I sail no more
On the ocean's troubled breast,
Safe anchored above,
In the haven of love,
May the sailor boy peacefully rest.
QUESTIONS.—1. What is meant by coral tomb, 2d
verse? 2. What, by watery pillow, third verse.
FOUN DA' TION, commencement.
DO MES' TI CA TED, tamed.
FA' VOR ITE, one specially favored.
CA RESS' ED, fondled; petted.
GAM' BOL ING, skipping; frolicking.
IM' PULSE, feeling of excitement.
DI LAT' ED, distended.
SPEC TA' TORS, observers; lookers on.
EN DEAV' OR ED, tried; attempted.
ANX' IOUS, very desirous.
IN TER CEPT', (INTER, between; CEPT, to take
or seize;) to stop on the way.
BE TRAY' ED, showed; disclosed.
RE STRAIN' ED, held back; checked.
COW' ED, depressed with fear.
EN GRAV' ED, cut; inscribed.
In this lesson every pause is marked with its appropriate
inflection.
MISS COOPER.
1. Within twenty years from the foundation of our village',
[Footnote: Cooperstown, New York.] the deer had already
become scarce', and', in a brief period later', they had
almost entirely fled from the country`. One of the last of
these beautiful creatures, a pretty little fawn, had been
brought in from the woods, when it was very young, and had
been nursed and petted by a young lady in the village, until
it became completely domesticated.
2. It was graceful, as those little creatures always are, and
so gentle and playful that it became a great favorite.
Following the different members of the family about, it was
caressed and welcomed everywhere. One morning, after
gamboling about as usual, until weary, it threw itself down
in the sunshine, at the feet of one of its friends, upon the
door-step of a store.
3. There came along a countryman, who, for several years, had
been a hunter by pursuit, and who still kept several hounds,
one of which came to the village with him, on this occasion.
The dog, as it approached the place where the fawn lay,
suddenly stopped; the little animal saw him, and darted to
its feet.
4. It had lived more than half its life among the villagers,
and had apparently lost all fear of them; but it now seemed
to know instinctively that an enemy was at hand. In an
instant, its whole character and appearance seemed changed;
all its past habits were forgotten; every wild impulse was
awake; its head erect, its nostrils dilated, its eyes
flashing.
5. In another instant, before the spectators had thought of
the danger, and before its friends could secure it, the fawn
was leaping wildly through the street, and the hound in full
chase. The by-standers were eager to save it; several persons
instantly followed its track; the friends who had long fed
and fondled it, were calling the name it had hitherto known;
but, in vain.
6. The hunter endeavored to call back his dog; but, with no
better success. In half a minute, the fawn had turned the
first corner, dashed onward toward the lake, and thrown
itself into the water. But, if, for a moment, the startled
creature believed itself safe in the lake, it was soon
undeceived; for the hound followed in hot and eager chase,
while a dozen village dogs joined in the pursuit.
7. A large crowd collected on the bank—men, women, and
children,—anxious for the fate of the little animal.
Some threw themselves into boats, hoping to intercept the
hound before he reached his prey. But the splashing of the
oars, the voices of men and boys, and the barking of the
dogs, must have filled the beating heart of the poor fawn
with terror and anguish; as if every creature on the spot
where it had once been caressed and fondled, had suddenly
turned into a deadly foe.
8. It was soon seen that the fawn was directing its course
across a bay, toward the nearest borders of the forest.
Immediately the owner of the hound crossed the bridge, ran at
full speed in the same direction, hoping to stop his dog as
he landed. On swam the fawn, as it had never swam before; its
delicate head scarcely seen above the water, but leaving a
disturbed track which betrayed its course alike to anxious
friends and fierce enemies.
9. As it approached the land, the interest became intense.
The hunter was already on the same side of the lake, calling
loudly and angrily to his dog; but the animal seemed to have
quite forgotten his master's voice in the pitiless pursuit.
The fawn touched the land; in one leap, it had crossed the
narrow piece of beach, and, in another instant, it would
reach the cover of the woods.
10. The hound followed true to the scent, aiming at the same
spot on the shore. His master, anxious to meet him, had run
at full speed, and was now coming up at the same critical
moment. Would the dog listen to his voice? Could the hunter
reach him in time to seize and control him? A shout from the
spectators proclaimed that the fawn had passed out of sight
into the forest. At the same instant, the hound, as he
touched the land, felt the hunter's strong arm clutching his
neck.
11. The worst was believed to be over; the fawn was leaping
up the mountain-side, and its enemy restrained. The other
dogs, seeing their leader cowed, were easily managed. A
number of men and boys dispersed themselves through the wood
in search of the little creature; but, without success. They
all returned to the village, reporting that the animal had
not been seen by them. Some persons thought that, after its
fright had passed over, it would return of its own accord.
12. It wore a pretty collar with its owner's name engraved
upon it, so that it could be easily known from any other
fawn, that might be straying about the woods. Before many
hours had passed, a hunter presented himself before the lady,
whose pet the little creature had been, and showed a collar
with her name upon it. He said that he was out hunting in the
morning, and saw a fawn in the distance. The little creature,
instead of bounding away as he expected, moved toward him. He
took aim, fired, and shot it to the heart.
13. When he found the collar about its neck, he was very
sorry he had killed it. One would have thought that that
terrible chase would have made it afraid of man; but no;
it forgot the evil, and remembered the kindness
only; and came to meet, as a friend, the hunter who shot
it. It was long mourned by its best friend.
QUESTIONS.—1. Where did the lady reside who kept this
pet fawn? 2. Is there a lake near that village? 3. What river
rises in that lake? 4. Describe the chase of the pet fawn. 5.
How came it to be shot? 6. What did it forget, and what
remember?
IN' FLU ENCE, moral power.
DROOP' ED. bent over; languished.
TING' ED, stained; colored.
DEL' I CATE, soft; tender.
TRIB' UTE, pay; requital.
CASE' MENT, window.
PERCH' ED, alighted.
PLAINT' IVE, sorrowful.
AF FRIGHT' ED, alarmed.
TIM' ID, fearful; timorous.
RE STRAIN' ED, held back.
AT TEST', bear witness.
SUA' SION, act of persuading.
COM PLI' ANCE, submission.
PAL' ED, inclosed.
DE BAS' ED, degraded.
DE' VI ATE, wander; stray.
LE' NI ENT, mild; merciful.
KATE CLARENCE.
1. Not man alone, but every thing in nature,
owns its influence. I knew a little flower that sprang up
amidst the weeds and brambles of a long-neglected garden; but
soon drooped its slender stem, and its leaves grew tinged
from the waste around.
2. I took it to my home, supported its drooping stem, and
placed it where the warm sunshine and refreshing showers
cheered its little life. Again it raised its beautiful head,
and its delicate buds burst forth in gladness; and when the
winds of autumn came, the dying flower gave up to me its
golden seeds—a thankful tribute for my love. 'Twas a
little thing, but kindness did the deed.
3. There came to my casement, one winter's morning, a
shivering, starving bird, and perched itself there, striving
to tell its tale of suffering; but feeble were its plaintive
notes, and its glossy breast was ruffled in the blast. I
raised the window. Affrighted, the little wanderer spread its
wings, as if to soar away; but, weak and faint, it sank
fluttering in my outstretched hands. I drew it in. Alarmed,
it darted round and round the room, and beat against the
frosted pane. O Cruelty! thou hast taught even the little
birds to doubt!
4. When the little stranger grew less timid, I gave it clear
water, and tempting food, and so, for many weeks, we dwelt
together; but when came the first warm, sunny day, I opened
my doors, and it flew away,—away up, up into the
dark-blue heavens, till it was lost to my eager gaze.
5. But not an hour had passed, ere I heard the flutter of its
tiny wings, and saw, without, its little breast glittering in
the golden sunbeams. It had a joyous life. No wired cage
restrained its restless wing; but, free as the summer cloud,
would it come each day, and gladly would my delighted soul
drink in the silvery notes of its gladdening melody.
6. And it is not birds and flowers alone, that,
treated with kindness flourish so brightly 'neath its
heaven-born rays. Individuals, families, nations, attest its
truth. Legal suasion may frighten to compliance, but
moral suasion rules the will.
7. To the erring wanderer, in the by and forbidden paths of
sin, with a heart paled in darkness, and lost to every better
feeling of his nature, one little word, one little act of
kindness, however slight, will find a sunny resting-place in
that sinful shade, and prove a light to guide the wayward one
to holier and better deeds. The lion licked the hand that
drew the thorn from his wounded foot; and Powhatan stayed the
descending club, when the burning lips of the Indian girl
pressed the prisoner's [Footnote: Captain Smith] pallid brow.
8. And it is ever thus. There beats not a heart,
however debased by sin, or darkened by sorrow, that has not
its noblest impulses aroused, in view of a generous and
kindly action. The Holy Father implanted His own pure
principles in the breast of every one, and widely do
we deviate from their just dictates, when an unkind word, or
an unkind act, wounds a broken heart, or crushes a loving,
gentle nature.
9. "Speak not harshly,—much of care
Every human heart must bear;
Enough of shadows rudely play
Around the very sunniest way;
Enough of sorrows darkly lie
Vailed within the merriest eye.
By thy childhood's gushing tears,
By thy grief in after years,
By the anguish thou dost know,
Add not to another's woe.
10. "Speak not harshly,—much of sin
Dwelleth every heart within;
In its closely caverned cells,
Many a wayward passion dwells.
By the many hours misspent,
By the gifts to error lent,
By the wrongs thou didst not shun,
By the good thou hast not done,
With a lenient spirit scan
The weakness of thy brother man."
QUESTIONS.—1. On what has kindness an influence? 2.
What influence had it upon the little flower? 3. What, upon
the little bird? 4. What is said of cruelty? 5. What is said
of legal and moral suasion? 6. What is said of the lion? 7.
Of Powhatan? 8. Why ought we not to speak harshly?
SHAFT, arrow; here, careless word.
MES' SEN GERS, message-bearers.
PANG, distress; anguish.
SPELLS, charms; enchantments.
SEAL' ED, closed up; under seal.
SEP' UL CHER, (ch like k), grave; tomb.
SUM' MON ED, called.
AG' O NY, extreme suffering.
WRING, writhe.
UN A WARES, unconsciously.
MIN' GLES, unites; mixes.
EN DEAR' ING, kind; affectionate.
E CLIPSE', darkness; obscuration.
CHER' ISH ED, fostered.
EN SHRIN' ED, sacredly preserved.
UT' TER ED, expressed.
1. Oh, never say a careless Word
Hath not the power to pain;
The shaft may ope some hidden wound,
That closes not again!
Weigh well those light-winged messengers;
God marked your heedless Word,
And with it, too, the falling tear,
The heart-pang that it stirred.
2. Words! what are Words? A simple Word
Hath spells to call the tears,
That long have lain a sealed fount,
Unclosed through mournful years.
Back from the unseen sepulcher,
A Word hath summoned forth
A form that hath its place no more
Among the things of Earth,
3. Words! heed them well; some whispered one
Hath yet a power to fling
A shadow on the brow, the soul
In agony to wring;
A name, forbidden, or forgot,
That sometimes, unawares,
Murmurs upon our wak'ning lips,
And mingles in our prayers.
4. Oh, Words! sweet Words! A blessing comes
Softly from kindly lips;
Tender, endearing tones, that break
The Spirit's drear eclipse.
Oh! are there not some cherished tones
In the deep heart enshrined?
Uttered but once—they passed—and left
A track of light behind.
QUESTIONS.—1. What is said of careless words? 2.
What, of sweet words? 3. What is the use of the
apostrophe in wak'ning, third verse? 4. What is the
meaning of the suffix less, in the words careless,
heedless? See SANDERS' NEW SPELLER, DEFINER, AND
ANALYZER, page 143, Ex. 369.
VEG' E TA BLES, plants.
DEP RE DA' TION, robbery; plunder.
CAP TUR' ING, catching.
TRES' PASS ER, transgressor.
AP PEAL' ED, referred.
COUN' SEL, lawyer; advocate.
AR' GU MENT, plea; reason.
URG' ING, enforcing; advocating.
MIS' CHIEV OUS, hurtful; injurious.
PRAC' TI CAL, pertaining to practice.
DIS TIN' GUISH ED, celebrated.
JU' RIST, one versed in law.
AF FECT' ED, moved; impressed.
FUR' NISH ED, supplied.
VI' O LA TED, broken; transgressed.
DE PRIVE', rob; hinder.
AL LUD' ED, referred; adverted.
RE STORE', give back.
BOSTON TRAVELER.
1. Ebenezer Webster, the father of Daniel, was a farmer. The
vegetables in his garden had suffered considerably from the
depredations of a woodchuck, which had his hole or habitation
near the premises. Daniel, some ten or twelve years old, and
his older brother Ezekiel, had set a trap, and finally
succeeded in capturing the trespasser.
2. Ezekiel proposed to kill the animal, and end, at once, all
further trouble from him; but Daniel looked with compassion
upon his meek, dumb captive, and offered to let him again go
free. The boys could not agree, and they appealed to their
father to decide the case.
3. "Well, my boys," said the old gentleman, "I will be
the judge. There is the prisoner, (pointing to
the wood-chuck,) and you shall be the counsel,
and plead the case for and against his life and
liberty."
4. Ezekiel opened the case with a strong argument, urging the
mischievous nature of the criminal, the great harm he had
already done; said that much time and labor had been spent in
his capture, and now, if he were suffered to live and go
again at large, he would renew his depredations, and be
cunning enough not to suffer himself to be caught again.
5. He urged, further, that his skin was of some value, and
that, to make the most of him they could, it would not repay
half the damage he had already done. His argument was ready,
practical, to the point, and of much greater length than our
limits will allow us to occupy in relating the story.
6. The father looked with pride upon his son, who became a
distinguished jurist in his manhood. "Now, Daniel, it is
your turn: I'll hear what you have to say."
7. It was his first case. Daniel saw that the plea of his
brother had sensibly affected his father, the judge; and as
his large, brilliant, black eyes looked upon the soft, timid,
expression of the animal, and he saw it tremble with fear in
its narrow prison-house, his heart swelled with pity, and he
urged, with eloquent words, that the captive might again go
free.
8. "God," he said, "had made the woodchuck; he made him to
live, to enjoy the bright sunlight, the pure air, the free
fields and woods. God had not made him, or any thing,
in vain; the woodchuck had as much right to life as any
other living thing."
9. "He was not a destructive animal, as the wolf and the fox
were; he simply ate a few common vegetables, of which they
had plenty, and could well spare a part; he destroyed nothing
except the little food he needed to sustain his humble life;
and that little food was as sweet to him, and as necessary to
his existence, as was to them the food upon their mother's
table."
10. "God furnished to them food; he gave them all they
possessed; and would they not spare a little for the dumb
creature, that really had as much right to his small share of
God's bounty, as they themselves had to their portion?"
11. "Yea, more, the animal had never violated the laws of his
nature or the laws of God, as man often did; but strictly
followed the simple, harmless instincts he had received from
the hand of the Creator of all things. Created by God's hand,
he had a right—a right from God—to life, to food,
to liberty; and they had no right to deprive him of either."
12. He alluded to the mute, but earnest pleadings of the
animal for that life, as sweet, as dear to him, as their own
was to them, and the just judgment they might expect, if, in
selfish cruelty and cold heartlessness, they took the life
they could not restore—the life that God alone had
given.
13. During this appeal, the tears had started to the old
man's eyes, and were fast running down his sun-burnt cheeks;
every feeling of a father's heart was stirred within him; he
saw the future greatness of his son before his eyes, he felt
that God had blessed him in his children, beyond the lot of
most men.
14. His pity and sympathy were awakened by the eloquent words
of compassion, and the strong appeal for mercy; and,
forgetting the judge in the man and father, he sprang from
his chair, (while Daniel was in the midst of his argument,
without thinking he had already won his case,) and, turning
to his older son, dashing the tears from his eyes, exclaimed,
"Ezekiel, Ezekiel, you let that woodchuck go!"
QUESTIONS.—1. What did Ezekiel propose to do with the
woodchuck after he was caught? 2. What argument did he offer
for so doing? 3. What did Daniel wish to do with him? 4. What
argument did he offer? 4. What was their father's decision?
SOLVE, explain; work out.
PROB' LEM, question for solution.
COM PELL' ED, obliged.
IN' DO LENT, idle; lazy.
DINT, force; means.
CON' SCIOUS, self-perceived; felt.
DEM ON STRA' TION, formal proof.
RE CLIN' ING, leaning back.
PON' DERS, weighs; examines.
PROC' ESS, operation.
1. Do not ask the teacher or some classmate to solve that
hard problem. DO IT YOURSELF. You might as well let him eat
your dinner as "do your sums" for you. It is in studying as
in eating; he who does it, gets the benefit, and not
he who sees it done. In almost any school, the teacher
learns more than the best scholars, simply because he is
compelled to solve all the difficult problems, and answer all
the questions of the indolent pupils.
2. Do not ask your teacher to parse that difficult word, or
assist you in the performance of any of your studies. DO IT
YOURSELF. Never mind, though they do look dark. Do not
ask even a hint from any one. TRY AGAIN. Every trial
increases your ability, and you will finally succeed by dint
of the very wisdom and strength gained in the effort, even
though, at first, the problem was beyond your skill. It is
the study, and not the answer, that really
rewards your labor.
3. Look at that boy, who has just succeeded after six hours
of hard study. How his large eye is lit up with a proud joy,
as he marches to his class! He treads like a conqueror! And
well he may. Last night his lamp burned, and this morning he
waked at dawn. Once or twice he nearly gave it up. He had
tried his last thought; but a new thought strikes him, and he
ponders the last process. He tries once more, and succeeds;
and now mark the air of conscious strength with which he
pronounces his demonstration.
4. His poor, weak schoolmate, who gave up that same problem,
after his first trial, now looks up to him with something of
a wonder, as a superior being. And he is his superior.
That problem lies there, a great gulf between those boys who
stood side by side yesterday.
5. The boy who did it for himself, has taken a stride
upward, and what is better still, has gained strength
to take other and better ones. The boy who waited to see
others do it, has lost both strength and courage, and
is already looking for some good excuse to give up school and
study forever.
6. DO IT YOURSELF. Remember the counsel given to the artist,
who lay reclining upon his couch, and wondering what the
fates would work out for him. Directing his attention to a
block of unhewn marble, with a chisel lying by its side, the
sculptor in the vision is represented as thus addressing him:
"Sir,
"There's the marble, there's the chisel,
Take it, work it to thy will;
Thou alone must shape thy future,
Heaven send thee strength and skill!"
QUESTIONS.—1. Who is benefited in studying? 2. What
really rewards the labor of study? 3. What is said of the boy
who succeeded after six hours of hard study? 4. What, of the
boy who gave up, after the first trial? 5. What counsel was
given to the artist who wondered what the fates would work
out for him?
How are the words to be read, which are
printed in Italics and in capitals? See page 22, Note III.
SLACK' EN, relax; lessen.
EN DEAV' OR, effort; exertion.
WHOLE' SOME, useful; salutary.
EX CEL', surpass; outdo.
OUT STRIP' PED, outrun; excelled.
SUR PASS' ED, excelled.
VIC' TO RY, conquest; triumph.
UT' TER MOST, very best.
DAR' ING, courage; bravery.
DE FECT', fault; deficiency.
REPIN'ING, fretting; complaining.
UN A VAIL' ING, vain; useless.
COR RECT', amend; make right.
MAX' IM, proverb; saying.
1. Life is a race, where some succeed,
While others are beginning;
'Tis luck, at times, at others, speed,
That gives an early winning.
But, if you chance to fall behind,
Ne'er slacken your endeavor;
Just keep this wholesome truth in mind:
'Tis better late than never!
2. If you can keep ahead, 'tis well;
But never trip your neighbor;
'Tis noble when you can excel
By honest, patient labor.
But, if you are outstripped, at last,
Press on, as bold as ever;
Remember, though you are surpassed,
'Tis better late than never!
3. Ne'er labor for an idle boast
Of victory o'er another;
But, while you strive your uttermost,
Deal fairly with a brother.
Whate'er your station, do your best,
And, hold your purpose ever;
And, if you fail to beat the rest,
'Tis better late than never!
4. Choose well the path in which you run,—
Succeed by noble daring;
Then, though the last, when once 'tis won,
Your crown is worth the wearing.
Then never fret, if left behind,
Nor slacken your endeavor;
But ever keep this truth in mind:
'Tis better late than never!
5. Yet, would you cure this sad defect,
Repining's unavailing;
Begin, at once, and now correct
This very common failing.
This day resolve,—this very hour,
Nor e'en a moment wait;
Go, make this better maxim yours,—
'Tis better never late!
QUESTIONS.—1. To what is life compared, first verse? 2.
What advice is given if you chance to fall behind? 3.
How ought you to treat your competitors? 4. What is a very
common failing? 5. How may it be corrected? 6. What is the
use of the apostrophe in the word repining's, fifth
verse?
A DOPT' ED, taken as one's own.
PIL' LAR ED, supported by pillars.
TWI' LIGHT, faint light after sunset and before sunrise.
THYME, (time,) fragrant plant.
VINE' YARD, plantation of grapevines.
DYE, hue; color.
SPARK' LING, emitting bubbles.
MISS. HEMANS.
|
LADY.
|
Why wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child?
Thy home on the mountains is bleak and
wild,
A straw-roofed cabin with lowly wall;
Mine is a fair and a pillared hall,
Where many an image of marble gleams,
And the sunshine of picture forever streams.
|
|
BOY.
|
Oh, green is the turf where my brothers play,
Through the long, bright hours of the summer-day;
They find the red cup-moss where they climb,
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme;
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they
know,
Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!
|
|
LADY.
|
Content thee, boy, in my bower to dwell;
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest
well,—
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon,
Harps which the wandering breezes tune,
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard.
|
|
BOY.
|
My mother sings, at the twilight's fall,
A song of the hills, far more sweet than all;
She sings it under our own green tree,
To the babe half-slumbering on her knee;
I dreamed, last night, of that music low,—
Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!
|
|
LADY.
|
(pl.) Thy mother hath gone from her cares to
rest;
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast;
Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy, no more,
Nor hear her song at the cabin-door:
Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh,
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye.
|
|
BOY.
|
Is my mother gone from her home away?—
But I know that my brothers are there at play,
I know they are gathering the fox-glove's bell,
Or the long fern leaves by the sparkling well;
Or they launch their boats where the bright streams
flow,
Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!
|
|
LADY.
|
Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now,
They sport no more on the mountain's brow;
They have left the fern by the spring's green
side,
And the streams where the fairy barks were tried:
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot,
For thy cabin-home is a lonely spot.
|
|
BOY.
|
Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill?
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still,
And the red deer bound in their gladness free,
And the heath is bent by the singing bee,
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds
blow,—
Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!
|
QUESTIONS.—1. What kind of words are straw-roofed,
heath-flower, wood-note, &c.? 2. What is the use of
the apostrophes in the words o'er, ne'er, twilight's,
&c.?
AP PAR' ENT LY, evidently.
CEN' TU RY, hundred years.
GI GAN' TIC, very large.
SPE' CIES, sort; kind.
DI MEN' SION, size; bulk.
SUB LIME', grand; magnificent.
UN MO LEST' ED, free from disturbance.
DIS PERS' ED, separated; scattered.
CLAM' OR OUS, noisy; importunate.
IN DE CIS' ION, doubt; irresolution.
POIS' ED, balanced.
AT' MOS PHERE, surrounding air.
TAL' ONS, claws.
DIS TRI BU' TION, division.
EC' STA SY, excessive joy; transport.
PER' SE CUT ED, harassed; injured.
REV. JOHN TODD.
1. In a remote field stood a large tulip tree, apparently of
a century's growth, and one of the most gigantic of that
splendid species. It looked like the father of the
surrounding forest. A single tree, of huge dimensions,
standing all alone, is a sublime object.
2. On the top of this tree, an old eagle, commonly called the
"Fishing Eagle," had built her nest every year, for many
years, and, unmolested, raised her young. What is remarkable,
as she procured her food from the ocean, this tree stood full
ten miles from the sea-shore. It had long been known as the
"Old Eagle tree."
3. On a warm, sunny day, the workmen were hoeing corn in an
adjoining field. At a certain hour of the day, the old eagle
was known to set off for the sea-side, to gather food for her
young. As she this day returned with a large fish in her
claws, the workmen surrounded the tree, and, by yelling, and
hooting, and throwing stones, so scared the poor bird that
she dropped her fish, and they carried it off in triumph.
4. The men soon dispersed; but Joseph sat down under a bush
near by, to watch, and to bestow unavailing pity. The bird
soon returned to her nest without food. The eaglets at once
set up a cry for food, so shrill, so clear, and so clamorous,
that the boy was greatly moved.
5. The parent bird seemed to try to soothe them; but their
appetites were too keen, and it was all in vain. She then
perched herself on a limb near them, and looked down into the
nest with a look that seemed to say, "I know not what to do
next."
6. Her indecision was but momentary; again she poised
herself, uttered one or two sharp notes, as if telling them
to "lie still," balanced her body, spread her wings, and was
away again for the sea!
7. Joseph was determined to see the result. His eyes followed
her till she grew small, smaller,—a mere speck in the
sky,—and then disappeared. What boy has not often
watched the flight of the bird of his country in this way?
8. She was gone nearly two hours, about double her usual time
for a voyage, when she again returned, on a slow, weary wing,
flying uncommonly low, in order to have a heavier atmosphere
to sustain her, with another fish in her talons.
9. On nearing the field, she made a circuit around it, to see
if her enemies were again there. Finding the coast clear, she
once more reached her tree, drooping, faint, and weary, and
evidently nearly exhausted. Again the eaglets set up their
cry, which was soon hushed by the distribution of a dinner,
such as—save the cooking—a king might admire.
10. "GLORIOUS BIRD!" cried the boy in ecstacy, and aloud;
"what a spirit! Other birds can fly swifter, others can sing
more sweetly, others can scream more loudly; but what
other bird, when persecuted and robbed—when
weary —when discouraged—when so far from
sea,—would have done this!
11. "GLORIOUS BIRD! I will learn a lesson from thee to-day. I
will never forget hereafter, that when the spirit is
determined, it can do almost anything. Others would have
drooped and hung the head, and mourned over the cruelty of
man, and sighed over the wants of the nestlings; but
thou, by at once recovering the loss, hast forgotten
all.
12. "I will learn of thee, noble bird! I will remember
this. I will set my mark high. I will try to do something,
and to be something in the world; I will never yield to
discouragements."
QUESTIONS.—1. How far was this Old Eagle tree from the
seashore? 2. In what way did the workmen obtain the fish she
brought for her young? 3. What is said of the eaglets and the
parent bird, when she returned to the nest? 4. What did she
then do? 5. What did Joseph say when she returned with
another fish?
AUC' TION, vendue; public sale.
HOME' LESS, (LESS, without or destitute of,) without
home.
PEN' NI LESS, destitute of pennies.
WASTE' LESS, without waste.
UN LIGHT' ED, (UN, not,) not lighted.
SELF' ISH NESS, devoted to one's self.
RE VERSE' (RE, back or again; VERSE,
turn), turn back, or exchange places.
AC QUIRE', gain; obtain.
IL LUS TRA' TION, explanation.
SOL' I TA RY, single.
DIS PEL', drive away; disperse.
BE NIGHT' ED, unenlightened.
ELIHU BURRITT.
1. Knowledge can not be stolen from you. It can not be bought
or sold. You may be poor, and the sheriff come into
your house, and sell your furniture at auction, or drive away
your cow, or take your lamb, and leave you homeless and
penniless; but he can not lay the law's hand upon the
jewelry of your mind. This can not be taken for debt;
neither can you give it away, though you give enough
of it to fill a million minds.
2. I will tell you what such giving is like. Suppose, now,
that there were no sun nor stars in the heavens, nor any
thing that shone in the black brow of night; and suppose that
a lighted lamp were put into your hand, which should burn
wasteless and clear amid all the tempests that should brood
upon this lower world.
3. Suppose next, that there were a thousand millions of human
beings on the earth with you, each holding in his hand an
unlighted lamp, filled with the same oil as yours, and
capable of giving as much light. Suppose these millions
should come, one by one, to you, and light each his lamp by
yours, would they rob you of any light? Would less of it
shine on your own path? Would your lamp burn more dimly for
lighting a thousand millions?
4. Thus it is, young friends. In getting rich in the things
which perish with the using, men have often obeyed to the
letter that first commandment of selfishness: "Keep what
you can get, and get what you can." In filling your minds
with the wealth of knowledge, you must reverse this rule, and
obey this law: "Keep what you give, and give what you
can."
5. The fountain of knowledge is filled by its outlets,
not by its inlets. You can learn nothing which you do
not teach; you can acquire nothing of intellectual
wealth, except by giving. In the illustration of the
lamps, which I have given you, was not the light of the
thousands of millions which were lighted at yours, as much
your light, as if it all came from your solitary lamp? Did
you not dispel darkness by giving away light?
6. Remember this parable, and, whenever you fall in with an
unlighted mind in your walk of life, drop a kind and glowing
thought upon it from yours, and set it a-burning in the world
with a light that shall shine in some dark place to beam on
the benighted.
QUESTIONS.—1. What is said of knowledge? 2. What is the
giving of knowledge like? 3. In getting rich, what precept
have men obeyed? 4. What precept must be obeyed in getting
knowledge? 5. How is knowledge best acquired? 6. What is
meant by the jewelry of the mind, first paragraph? 7.
What, by intellectual wealth, fifth paragraph?
EX TIN' GUISH ED, put out.
SOL' EMN, grave; serious.
GAR' RI SON, fortress furnished with soldiers, for
defense.
SEN' TI NEL, soldier on guard.
CAR A VAN, company of traveling traders or pilgrims.
CON STEL LA' TIONS, clusters of fixed stars.
BRILL' IANT, shining; sparkling.
HOST, great multitude.
EX' TRA, additional.
CRES' CENT, form of the new moon.
HAIL' ED, saluted.
EF FUL' GENCE, splendor.
RE' GEN CY, rule; government.
WAN' ING, decreasing.
SUP PLI CA TION, prayer; petition.
RAPT' URE, great joy; transport.
[Headnote 1: PAL' ES TINE includes that part of Turkey in
Asia, lying on the eastern borders of the Mediterranean Sea.]
L.H. SIGOURNEY.
1. The lessons of our school are over. The lights in the
distant windows are extinguished, one after the other. The
village will soon be lost in slumber. When all the men and
the women are asleep, must we keep awake to learn lessons?
2. In large cities, there may be heard, now and then, the
rushing wheel of the traveler. The watchmen pace their round,
and cry, "All is well." In the long, cold nights of
Norway, the watchmen who guard the capitol, pronounce, in a
solemn tone, "God bless our good city of Bergen!"
3. In the garrison, or the endangered fortress, the armed
sentinel keeps watch, lest they should be surprised by the
foe. But in this peaceful village there is no need of either
sentinel or watchman. Why may we not go to sleep, instead of
learning Night's lessons?
4. My son, one of these you may learn in a moment. Did you
say that all will soon be sleeping? No! there is one Eye that
never slumbers. He who made all the people, keepeth watch
above the everlasting hills. Commit yourself to His care.
5. Now, will you learn with me the second lesson of the
night? Lift your eyes to yon glorious canopy. Seest thou not
there a sentinel, set by the Eternal, at the northern gate of
heaven,—the pole-star?
6. The pole-star! Blessings are breathed upon it, by the
weary caravan, fearing the poisonous wind of the
desert,—by the red forest-children, seeking their home
beyond the far Western prairies,—and by the lonely
mariner, upon the pathless ocean.
7. The stars! See them! The oil in their lamps never burns
out. These glorious constellations wheel their mighty course
unchanged, while "man dieth and wasteth away, yea, man giveth
up the ghost, and where is he?" [Footnote: Job, 14th chap.,
10th verse.]
8. Yon brilliant orbs maintain their places, while countless
generations pass away, and nations disappear and are
forgotten. Let us bow in humility before "Him who bringeth
out their host by number, who calleth them all by names, by
the greatness of His might, for that He is strong in power;
not one faileth." [Footnote: Isaiah. 40th chap., 26th verse.]
9. Thirteen times in the year, Night, the teacher, gives
extra lessons. Will you be there to learn them? First, she
hangs up a pale crescent in the west. The ancient Jews hailed
its infant beam, and answering fires of joy were kindled on
the hills of Palestine.[Headnote 1]
10. Next, she summons forth a rounded orb, clad in full
effulgence, and commits to it the regency when the sun
retires. Lastly, a slender, waning crescent appears nightly,
like an aged man, ready to descend into the night of the
tomb.
11.
"Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the listening earth,
Repeats the story of her birth;
While all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole."
12. These are some of Night's lessons. Are you tired of them?
Or, will you learn one more? Lift up your heart to Him who
has given you the past day, with thanks for its
blessings,—with penitence for its faults,—with
supplication for strength and wisdom for the time that is to
come.
13. "Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night
showeth knowledge" [Footnote: Psalm 19th, 2nd verse.] of God.
Thus, meekly and faithfully studying Night's lessons, may we
find
"Even sorrow, touched by Heaven, grows bright
With more than rapture's ray,
As darkness shows us worlds of light,
We never saw by day."
QUESTIONS.—1. Who watches over us when asleep? 2. In
what way is the pole-star useful to man? 3. What is said of
the stars? 4. What extra lessons is it that night gives
thirteen times a year? 5. Describe the first appearance of
the moon. 6. How does it next appear? 7. Where is Palestine?
8. Where are the passages to be found, quoted in the 7th,
8th, and 13th paragraphs? 9. Do you know who is the author of
the 11th verse? Ans. Addison.
HID' DEN, secret; concealed.
QUAIL, sink; droop.
SCORN' ING, disdaining.
GREET' ING, salutation.
VIEW' LESS, not to be seen.
YEARN' ETH, longeth.
CHANT, sing; carol.
PORT' AL, entrance; gate-way.
CHEER' Y, gay; lively.
E TER' NI TY, endless duration.
CHAMBERS' JOURNAL.
FIRST VOICE.
1. Sunlight! tell the hidden meaning
Of the rays thou lettest fall;
Are they lessons writ in burning,
Like God's warning on the wall?
SECOND VOICE.
Strive, O man, to let a loving
Spirit cheer the sad and poor;
So shall many a fair hope blossom,
Where none grew before!
FIRST VOICE.
2. Stars! what is it ye would whisper,
With your pure and holy light?
Looking down so calm and tender
From the watch-tower of the night.
SECOND VOICE.
When thy soul would quail from scorning,
Keep a brave heart and a bold;
As we always shine the brightest
When the nights are cold.
FIRST VOICE.
3. Hast thou not a greeting for me,
Heaven's own happy minstrel-bird'?
Thou whose voice, like some sweet angel's,
Viewless, in the cloud is heard'?
SECOND VOICE.
Though thy spirit yearneth sky-ward,
Oh, forget not human worth!
I, who chant at heaven's portal,
Build my nest on earth.
FIRST VOICE.
4. River! river'! singing gayly
From the hill-side all day long,
Teach my heart the merry music
Of thy cheery, rippling song.
SECOND VOICE.
Many winding ways I follow;
Yet, at length, I reach the sea.
Man, remember that thy ocean
Is ETERNITY!
QUESTIONS.—1. What is meant by God's warning on the
wall? See the 5th chap. of Daniel. 2. What is meant by
minstrel-bird? Ans. The lark.
GLARE, dazzling light.
BLITHE' LY, gayly; joyfully.
WROUGHT, worked; labored.
RE MORSE', painful regret.
WANE, decrease; grow less.
FAN' CIES, whims; notions.
A NON.' is an abbreviation of anonymous, which
means without name; nameless. See SANDERS' ANALYSIS,
page 88, Exercise 108.
ANON.
1. They are sowing their seed in the daylight fair,
They are sowing their seed in the noonday's glare,
They are sowing their seed in the soft twilight,
They are sowing their seed in the solemn night;
What shall their harvest be?
2. They are sowing their seed of pleasant thought,
In the spring's green light they have blithely wrought;
They have brought their fancies from wood and dell,
Where the mosses creep, and the flower-buds swell;
Rare shall the harvest be!
3. They are sowing the seeds of word and deed,
Which the cold know not, nor the careless heed,—
Of the gentle word and the kindest deed,
That have blessed the heart in its sorest need;
Sweet shall the harvest be!
4. And some are sowing the seeds of pain,
Of late remorse, and in maddened brain;
And the stars shall fall, and the sun shall wane,
Ere they root the weeds from the soil again;
Dark will the harvest be!
5. And some are standing with idle hand,
Yet they scatter seeds on their native land;
And some are sowing the seeds of care,
Which their soil has borne, and still must bear;
Sad will the harvest be!
6. They are sowing the seed of noble deed,
With a sleepless watch and an earnest heed;
With a ceaseless hand o'er the earth they sow,
And the fields are whitening where'er they go;
Rich will the harvest be!
7. Sown in darkness, or sown in light,
Sown in weakness, or sown in might,
Sown in meekness, or sown in wrath,
In the broad work-field, or the shadowy path,
SURE will the harvest be!
QUESTIONS.—1. Who are meant by they in this
lesson? 2. What is said of those who are sowing the seeds
of word and deed? 3. What, of those who are sowing the
seeds of care? 4. Repeat the last verse. 5. What
passage of Scripture teaches the same idea? Ans. "Whatsoever
a man soweth, that shall he also reap."—Gal., 6th
chap., 7th verse.
FOR' TI FI ED, strengthened by works of art for defense.
SUL' TRY, close; oppressively hot.
BOAT' SWAIN, one who has charge of a ship's boats, rigging,
&c.
TARS, sailors.
MOOR' ED, anchored.
BUOYS, floats.
AN' CHOR, iron instrument for holding ships.
STAR' BOARD, right side of a ship.
FORE' CAS TLE, short deck in the fore part of a ship.
WAKE, track.
BE REFT', deprived.
IM' MI NENT, impending.
PIERC' ED, went through.
FORE AND AFT, before and behind.
SWAY' ED, swung; moved.
CAR' CASS, dead body.
EX CITE' MENT, agitation.
PHA' SES, forms; appearances.
[Headnote 1: SA HA' RA, is a Great Desert in Africa, lying
south of the Barbary States, and extending from the Atlantic
on the west to Egypt and Nubia on the east. The winds that
come from this desert, are hot and suffocating.]
ANON.
1. Our noble ship lay at anchor in the Bay of Tangier, a
fortified town in the extreme northwest of Africa. The day
had been extremely mild, with a gentle breeze sweeping to the
northward and westward; but, toward the close of the
afternoon, the sea-breeze died away, and one of those sultry,
oven-like breathings came from the great, sun-burnt Sahara
[Headnote 1].
2. Half an hour before sundown, the captain gave the cheering
order for the boatswain to call the hands to "go in
swimming;" and, in less than five minutes, the forms of our
tars were seen leaping from the arms of the lower yards, into
the water. One of the studding sails, with its corners
suspended from the main yard-arm and the swinging boom, had
been lowered into the water, and into this most of the
swimmers made their way.
3. Among those who seemed to be enjoying the sport most
heartily, were two of the boys, Timothy Wallace and Frederic
Fairbanks, the latter of whom was the son of our old gunner;
and, in a laughing mood, they started out from the studding
sail on a race. There was a loud ringing shout of joy on
their lips as they put off, and they darted through the water
like fishes. The surface of the sea was smooth as glass,
though its bosom rose in long, heavy swells that set in from
the Atlantic.
4. The vessel was moored with a long sweep from both cables,
and one of the buoys of the anchor was far away on the
starboard quarter, where it rose and fell with the lazy
swells of the waves. Toward this buoy the two lads made their
way, young Fairbanks taking the lead; but, when they were
within about twenty or thirty fathoms of the buoy, Wallace
shot ahead and promised to win the race.
5. The old gunner had watched the progress of his little son
with a great degree of pride; and when he saw him drop
behind, he leaped upon the quarter-deck, and was just upon
the point of urging him on by a shout, when a cry was heard
that struck him with instant horror.
6. "A shark! a shark!" was sounded from the captain of
the forecastle; and, at the sound of these terrible words,
the men who were in the water, leaped and plunged toward the
ship. Right abeam, at the distance of three or four cables'
lengths, was seen the wake of a shark in the water, where the
back of the monster was visible. His course was for the boys.
7. For a moment, the gunner stood like one bereft of reason;
but, on the next, he shouted at the top of his voice, for the
boys to turn; but they heard him not. Stoutly the two
swimmers strove for the goal, all unconscious of their
imminent danger. Their merry laugh still rang over the
waters, and, at length, they both touched the buoy together.
8. Oh, what agony filled the heart of the gunner! A boat had
put off, but he knew that it could not reach the boys in
season, and every moment he expected to see the monster sink
from sight,—then he knew that all hope would be
gone. At this moment, a cry reached the ship, that pierced
every heart,—the boys had discovered their enemy.
9. The cry started the old gunner to his senses, and quicker
than thought, he sprang from the quarter-deck. The guns were
all loaded and shotted, fore and aft, and none knew their
temper better than he. With steady hand, made strong by
sudden hope, the old gunner seized a priming-wire and picked
the cartridge of one of the quarter guns; then he took from
his pocket a percussion cap, fixed it in its place, and set
back the hammer of the patent lock.
10. With a giant strength the old man swayed the breech of
the heavy gun to its bearing, and then seizing the string of
the lock, he stood back and watched for the next swell that
would bring the shark in range. He had aimed the piece some
distance ahead of his mark; but yet a little moment would
settle his hopes and fears.
11. Every breath was hushed, and every heart in that old ship
beat painfully. The boat was yet some distance from the boys,
while the horrid sea-monster was fearfully near. Suddenly the
air was rent by the roar of the heavy gun; and, as the old
man knew his shot was gone, he sank back upon the hatch, and
covered his face with his hands, as if afraid to see the
result of his own efforts; for, if he had failed, he knew
that his boy was lost.
12. For a moment after the report of the gun had died away
upon the air, there was an unbroken silence; but, as the
dense smoke arose from the surface of the water, there was,
at first, a low murmur breaking from the lips of the
men,—that murmur grew louder and stronger, till it
swelled to a joyous, deafening shout. The old gunner sprang
to his feet, and gazed off on the water, and the first thing
that met his view, was the huge carcass of the shark,
floating on his back—a mangled, lifeless mass.
13. In a few moments, the boats reached the daring swimmers,
and, greatly frightened, they were brought on board. The old
man clasped his boy in his arms, and then, overcome by the
powerful excitement, he leaned upon a gun for support. I have
seen men in all the phases of excitement and suspense, but
never have I seen three human beings more overcome by
thrilling emotions, than on that startling moment when they
first knew the effect of our gunner's shot.
QUESTIONS.—1. Where is the town of Tangier? 2. What
order had been given by the captain of the vessel? 3. Who
seemed most to enjoy the sport? 4. What is said of the old
gunner? 5. What did he do? 6. What effect did his shot
produce? 7. Describe the closing scene.
DIS GUISE', concealment.
WAY' LAID, beset by the way.
THREAT' EN ED, declared the intention.
IN CLINE, dispose.
RUF' FIANS, robbers; murderers.
DIS TRIB'UTE, divide; apportion.
TREAS' UR Y, place for keeping money.
ALMS, gifts; donations.
MI' SER LY, covetous; niggardly.
SAL' A RY, wages; allowance for services.
IN VOLV' ING, entangling.
BE WIL' DER ED, puzzled; perplexed.
LOG' IC, reasoning.
SAGE, wise man.
FUL FILL' ING, performing.
E VA' SION, departure from truth.
DE CEIT', deception; fraud.
1. A certain Persian king, while traveling in disguise, with
but few attendants, was waylaid by robbers, who threatened to
take not only his goods, but his life.
2. Feeling himself beyond the reach of human aid, he inwardly
made a vow, that if God would incline the hearts of these
ruffians to mercy, and restore him in safety to his family
and people, he would distribute all the money then in his
treasury, in alms to the needy of his realm.
3. The robbers, from some unknown cause, liberated him, and
he soon reached home in safety, having sustained no injury,
save the loss of the small purse of gold that he had carried
in his girdle.
4. Desirous of keeping the vow he had made, he summoned his
officers, and commanded them to make immediate distribution
to the poor, of all that the treasury contained, at the time
of his return.
5. But his officers, more miserly than himself, and, fearful
that they might fall short in their salaries and pensions,
began to urge upon the monarch the folly of keeping this rash
vow, and the danger of thus involving himself and his kingdom
in difficulties.
6. Finding he still remained firm, they took other grounds,
and plausibly argued that the troops and other officials
needed aid as well as the poor; and, as by the words
of his vow, he had bound himself to distribute the contents
of the treasury to those who had claim to relief, the public
servants certainly came within the required limits.
7. Bewildered by their false logic, and sincerely desirous of
doing right, he appealed to a certain sage who dwelt near the
royal palace, and determined to abide by his decision.
8. The sage, after hearing the case, only asked the following
simple question: "Of whom were you thinking when you made the
vow,—the poor, or the public servants?" The monarch
replied, "Of the poor." "Then," answered the sage, "it is to
the poor you are bound to distribute these funds; for
you are not really fulfilling your vow, unless you do
that which you intended to do when it was made." The king was
satisfied that this was the right decision, and did as the
sage advised.
9. Let the young bear in mind that God is a being of truth,
requiring truth in the inward heart; and, if they would have
His approval, and that of their own consciences, they must
avoid not only the outward appearance of falsehood,
but the slightest evasion or deceit; and when promises have
been made, fulfill not only the letter, but the
spirit of that which they agreed to perform.
10. Beware of the first and slightest departure from truth,
of the least endeavor to deceive, and even of the desire to
have others believe what is not so. Let your motto be,
"The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth."
QUESTIONS.—1. What happened to a certain Persian king?
2. What vow did he then make? 3. What objection did his
officers make to this? 4. What did the king then do? 5. What
was the sage's decision? 6. What motto ought you to adopt? 7.
What rule for spelling the word traveling with one
l? See SANDERS & McELLIGOTT'S ANALYSIS, page 13,
Rule 10.
EN TIC' ES, allures; leads astray.
PRE TEXT, pretense; false reason.
PRO FANE, pollute; defile,
TEMP TA' TION, allurement.
IN' LY, within; in the heart.
DE CLARES, says; asserts.
CHAFE, vex; provoke.
MAL' ICE, hatred; malevolence.
AV' A RICE, excessive love of money.
FORE GO', give up; renounce.
MAM' MON, god of wealth; riches.
IN DIG' NANT, with anger; disdainfully.
LU' CRE, gain; profit.
EM PRISE', enterprise; undertaking.
SURE' TY, security.
O VER THROW', subvert; destroy.
CON TEMPT', scorn; disdain.
SOR' CER ESS, enchantress.
EX PEL', (EX, out; PEL, to drive) drive out;
banish.
RE SIST', (RE, again; SIST, to stand,) stand
again; hence, to withstand.
See SANDERS and McELLIGOTT'S ANALYSIS, page 90, Ex. 113;
also, page 110, Ex. 142.
J.N. McELLIGOTT.
1. When FALSEHOOD fair entices thee
Against the truth to go,
No matter what the pretext be,
Be thy firm answer,—No!
2. When RASHNESS would thy tongue profane
With language vile and low,
O, make the gross temptation vain,
By answering inly,—No!
3. When PRIDE the silly wish declares,
That thou should'st fashion know,
And lifts thy head with empty airs,
Be wise, and answer,—No!
4. When ENVY would thy spirit chafe,
That others prosper so,
On calm contentment resting safe,
Expel her with a—No!
5. When MALICE foul, or deadly HATE,
Would turn thee on a foe,
And dark, revengeful thirst create,
In horror answer,—No!
6. When sluggish SLEEP, with folded arms,
Would make thee health forego,
('') Rise up at once, resist her charms;
Act out the answer,—No!
7. When AVARICE would, with heartless speed,
Shout out the sight of woe,
And whisper joy from Mammon's greed,
Indignant answer,—No!
8. When filthy LUCRE lifts her hand,
Ungodly gains to show,
Though she should promise all the land,
Be thy prompt answer,—No!
9. When greedy GAIN, or rash EMPRISE,
Would have thee surety go,
Keep Wisdom's words[Footnote 1] before thine eyes,
And firmly answer,—No!
10. When mad AMBITION would seduce,
The right to overthrow,
And turn the selfish passions loose,
In mercy answer,—No!
11. When foul CONTEMPT of Holy Writ
Would in thy bosom sow
The wish to be where scorners sit,[Footnote 2]
Let Conscience answer,—No!
12. When SIN, indeed, whate'er her style,
Would have thee with her go;
Stay not to hear the Sorceress vile,
But leave her with a—No!
[Footnote 1: Prov., 11th Chap., 15th verse.]
[Footnote 2: 1st Psalm, 1st verse.]
PE RUSE', read; study.
AL LOT' TED, assigned.
ME RID' I AN, noon; mid-day.
GEN' U INE, true; real.
ART' FUL, cunning; crafty.
MIM' ICK ED, pretended; counterfeited.
PRE SIDE', have sway or rule.
DE MER' IT, ill-desert; defect.
RU' BY, precious stone.
PUP' PET, little image.
DE TER' MINE, decide; find out.
ER' MINE, fine fur—(of the ermine.)
CAP' TOR, one who takes a prize.
SCEP' TERS, emblems of authority.
CHA' RY, careful; wary.
MYS' TIC, secret; mysterious.
We have seldom seen any thing so full of wit, truth, and
practical wisdom, as this poem inscribed.
1. Take this book, my boys,
Earnestly peruse it;
Much of after lies
In the way ye use it:
Keep it neat and clean;
For, remember, in it,
Every stain that's seen,
Marks a thoughtless minute.
2. Life is like a book,
Time is like a printer,
Darting now his look
Where has gloomed no winter.
Thus he'll look, and on,
Till each page allotted,
Robert, thee and John,
Printed be or blotted.
3. Youth's a sunny beam,
Dancing o'er a river,
With a flashing gleam,
Then away forever.
Use it while ye may,
Not in childish mourning,—
Not in childish play,
But in useful learning.
4. As your years attain
Life's meridian brightness,
Hourly seek and gain
Genuine politeness:
This lives not in forms,
As too many teach us,—
Not in open arms,
Not in silken speeches,
5. Not in haughty eye,
Not in artful dealing,
Not within the sigh
Of a mimicked feeling:
But its lights preside
Rich in nature's splendor,
Over honest pride,
Gentleness and candor.
6. Slight ye not the soul
For the frame's demerit;
Oft a shattered bowl
Holds a mighty spirit:
Never search a breast
By thy ruby's glances;
Pomp's a puppet guest,
Danced by circumstances.
7. What is good and great,
Sense can soon determine;
Prize it though ye meet,
Or in rags or ermine.
Fortune's truly blind;
Fools may be her captors;
But the wealth of mind
Stands above their scepters.
8. Value not the lips
Swiftest kept in motion,
Fleetly-sailing ships
Draw no depth of ocean:
Snatch the chary gleam,
From the cautious knowing
For the deepest stream
Scarcely lisps 'tis flowing.
9. Cull from bad and good
Every seeming flower,
Store it up as food
For some hungry hour:
Press its every leaf,
And remember, Johnny,
Even weeds the chief
May have drops of honey.
10. Pomp and power alone
Never make a blessing;
Seek not e'en a throne
By one wretch distressing.
Better toil a slave
For the blood-earned penny,
Than be rich, and have
A curse on every guinea.
11. Think, my gentle boys,
Every man a brother!
That's where honor lies,
Nay, but greatness rather:
One's the mystic whole,
Lordly flesh won't know it;
But the kingly soul,
Sees but vice below it.
12. Robert, thoughts like these,
Store you more than money;
Read them not to please,
But to practice, Johnny.
Artless though their dress,
As an infant's dimple,
Truth is none the less
For being truly simple.
QUESTIONS.—1. What did the writer tell Robert and John
to do with the book, given them? 2. What use did he tell them
to make of Youth?
AV A RI'' CIOUS, greedy after gain.
IN' TI MATE, close in friendship.
EA' GER NESS, ardent desire.
FRU GAL' I TY, wise economy.
AC QUI SI'' TIONS, gains.
AF' FLU ENCE, great wealth.
SUC' CES SION, regular order.
MOIL' ING, drudging; laboring.
DIS CON TIN' U ED, ceased.
AS SI DU' I TY, untiring diligence.
DIS GUST' ED, greatly dissatisfied.
IN DULG' ED, gratified.
MON' STROUS, very large.
SUC CEED' ING, following.
MAT' TOCK, pick-ax.
UN DER MINE', dig under.
O' MEN, sign; token.
IM AG' IN ED, conceived.
GOLDSMITH.
1. Whang, the miller, was naturally avaricious; nobody loved
money better than he, or more respected those that had it.
When people would talk of a rich man in company, Whang would
say, "I know him very well, he and I
have been very long acquainted; he and I are
intimate."
2. But, if a poor man was mentioned, he had not the least
knowledge of the man; he might be very well, for aught
he knew; but he was not fond of making many
acquaintances, and loved to choose his company.
3. Whang, however, with all his eagerness for riches, was
poor. He had nothing but the profits of his mill to support
him; but, though these were small, they were certain: while
it stood and went, he was sure of eating; and his frugality
was such, that he, every day, laid some money by; which he
would, at intervals, count and contemplate with much
satisfaction.
4. Yet still his acquisitions were not equal to his desires;
he only found himself above want; whereas he desired to be
possessed of affluence. One day, as he was indulging these
wishes, he was informed that a neighbor of his had found a
pan of money under ground, having dreamed of it three nights
in succession.
5. These tidings were daggers to the heart of poor Whang.
"Here am I," said he, "toiling and moiling from morning till
night for a few paltry farthings, while neighbor Thanks only
goes quietly to bed, and dreams himself into thousands before
morning. Oh, that I could dream like him! With what pleasure
would I dig round the pan! How slyly would I carry it home!
Not even my wife should see me! And then, oh the pleasure of
thrusting one's hands into a heap of gold up to the elbows!"
6. Such reflections only served to make the miller unhappy.
He discontinued his former assiduity; he was quite disgusted
with small gains; and his customers began to forsake him.
Every day he repeated the wish, and every night laid himself
down in order to dream. Fortune, that was for a long time
unkind, at last, however, seemed to smile upon his distress,
and indulged him with the wished-for vision.
7. He dreamed that under a certain part of the foundation of
his mill, there was concealed a monstrous pan of gold and
diamonds, buried deep in the ground, and covered with a large
flat stone. He concealed his good luck from every person, as
is usual in money-dreams, in order to have the vision
repeated the two succeeding nights, by which he should be
certain of its truth. His wishes in this, also, were
answered; he still dreamed of the same pan of money, in the
very same place.
8. Now, therefore, it was past a doubt; so, getting up early
the third morning, he repaired, alone, with a mattock in his
hand, to the mill, and began to undermine that part of the
wall to which the vision directed. The first omen of success
that he met with, was a broken ring; digging still deeper, he
turned up a house-tile, quite new and entire.
9. At last, after much digging, he came to a broad flat
stone; but then it was so large, that it was beyond his
strength to remove it. "There," cried he in raptures
to himself, "there it is! under this stone, there is
room for a very large pan of diamonds indeed. I must e'en go
home to my wife, and tell her the whole affair, and get her
to assist me in turning it up." Away, therefore, he goes, and
acquaints his wife with every circumstance of their good
fortune.
10. Her raptures, on this occasion, may easily be imagined;
she flew round his neck, and embraced him in an agony of joy.
But these transports, however, did not allay their eagerness
to know the exact sum; returning, together, to the place
where Whang had been digging, there they found—not,
indeed, the expected treasure—but the mill, their only
support, undermined and fallen!
QUESTIONS.—1. Upon what was Whang, the miller,
dependent for support? 2. Why was he not satisfied? 3. What
did he say to himself, after the information he had received
from a neighbor? 4. What effect had such reflections upon
him? 5. What did he dream three nights successively? 6. What
did he do? 7. What was the result?
PO LITE' NESS, good manners.
FI DEL' I TY, faithfulness.
IN CU BA' TION, act of hatching eggs.
REC RE A' TION, pastime; amusement.
DE MURE' LY, gravely; with affected modesty.
AP PRE CI A' TION, estimate.
LITHE, nimble; flexible.
EX' IT, departure; going out.
ARCH' I TECTS, (ch, like k,) builders.
SA LI' VA, spittle.
SE CRETE', to deposit; produce.
CON'' GRE GATE, collect together.
FLEDG' ED, furnished with feathers.
DO MAIN', realm; kingdom.
AC COM MO DA' TIONS, conveniences.
MI' GRATE, remove; travel.
SPHERE, (ph like f,) circuit of action.
HENRY WARD BEECHER.
1. Every one knows, who lives in the country, what a
chimney-swallow is. They are among the birds that seem to
love the neighborhood of man. Many birds there are, that
nestle confidingly in the protection of their superiors, and
are seldom found nesting or breeding far from human
habitations.
2. The wren builds close to your door. Sparrows and robins,
if well treated, will make their nests right under your
window, in some favorite tree, and will teach you, if you
choose to go into the business, how to build birds' nests.
3. A great deal of politeness and fidelity may be learned.
The female bird is waited upon, fed, cheered with singing,
during her incubation, in a manner that might give lessons to
the household. Nay, when she needs exercise and recreation,
her husband very demurely takes her place, and keeps the eggs
warm in the most gentlemanly way.
4. Barn-swallows have a very sensible appreciation of the
pleasures of an ample barn. A barn might not be found quite
the thing to live in, (although we have seen many a place
where we would take the barn sooner than the house,) but it
is one of the most charming places in a summer-day to lounge,
read, or nap in.
5. And, as you lie on your back upon the sweet-scented
hay-mow, or upon clean straw thrown down on the great floor,
reading books of natural history, it is very pleasant to see
the flitting swallows glance in and out, or course about
under the roof, with motion so lithe and rapid as to seem
more like the glancing of shadows than the winging of birds.
Their mud-nests are clean, if they are made of dirt;
and you would never dream, from their feathers, what sort of
a house they lived in.
6. But, it was of chimney-swallows that we began to
write; and they are just now roaring in the little, stubbed
chimney behind us, to remind us of our duty. Every evening we
hear them; for a nest of young ones brings the parents in
with food, early and late, and every entrance or exit is like
a distant roll of thunder, or like those old-fashioned
rumblings of high winds in the chimney, which made us
children think that all out-of-doors was coming down the
chimney in stormy nights.
7. These little architects build their simple nests upon the
sides of the chimney with sticks, which they are said to
break off from dead branches of trees, though they might more
easily pick them up already prepared. But they, doubtless,
have their own reasons for cutting their own timber. Then
these are glued to the wall by a saliva which they secrete,
so that they carry their mortar in their mouths, and use
their bills for trowels.
8. When the young are ready to leave, they climb up the
chimney to the top, by means of their sharp claws, aided by
their tail-feathers, which are short, stiff, and at the end
armed with sharp spines. Two broods are reared in a season.
From the few which congregate in any one neighborhood, one
would not suspect the great numbers which assemble at the end
of the season. Audubon estimated that nine thousand
entered a large sycamore-tree, every night, to roost, near
Louisville, Kentucky.
9. Sometimes the little nest has been slighted in building,
or the weight proves too great, and down it comes into the
fire-place, to the great amusement of the children, who are
all a-fever to hold in their hands these clean, bright-eyed
little fellows. Who would suspect that they had ever been
bred in such a flue?
10. And it was just this thought that set us to writing.
Because a bird lives in a chimney, he need not be
smutty. There is many a fine feather that lives in a
chimney-corner. Nor are birds the only instances. Many
men are born in a garret, or in a cellar, who fly out of it,
as soon as fledged, as fine as any body. A lowly home has
reared many high natures.
11. On these bare sticks, right against the bricks, in this
smoky flue, the eggs are laid, the brooding goes on, the
young are hatched, fed, grown. But then comes the day when
they spread the wing, and the whole heaven is theirs! From
morning to night, they can not touch the bounds of their
liberty!
12. And, in like manner, it is with the human soul that has
learned to know its liberty. Born in a body, pent up, and
cramped, it seems imprisoned in a mere smoky flue for
passions. But, when once faith has taught the soul that it
has wings, then it begins to fly; and flying, finds that all
God's domain is its liberty.
13. And, as the swallow that comes back to roost in its hard
hole at night, is quite content, so that the morning gives it
again all the bright heavens for its soaring-ground, so may
men, close quartered and cramped in bodily accommodations, be
quite patient of their narrow bounds, for their thoughts may
fly out every day gloriously.
14. And as, in autumn, these children of the chimney gather
in flocks, and fly away to heavens without a winter, so men
shall find a day when they, too, shall migrate; and, rising
into a higher sphere, without storm or winter, shall remember
the troubles of this mortal life, as birds in Florida may be
supposed to remember the northern chills, which drove them
forth to a fairer clime.
QUESTIONS.—1. What birds seem to love the neighborhood
of man? 2. In what respects may men be like birds?
The first part of each verse, or that portion read by the
First Voice, should be expressed in a slow and
despondent tone of voice: the second part, or that read by
the Second Voice, should be expressed in a more
sprightly and cheerful manner.
ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.
FIRST VOICE.
1. Where are the swallows fled?
Frozen and dead,
Perchance, upon some bleak and stormy shore.
SECOND VOICE.
O doubting heart!
Far over purple seas,
They wait, in sunny ease,
The balmy southern breeze,
To bring them to their northern homes once more.
FIRST VOICE.
2. Why must the flowers die?
Poisoned they lie
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.
SECOND VOICE.
O doubting heart!
They only sleep below
The soft, white ermine snow,
While winter winds shall blow,
To breathe and smile upon you soon again.
FIRST VOICE.
3. The sun has hid its rays
These many days;
Will dreary hours never leave the earth?
SECOND VOICE.
O doubting heart!
The stormy clouds on high
Vail the same sunny sky,
That soon, (for Spring is nigh,)
Shall wake the Summer into golden mirth.
FIRST VOICE.
4. Fair Hope is dead, and light
Is quenched in night.
What sound can break the silence of despair?
SECOND VOICE.
O doubting heart!
The sky is overcast,
Yet stars shall rise at last,
Brighter for darkness past,
And angels' silver voices stir the air.
DECK'ED, dressed; arrayed.
TRAIL'ING, hanging down; following one after another.
UN FAIL'ING, constant; continually.
UN PLI'ANT, stiff; unbending.
DE FI'ANT, daring; bidding defiance.
VES'PER, evening.
CRISP'ER, more brittle.
TREAS'URES, wealth; riches.
MER'IT, desert; goodness.
IN HER'IT, occupy; possess.
MOR'SEL, bit; small piece.
WAIL'ING, loudly lamenting.
RAIL'ING, clamoring.
T.B. READ.
1. Autumn's sighing,
Moaning, dying,
Clouds are flying
On like steeds;
While their shadows
O'er the meadows.
Walk like widows
Decked in weeds.
2. Red leaves trailing,
Fall unfailing,
Dropping, sailing,
From the wood,
That, unpliant,
Stands defiant,
Like a giant
Dropping blood.
3. Winds are swelling
Round our dwelling,
All day telling
Us their woe;
And, at vesper,
Frosts grow crisper,
As they whisper
Of the snow.
4. From th' unseen land,
Frozen inland,
Down from Greenland,
Winter glides,
Shedding lightness
Like the brightness
When moon-whiteness
Fills the tides.
5. Now bright Pleasure's
Sparkling measures
With rare treasures
Overflow!
With this gladness
Comes what sadness!
Oh, what madness,
Oh, what woe!
6. Even merit
May inherit
Some bare garret,
Or the ground;
Or, a worse ill,
Beg a morsel
At some door-sill,
Like a hound.
7. Storms are trailing,
Winds are wailing,
Howling, railing,
At each door.
'Midst this trailing
Howling, railing,
List the wailing
Of the poor!
QUESTIONS.—1. What is the first sign of the coming of
winter? 2. What, the second? 3. What, the third? 4. What are
some of the pleasures of winter? 5. What is said of the poor
in winter? 6. What is the use of the apostrophes in the words
autumn's, o'er, pleasure's, 'midst, &c.?
LIVE' LONG, whole; entire.
EAVES, edges of a roof.
E' VEN TIDE, evening.
STRIV' EN, struggled; contended.
RE LIEV' ED, mitigated; alleviated.
WRETCH' ED NESS, distress; destitution.
OF FENSE', fault; crime.
PEN' I TENCE, repentance; contrition.
EL' O QUENT LY, forcibly; persuasively.
N.P. WILLIS.
1. Tired of play`! tired of play`!
What hast thou done this livelong day`?
The birds are silent´, and so is the bee`;
The sun is creeping up steeple and tree`;
The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves´,
And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves´;
Twilight gathers´, and day is done`,—
How hast them spent it`,—restless one´?
2. Playing`? But what hast thou done beside,
To tell thy mother at eventide`?
What promise of morn is left unbroken`?
What kind word to thy playmates spoken`?
Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven`?
How with thy faults has duty striven`?
What hast thou learned by field and hill,
By greenwood path, and by singing rill`?
3. There will come an eve to a longer day',
That will find thee tired`,—but not of play'!
And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now,
With drooping limbs, and aching brow,
And wish the shadows would faster creep,
And long to go to thy quiet sleep.
Well were it then, if thine aching brow
Were as free from sin and shame as now!
Well for thee, if thy lip could tell
A tale like this, of a day spent well.
4. If thine open hand hath relieved distress',—
If thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness',—
If thou hast forgiven the sore offense',
And humbled thy heart with penitence',—
If Nature's voices have spoken to thee
With her holy meanings eloquently',—
If every creature hath won thy love',
From the creeping worm to the brooding dove',—
If never a sad, low-spoken word
Hath pled with thy human heart unheard',—
Then`, when the night steals on, as now,
It will bring relief to thine aching brow,
And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest,
Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast.
QUESTIONS.—1. What had the child been doing? 2. What
questions did the mother ask? 3. What did she tell the child
would come? 4. What is meant by eve to a longer day,
third verse? 5. What, by quiet sleep, same verse? 6.
What ought we to do in life, in order to have a joyful and
peaceful death? 7. What rule for the rising inflection on
restless one, first verse? See page 32, Note I. 8.
What rule for the falling inflection on playing,
second verse? See page 29, Rule II. 9. What rule for the
rising inflections in the fourth verse? Rule V., page 31.
NORTH-EAST' ERS, north-east winds.
EX HAUST' ED, (x like gz,) tired out.
VIG' I LANT, watchful.
DE TECT' ED, discovered.
LEE' WARD, pertaining to the part toward which the wind
blows.
RE CED' ING, retiring; passing away.
BRILL' IAN CY, brightness; luster.
TILL' ER, bar used to turn the rudder.
TORT' URE, anguish of spirit.
DE SERT' ED, relinquished; abandoned.
RA PID' I TY, speed; swiftness.
EN VEL' OP ED, inclosed; covered.
GEN' ER A TED, produced.
LETH' AR GY, drowsiness; dullness.
RES' CUE, deliverance.
IN EV' I TA BLY, surely; certainly.
ES PY' ING, seeing; discovering.
CON' TACT, (CON, together; TAC, touch,) a
touching together; close union.
BY A SEA CAPTAIN.
1. On a bright moonlight night, in the month of February,
1831, when it was intensely cold, the little brig which I
commanded, lay quietly at her anchors, inside of Sandy Hook.
We had had a hard time, beating about for eleven days off
this coast, with cutting north-easters blowing, and snow and
sleet falling for the most part of that time.
2. Forward, the vessel was thickly coated with ice, and it
was hard work to handle her; as the rigging and sails were
stiff, and yielded only when the strength of the men was
exerted to the utmost. When we, at length, made the port, all
hands were worn down and exhausted.
3. "A bitter cold night, Mr. Larkin," I said to my mate, as I
tarried for a short time upon deck. The worthy down-easter
buttoned his coat more tightly around him, and, looking up to
the moon, replied, "It's a whistler, captain; and nothing can
live comfortably out of blankets to-night."
4. "The tide is running out swift and strong, and it will be
well to keep a sharp look-out for this floating ice, Mr.
Larkin," said I, as I turned to go below. "Ay, ay, sir,"
responded the faithful mate.
5. About two hours afterward, I was aroused from a sound
sleep by the vigilant officer. "Excuse me for disturbing you,
captain," said he, as he detected an expression of vexation
in my face, "but I wish you would turn out, and come on deck
as soon as possible."
6. "What's the matter, Mr. Larkin," said I. "Why, sir, I have
been watching a large cake of ice, which swept by at a
distance, a moment ago; and I saw something black upon it,
something that I thought moved. The moon is under a cloud,
and I could not see distinctly; but I believe there is a
child floating out to the sea, this freezing night, on that
cake of ice."
7. We were on deck before either spoke another word. The mate
pointed out, with no little difficulty, the cake of ice
floating off to the leeward, with its white, glittering
surface broken by a black spot. "Get the glass, Mr. Larkin,"
said I; "the moon will be out of that cloud in a moment, and
then we can see distinctly."
8. I kept my eye upon the receding mass of ice, while the
moon was slowly working her way through a heavy bank of
clouds. The mate stood by me with the glass; and when the
full light fell upon the water with a brilliancy only known
in our northern latitudes, I put the glass to my eye. One
glance was enough.
9. ('')"Forward, there!" I hailed at the top of
my voice; and, with one bound, I reached the main hatch, and
began to clear away the little cutter, which was stowed in
the ship's yawl. Mr. Larkin had taken the glass to look for
himself, "There are two children on that cake of ice!"
he exclaimed, as he hastened to assist me in getting out the
boat.
10. The men answered my hail, and walked quickly aft. In a
short space of time, we launched the cutter, into which Mr.
Larkin and myself jumped, followed by the two men, who took
the oars. I rigged the tiller, and the mate sat beside me in
the stern sheets.
11. "Do you see that cake of ice with something black upon
it, my lads? Put me alongside of that, and I'll give you a
month's extra wages when you are paid off," said I to the
men.
12. They bent to their oars, but their strokes were uneven
and feeble; for they were worn out by the hard duty of the
preceding fortnight; and, though they did their best, the
boat made little more headway than the tide. It was a losing
chase, and Mr. Larkin, who was suffering torture as he saw
how little we gained, cried out, "Pull, lads! I'll double
the captain's prize: two months' extra pay: pull, lads! pull
for life!"
13. A convulsive effort at the oars told how willing the men
were to obey; but the strength of the strong man was gone.
One of the poor fellows washed us twice in recovering his
oar, and then gave out; and the other was nearly as far gone.
Mr. Larkin sprang forward and seized the deserted oar. "Lie
down in the bottom of the boat," said he to the man; "and,
captain, take the other oar; we must row for ourselves."
14. I took the second man's place. Larkin had stripped off
his coat, and, as he pulled the bow, I waited for the signal
stroke. It came gently, but firm; and the next moment we were
pulling a long, steady stroke; gradually increasing in
rapidity, until the wood seemed to smoke in the row-locks. We
kept time, each by the long, deep breathing of the other.
15. Such a pull! We bent forward until our faces almost
touched our knees; and then throwing all our strength into
the backward movement, drew on the oar until every inch
covered by the sweep was gained. Thus we worked at the oars
for fifteen minutes; and it seemed to me as many hours. The
sweat rolled off in great drops, and I was enveloped in a
steam generated from my own body.
16. "Are we almost up to it, Mr. Larkin?" I gasped out.
"Almost, captain," said he: "and don't give up! for
the love of our dear little ones at home: don't give
up, captain!" The oars flashed as their blades turned up
to the moonlight, for the men who plied them were fathers,
and had fathers' hearts.
17. Suddenly Mr. Larkin ceased pulling; and my heart, for a
moment, almost stopped its beating; for the terrible thought
that he had given out, crossed my mind. But I was re-assured
by his voice, (p) "Gently, captain, gently: a stroke
or two more: there, that will do;" and the next moment Mr.
Larkin sprang upon the ice. I started up, and, calling to the
men to make fast the boat to the ice, followed him.
18. We ran to the dark spot in the center of the mass, and
found two little boys. The head of the smaller was resting in
the bosom of the larger; and both were fast asleep. The
lethargy, which would have been fatal but for the timely
rescue, had overcome them.
19. Mr. Larkin grasped one of the lads, cut off his shoes,
tore off his jacket, and then, loosening his own garments to
the skin, placed the cold child in contact with his own warm
body, carefully wrapping his overcoat around him. I did the
same with the other child, and we then returned to the boat.
20. The children, as we learned when we had the delight of
restoring them to their parents, were playing on the cake of
ice, which had jammed into a bend of the river, about ten
miles above New York. A movement of the tide set the ice in
motion, and the little fellows were borne away, that cold
night, and would have inevitably perished, but for Mr.
Larkin's espying them as they were sweeping out to sea.
21. "How do you feel, Mr. Larkin?" I said to the mate, the
morning after this adventure. "A little stiff in the arms,
captain," the noble fellow replied, while the big tears of
grateful happiness gathered in his eyes,—"a little
stiff in the arms, captain, but very easy here," laying his
hand on the rough chest in which beat a true and manly heart.
My quaint down-easter, He who lashes the seas into fury, and
lets loose the tempest, will care for thee! The storms may
rage without, but in thy bosom peace and sunshine
abide always.
QUESTIONS.—1. Describe the condition of the vessel as
she lay at anchor inside Sandy Hook. 2. What did the captain
say to Mr. Larkin, as he retired to rest? 3. Why did Mr.
Larkin wake up the captain? 4. What did they discover on a
cake of ice, floating out to sea? 5. Who went to their
rescue? 6. What did the captain say to the rowers of the
boat? 7. What did Mr. Larkin say to them? 8. Did they finally
succeed in rescuing the children? 9. How came the two boys to
be on that cake of ice? 10. What did Mr. Larkin say, when the
captain asked him how he felt?
A DORN' ED, decorated; embellished.
SPOILS, booty; prey.
ANT' LERS, branching horns.
SUS PEND' ED, hung; atatched.
DIS TRACT' ED, disturbed; disordered.
FU' GI TIVE, runaway; wanderer.
BE SET', hemmed in; surrounded.
TRAI' TORS, betrayers.
HEATH, place overgrown with shrubs.
LIEGE, lord; sovereign.
LOY' AL, true; faithful.
FE' AL TY, loyalty; fidelity.
MA' TRON, married woman.
REC OG NIZ' ED, knew; recollected.
IN VAD' ERS, persons invading.
ANON.
1. Many years ago, an old Scotch woman sat alone, spinning by
the kitchen fire, in her little cottage. The room was adorned
with the spoils of the chase, and many implements of war and
hunting. There were spears, bows and arrows, swords, and
shields; and, against the side of the room, hung a pair of
huge antlers, once reared on the lordly brow of a "stag of
ten," [Footnote: That is, a stag ten years old. The age of
the animal is known by the number of prongs or tines, each
year one new prong being added.] on which were suspended
skins, plaids, bonnets, and one or two ponderous battle-axes.
2. The table, in the middle of the floor, was spread for
supper, and some oatmeal cakes were baking before the fire.
But the dame was not thinking of any of these things,
nor of her two manly sons, who, in an adjoining room, were
busily preparing for the next day's sport.
3. She was thinking of the distracted state of her native
land, and of the good king, Robert Bruce, a fugitive in his
own kingdom, beset, on every hand, by open enemies and secret
traitors. "Alas!" thought she, "to-night I dwell here in
peace, while to-morrow may see me driven out into the heath;
and even now our king is a wanderer, with no shelter for his
weary limbs."
4. A loud knock at the door broke in upon her musings. She
rose, trembling with fear, to unbar the entrance, and beheld
a man closely muffled in a cloak. "My good woman," said he,
"will you grant a poor traveler the shelter of your roof
to-night'?"
5. "Right willingly will I," said she; "for the love of
one, for whose sake all travelers are welcome here."
6. "For whose sake is it that you make all wanderers
welcome?" asked the stranger.
7. "For the sake of our good king, Robert Bruce, who, though
he is now hunted like a wild beast, with horn and hound, I
trust yet to see on the throne of Scotland!"
8. "Nay, then, my good woman," replied the man, "since you
love him so well, know that you see him now I am
Robert Bruce."
9. "You'!—are you our king'?" she
inquired, sinking on her knees, and reverently kissing his
hand; "where, then, are your followers, and why are you thus
alone?"
10. "I have no followers now," replied Bruce, "and am,
therefore, compelled to travel alone."
11. "Nay, my liege," exclaimed the loyal dame, "that you
shall do no longer; for here are my two sons, whom I give to
you, and may they long live to serve and defend your
majesty!"
12. The Scottish youths bent their knees, and took the oath
of fealty; and then, sitting beside the fire, the king
entered into conversation with his new retainers, while their
mother was busied in preparing the evening meal.
13. Suddenly, they were startled by the tramp of horses'
hoofs, and the voices of men. "'Tis the English!"
shouted the matron, "fight to the last, my sons, and
defend your king!" But, at this moment, the king
recognized the voices of Lord James, of Douglas, and of
Edward Bruce, and bade them have no fear.
14. Bruce was overjoyed at meeting with his brother, and his
faithful friend Douglas, who had with them a band of one
hundred and fifty men. He bade farewell to the brave and
loyal woman, and, taking with him her two sons, left the
place.
15. The two young Scots served Bruce well and faithfully, and
were high officers in his service when, at the head of a
conquering army, he drove the English invaders from the soil
of Scotland, and rendered her again a free and independent
kingdom.
QUESTIONS.—1. Describe the room in which the Scotch
woman resided. 2, What is meant by a "stag of ten?" 3.
Who did the stranger prove to be? 4. Who joined Bruce? 5.
What did Bruce and his men then do?
PROS PER' ITY, success; good fortune.
DIG' NI FIES, elevates; ennobles.
SUS TAIN' ED, endured; suffered.
AD VERS' I TY, calamity; misfortune.
UN ERR' ING, sure; certain.
FOR LORN', forsaken; wretched.
CAN' O PY, covering overhead.
EI DER DOWN, fine, soft feathers from the eider-duck.
DE VOID', destitute.
IM MERS' ED, inwrapped; sunk.
GOS' SA MER Y, like gossamer; filmy.
RE COIL' ED, started back.
FOIL' ED, frustrated; defeated.
RO MANCE', fiction.
TRIV' I AL, small; trifling.
CON FIDE', trust; believe.
AD' VERSE, contrary; opposite.
PALM, token of victory.
BERNARD BARTON.
1. Not in prosperity's broad light,
Can reason justly scan
The sterling worth which, viewed aright,
Most dignifies the man.
Favored at once by wind and tide,
The skillful pilot well may guide
The bark in safety on;
Yet, when his harbor he has gained,
He who no conflict hath sustained,
No meed has fairly won.
2. But in adversity's dark hour
Of peril and of fear,
When clouds above the vessel lower,
With scarce one star to cheer;
When winds are loud, and waves are high,
And ocean, to a timid eye,
Appears the seaman's grave;
Amid the conflict, calm, unmoved,
By truth's unerring test is proved
The skillful and the brave.
3. For Scotland and her freedom's right
The Bruce his part had played;
In five successive fields of fight
Been conquered and dismayed.
Once more, against the English host
His band he led, and once more lost
The meed for which he fought;
And now, from battle faint and worn,
The homeless fugitive forlorn
A hut's lone shelter sought.
4. And cheerless was that resting-place
For him who claimed a throne;
His canopy, devoid of grace,—
The rude, rough beams alone;
The heather couch his only bed,
Yet well I know had slumber fled
From couch of eider down;
Through darksome night to dawn of day,
Immersed in wakeful thought he lay,
Of Scotland and her crown.
5. The sun rose brightly, and its gleam
Fell on that hapless bed,
And tinged with light each shapeless beam
Which roofed the lowly shed;
When, looking up with wistful eye,
The Bruce beheld a spider try
His filmy thread to fling
From beam to beam of that rude cot;
And well the insect's toilsome lot
Taught Scotland's future king.
6. Six times his gossamery thread
The wary spider threw:
In vain the filmy line was sped;
For, powerless or untrue,
Each aim appeared and back recoiled
The patient insect, six times foiled,
And yet unconquered still;
And soon the Bruce, with eager eye,
Saw him prepare once more to try
His courage, strength, and skill.
7. One effort more, the seventh and last,—
The hero hailed the sign!
And on the wished-for beam hung fast
The slender, silken line.
Slight as it was, his spirit caught
The more than omen; for his thought
The lesson well could trace,
Which even "he who runs may read,"
That perseverance gains its meed,
And patience wins the race.
8. Is it a tale of mere romance'?
Its moral is the same,—
A light and trivial circumstance'?
Some thought, it still may claim.
Art thou a father'? teach thy son
Never to deem that all is done,
While aught remains untried;
To hope, though every hope seems crossed,
And when his bark is tempest-tossed
Still calmly to confide.
9. Hast thou been long and often foiled
(<) By adverse wind and seas'?
And vainly struggled, vainly toiled,
For what some win with ease'?
Yet bear up heart, and hope, and will,
Nobly resolved to struggle still,
With patience persevere;
Knowing, when darkest seems the night,
The dawn of morning's glorious light
Is swiftly drawing near.
10. Art thou a Christian? shall the frown
Of fortune cause dismay'?
The Bruce but won an earthly crown,
Which long hath passed away;
For thee a heavenly crown awaits;
For thee are oped the pearly gates,—
Prepared the deathless palm:
But bear in mind that only those
Who persevere unto the close,
Can join in Victory's psalm.
QUESTIONS.—1. Will smooth seas and favoring gales make
a skillful mariner? 2. What will make skillful and brave men?
3. In what respect is adversity better than prosperity? 4.
What story illustrates this fact? 5. How many times did the
spider try, before it succeeded? 6. In how many battles had
Bruce been defeated? 7. What important lesson is taught
youth? 8. What encouragement is given to the Christian?
PA' TRI OT' IC, having love of country.
OB SER VA' TION, remark, expression.
POP' U LAR, well received; prevailing.
E QUAL' I TY, sameness of social position.
AUD' I BLE, that may be heard.
DE TER' MIN ED, fully resolved.
HES' I TATE, scruple.
BRA' VO, well done.
BROILS, wrangles; quarrels.
RENOWN' ED, famed; celebrated.
O' DI OUS, hateful; offensive.
COUNT' ESS, wife of a count or earl.
FAG-END', the meaner part.
NO BIL' I TY, noble rank.
BUR LESQUE', (burlesk',) ridicule.
HE RED' I TA RY, coming by descent.
CON' STI TUTES, forms; composes.
APH' O RISMS, precepts; maxims.
TEM' PO RA RY, continuing for a time.
BECK, sign with the hand; nod.
[Headnote 1: LA VA' TER, (John Gaspar,) a celebrated
physiognomist, that is, one skilled in the art of determining
character by the external features, born in Zurich, in 1741.]
That part of this dialogue uttered by Caroline, should be
read in a very earnest and spirited style,—that uttered
by Horace in a more grave, deliberate, and candid manner.
Caroline. What a pity it is that we are born under a
Republican government!
Horace. Upon my word, Caroline, that is a patriotic
observation for an American.
Caroline. Oh, I know that it is not a popular
one! We must all join in the cry of liberty and equality, and
bless our stars that we have neither kings nor emperors to
rule over us, and that our very first audible squeak was
republicanism. If we don't join in the shout, and hang our
caps on liberty-poles, we are considered monsters. For my
part, I am tired of it, and am determined to say
what I think. I hate republicanism; I hate liberty
and equality; and I don't hesitate to declare that I
am for monarchy. You may laugh, but I would say it at the
stake.
Horace. Bravo, Caroline! You have almost run yourself
out of breath. You deserve to be prime minister to the king.
Caroline. You mistake; I have no wish to mingle in
political broils, not even if I could be as renowned as Pitt
or Fox; but I must say, I think our equality is
odious. What do you think! To-day, the new
chamber-maid put her head into the door, and said, "Caroline,
your marm wants you!"
Horace. Excellent! I suppose if ours were a
monarchical government, she would have bent to the
ground, or saluted your little foot, before she spoke.
Caroline. No, Horace; you know there are no
such forms in this country.
Horace. May I ask your highness what you would
like to be?
Caroline. I should like to be a countess.
Horace. Oh, you are moderate in your ambition! A
countess, now-a-days, is the fag-end of nobility.
Caroline. Oh! but it sounds so
delightfully,—"The young Countess Caroline!"
Horace. If sound is all, you shall have that
pleasure; we will call you the young countess.
Caroline. That would be mere burlesque, Horace, and
would make one ridiculous.
Horace. Nothing can be more inconsistent in us, than
aiming at titles.
Caroline. For us, I grant you; but, if they
were hereditary, if we had been born to them, if they
came to us through belted knights and high-born dames,
then we might be proud to wear them. I never shall
cease to regret that I was not born under a monarchy.
Horace. You seem to forget that all are not lords and
ladies in royal dominions. Suppose you should have
drawn your first breath among the lower
classes,—suppose it should have been your lot to
crouch and bend, or be trodden under foot by some titled
personage, whom in your heart you despised; what then?
Caroline. You may easily suppose that I did not mean
to take those chances. No; I meant to be born among
the higher ranks.
Horace. Your own reason must tell you, that all
can not be born among the higher ranks; for then the
lower ones would be wanting, which constitute the
comparison. Now, Caroline, is it not better to be born under
a government where there are no such ranks, and where the
only nobility is talent and virtue'?
Caroline. Talent and virtue! I think wealth
constitutes our nobility, and the right of abusing each
other, our liberty.
Horace. You are as fond of aphorisms as
Lavater[Headnote 1] was.
Caroline. Let me ask you if our rich men, who ride in
their own carriages, who have fine houses, and who count by
millions, are not our great men?
Horace. They have all the greatness that money
can buy; but this is very limited.
Caroline. Well, in my opinion, money is
power.
Horace. You mistake. Money may be temporary
power, but talent is power itself; and,
when united with virtue, is godlike power, before
which the mere man of millions quails.
Caroline. Well, Horace, I really wish you the
possession of talent, and principle, and
wealth into the bargain. The latter, you think, will
follow the two former, simply at your beck;—you smile;
but I feel as determined in my way of thinking,
as you do in yours.
QUESTIONS.—1. What is the subject of this dialogue? 2.
What did Caroline regret? 3. What reply did Horace make? 4.
What did Caroline wish to be? 5. What did Horace say
constituted true nobility?
RE SERV'ING, keeping; retaining.
AC CU' MU LA TED, collected.
IN DIG NA' TION, angry feeling.
RE SOURC' ES, means; funds.
DIS SER TA' TION, discourse; essay.
EX PAN' SION, enlargement.
DE POS' IT ED, put; laid.
EX ER' TION (egs er shun,) effort.
JU DI' CIOUS, wise, prudent.
VO CA' TION, business; employment.
EU PHON' IC, agreeable; well-sounding.
CO TEM' PO RA RIES, those living at the same time.
DI GRES' SION, departure from the subject.
PRE DIC' TIONS, prophecies.
IM PELL' ED, driven forward.
AR IS TOC' RA CY, (ARISTO, the best; CRACY,
government,) government by the best, or nobles. See
SANDERS' ANALYSIS, page 200, Ex. 283.
[Headnote 1: SOC' RA TES, the most celebrated philosopher of
antiquity, was born at Athens, 470 years before Christ. The
purity of his doctrines, and his independence of character,
rendered him popular with the most enlightened Athenians,
though they created him many enemies. He was falsely
accused, arraigned, and condemned to drink
hemlock, the juice of a poisonous plant. When the hour
to take the poison had come, the executioner handed him the
cup, with tears in his eyes. Socrates received it with
composure, drank it with unaltered countenance, and, in a few
moments, expired.]
[Headnote 2: DE MOS' THE NES, a great Grecian orator, who,
rather than fall into the hands of his enemies, destroyed
himself by taking poison. It is said that, when a youth, he
frequently declaimed on the sea-shore, while the waves were
roaring around him, in order to secure a large compass of
voice, and to accustom himself to the tumult of a popular
assembly.]
[Headnote 3: KING DA' VID, the sweet singer and poet of
Israel. For the interesting account of his triumph over
Goliath, the great champion of the Philistines, see I Sam.,
chap. 17.]
1. I remember it well! Its horn handle, so smooth and clear,
glowing with the unmeaning, but magic word, "Bunkum;"
and the blade significantly inviting you to the test, by the
two monosyllables, "Try me."
2. I know not how it is, but I never could take half the
comfort in any thing which I have since possessed, that I
took in this jack-knife. I earned it myself; and,
therefore, I had a feeling of independence; it was bought
with my own money,—not teazed out of my uncle,
or still kinder father,—money that I had
silently earned on the afternoons of those days set apart for
boys to amuse themselves.
3. Yes! with a spirit of persevering industry and
self-denial, at which I now wonder, I went, every afternoon,
during "berry-time," and picked the ripened fruit with
eagerness; for my heart was in the task. I sold my berries,
and, carefully reserving the proceeds, shortly accumulated
enough to purchase the treasure, for which I so eagerly
longed.
4. I went to one of the village-stores, and requested the
clerk to show me his jack-knives; but he, seeing that I was
only a boy, and thinking that I merely meant to amuse myself
in looking at the nicest, and wishing it was mine, told me
not to plague him, as he was otherwise engaged.
5. I turned with indignation; but I felt the inward comfort
of a man who has confidence in his own resources, and
knows he has the power in his own hands. I quietly jingled
the money in my pockets, and went to the opposite store. I
asked for jack-knives, and was shown a lot fresh from the
city, which were temptingly laid down before me, and left for
me to select one, while the trader went to another part of
his store to wait upon an older customer. I looked over them,
opened them, breathed upon the blades, and shut them again.
6. One was too hard to open, another had no spring; finally,
after examining them with all the judgment which, in my
opinion, the extent of the investment required, I selected
one with a hole through the handle; and, after a dissertation
with the owner upon jack-knives in general, and this
one in particular,—upon hawk-bill, and
dagger-blades,—and handles, iron, bone, and
buck-horn,—I succeeded in closing a bargain.
7. I took the instrument I had purchased, and felt a sudden
expansion of my boyish frame! It was my world! I deposited it
in my pocket among other valuables,—twine, marbles,
slate-pencils, &c. I went home to my father; I told him
how long I had toiled for it, and how eagerly I had spent
time, which others had allotted to play, to possess myself of
my treasure.
8. My father gently chided me for not telling him of my
wants; but I observed his glistening eye turn affectionately
to my mother and then to me, and I thought that his manly
form seemed to straighten up and to look prouder than I had
ever before seen him. At any rate, he came to me, and,
patting my curly head, told me there was no object in life,
which was reasonably to be desired, that honesty,
self-denial, well-directed industry, and
perseverance would not place within my reach; and if,
through life, I carried the spirit of independent exertion
into practice, which I had displayed in the purchase of the
jack-knife, I should become a "great man."
9. From that moment, I was a new being. I had discovered that
I could rely upon myself. I took my jack-knife, and
many a time, while cutting the walnut-saplings for my bow, or
the straight pine for my arrow, or carving my mimic ship, did
I muse upon these words of my father,—so deeply are the
kind expressions of a judicious parent engraven on the heart
and memory of boyhood.
10. My knife was my constant companion. It was my carpenter,
my ship-builder, and my toy-manufacturer. It was out upon all
occasions, never amiss, and always "handy;" and, as I valued
it, I never let it part from me. I own my selfishness; I
would divide my apples among my playmates, my whole store of
marbles was at their service,—they might knock my bats,
kick my foot-ball as they chose; but I had no partnership of
enjoyments in my jack-knife. Its possession was connected in
my mind with something so exclusive, that I could not
permit another to take it for a moment. Oh! there is a wild
and delicious luxury in one's boyish anticipations and
youthful day-dreams!
11. If, however, the use of my jack-knife afforded me
pleasure, the idea of its possession was no less a source of
enjoyment. I was, for the time being, a little prince among
my fellows,—a perfect monarch. Let no one exclaim
against aristocracy; were we all perfectly equal
to-day, there would be an aristocracy to-morrow.
Talent, judgment, skill, tact, industry, perseverance, will
place some on the top, while the contrary attributes will
place others at the bottom of fortune's ever-revolving wheel!
12. The plowman is an aristocrat, if he excels in his
vocation: he is an aristocrat, if he turns a better or a
straighter furrow than his neighbor. The poorest poet is an
aristocrat, if he writes more feelingly, in a purer language,
or with more euphonic jingle than his cotemporaries. The
fisherman is an aristocrat, if he wields his harpoon with
more skill, and hurls it with a deadlier energy than his
messmates, or has even learned to fix his bait more
alluringly on his barbed hook.
13. All have had, and still have their foibles;
all have some possession, upon which they pride themselves,
and I was proud of my jack-knife! Spirit of Socrates,
[Headnote 1] forgive me! was there no pride in dying like a
philosopher'? Spirit of Demosthenes, [Headnote 2] forgive me!
was there no pride in your addresses to the boundless and
roaring ocean'? Spirit of David! [Headnote 3] was there no
pride in the deadly hurling of the smooth pebble, which sank
deep into the forehead of your enemy'?
14. But I must take my jack-knife and cut short this
digression. Let no man say this or that
occurrence "will make no difference fifty years
hence,"—a common, but dangerous phrase. I am
now a man of three-score years. I can point my finger
here to my ships, there to my warehouse. My
name is well known in two hemispheres. I have drank deeply of
intellectual pleasures, have served my country in many
important stations, have had my gains and my losses.
15. I have seen many, who started with fairer prospects, but
with no compass, wrecked before me; but I have been impelled
in my operations, no matter how extensive, by the same
spirit which conceived and executed the purchase of the
jack-knife. And I have found my reward in it; and, perhaps,
in after years, there will be those who will say that the
predictions of my father were fulfilled in their case; and
that, from small beginnings, by "honesty,
self-denial, well-directed industry, and
perseverance," they also, BECAME TRULY "GREAT MEN."
QUESTIONS.—1. How did this boy obtain his first
jack-knife? 2. What did his father say to him, when he told
how he had earned it? 3. What use did he make of his knife?
4. What is said about aristocracy? 5. What is said of
this boy when he came to be three-score years old?
COIN' ED, stamped.
BAR' TER, trade; exchange.
COM MOD' I TIES, goods; wares.
BULL'ION, uncoined silver or gold.
BUC' CA NEERS, pirates; freebooters.
IM MENSE', very great; enormous.
DAIN' TIES, delicacies.
SMALL-CLOTHES, breeches.
AT TIR' ED, dressed; arrayed.
PE' ONY, plant and beautiful flower.
PER' SON A BLE, handsome; graceful.
ES PE' CIAL LY, mainly; chiefly.
RE CEP' TA CLE, that which receives or holds.
PON' DER OUS, heavy; bulky.
RE SUM' ING, taking again.
1. Captain John Hull was the mint-master of Massachusetts,
and coined all the money that was made there. This was a new
line of business; for, in the earlier days of the colony, the
current coinage consisted of gold and silver money of
England, Portugal, and Spain.
2. These coins being scarce, the people were often forced to
barter their commodities, instead of selling them. For
instance, if a man wanted to buy a coat, he, perhaps,
exchanged a bear-skin for it. If he wished for a barrel of
molasses, he might purchase it with a pile of pine-boards.
Musket-bullets were used instead of farthings.
3. The Indians had a sort of money, called wampum,
which was made of clam-shells; and this strange sort of
specie was, likewise, taken in payment of debts, by the
English settlers. Bank-bills had never been heard of. There
was not money enough of any kind, in many parts of the
country, to pay the salaries of the ministers; so that they
sometimes had to take quintals of fish, bushels of corn, or
cords of wood, instead of silver or gold.
4. As the people grew more numerous, and their trade one with
another increased, the want of current money was still more
sensibly felt. To supply the demand, the general court passed
a law for establishing a coinage of shillings, sixpences, and
threepences. Captain John Hull was appointed to manufacture
this money, and was to have one shilling, out of every
twenty, to pay him for the trouble of making them.
5. Hereupon, all the old silver in the colony was handed over
to Captain John Hull. The battered silver cans, and tankards,
and silver-buckles, and broken spoons, and silver-buttons of
worn-out coats, and silver hilts of swords that had figured
at courts,—all such curious old articles were,
doubtless, thrown into the melting-pot together. But by far
the greater part of the silver consisted of bullion from the
mines of South America, which the English buccaneers, (who
were little better than pirates,) had taken from the
Spaniards, and brought to Massachusetts.
6. All this old and new silver being melted down and coined,
the result was an immense amount of splendid shillings,
sixpences, and threepences. Each had the date, 1652, on the
one side, and the figure of a pine-tree on the other.
Hence, they were called pine-tree shillings. And, for
every twenty shillings that he coined, you will
remember, Captain John Hull was entitled to put one
shilling into his own pocket.
7. The magistrates soon began to suspect that the mint-master
would have the best of the bargain. They offered him a large
sum of money, if he would but give up that twentieth
shilling, which he was continually dropping into his own
pocket. But Captain Hull declared himself perfectly satisfied
with the shilling. And well he might be; for, so diligently
did he labor, that, in a few years, his pockets, his
money-bags, and his strong box, were overflowing with
pine-tree shillings. This was probably the case when he came
into possession of Grandfather's chair; and, as he had worked
so hard at the mint, it was certainly proper that he should
have a comfortable chair to rest himself in.
8. When the mint-master had grown very rich, a young man,
Samuel Sewell by name, fell in love with his only daughter.
His daughter, whom we will call Betsey, was a fine, hearty
damsel, by no means so slender as some young ladies of our
own days. As Samuel was a young man of good character,
industrious in his business, and a member of the church, the
mint-master very readily gave his consent.
9. "Yes; you may take her," said he, in his rough way; "and
you'll find her a heavy burden enough!" On the wedding-day,
we may suppose that honest John Hull dressed himself in a
plum-colored coat, all the buttons of which were made of
pine-tree shillings. The buttons of his waistcoat were
sixpences; and the knees of his small-clothes were buttoned
with silver threepences.
10. Thus attired, he sat with great dignity in Grandfather's
chair; and, being a portly old gentleman, he completely
filled it from elbow to elbow. On the opposite side of the
room, between her bridemaids, sat Miss Betsey, blushing like
a full-blown peony.
11. There, too, was the bridegroom, dressed in a fine purple
coat, and gold-lace waistcoat, with as much other finery as
the Puritan laws and customs would allow him to put on. His
hair was cropped close to his head, because Governor Endicott
had forbidden any man to wear it below the ears. But he was a
very personable young man; and so thought the bridemaids and
Miss Betsey herself.
12. The mint-master, also, was pleased with his new
son-in-law; especially as he had courted Miss Betsey out of
pure love, and had said nothing at all about her portion. So,
when the marriage ceremony was over, Captain Hull whispered a
word to two of his men-servants, who immediately went out,
and soon returned, lugging in a large pair of scales. They
were such a pair as wholesale merchants use for weighing
bulky commodities; and quite a bulky commodity was now to be
weighed in them.
13. "Daughter Betsey," said the mint-master, "get into one
side of these scales." Miss Betsey, or Mrs. Sewell, as we
must now call her, did as she was bid, like a dutiful child,
without any question of the why and wherefore. But what her
father could mean, unless to make her husband pay for her by
the pound, (in which case she would have been a dear
bargain,) she had not the least idea.
14. "And now," said honest John Hull to the servants, "bring
that box hither." The box, to which the mint-master pointed,
was a huge, square, iron-bound, oaken chest. The servants
tugged with might and main; but could not lift this enormous
receptacle, and were finally obliged to drag it across the
floor.
15. Captain Hull then took a key from his girdle, unlocked
the chest, and lifted its ponderous lid. Behold! it was
full to the brim of bright pine-tree shillings, fresh
from the mint; and Samuel Sewell began to think that his
father-in-law had got possession of all the money in the
Massachusetts' treasury. But it was only the mint-master's
honest share of the coinage.
16. Then the servants, at Captain Hull's command, heaped
double handfuls of shillings into one side of the scales,
while Betsey remained in the other. Jingle, jingle, went the
shillings, as handful after handful was thrown in, till,
plump and ponderous as she was, they fairly weighed the young
lady from the floor.
17. "There, son Samuel," said the honest mint-master,
resuming his seat in Grandfather's chair, "take these
shillings for my daughter's portion. Use her kindly, and
thank Heaven for her. It is not every wife that's worth
her weight in silver!"
QUESTIONS.—1. What was Captain John Hull's business? 2.
What portion of the money coined, was he to receive? 3. How
did he get silver to coin? 4. Describe the shillings he
coined. 5. How did he become wealthy? 6. Describe his dress
on his daughter's wedding-day. 7. What did he say to his
son-in-law, after weighing her with shillings?
LODG' ES, dens; caves.
MAR' VEL OUS, wonderful.
TIP' PED, pointed.
HERD, gather in herds.
FA' MOUS, noted; remarkable.
ROE' BUCK, small species of deer.
STRAIGHT' WAY, immediately.
E RECT', upright.
FROL' IC, fun; play.
FORD, place where water can be waded.
FLECK' ED, spotted; striped.
FLUT' TER ED, quivered.
PAL' PI TA TED, beat; throbbed.
WA' RY, watchful; cautious.
FA' TAL, deadly; mortal.
EX ULT' ED, (x like gz,) greatly rejoiced.
LONGFELLOW.
This lesson is taken from "The Song of Hiawatha," a poem,
founded upon traditions current among some tribes of North
American Indians, respecting an imaginary being of more than
mortal powers and gifts, named Hiawatha. The scene of the
poem is laid among the Ojibways, or Chippewas, a tribe of
Indians, occupants, from the period of our earliest history,
of the basin of Lake Superior.
1.
Then the little Hiawatha
Learned of every bird its language,
Learned their names and all their secrets,
How they built their nests in summer,
Where they hid themselves in winter,
Talked with them where'er he met them,
Called them "Hiawatha's chickens."
2.
Of all beasts he learned the language,
Learned their names and all their secrets,
How the beavers built their lodges,
Where the squirrels hid their acorns,
How the reindeer ran so swiftly,
Why the rabbit was so timid,
Talked with them whene'er he met them,
Called them "Hiawatha's brothers."
3.
Then Ia'goo, the great boaster,
He, the marvelous story-teller,
He, the traveler and the talker,
Made a bow for Hiawatha;
From a branch of ash he made it,
From an oak-bough made the arrows,
Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers,
And the cord he made of deer-skin.
4.
Then he said to Hiawatha,
"Go, my son, into the forest,
Where the red deer herd together,
Kill for us a famous roebuck,
Kill for us a deer with antlers."
Forth into the forest straightway
All alone walked Hiawatha
Proudly with his bow and arrows.
5.
And the birds sang round him, o'er him
"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha."
Sang the robin, sang the bluebird,
"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha."
Up the oak-tree, close beside him,
Sprang the squirrel, lightly leaping
In and out among the branches;
Coughed and chattered from the oak-tree,
Laughed, and said between his laughing,
"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha."
6.
And the rabbit from his pathway
Leaped aside, and, at a distance,
Sat erect upon his haunches,
Half in fear, and half in frolic,
Saying to the little hunter,
"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha."
7.
But he heeded not nor heard them,
For his thoughts were with the red deer;
On their tracks his eyes were fastened,
Leading downward to the river,
To the ford across the river,
And as one in slumber walked he.
8.
Hidden in the alder bushes,
There he waited till the deer came,
Till he saw too antlers lifted,
Saw two eyes look from the thicket,
Saw two nostrils point to windward,
And the deer came down the pathway,
Flecked with leafy light and shadow.
And his heart within him fluttered,
Trembled like the leaves above him,
Like the birch leaf palpitated,
As the deer came down the pathway.
9.
Then, upon one knee uprising,
Hiawatha aimed an arrow;
Scarce a twig moved with his motion,
Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled,
But the wary roebuck started,
Stamped with all his hoofs together,
Listened with one foot uplifted,
Leaped as if to meet the arrow;
Ah, the singing, fatal arrow,
Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him.
10.
Dead he lay there in the forest,
By the ford across the river;
Beat his timid heart no longer;
But the heart of Hiawatha
Throbbed, and shouted, and exulted,
As he bore the red deer homeward.
TRAIL, track; footprints.
IN' DICATED, pointed out; shown.
MURK' Y, dark; gloomy.
FLAM' BEAU, (flam' bo,) lighted torch.
RE FLECT' ING, throwing back.
LU' RID LY, gloomily; dismally.
SUS PECT' ING, mistrusting.
AS SAIL' ANTS, assaulters.
ECH' O, (ek' o,) sound reverberated.
RE LAPS' ED, fell back; returned.
EN VEL' OPED, inwrapped.
SUF FO CATED, smothered.
BRAND' ISHING, flourishing; waving.
RIG' ID, stiff.
BIV' OUAC, (biv' wak,) pass the night without
tents.
PEER' ED, came in sight; appeared.
DE CLIV' I TY, gradual descent.
PRO LONG' ED, lengthened; continued.
COM' RADE, companion; associate.
BOY'S BOOK OF ADVENTURES.
1. I had left the hunting party more than an hour, when I
came upon the track of my old friend Konwell, who was, with
his dogs, on the bloody trail of a panther. The animal must
have had one of his legs broken; this was indicated by the
marks on the soft ground; and it was plain that the tracks
were made by three feet instead of four, and accompanied by
blood at every leap.
2. I determined to follow; and, after a tramp of nearly an
hour, I overtook my friend at the entrance of a cavern, where
he stood waiting for me. The wounded animal had taken refuge
in this cave, leaving us to do whatever we thought best. The
poor beast doubtless supposed that within this murky recess
he was safe from pursuit; but he was mistaken. Konwell
informed me that he had hidden a bundle of pine splinters in
a gulley, about half a mile distant, and that if I would keep
guard over the mouth of the cave, he would go and bring it.
3. I agreed to this measure; and, with ready gun and drawn
knife, prepared for any attack that might be made. I lay down
at the entrance of the panther's cave. My friend soon
returned, bringing the pine, as he had promised. His next
movement was to kindle a large fire at the mouth of the cave,
at which we lighted our torches; and, having taken the
flambeaus in our left hand, while we carried our guns in the
right, we cautiously entered the cave. I crept on before; but
the space within soon became so high and roomy, that we could
stand upright, and keep close to each other.
4. Bending toward the left, the cavity extended a
considerable distance within the hill. After we had advanced
about two hundred steps, we saw the glaring eyes of the
wounded beast, which gleamed forth like two fiery balls,
reflecting most luridly the light of our torches. Konwell now
took my flambeau and stepped behind me. I leveled my gun in
the direction of those flaming eyes, and fired. After the
report, we heard a bustle; but could not exactly make out
what it meant.
5. I reloaded my gun, resumed my torch, and Konwell now took
his place in front. But, as those flaming eyes were no longer
to be seen, we felt obliged to go farther. Our guns ready
loaded, we believed ourselves to be prepared for anything. We
proceeded carefully, as men are likely to do when suspecting
danger, when, instantly, the panther started up from a
hollow, in which he was lying, quite close to our feet.
6. It was a fearful sight to look upon him as he stood with
ears laid back, his white teeth set together, as if in
intense anger, and those wide open eyes glowing and sparkling
as they rested upon us, his assailants. I can never forget
his appearance. In a moment our guns were discharged, and the
cave returned the thundering echo. We had both fired so
precisely at the same moment, that neither of us could
believe the other had discharged his gun.
7. We were certain that our enemy had been struck, but we
knew not whether killed or only disabled. Quick as thought,
we dropped our guns and drew our knives from the sheath. And
haste was necessary; for the echo had not relapsed into
silence, before we felt the weight of the panther against us;
and we began cutting at him with our knives, and, at the same
moment, in consequence of our hurried movements, our torches
died out, and we were left in utter darkness.
8. Deafened by the noise and utterly bewildered, I turned to
fly from the now raging enemy, and only became perfectly
aware of what I was doing, when I found myself standing
beside Konwell outside the cave in the open air. I only know
now, that, enveloped in thick darkness, and almost suffocated
with the smoke of gunpowder, I groped about, not knowing what
I wished or intended; and that Konwell, at last, drew me
forcibly to the mouth of the cave.
9. There we stood, each one brandishing his hunting-knife in
his right hand, and holding the extinguished torch in the
left; as we looked on each other, we scarcely knew whether to
laugh or to be frightened at the strange figures we made. We
were black with powder-smoke, covered with sweat and blood,
and our clothing torn to rags.
10. Konwell complained of a pain in his breast. I opened the
bosom of his shirt, and found two deep gashes made by the
panther's claws, extending from the left shoulder to the pit
of the stomach. I also received a few scratches, but our
stout hunting-shirts were torn to shreds.
11. Until this moment, neither of us had felt that he was
wounded; and even now, before we began to think of dressing
those wounds, we made a large fire at the mouth of the
cavern, in order to prevent the panther from coming forth.
This done, we sat down beside the genial blaze to wash and
bind up our scratches, and consult on what plan it was now
best to proceed.
12. That the panther was still in the cave we were certain;
but, whether living or dead, we did not know; at all events,
he was wounded; for our hunting-knives were covered with
blood quite up to the hilt. But we had no choice left; we
must return; for our guns and Konwell's powder-flask, which
the animal dragged off with him, still lay within the cavern.
We therefore plucked up new courage; and, having relighted
our torches, we brandished our knives, and prepared, though
not without some heart throbbings, once more to enter the
panther's den.
13. With light and cautious steps, lest we might be as
unpleasantly surprised as we had been when we made our hasty
retreat, we advanced, holding our torches before us, to the
spot where we had dropped our guns, and without meeting with
any hinderance from our enemy. Once more in possession of our
trusty weapons, we reloaded them, and stepped forward with
lighter hearts, yet still with great caution, when Konwell
exclaimed, as he raised the flaming pine high above his head,
and pointed with it in a certain direction, "See! there he
is!"
14. This was the first word that had been spoken since we
reëntered the cavern. I looked in the indicated
direction, and there, indeed, lay the panther, stretched out
at full length, but no longer dangerous. His eyes were set,
his limbs were rigid,—the last agony was over. We
skinned and cut him up as he lay. All three bullets had
struck him, and both knives penetrated his body; and it must
have been in the death-struggle that he leaped upon us.
15. When our work was ended, and we again came to the open
air, the sun was low in the horizon, and all haste was
necessary that we should set out on our forest-path without
further delay. Our wounds smarted not a little, and, although
we took time once more to wash them, they became so stiff
that our progress was both toilsome and tedious. We soon
became convinced that we should not succeed in reaching our
companions while daylight remained, and we determined to
bivouac for the night, at the foot of a rocky declivity,
which promised a good shelter from the cutting wind.
16. To add to our discomfort, hunger began to make itself
painfully felt; but this was soon overpowered by weariness,
and, having gathered up the dry pine branches, we kindled up
a good fire, and, without troubling ourselves to prepare any
thing for supper, we stretched ourselves on the grass before
it, and found the warmth most grateful.
17. Worn out by the toils of the day, in a few minutes
Konwell was fast asleep; but, although much inclined to
follow his example, I was prevented by the restlessness of my
dog, which seemed to wish to warn me of the presence of
danger. The faithful animal, cringing closely to me, laid his
nose on my shoulder, raising his head from time to time, and
whined, as though he wished to communicate something, and
then, for a few moments, would remain quiet. Then, suddenly,
he would rise up as in the attitude of listening,
occasionally uttering a low growl.
18. Completely awakened by this strange behavior on the part
of my faithful dog, it seemed to me as if I heard a slight
rustling among the dry bushes; and, rising up to a
half-sitting posture, I looked toward the rock behind me,
and, to my great astonishment, became aware of a pair of
glaring eyes fastened upon me. As my head was between the
fire and those fearful eyes, I could plainly distinguish the
fiery balls as, reflected on by the red light, they peered
above the naked rocks.
19. It was a panther, and evidently, from the position in
which I saw it, was ready for a spring. Happily on this, as
on every other night, my trusty gun lay close beside me. I
seized it, and, half-rising, so that the fire behind me
afforded light for a steady aim, I leveled it exactly between
the eyes. I fired, the bullet sped on its deadly errand, and
the crack of the noble rifle, thundering against the steep
rocks, returned with loud and prolonged echo.
20. Konwell, to whom the report of a gun was ever the
sweetest music, now started up, as if roused by an electric
shock, and grasped his gun. The dog continued his barking,
smelling all around, and looking in my face as if to inquire
in what direction he should go. There was no rustling
movement on the rock, and the bullet must have taken effect.
21. Konwell shook his head as he inquired, "Why I had shot?"
Without answering, I began to reload my gun: this finished, I
took up a blazing pine brand from the fire, and proceeded to
climb the steep wall of rock, that raised itself like a
barrier, about twenty steps distant from the spot upon which
we rested. Here I found an old panther, the largest I had
ever seen, lying dead—my well-directed bullet had
finished him. I flung the body over the rock, and my old
comrade dragged him to the fire.
22. The ball had struck him directly in the right eye,
passing through the brain. He was a fearful-looking animal,
with terrible teeth and claws, and the more to be dreaded,
as, when we cut him up, his stomach was found entirely empty.
I believed that hunger had driven him so close to the fire;
but Konwell thought he had scented the fresh venison we had
with us. Be that as it may, there was little doubt but that
he would have made a leap, as soon as the intervening fire
had burned down; to its friendly presence, therefore, on this
occasion, as a means of Providence, we owed our lives.
QUESTIONS.—1. What had Konwell driven into a den? 2.
What preparation did he make, before entering into the
cavern? 3. How far had the men proceeded before they saw the
panther? 4. Describe the appearance of the panther, as they
came near him after the first shot? 5. What did the panther
do after the men both fired at him? 6. Did they finally
succeed in killing the panther? 7. Describe the manner in
which they killed another panther.
RAP' IDs, part of a river where the current is swift.
TUR' BU LENCE, violent agitation.
HELM, instrument for steering a vessel.
EX CUR' SION, tour; ramble.
A HOY', sea term used in hailing a vessel.
QUAFF, drink largely.
HOIST, raise; lift up.
BLAS PHEM' ING, uttering impious language.
SHRIEK' ING, screaming; crying out.
JOHN B. GOUGH.
1. I remember once riding from Buffalo to the Niagara Palls.
I said to a gentleman, "What river is that, sir?" "That,"
said he, "is Niagara river."
2. "Well, it is a beautiful stream," said I; "bright, and
fair, and glassy. How far off are the rapids?" "Only a mile
or two," was the reply.
3. "Is it possible that only a mile from us, we shall
find the water in the turbulence which it must show near the
Falls'?"
"You will find it so, sir." And so I found it; and the first
sight of Niagara I shall never forget.
4. Now, launch your bark on that Niagara river; it is bright,
smooth, beautiful, and glassy. There is a ripple at the bow;
the silver wake you leave behind, adds to your enjoyment.
Down the stream you glide, oars, sails, and helm in proper
trim, and you set out on your pleasure excursion.
5. Suddenly, some one cries out from the bank, "Young men,
ahoy!"
"What is it?"
"The rapids are below you!"
6. "Ha! ha! we have heard of the rapids; but we are not such
fools as to get there. If we go too fast, then we shall up
with the helm, and steer to the shore; we will set the mast
in the socket, hoist the sail, and speed to the land. Then
on, boys; don't be alarmed,—there is no danger."
7. "Young men, ahoy there!"
"What is it?"
"The rapids are below you!"
8. "Ha! ha! we will laugh and quaff; all things delight us.
What care we for the future! No man ever saw it. Sufficient
for the day is the evil thereof. We will enjoy life while we
may,—will catch pleasure as it flies. This is
enjoyment; time enough to steer out of danger when we are
sailing swiftly with the current."
9 (ff.) "YOUNG MEN, AHOY!"
"What is it?"
"BEWARE! BEWARE! THE RAPIDS ARE BELOW YOU!"
10. "Now you see the water foaming all around. See how fast
you pass that point! Up with the helm! Now turn! Pull hard!
(=) Quick! quick! quick! pull for your lives! pull till the
blood starts from your nostrils, and the veins stand like
whip-cords upon your brow! Set the mast in the socket! hoist
the sail! (sl.) Ah! ah! it is too late! Shrieking,
howling, blaspheming; over they go."
11. Thousands go over the rapids of intemperance every year,
through the power of habit, crying all the while,
"When I find out that it [Footnote: Temperate
drinking.] is injuring me, I will give it up!"
QUESTIONS.—1. Where are the Niagara Falls? 2. How does
the water appear just above the Falls? 3. How does it appear
farther up? 4. What reply are the young men represented as
making, when first told the rapids were below them? 5. What,
when told the second time? 6. What must they do, to escape
destruction? 7. What is said of the power of habit?
BE SOT' TED, stupefied.
BUR LESQU' ED, mocked; derided.
DE FI' ED, set at defiance.
CHER' ISH ED, fostered; encouraged.
STREW' ED, scattered; spread.
LIV' ID, discolored; black and blue.
MIR' ROR ED, reflected, as in a glass.
RE VEAL' INGS, disclosures.
PLIGHT' ED, pledged.
FOR SWORN', perjured.
STAMP' ED, impressed; fixed deeply.
BLIGHT, blasting disease.
A TONE', make reparation.
PRO CLAIM' ED, openly declared.
LOATHE, detest; abhor.
BEV' ER AGE, drink.
These verses should be read in a firm, half-indignant, yet
imploring tone of voice,—except the last verse, which
should be expressed in a very decided and impassioned manner.
[Footnote: These beautiful and touching verses were written
by a young lady, in reply to a friend who had called her a
monomaniac on the subject of temperance.]
1. Go, feel what I have felt,
Go, bear what I have borne;
Sink 'neath a blow a father dealt,
And the cold, proud world's scorn;
Thus struggle on from year to year,
Thy sole relief,—the scalding tear.
2. Go, weep as I have wept,
O'er a loved father's fall,
See every cherished promise swept,—
Youth's sweetness turned to gall;
Hope's faded flowers strewed all the way
That led me up to woman's day.
3. Go, kneel as I have knelt;
Implore, beseech, and pray,
Strive the besotted heart to melt,
The downward course to stay;
Be cast with bitter curse aside,—
Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied.
4. Go, stand where I have stood,
And see the strong man bow;
With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood,
And cold and livid brow;
Go, catch his wandering glance, and see
There mirrored, his soul's misery.
5. Go, hear what I have heard,—
The sobs of sad despair,
As memory's feeling fount hath stirred,
And its revealings there
Have told him what he might have been,
Had he the drunkard's fate foreseen.
6. Go to my mother's side,
And her crushed spirit cheer;
Thine own deep anguish hide,
Wipe from her cheek the tear;
Mark her dimmed eye,—her furrowed brow,
The gray that streaks her dark hair now;
Her toil-worn frame, her trembling limb,
And trace the ruin back to him
Whose plighted faith, in early youth,
Promised eternal love and truth;
But who, forsworn, hath yielded up
That promise to the deadly cup,
And led her down from love and light,
From all that made her pathway bright,
And chained her there 'mid want and strife,
That lowly thing,—a drunkard's wife!
And stamped on childhood's brow so mild,
That withering blight, a drunkard's child!
7. Go, hear, and see, and feel, and know,
All that my soul hath felt and known,
Then look upon the wine-cup's glow;
See if its brightness can atone;
Think if its flavor you will try,
If all proclaimed, "'Tis drink and die!"
8. Tell me I hate the bowl;
Hate is a feeble word:
(f.) I loathe, ABHOR,—my very soul
With strong disgust is stirred,
Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell,
Of the DARK BEVERAGE OF HELL!!
QUESTIONS.—1. By whom was this poetry written? 2. What
circumstance induced her to write it? 3. What is the meaning
of monomaniac? Ans. One who is deranged in a single
faculty of the mind, or with regard to a particular subject,
the other faculties being in regular exercise. 4. What
reasons does she assign for her hatred of alcoholic drink? 5.
What does she say of her mother? 6. With what tone of voice
should the last verse be read? See page 40, Rule 4. 7. Why
are some words and sentences printed in Italics and Capitals?
See page 22, Note III.
REC' ORDS, accounts; minutes.
AD VENT' URES, doings; strange occurences.
EN CUM' BER, load; clog.
GRAT I FI CA' TION, indulgence.
SCHEME, plan; progress.
DE LIB ER A' TION, thought; consideration.
LUX U RI OUS, pleasure-loving.
EX PE DI' TION, tour; enterprise.
MO ROSE', sour; ill-humored.
RE VOLT' ING, disgusting; abhorrent.
CON TEM' PLATE, consider; think upon.
REL' IC, remains.
IN VES' TI GATE, examine; look into.
AC COM' PLISH ED, effected.
PIC TUR ESQUE', (pikt yur esk')grand; beautiful;
picture-like.
MERRY'S MUSEUM.
1. Horace and Herman, two young men who were friends, set out
to travel in distant countries. Before they departed, each
had formed a plan of proceeding. Horace determined to
give himself up entirely to pleasure,—to go
wherever his humor might dictate,—and to keep no
records of his adventures. In short, he resolved to enjoy
himself as much as possible, and, by no means, to
encumber his mind with cares, duties, or troubles of any
kind.
2. Herman was as fond of amusement as Horace; but the
mode he adopted for the gratification of his wishes,
was quite different. In the first place, he made out a scheme
of his travels: he procured maps, read books, and, after
mature deliberation, adopted a certain route, as most likely
to afford him pleasure as well as instruction.
3. In the formation of this plan, he spent several weeks;
and, in this occupation, he found quite as much satisfaction
as he afterwards did in traveling. Thus he obtained one great
advantage over his idle and luxurious friend, who foolishly
thought that the essence of enjoyment lay in freedom from
thought, restraint, and toil. Even before they set out on
their journey, Herman had actually found nearly as
much pleasure as Horace received in the whole course
of his expedition.
4. The two young men started together; and, as there were
then no canals or railroads, they both set out on foot. They
had not proceeded far before they separated,—Horace
taking one road and Herman another.
5. After the lapse of three years, they both returned; but
what a difference between them! Horace was morose and
dissatisfied; he had seen a good deal of the world, but, as
he had traveled with no other design than to gratify
himself from hour to hour, he had soon exhausted the cup
of pleasure, and found nothing at the bottom but the bitter
dregs of discontent.
6. He pursued pleasure, till, at last, he found the pursuit
to be distasteful and revolting. He grew tired even of
amusement. He indulged his tastes, humors, and passions,
until indulgence itself was disgusting. When he returned to
his friends, he had laid up nothing in his memory, by the
relation of which he could amuse them; he had kept no record
of things he had seen; he brought back no store of pleasing
and useful recollections for himself, or others. Such was the
result of three years' travel for pleasure.
7. It was quite otherwise with Herman. Adhering to his plans,
he visited a great many places, and, each day, he recorded in
his journal what he had seen. Whenever he met with an
interesting object, he stopped to contemplate it. If it was
some aged relic, famous in history, he took pains to
investigate its story, and to write it down. If it was an
object of interest to the eye, he made a sketch of it in a
book which he kept for that purpose.
8. In this way, Herman accomplished three good objects. In
the first place, by taking pleasure in a moderate way, and
mixing with it a little toil and industry, he prevented that
cloying surfeit which, at last, sickened and disgusted
Horace.
9. In the second place, he greatly increased his enjoyments
by the plan he adopted. Merely executing a plan is agreeable,
and a source of great pleasure. It is natural to derive
happiness from following out a design,—from seeing,
hour by hour, day by day, how results come about, in
conformity to our intentions.
10. But this was not the only advantage which
Herman received from his system. The very toil he bestowed;
the investigations he made; the pleasant thoughts and curious
knowledge that were unfolded to his mind; the excitement he
found in his exertions; the pleasure he took in drawing
picturesque scenes; all constituted a rich harvest of
pleasure, which was wholly denied to Horace.
11. Thus it was that labor and industry, exerted in carrying
out a plan, afforded the young traveler a vast deal of
gratification. The very things that Horace looked upon as
hateful, were, in fact, the sources of his friend's most
permanent enjoyment.
12. In the third place, Herman had come back laden with rich
stores of knowledge, observation, and experience. Not only
was his journal rich in tales, legends, scenes, incidents,
and historical records, but in putting these things down on
paper, his memory had been improved, and he had acquired the
habit of observing and remembering. His mind was full of
pleasant things, and nothing could be more interesting than
to hear him tell of his travels, and of what he had seen.
13. While Horace was dull, silent, and sour, Herman was full
of conversation, life, and interest. The one was happy', the
other unhappy`; one was agreeable', the other disagreeable`;
one had exhausted the cup of pleasure', the other seemed
always to have the cup full and sparkling before him`. It was
agreed on all hands that Horace was a disagreeable person,
and everybody shunned him; while Herman was considered by all
a most agreeable companion, and everybody sought his society.
14. So much for the two travelers; one, a luxurious
lover of pleasure, who thought only of the passing moment,
and, in his folly, abused and threw away his powers of
enjoyment; the other, a lover of pleasure also; but
who pursued it moderately, with a wise regard to the future,
and careful attention, every day, to the rules of duty; and
who thus secured his true happiness.
QUESTIONS.—1. What plan had Horace determined to pursue
while traveling? 2. What was Herman's plan? 3. What is said
of Horace, after his return? 4. How was it with Herman? 5.
What is said of the two in contrast? 6. What effect has the
emphasis on the place of the accent in the words
unhappy and disagreeable, 13th paragraph? See
page 22, note V.
IM' PORT, meaning.
GROV' EL ING, mean; creeping.
A CHIEVE' MENT, performance.
AS PI RA' TION, wish; ardent desire.
SAN' GUINE, ardent; hopeful.
RE' AL IZ ED, attained.
IN SPI RA' TION, natural impulse.
STATE' LI NESS, dignity: majesty.
AD VENT' TUR OUS, daring; enterprising.
EX UL TA' TION, (x like gz,) triumph.
RI' VALS, competitors.
DIG' NI TY, elevation; majesty.
OR' A CLES, wise words or sentences.
A' PEX, hight; summit.
TEN' E MENT, dwelling; here means, the body.
AD MON' ISH. warn.
RAPT' UR OUS, joyous; ecstatic.
AN TIC I PA' TION, foretaste.
PHI LOS' O PHY, (PHILO, love; SOPHY, wisdom,)
love of wisdom; reason of things. See SANDERS &
McELLIGOTT'S ANALYSIS, page 236, Ex. 334
1. HIGHER! It is a word of noble import. It lifts the soul of
man from low and groveling pursuits, to the achievement of
great and noble deeds, and ever keeps the object of his
aspiration in view, till his most sanguine expectations are
fully realized.
2. HIGHER! lisps the infant that clasps its parent's knee,
and makes its feeble effort to rise from the floor. It is the
first inspiration of childhood to burst the narrow confines
of the cradle, and to exercise those feeble, tottering limbs,
which are to walk forth in the stateliness of manhood.
3. HIGHER! echoes the proud school-boy in his swing; or, as
he climbs the tallest tree of the forest, that he may look
down upon his less adventurous comrades with a flush of
exultation,—and abroad over the fields, the meadows,
and his native village.
4. HIGHER! earnestly breathes the student of philosophy and
nature. He has a host of rivals; but he must excel them all.
The midnight oil burns dim; but he finds light and knowledge
in the lamps of heaven, and his soul is never weary, when the
last of them is hid by the splendors of the morning.
5. And HIGHER! his voice thunders forth, when the dignity of
manhood has mantled his form, and the multitude is listening
with delight to his oracles, burning with eloquence, and
ringing like true steel in the cause of Freedom and
Right. And when time has changed his locks to
silver,—when the young and the old unite to do him
honor, he still breathes forth from his generous heart fond
wishes for their welfare.
6. HIGHER YET! He has reached the apex of earthly honor; yet
his spirit burns as warm as in youth, though with a steadier
and purer light. And even now, while his frail tenement
begins to admonish him, that "the time of his departure is at
hand," he looks forward, with rapturous anticipation, to the
never-fading glory, attainable only in the presence of the
Most High.
QUESTIONS.—1. What is said of the word Higher,
first paragraph? 2. When does the school-boy say Higher? 3.
What is said of the student? 4. What, when he arrives at
manhood? 5. What, when he becomes old? 6. Where is the
passage within the quotation to be found? Ans. 2 Timothy, 4th
chapter, 6th verse.
IN TENS' ER, more fervent.
STUB' BORN, unyielding; rugged.
DEEM, think; imagine.
OLD' EN, old; ancient.
CLINGS, sticks; adheres closely.
GAL' LANT, fine; noble.
YAWN' ING, wide-opening.
FU' RY, rage; madness.
RAVE, rage; become furious.
HEC' TIC, habitual; continuous.
MEN' TAL, intellectual.
WIELD, sway; exert.
PRIV' I LEGE, right; opportunity.
DOW' ER, gift; portion.
[Footnote: These lines were suggested by the simple incident
of an industrious wood-sawyer's reply to a man who told him
that his was a hard work. "Yes, it is hard, to be
sure; but it is harder to do nothing," was his
answer.]
CAROLINE F. ORNE.
1. Ho, ye who at the anvil toil, And strike the sounding
blow, Where, from the burning iron's breast, The sparks fly
to and fro, While answering to the hammer's ring, And fire's
intenser glow!—Oh, while ye feel 'tis hard to toil And
sweat the long day through, Remember, it is harder still
To have no work to do!
2. Ho, ye who till the stubborn soil, Whose hard hands guide
the plow, Who bend beneath the summer sun, With burning cheek
and brow!—Ye deem the curse still clings to earth From
olden time till now; But, while ye feel 'tis hard to toil And
labor all day through, Remember, it is harder still To
have no work to do!
3. Ho, ye who plow the sea's blue field, Who ride the
restless wave, Beneath whose gallant vessel's keel There lies
a yawning grave, Around whose bark the wint'ry winds Like
fiends of fury rave!—Oh, while ye feel 'tis hard to
toil And labor long hours through, Remember, it is harder
still To have no work to do! 4 Ho, ye upon whose
fevered cheeks The hectic glow is bright, Whose mental toil
wears out the day, And half the weary night, Who labor for
the souls of men, Champions of truth and
right!—Although ye feel your toil is hard, Even with
this glorious view, Remember, it is harder still To have
no work to do! 5. Ho, all who labor,—all who strive
Ye wield a lofty power; Do with your might, do with your
strength, Fill every golden hour! The glorious privilege
to do Is man's most noble dower. Oh, to your
birthright and yourselves To your own souls be true! A weary,
wretched life is theirs, Who have no work to do!
QUESTIONS.—1. What incident suggested these thoughts to
the writer? 2. Who toil at the anvil? 3. Who till the
stubborn soil? 4. Who plow the sea's blue wave? 5. Who toil
mentally? 6. Who labor for the souls of men? 7. What is man's
most noble dower? 8. What is said to all these different
laborers? 9. What is the meaning of the suffix less in
the word restless? See SANDERS & McELLIGOTT'S
ANALYSIS, page 140, Ex. 187.
E LIC' IT, draw forth.
IN TEL' LI GENT, knowing; well-informed.
RE FRAIN, hold in, or keep back.
IG NO RA' MUS, ignorant person.
RE TORT', reply; answer back.
IN DEL' I BLY, in a way not to be effaced.
MYS' TE RIES, profound secrets.
AB SORB' ED, engrossed; occupied.
MOR TI FI CA' TION, deep disappointment.
OB STA CLE, hinderance; impediment.
RE VOLT ED, shrank back.
POR' ING, earnestly perusing.
EM I NENCE, distinction.
IN FOR MA' TION, knowledge.
IL LIT' ER ATE, ignorant; unlearned.
PRO FES' SION, business; employment.
DIS' CI PLIN ED trained; instructed.
CON TEMPT' U OUS, scornful; hateful.
AN TAG' O NIST, opponent; adversary.
1. "How far is it from here to the sun?" asked Harmon Lee of
his father's apprentice, James Wallace, intending by the
question to elicit some reply that would exhibit the boy's
ignorance.
2. James Wallace, a boy of fourteen, turned his bright,
intelligent eyes upon the son of his employer, and replied,
"I don't know, Harmon. How far is it?"
3. There was something so honest and earnest in the tone of
the boy, that, much as Harmon had felt disposed, at first, to
sport with his ignorance, he could not refrain from giving
him a true answer. Still, his contempt for the ignorant
apprentice was not to be concealed, and he replied,
"Ninety-five millions of miles, you ignoramus!" James
did not retort; but, repeating over in his mind the distance
named, fixed it indelibly upon his memory.
4. On the same evening, after he had finished his day's work,
he obtained a small text-book on astronomy, which belonged to
Harmon Lee, and went up into his garret with a candle, and
there, alone, attempted to dive into the mysteries of that
sublime science. As he read, the earnestness of his attention
fixed nearly every fact upon his mind. So intent was he, that
he perceived not the flight of time, until the town-clock
struck ten.
5. He lay down upon his hard bed, and gave full scope to his
thoughts. Hour after hour passed away, but he could not
sleep, so absorbed was he in reviewing the new and wonderful
things he had read. At last, wearied nature gave way, and he
fell into a slumber, filled with dreams of planets, moons,
comets, and fixed stars.
6. The next morning the apprentice boy resumed his place at
the work-bench with a new feeling; and, with this
feeling, was mingled one of regret, that he could not go to
school as well as Harmon.
"But I can study at night, while he is asleep," he said to
himself.
7. Just then Harmon Lee came into the shop, and, approaching
James, said, for the purpose of teasing him, "How big round
is the earth, James?"
"Twenty-five thousand miles," was the quick reply.
8. Harmon looked surprised, for a moment, and then responded,
with a sneer,—for he was not a kind-hearted boy, but,
on the contrary, very selfish, and disposed to injure
rather than do good to others,—"Oh! how
wonderfully wise you are all at once! And no doubt you can
tell how many moons Jupiter has? Come, let us hear."
9. "Jupiter has four moons," James answered, with something
of exultation in his tone.
"And, no doubt, you can tell how many rings it has?"
"Jupiter has no rings. Saturn has rings, and Jupiter belts,"
James replied, in a decisive tone.
10. For a moment or two Harmon was silent with surprise and
mortification, to think that his father's apprentice,
whom he esteemed so far below him, should be possessed of
knowledge equal to his, and on the points in reference to
which he had chosen to question him,—and that he should
be able to convict him of an error, into which he had
purposely fallen.
11. "I should like to know how long it is since you became so
wonderfully wise," said Harmon, with a sneer.
"Not very long," James replied calmly. "I have been reading
one of your books on astronomy."
12. "I should like to know what business you have to
touch one of my books! You had better be minding your
work."
"I did not neglect it, Harmon; I read at night, after
I was done with my work; and I did not hurt your book."
"I don't care if you didn't hurt it. You are not going
to have my books, I can tell you. So, you just let
them alone."
13. Poor James's heart sank within him at this unexpected
obstacle, so suddenly thrown in his way. He had no money of
his own to buy, and knew of no one from whom he could borrow
the book, that had become so necessary to his happiness. "Do,
Harmon," he said, "lend me the book; I will take good care of
it."
"No; I will not. And don't you dare to touch it," was the
angry reply.
14. James Wallace knew well enough the selfish disposition of
Harmon, to be convinced that there was now but little hope of
his having the use of his books, except by stealth; and from
that his naturally open and honest principles revolted. All
day he thought earnestly of the means whereby he should be
able to obtain a book on astronomy, to quench the ardent
thirst he had created in his own mind.
15. He was learning the trade of a blind-maker. Having been
already an apprentice for two years, and being industrious
and intelligent, he had acquired a readiness with tools, and
much skill in some parts of his trade. While sitting alone,
after he had finished his work for the day, it occurred to
him that he might, by working in the evening, earn some
money, and with it buy such books as he wanted.
16. By consent of his employer, he succeeded in getting a
small job, from one of his neighbors; and, in a short time,
by working evenings, he obtained sufficient money to purchase
a book of his own, and had a half dollar left, with which he
bought a second-hand dictionary. Every night found him poring
over his books; and, as soon as it was light enough in the
morning to see, he was up and reading. During the day, his
mind was pondering over the things he had read, while his
hands were diligently employed in the labor assigned him.
17. It occurred, just at this time, that a number of
benevolent individuals established, in the town where James
lived, one of those excellent institutions, an Apprentices'
Library. To this he applied, and obtained the books he
needed. And thus, did this poor apprentice boy lay the
foundation of future eminence and usefulness. At the age of
twenty-one, he was master of his trade; and, what was more,
had laid up a vast amount of general and scientific
information.
18. Let us now turn to mark the progress of the young
student, Harmon Lee, in one of the best seminaries in his
native city, and afterwards at college. The idea that he was
to be a lawyer, soon took possession of his mind, and this
caused him to feel contempt for other boys, who were merely
designed for trades or store-keeping.
19. Like too many others, he had no love for learning. To be
a lawyer he thought would be much more honorable than
to be a mere mechanic; and, for this reason alone, he
desired to be one. As for James Wallace, the poor illiterate
apprentice, he was most heartily despised, and never treated
by Harmon with the least degree of kind consideration.
20. At the age of eighteen, Harmon was sent away to one of
the eastern universities, and there remained until he was
twenty years of age, when he graduated, and came home with
the honorary title of Bachelor of Arts. On the very day that
James completed his term of apprenticeship, Harmon was
admitted to the bar.
21. From some cause, James determined he would make law
his profession. To the acquirement of a knowledge of
legal matters, therefore, he bent all the energies of a well
disciplined mind. Two years passed away in an untiring
devotion to the studies he had assigned himself, and he then
made application for admission to the bar.
22. Young Wallace passed his examinations with some applause,
and the first case on which he was employed, chanced to be
one of great difficulty, which required all his skill; the
lawyer on the opposite side was Harmon Lee, who entertained
for his father's apprentice the utmost contempt.
23. The cause came on. There was a profound silence and a
marked attention and interest, when the young stranger arose
in the court-room to open the case. A smile of contempt
curled the lip of Harmon Lee, but Wallace saw it not. The
prominent points of the case were presented in plain, but
concise language to the court; and a few remarks bearing upon
its merits being made, the young lawyer took his seat, and
gave room for the defense.
24. Instantly Harmon Lee was on his feet, and began referring
to the points presented by his "very learned brother," in a
very flippant manner. There were those present who marked the
light that kindled in the eye of Wallace, and the flash that
passed over his countenance at the first contemptuous word
and tone that were uttered by his antagonist at the bar.
These soon gave place to attention, and an air of conscious
power. Nearly an hour had passed when Harmon resumed his seat
with a look of exultation, which was followed by a pitying
and contemptuous smile, as Wallace again slowly rose.
25. Ten minutes, however, had not passed when that smile had
changed to a look of surprise, mortification, and alarm. The
young lawyer's first speech showed him to be a man of calm,
deep, systematic thought,—well skilled in points of law
and in authorities,—and, more than all, a lawyer of
practical and comprehensive views. When he sat down, no
important point in the case had been left untouched, and none
that had been touched, required further elucidation.
20. Lee followed briefly, in a vain attempt to torture his
language and break down his positions. But he felt that he
was contending with weapons whose edges were turned at every
blow. When he took his seat again, Wallace merely remarked
that he was prepared, without further argument, to submit the
case to the court.
27. The case was accordingly submitted, and a decision
unhesitatingly made in favor of the plaintiff, or Wallace's
client. From that hour James Wallace took his true position.
The despised apprentice became the able and profound
lawyer, and was esteemed for real talent and real moral
worth, which, when combined, ever place their possessor in
his true position. Ten years from that day, Wallace was
elevated to the bench, while Lee, a second-rate lawyer, never
rose above that position.
QUESTIONS.—1. What profession did James study, after he
had learned his trade? 2. Who was his opponent in the first
cause he tried? 3. Which won the case? 4. What did James
finally become?
TAUNT' ING LY, insultingly.
DIG' NI FI ED, noble.
DIS PU' TANTS, persons disputing.
RES O LU' TION, decision.
IM AG' IN ED, fancied.
RE FLEC' TION, thought; consideration.
SU PE RI OR' I TY, preeminence.
SUB OR DI NATE, one inferior in position.
BUF' FET ED, struggled against.
THRALLS, bondage.
DES POT' IC, tyrannical.
OP PRES' SION, tyranny.
PEN' U RY, poverty; destitution.
PRED E CES' SORS, those who have gone before.
DIS PEN SA' TIONS, dealings.
CRI TE' RI ON, standard; measure.
ANON.
1. "Oh, you're a 'prentice!" said a little boy, the
other day, tauntingly, to his companion. The boy addressed
turned proudly round, and, while the fire of injured pride,
and the look of pity were strangely blended in his
countenance, coolly answered, "So was Franklin!"
2. This dignified reply struck me forcibly, and I turned to
mark the disputants more closely. The former, I perceived by
his dress, was of a higher class in society than his humble,
yet more dignified companion. The latter was a sprightly,
active lad, scarce twelve years old, and coarsely, but neatly
attired. But, young as he was, there was visible in his
countenance much of genius, manly dignity, and determinate
resolution; while that of the former showed only fostered
pride, and the imagined superiority of riches.
3. That little fellow, thought we, gazing at our young hero,
displays already much of the man, though his calling be a
humble one; and, though poverty extends to him her dreary,
cheerless reality, still he looks on the brightest side of
the scene, and already rises in anticipation from poverty and
wretchedness! Once, "so was Franklin" and the world
may one day witness in our little "'prentice" as great
a philosopher as they have already seen in his noble pattern!
And we passed on, buried in meditation.
4. The motto of our infantile philosopher contains
much,—too much to be forgotten, and should be engraven
on the minds of all. What can better cheer man in a humble
calling, than the reflection that the greatest and the best
of earth—the greatest statesmen, the brightest
philosophers, and the proudest warriors—have once
graced the same profession?
5.
"Look at Franklin! He who
With the thunder talked, as friend to friend,
And wove his garland of the lightning's wing,
In sportive twist."
What was he? A printer! once a subordinate in a
printing office! Poverty stared him in the face; but her
blank, hollow look, could nothing daunt him. He struggled
against a harder current than most are called to encounter;
but he did not yield. He pressed manfully onward; bravely
buffeted misfortune's billows, and gained the desired haven!
6. Look at Cincinnatus! At the call of his country he laid
aside the plow and seized the sword. But having wielded it
with success, when his country was no longer endangered, and
public affairs needed not his longer stay, "he beat his sword
Into a ploughshare," and returned with honest delight to his
little farm.
7. Look at Washington! What was his course of life? He was
first a farmer; next a Commander in Chief of
the hosts of freedom, fighting for the liberation of his
country from the thralls of despotic oppression; next, called
to the highest seat of government by his ransomed brethren, a
President of the largest Republic on earth, and
lastly, a farmer again.
8. What was the famous Ben Jonson? He was first a
brick-layer, or mason! What was he in after years?
'Tis needless to answer.
What was Burns? An Ayrshire plowman! What was he in
after life, in the estimation of his countrymen, and the
world? Your library gives the answer!
9. But shall we go on, and call up, in proud array, all the
mighty host of worthies that have lived and died, who were
cradled in the lap of penury, and received their first
lessons in the school of affliction'? Nay'; we have cited
instances enough already,—yea, more than enough to
prove the point in question—namely, that there is no
profession, however low in the opinion of the world, but has
been honored with earth's greatest and worthiest.
10. Young man! Does the iron hand of misfortune press hard
upon you, and disappointments well-nigh sink your despairing
soul'? Have courage! Mighty ones have been your predecessors,
and have withstood the current of opposition that threatened
to overwhelm their fragile bark.
11. Do you despise your humble station, and repine that
Providence has not placed you in some nobler sphere'? Murmur
not against the dispensations of an All-wise Creator!
Remember that wealth is no criterion of moral rectitude or
intellectual worth,—that riches dishonestly gained, are
a lasting curse,—that virtue and uprightness work out a
rich reward,—and that
"An honest man's the noblest work of God."
12. And when dark Disappointment comes, do not wither at her
stare; but press forward, and the prize is yours! It was thus
with Franklin,—it can be thus with you.
He strove for the prize, and he won it! So may you!
'Tis well worth contending for; and may success attend you,
and the "stars" grow brighter, as the "stripes" wear deeper!
QUESTIONS.—1. What did the rich boy say of the poor
boy? 2. What reply did the poor boy make? 3. What other
examples are cited of eminent men who were once poor? 4. What
is said of Cincinnatus? 5. Of Washington? 6. Of Ben Jonson?
7. Of Burns? 8. What do all these examples prove? 9. What
encouragement is given to young men? 10. What are the full
forms of the words you're, 'prentice?
MAG'IC, power of enchantment.
CONTEN'TION, strife; controversy.
TRA DI'TION, facts or events handed down from age to
age.
SUB TILE, thin; slight; slender.
IN VEST'ED, clothed.
CREST'ED, adorned with a plume or crest.
AZ'URE, light-blue; sky-colored.
PER SPECT' IVE, (PER, through; SPECT, to see;
IVE, having the power,) having the power to see
through; a view through.
UN DI VERT' ED, (UN, not; DI, aside; VERTED,
turned,) not turned aside; unheeded.
VEST'URE, garment.
SE DATE', calm; quiet.
FAN TAS'TIC, fanciful; visionary.
RA DI ANCE, brightness; luster.
IN VEC'TIVE, railing speech.
I DE'AL, imaginary.
FA TIGU ING, wearisome, toilsome.
AS PIR'ING, aiming; seeking to rise.
JANE TAYLOR.
1. In distant days,—of wild romance,
Of magic, mist, and fable,—
When stones could argue, trees advance,[Footnote 1]
And brutes to talk were able,—
When shrubs and flowers were said to preach,
And manage all the parts of speech,—
2. 'Twas then, no doubt, if 'twas at all,
(But doubts we need not mention,)
That Then and Now, two adverbs small,
Engaged in sharp contention;
But how they made each other hear,
Tradition doth not make appear.
3. Then was a sprite of subtile frame,
With rainbow tints invested.—
On clouds of dazzling light she came,
And stars her forehead crested;
Her sparkling eyes of azure hue,
Seemed borrowed from the distant blue.
4. Now rested on the solid earth,
And sober was her vesture;
She seldom either grief or mirth
Expressed, by word or gesture;
Composed, sedate, and firm she stood,
And looked industrious, calm, and good.
5. Then sang a wild, fantastic song,
Light as the gale she flies on,
Still stretching, as she sailed along,
Toward the far horizon,
Where clouds of radiance, fringed with gold,
O'er hills of emerald beauty rolled.
6. Now rarely raised her sober eye
To view that golden distance;
Nor let one idle minute fly
In hope of Then's assistance;
But still with busy hands she stood,
Intent on doing present good.
7. She ate the sweet, but homely fare,
That passing moments brought her;
While Then, expecting dainties rare,
Despised such bread and water;
And waited for the fruits and flowers
Of future, still receding hours.
8. Now, venturing once to ask her why,
She answered with invective;
And pointed, as she made reply,
Toward that long perspective
Of years to come,—in distant blue,
Wherein she meant to live and do,
9. "Alas!" says she, "how hard you toil!
With undiverted sadness;
Behold yon land of wine and oil!
Those sunny hills of gladness!
Those joys I wait, with eager brow,"
"And so you always will!" said Now.
10. "That fairy land that looks so real,
Recedes as you pursue it;
Thus, while you wait for time's ideal,
I take my work and do it;
Intent to form, when time is gone,
A pleasant past to look upon."
11. "Ah, well," said Then, "I envy not
Your dull, fatiguing labors,—
Aspiring to a brighter lot,
With thousands of my neighbors;
Soon as I reach that golden hill,"—
"But that," says Now, "you never will!"
12. "And e'en suppose you should," said she,
"(Though mortal ne'er attained it,)
Your nature you must change with me,
The moment you have gained it;
Since hope fulfilled, (you must allow,)
Turns NOW to Then, and THEN to Now."
[Footnote 1: The reference is to Orpheus, (or' fuse,) an
ancient poet and musician of Greece. The skill of Orpheus on
the lyre, was fabled to have been such as to move the very
trees and rocks, and to assemble the beasts around him as he
touched its chords.]
QUESTIONS.—1. What two words are represented as holding
a controversy? 2. Describe the appearance of each. 3. When
did Then propose to do something? 4. How did Now act?
5. What answer did Then make, when Now asked
her why she waited? 6. What was Now's reply? 7. What
did Now finally say to Then? 8. How should
passages, within a parenthesis, be read? See SANDERS' UNION
READER, NUMBER THREE, page 20.
IN GEN' IOUS, artful; skillful.
STRAT' A GEM, trick; artifice.
EX CEED' ED, surpassed.
SIG' NALS, signs.
AM' I CA BLE, friendly; peaceable.
RE PEL', (RE, back; PEL, to drive,)drive
back.
MU' TU AL, reciprocal.
EX TRAOR' DI NA RY, uncommon.
IN VET' ER ATE, obstinate; violent.
HARANGUE', declamatory speech.
EN TER TAIN' ED, held; had.
SUS PI' CION, mistrust.
EN COUN' TER ED, met face to face.
EX' E CU TED, carried out.
FOR' MI DA BLE, fearful; dreadful.
PER FID' I OUS, treacherous.
PRE CIP' ITATELY, headlong.
IN AN' I MATE, dead; lifeless.
DAYS OF WASHINGTON.
1. In the early part of the war, a sergeant and twelve armed
men undertook a journey through the wilderness, in the State
of New Hampshire. Their route was remote from any settlement,
and they were under the necessity of encamping over night in
the woods. Nothing material happened the first day of their
excursion; but, early in the afternoon of the second, they,
from an eminence, discovered a body of armed Indians
advancing toward them, whose number rather exceeded their
own.
2. As soon as the whites were perceived by their red
brethren, the latter made signals, and the two parties
approached each other in an amicable manner. The Indians
appeared to be much gratified with meeting the sergeant and
his men, whom, they observed, they considered as their
protectors. They said they belonged to a tribe which had
raised the hatchet with zeal in the cause of liberty, and
were determined to do all in their power to repel the common
enemy.
3. They shook hands in friendship. When they had conversed
with each other for some time, and exchanged mutual good
wishes, they, at length, separated, and each party traveled
in a different direction. After proceeding to the distance of
a mile or more, the sergeant, who was acquainted with all the
different tribes, and knew on which side of the contest they
were respectively ranked, halted his men, and addressed them
in the following words:
4. "My brave companions, we must use the utmost caution, or
this night may be our last. Should we not make some
extraordinary exertions to defend ourselves, to-morrow's sun
may find us sleeping, never to wake. You are surprised,
comrades, at my words, and your anxiety will not be lessened,
when I inform you that we have just passed our most
inveterate foe, who, under the mask of pretended
friendship, which you have witnessed, would lull us to
security, and, by such means, in the unguarded moments of our
midnight slumber, without resistance, seal our fate."
5. The men with astonishment listened to this short harangue;
and their surprise was greater, as not one of them had
entertained the suspicion but that they had just encountered
friends. They all immediately resolved to enter into some
scheme for their mutual preservation, and the destruction of
their enemies. By the proposal of their leader, the following
plan was adopted and executed.
6. The spot selected for their night's encampment, was near a
stream of water, which served to cover their rear. They
felled a large tree, before which, on the approach of night,
a brilliant fire was lighted. Each individual cut a log of
wood, about the size of his body, rolled it nicely in his
blanket, placed his hat upon one end, and laid it before the
fire, that the enemy might be deceived, and mistake it for a
man.
7. After they had thus fitted out logs, equal in number to
the sergeant's party, and had so artfully arranged them, that
they might be easily mistaken for so many soldiers, the men
with loaded muskets placed themselves behind the fallen tree,
by which time the shades of evening began to close around.
The fire was kept burning brilliantly until late in the
evening, when it was suffered to decline.
8. The critical time was now approaching, when an attack
might be expected from the Indians; but the sergeant's men
rested in their place of concealment with great anxiety, till
near midnight, without perceiving any movement of the enemy.
At length, a tall Indian was discovered, through the
glimmering of the fire, cautiously moving toward them, making
no noise, and apparently using every means in his power to
conceal himself from any one about the camp.
9. For a time, his actions showed him to be suspicious that a
guard might be stationed to watch any unusual appearance, who
would give the alarm in case of danger; but, all appearing
quiet, he ventured forward more boldly, rested upon his toes,
and was distinctly seen to move his finger as he numbered
each log of wood, or what he supposed to be a human being
quietly enjoying repose.
10. To satisfy himself more fully, as to the number, he
counted them over a second time, and cautiously retired. He
was succeeded by another Indian, who went through the same
movements, and retired in the same manner. Soon after, the
whole party, sixteen in number, were discovered approaching,
and greedily eyeing their supposed victims.
11. The feelings of the sergeant's men can be better imagined
than described, when they saw the base and cruel purpose of
their enemies, who were now so near that they could scarcely
be restrained from firing upon them. The plan, however, of
the sergeant, was to have his men remain silent in their
places of concealment, till the muskets of the savages were
discharged, that their own fire might be effectual, and
opposition less formidable.
12. Their suspense was not of long duration. The Indians, in
a body, cautiously approached till within a short distance:
they then halted, took deliberate aim, discharged their
pieces upon inanimate logs, gave a dreadful war-whoop, and
instantly rushed forward, with tomahawk and scalping knife in
hand, to dispatch the living, and obtain the scalps of the
dead.
13. As soon as they had collected in close order, more
effectually to execute their horrid intentions, the
sergeant's party discharged their pieces, not on logs of
wood, but perfidious savages,—many of whom fell under
the hot fire of the little band, and the rest precipitately
fled. But for this ingenious scheme, it is probable that not
one of these twelve men would have escaped the tomahawk of
the savages.
QUESTIONS.—1. What did the sergeant say to his men,
after parting with the Indians? 2. What plan did the sergeant
propose for their preservation? 3. Did the plan succeed? 4.
Describe the closing scene.
VEN' ER A BLE, worthy of reverence.
IN VA' SION, irruption; inroad.
EX CIT' ED, roused; stirred up.
IRE, wrath; indignation.
VENGE' ANCE, retaliation.
RE LEAS' ED, set free; liberated.
TRO PHIES, memorials of victory.
BE REFT', deprived.
VULT' URE, rapacious bird.
TRAV' ERS ED, crossed over.
DE SCRIP' TION, representation.
MA TER' NAL, motherly.
FIL' IAL, becoming a child.
CON SAN GUIN' I TY, blood relationship.
IN TEL' LI GENCE, news; information.
I DEN' TI TY, sameness.
SUR VIV' ED, remained alive.
AS CER TAIN' ED, found out.
IN TER' PRET ER, explainer.
LIN' E A MENTS, features.
[Footnote: The great massacre at Wyoming was, perhaps, the
most bloody and terrible chapter of the Revolution. A
combined Indian and Tory force had flung itself upon the
peaceful valley, and murdered or made captive nearly all its
unoffending inhabitants; its old and its young,—men,
women, and children alike,—were either indiscriminately
butchered or made prisoners. Among the prisoners taken on
that occasion, was an infant child by the name of Frances
Slocum. The story is a very strange one; we copy it from
Lossing's very excellent work, "The Field Book of the
Revolution."]
B.J. LOSSING.
1. I passed the evening with the venerable Joseph Slocum,
whose family was among the sufferers, in Wyoming Valley. He
related to me all the particulars of the capture and final
discovery of his sister Frances, and other incidents
connected with the sufferings of his family.
2. His father was a Quaker, and was distinguished for his
kindness to the Indians. He remained unharmed at the time of
the invasion, and, while the torch was applied to the
dwellings of others, his was left untouched. But his
son Giles was in the battle. This, doubtless, excited the ire
of the Indians, and they resolved on vengeance. 3. Late in
the autumn, they were seen prowling about the house, which
was situated about one hundred rods from the Wilkesbarre
Fort. A neighbor, named Kingsley, had been made prisoner, and
his wife and two sons had a welcome home in Mr. Slocum's
family. One morning, the boys were grinding a knife near the
house, when a rifle-shot and a shriek brought Mrs. Slocum to
the door. An Indian was scalping the eldest boy, a lad of
fifteen, with the knife he had been grinding.
4. The savage then went into the house, and caught up a
little son of Mrs. Slocum. "See!" exclaimed the frightened
mother, "he can do thee no good; he is lame." The Indian
released the boy, took up her little daughter Frances, aged
five years, gently in his arms, and, seizing the younger
Kingsley, hastened to the mountains.
5. Two Indians who were with him, carried off a black girl,
about seventeen years of age. Mr. Slocum's daughter caught up
her brother Joseph, (my informant,) two and a half years old,
and fled in safety to the fort, where an alarm was given; but
the savages were beyond successful pursuit.
6. About six weeks afterward, Mr. Slocum and his
father-in-law Ira Tripp, were shot and scalped by some
Indians while foddering cattle near the house. Again the
savages escaped with their horrid trophies. Mrs. Slocum,
bereft of father, husband, and child, and stripped of all
possessions but the house that sheltered her, could not leave
the valley, for nine helpless children were yet in her
household.
7. She trusted in the God of Elijah; and, if she was not fed
by the ravens, she was spared by the vultures. She mourned
not for the dead; for they were at rest: but little Frances,
her lost darling, where was she? The lamp of hope kept on
burning; but years rolled by, and no tidings of the little
one came.
8. When peace returned, and friendly intercourse with Canada
was established, two of the little captive's brothers started
in search of her. They traversed the wilderness to Niagara,
offering rewards for her recovery; but all in vain. They
returned to Wyoming, convinced that the child was dead. But
the mother's heart was still the shrine of hope, and she felt
assured that Frances was not in the grave.
9. Her soul appeared to commune with that of her child, and
she often said, "I know Frances is still living." At length,
the mother's heart was cheered: a woman (for many years had
now passed, and Frances, if living, must have arrived to
womanhood) was found among the Indians, answering the
description of the lost one. She only remembered being
carried away from the Susquehanna.
10. Mrs. Slocum took her home, and cherished her with a
mother's tenderness. Yet the mysterious link of sympathy
which binds the maternal spirit to its offspring, was unfelt,
and the bereaved mother was bereaved still. "It may be
Frances, but it does not seem so; yet the woman shall ever be
welcome," said Mrs. Slocum. The foundling, also, felt no
filial yearnings; and, both becoming convinced that no
consanguinity existed, the orphan returned to her Indian
friends.
11. From time to time, the hope of the mother would be
revived, and journeys were made to distant Indian settlements
in search of the lost sister; but in vain. The mother went
"down into the grave, mourning," and little Frances was
almost forgotten. Her brothers had become aged men, and their
grandchildren were playing upon the very spot, whence she had
been taken.
12. In the summer of 1837, fifty-nine years after her
capture, intelligence of Frances was received. Colonel Ewing,
an Indian agent and trader, in a letter from Logansport,
Indiana, to the editor of the Lancaster Intelligencer,
gave such information, that all doubts respecting her
identity were removed; and Joseph Slocum, with the sister who
carried him to the fort, and yet survived, immediately
journeyed to Ohio, where they were joined by their younger
brother Isaac.
13. They proceeded to Logansport, where they found Mr. Ewing,
and ascertained that the woman spoken of by him, lived about
twelve miles from the village. She was immediately sent for;
and, toward evening the next day, she came into the town,
riding a spirited young horse, accompanied by her two
daughters, and the husband of one of them,—all dressed
in full Indian costume.
14. An interpreter was procured, (for she could not speak or
understand English,) and she listened seriously to what her
brothers had to say. She answered but little, and, at sunset,
departed for her home, promising to return the next morning.
The brother and sister were quite sure that it was indeed
Frances, though in her face nothing but Indian lineaments
were seen, her color alone revealing her origin.
15. True to her appointment, she appeared the following
morning, accompanied as before. Mr. Joseph Slocum then
mentioned a mark of recognition, which, his mother had said,
was a sure test. While playing, one day, with a hammer in a
blacksmith's shop, Joseph, then a child two and a half years
old, gave Frances a blow upon the middle finger of the left
hand, which crushed the bone, and deprived the finger of its
nail.
16. This test Mr. Slocum had withheld until others should
fail. When he mentioned it, the aged woman was greatly
agitated; and, while tears filled the furrows of her face,
she held out the wounded finger. There was no longer a doubt,
and a scene of great interest ensued. Her affections for her
kindred, that had slumbered half a century, were aroused, and
she made earnest inquiries after her father, mother,
brothers, and sisters. Her full heart—full with the
cherished secrets of her history—was opened, and the
story of her life freely given.
17. She said the savages, who were Delawares, after taking
her to a rocky cave in the mountains, departed to the Indian
country. The first night was the unhappiest of her life. She
was kindly treated,—being carried tenderly in their
arms when she was weary. She was adopted in an Indian family,
and brought up as their daughter. For years she lived a
roving life, and loved it. She was taught the use of the bow
and arrow, and became expert in all the employments of savage
existence.
18. When she was grown to womanhood, both her Indian parents
died, and she soon afterward married a young chief of the
nation, and removed to the Ohio country. She was treated with
more respect than the Indian women generally; and so happy
was she in her domestic relations, that the chance of being
discovered, and compelled to return among the whites, was the
greatest evil that she feared; for she had been taught that
they were the implacable enemies of the Indians, whom she
loved.
19. Her husband died; and, her people having joined the
Miamies, she went with them, and married one of that tribe.
The last husband was also dead, and she had been a widow many
years. Children and grandchildren were around her, and her
life was passing pleasantly away. When she concluded the
narrative, she lifted her right hand in a solemn manner, and
said, "All this is as true as that there is a Great Spirit in
the heavens!" she had entirely forgotten her native language,
and was a pagan.
20. On the day after the second interview, the brothers and
sisters, with the interpreter, rode out to her dwelling. It
was a well-built log-house, in the midst of cultivation. A
large herd of cattle and sixty horses were grazing in the
pasture. Everything betokened plenty and comfort; for she was
wealthy, when her wants and her means were compared. Her
annuity from government, which she received as one of the
Miami tribe, had been saved, and she had about one thousand
dollars in specie.
21. Her white friends passed several days very agreeably with
her; and subsequently her brother Joseph, with his daughter,
the wife of the Hon. Mr. Bennet, of Wyoming, made her another
visit, and bade her a last farewell. She died a few years
ago, and was buried with considerable pomp; for she was
regarded as a queen among her tribe.
QUESTIONS.—1. Where is the Wyoming Valley? 2. Relate
the incidents connected with the capture of little Frances.
3. What efforts were made to find her? 4. How many years
after her capture before she was found? 5. Where did they
find her? 6. By what test did Mr. Slocum prove that she was
his sister? 7. What history did she relate of herself? 8.
Describe her home.
FRING' ING, bordering; edging.
LEDGE, layer; ridge.
DAI SY, (literally day's eye,) a little wild flower
very common in summer.
RI' OT OUS, noisy; reveling.
BOIS' TER OUS, tumultuous; violent.
CULL' ING, selecting; picking.
BOU QUETS', (boo kas,) bunches of flowers.
SULK' Y, morose.
BOTH' ER ING, perplexing.
UN WONT' ED, rare: uncommon.
TE' DI OUS, tiresome; wearisome.
DELIA LOUISE COLTON.
1. The silver rain, the golden rain,
The tripping, dancing, laughing rain!
Stringing its pearls on the green leaf's edge,
Fringing with gems the brown rock's ledge,
Spinning a vail for the water-fall,
And building an amber-colored wall
Across the West where the sun-beams fall:
The gentle rain, in the shady lane,
The pattering, peering, winning rain!
2. The noisy rain, the marching rain,
The rushing tread of the heavy rain!
Pouring its rivers from out the blue,
Down on the grass where the daisies grew,
Darting in clouds of angry drops
Across the hills and the green tree-tops,
And kissing, at last, in its giant glee,
The foaming lips of the great green sea:
The fierce, wild rain, the riotous rain,
The boisterous, dashing, shouting rain!
3. The still night rain, the solemn rain!
The soldier-step of the midnight rain!
With its measured beat on the roof o'erhead,
With its tidings sweet of the faithful dead,
Whispers from loves who are laid asleep
Under the sod where the myrtles creep,
Culling bouquets from the sun-lit past,
Of flowers too sweet, too fair to last:
The faithful rain, the untiring rain,
The cooing, sobbing, weeping rain!
4. The sulky rain, the spiteful rain,
The bothering, pilfering, thieving rain!
Creeping so lazily over the sky,
A leaden mask o'er a bright blue eye,
And shutting in, with its damp, strong hands,
The rosy faces in curls, and bands
Of girls who think, with unwonted frown
Of the charming laces and things down-town,
That might as well for this tiresome rain,
Be in the rose land of Almahain:
The horrid rain, the tedious rain,
The never-ending, dingy rain!
QUESTIONS.—1. What is the meaning of the suffix
ing, in such words as tripping, dancing,
laughing, &c.? See SANDERS & McELLIGOTT'S
ANALYSIS, page 153, Ex. 206. 2. What is the use of the hyphen
in such words as water-fall, amber-colored, &c.?
See SANDERS' NEW SPELLER, page l65.
LAV' ISH, liberal; profuse.
PER' FUMES, pleasant odors.
HAR MO' NI OUS, concordant.
RAPT' URE, extreme joyousness.
GERMS, seed-buds; beginnings.
PAR'TICLES, minute parts; atoms.
MOTES, very small particles.
VENT' URE, dare; have courage.
COL' UMNS, pillars.
DOME, arched roof; cupola.
TI' NY, very small.
ES' SENCE, perfume.
F. BENNOCH.
1. Who dares to scorn the meanest thing,
The humblest weed that grows,
While pleasure spreads its joyous wing
On every breeze that blows?
The simplest flower that, hidden, blooms
The lowest on the ground,
Is lavish of its rare perfumes,
And scatters sweetness round.
2. The poorest friend upholds a part
Of life's harmonious plan;
The weakest hand may have the art
To serve the strongest man.
The bird that highest, clearest sings,
To greet the morning's birth,
Falls down to drink, with folded wings,
Love's rapture on the earth.
3. From germs too small for mortal sight
Grow all things that are seen,
Their floating particles of light
Weave Nature's robe of green.
The motes that fill the sunny rays
Build ocean, earth, and sky,—
The wondrous orbs that round us blaze
Are motes to Deity!
4. Life, love, devotion, closely twine,
Like tree, and flower, and fruit;
They ripen by a power divine,
Though fed by leaf and root.
And he who would be truly great,
Must venture to be small;
On airy columns rests the dome
That, shining, circles all.
5. Small duties grow to mighty deeds;
Small words to thoughts of power;
Great forests spring from tiny seeds,
As moments make the hour.
And life, howe'er it lowly grows,
The essence to it given,
Like odor from the breathing rose,
Floats evermore to Heaven.
EX TINCT', extinguished.
IN COR' PO RA TED, united.
TAC' IT, silent; implied.
SUB SIST' ED, existed.
HOS PI TAL' I TY, kind treatment.
IN POR' TU NATE, urgent; pressing.
EN CROACH' MENT, intrusion.
IR' RI TA TED, provoked; exasperated.
MAS' SA CRE, (mas' sa ker,) slaughter.
GRAV' I TY, seriousness.
DE LIB' ER ATE, take council.
TREA' SON, treachery; disloyalty.
AP PRIS' ING, informing.
BE TRAY', expose.
IN VIN CI BLE, unconquerable.
WAX' ED, became, grew.
BE SOUGHT', entreated; implored.
SUF FICE, (c like z,) prove sufficient.
[Footnote: In Orange County, New York.]
JAMES K. PAULDING.
1. Little more than a century ago, the beautiful region
watered by this stream, was possessed by a small tribe of
Indians, which has long since become extinct, or incorporated
with some other savage nation of the West. Three or four
hundred yards from where the stream discharges itself into
the Hudson, a white family, of the name of Stacy, had
established itself in a log-house, by tacit permission of the
tribe, to whom Stacy had made himself useful by his skill in
a variety of little arts, highly estimated by the savages.
2. In particular, a friendship subsisted between him and an
old Indian, called Naöman, who often came to his house,
and partook of his hospitality. The Indians never forgive
injuries, nor forget benefits. The family consisted of
Stacy, his wife, and two children, a boy and a girl, the
former five, the latter three years old.
3. One day, Naöman came to Stacy's log-hut, in his
absence, lighted his pipe, and sat down. He looked very
serious, sometimes sighed deeply, but said not a word.
Stacy's wife asked him what was the matter,—if he was
sick. He shook his head, sighed, but said nothing, and soon
went away. The next day, he came again and behaved in the
same manner. Stacy's wife began to think strange of this, and
related it to her husband, who advised her to urge the old
man to an explanation the next time he came.
4. Accordingly, when he repeated his visit the day after, she
was more importunate than usual. At last, the old Indian
said. "I am a red man, and the pale faces are our enemies:
why should I speak?"—"But my husband and I are your
friends: you have eaten salt with us a thousand times, and my
children have sat on your knees as often. If you have
anything on your mind, tell it me."—"It will cost me my
life if it is known, and the white-faced women are not good
at keeping secrets," replied Naöman.
5. "Try me, and see."—"Will you swear by your Great
Spirit that you will tell none but your husband?"—"I
have none else to tell."—"But will you swear?"—"I
do swear by our Great Spirit, I will tell none but my
husband."—"Not if my tribe should kill you for
not telling?"—"Not if your tribe should kill me for not
telling."
6. Naöman then proceeded to tell her that, owing to some
encroachments of the white people below the mountains, his
tribe had become irritated, and were resolved that night to
massacre all the white settlers within their reach; that she
must send for her husband, inform him of the danger, and, as
secretly and speedily as possible, take their canoe and
paddle, with all haste, over the river to Fishkill for
safety. "Be quick, and do nothing that may excite suspicion,"
said Naöman, as he departed.
7. The good wife sought her husband, who was down on the
river fishing, told him the story, and, as no time was to be
lost, they proceeded to their boat, which was unluckily
filled with water. It took some time to clear it out, and,
meanwhile, Stacy recollected his gun, which had been left
behind. He proceeded to the house, and returned with it. All
this took up considerable time, and precious time it proved
to this poor family.
8. The daily visits of old Naöman, and his more than
ordinary gravity, had excited suspicion in some of the tribe,
who had, accordingly, paid particular attention to the
movements of Stacy. One of the young Indians, who had been
kept on the watch, seeing the whole family about to take to
the boat, ran to the little Indian village, about a mile off,
and gave the alarm. Five Indians collected, ran down to the
river, where their canoes were moored, jumped in, and paddled
after Stacy, who, by this time, had got some distance out
into the stream.
9. They gained on him so fast, that twice he dropped his
paddle, and took up his gun. But his wife prevented his
shooting by telling him that, if he fired, and they were
afterwards overtaken, they would meet with no mercy from the
Indians. He accordingly refrained, and plied his paddle till
the sweat rolled in big drops down his forehead. All would
not do; they were overtaken within a hundred yards from the
shore, and carried back with shouts of yelling triumph.
10. When they got ashore, the Indians set fire to Stacy's
house, and dragged himself, his wife, and children, to their
village. Here the principal old men, and Naöman among
them, assembled to deliberate on the affair. The chief men of
the council stated that some of the tribe had, undoubtedly,
been guilty of treason, in apprising Stacy, the white man, of
the designs of the tribe, whereby they took the alarm, and
well-nigh escaped.
11. He proposed to examine the prisoners, to learn who gave
the information. The old men assented to this, and
Naöman among the rest. Stacy was first interrogated by
one of the old men, who spoke English and interpreted to the
others. Stacy refused to betray his informant. His wife was
then questioned; while, at the same moment, two Indians stood
threatening the two children, with tomahawks, in case she did
not confess.
12. She attempted to evade the truth, by declaring she had a
dream the night before, which alarmed her, and that she had
persuaded her husband to fly. "The Great Spirit never deigns
to talk in dreams to a white face," said the old Indian.
"Woman, thou hast two tongues, and two faces. Speak the
truth, or thy children shall surely die." The little boy and
girl were then brought close to her, and the two savages
stood over them, ready to execute their bloody orders.
13. "Wilt thou name," said the old Indian, "the red man who
betrayed his tribe? I will ask thee three times." The mother
answered not. "Wilt thou name the traitor? This is the second
time." The poor mother looked at her husband, and then at her
children, and stole a glance at Naöman, who sat smoking
his pipe with invincible gravity.
14. She wrung her hands, and wept; but remained silent. "Wilt
thou name the traitor? 'Tis the third and last time." The
agony of the mother waxed more bitter; again she sought the
eye of Naöman; but it was cold and motionless. A pause
of a moment awaited her reply, and the tomahawks were raised
over the heads of the children, who besought their mother not
to let them be murdered.
15. "Stop!" cried Naöman. All eyes were turned upon him.
"Stop!" repeated he, in a tone of authority. "White woman,
thou hast kept thy word with me to the last moment. I am
the traitor. I have eaten of the salt, warmed myself at
the fire, shared the kindness, of these Christian white
people, and it was I that told them of their danger. I
am a withered, leafless, branchless trunk. Cut me down, if
you will: I am ready."
16. A yell of indignation sounded on all sides. Naöman
descended from the little bank where he sat, shrouded his
face with his mantle of skins, and submitted to his fate. He
fell dead at the feet of the white woman by a blow of the
tomahawk.
17. But the sacrifice of Naöman, and the firmness of the
Christian white woman, did not suffice to save the lives of
the other victims. They perished,—how, it is needless
to say; and the memory of their fate has been preserved in
the name of the pleasant stream, on whose banks they lived
and died, which, to this day, is called MURDERER'S CREEK.
QUESTIONS.—1. Where is Murderer's Creek? 2. What is
said of Naöman and Stacy's family? 3. Why did
Naöman, at first, refuse to tell Mrs. Stacy of her
danger? 4. Did Stacy's family make their escape? 5. Where
were they taken? 6. Did Mrs. Stacy tell who had informed her?
7. What measures did the Indians adopt, to make her tell?
What did Naöman say? 9. What did the Indians do with
Naöman and Stacy's family?
PER' IL OUS, hazardous; dangerous.
DE FILES', narrow passages.
PREC' I PIC ES, steep descents.
SOL'I TUDE, lonely places.
AM MU NI' TION, military stores, as powder, balls,
&c.
DRA GOONS, mounted soldiers.
SUM' MIT, top; highest point.
AV A LANCHE', snow-slip.
CROUCH' ED, cringed.
AD VANCE', forward; proceed.
BE NUMB' ED, deprived of feeling.
EX PLOITS', heroic deeds.
IL LUS' TRATES, explains; makes clear.
HE RO'IC, brave; fearless.
UN FLINCH'ING, determined; resolute.
BAY' O NET, a short, pointed instrument of iron, or broad
dagger, fitted to the barrel of a gun. It is so called,
because the first bayonets were made at Bayonne, in France.
1. When Napoleon was carrying war into Italy, he ordered one
of his officers, Marshal Macdonald, to cross the Splugen with
fifteen thousand soldiers, and join him on the plains below.
The Splugen is one of the four great roads which cross the
Alps from Switzerland to Italy.
2. When Macdonald received the order, it was about the last
of November, and the winter storms were raging among the
mountain passes. It was a perilous undertaking, yet he must
obey; and the men began their terrible march through narrow
defiles and overhanging precipices, six thousand feet up, up
among the gloomy solitudes of the Alps.
3. The cannon were placed on sleds drawn by oxen, and the
ammunition was packed on mules. First came the guides,
sticking their long poles in the snow, in order to find the
path; then came workmen to clear away the drifts; then the
dragoons, mounted on their most powerful horses, to beat down
the track; after which followed the main body of the army.
4. They encountered severe storms and piercing cold. When
half-way up the summit, a rumbling noise was heard among the
cliffs. The guides looked at each other in alarm; for they
knew well what it meant. It grew louder and louder. "An
avalanche! an avalanche!" they shrieked, and the next
moment a field of ice and snow came leaping down the
mountain, striking the line of march, and sweeping thirty
dragoons in a wild plunge below. The black forms of the
horses and their riders were seen for an instant struggling
for life, and then they disappeared forever.
5. The sight struck the soldiers with horror; they crouched
and shivered in the blast. Their enemy was not now flesh and
blood, but wild winter storms; swords and bayonets could not
defend them from the desolating avalanche. Flight or retreat
was hopeless; for all around lay the drifted snow, like a
vast winding-sheet. On they must go, or death was certain,
and the brave men struggled forward.
6. "Soldiers!" exclaimed their commander, "you are called to
Italy; your general needs you. Advance and conquer, first the
mountain and the snow, then the plains and the enemy!"
Blinded by the winds, benumbed with the cold, and far beyond
the reach of aid, Macdonald and his men pressed on. Sometimes
a whole company of soldiers were suddenly swept away by an
avalanche.
7. On one occasion, a poor drummer, crawling out from the
mass of snow, which had torn him from his comrades, began to
beat his drum for relief. The muffled sound came up from his
gloomy resting-place, and was heard by his brother soldiers;
but none could go to his rescue. For an hour, he beat
rapidly, then the strokes grew fainter, until they were heard
no more, and the poor drummer laid himself down to die. Two
weeks were occupied in this perilous march, and two hundred
men perished in the undertaking.
8. This passage of the Splugen is one of the bravest exploits
in the history of Napoleon's generals, and illustrates the
truth of the proverb, "Where there is a will there is a
way." No one can read the heroic deeds of brave men
grappling with danger and death, without a feeling of respect
and admiration; but heroic deeds are always the fruit of
toil and self-sacrifice. No one can
accomplish great things, unless he aims at great things, and
pursues that aim with unflinching courage and
perseverance.
QUESTIONS.—1. What orders had Napoleon given to Marshal
Macdonald? 2. What time of year was it? 3. Describe the march
of the army over the Alps. 4. What disaster occurred to them?
5. How did their commander address the army? 6 Describe the
drummer boy's fate. 7. How many men perished? 8. What does
this exploit of the army illustrate? 9. What is said of
heroic deeds?
PROV' ERBS, sayings; maxims.
TRAC' ED, shown; marked out.
WOO ERS, suitors; lovers.
DENSE, close; thick.
STRIV' ING, making efforts.
CON TROL', restraint; government.
COPE, strive; contend.
DE FY' ING, daring; outbraving.
GHOST, specter; apparition.
RE LY' ING, trusting; depending.
WIN' NING, getting; gaining.
BRAM' BLES, prickly shrubs.
ELIZA COOK.
1. We have faith in old proverbs full surely,
For wisdom has traced what they tell,
And truth may be drawn up as purely
From them, as it may from a "well."
Let us question the thinkers and doers,
And hear what they honestly say,
And you'll find they believe, like bold wooers,
In "Where there's a WILL there's a WAY."
2. The hills have been high for man's mounting,
The woods have been dense for his ax,
The stars have been thick for his counting,
The sands have been wide for his tracks.
The sea has been deep for his diving,
The poles have been broad for his sway,
But bravely he's proved by his striving,
That "Where there's a WILL there's a WAY."
3. Have ye vices that ask a destroyer,
Or passions that need your control?
Let Reason become your employer,
And your body be ruled by your soul.
Fight on, though ye bleed at the trial,
Resist with all strength that ye may,
Ye may conquer Sin's host by denial,
For, "Where there's a WILL there's a WAY."
4. Have ye poverty's pinching to cope with'?
Does suffering weigh down your might'?
Only call up a spirit to hope with,
And dawn may come out of the night.
Oh! much may be done by defying
The ghost of Despair and Dismay,
And much may be gained by relying
On "Where there's a WILL there's a WAY."
5. Should ye see afar off that worth winning,
Set out on a journey with trust,
And ne'er heed though your path at beginning
Should be among brambles and dust.
Though it is by footsteps ye do it,
And hardships may hinder and stay,
Keep a heart and be sure ye go through it,
For, "Where there's a WILL there's a WAY."
QUESTIONS.—1. What is the meaning of this proverb,
"Where there's a WILL there's a WAY?" 2. What
instances can you mention in which its truth has been
realized? 3. Do you apply this proverb in getting your
lessons?
TAL' IS MAN, charm; amulet.
VAN, front or head of an army.
FI' ER Y, ardent; passionate.
PLUMES, supplies with feathers.
TENSE' LY, tightly.
SWERVES, deviates.
DAUNT, frighten; terrify.
BAN' ISH, expel; drive away.
TEL EGRAPH,(TELE,far off; GRAPH, writing or
marking,) a machine to convey news far off. See SANDERS'
NEW SPELLER, p. 161, Ex. 419.
1. "I CAN!" oh yes,—we know you can!
We read it in your eye;
There is a mystic talisman
Flashing all gloriously!
Speak it out boldly, let it ring,
There is a volume there,
There's meaning in the eagle's wing
Then soar, and do, and dare!
2. "I CAN!" climbs to the mountain top,
And plows the billowy main;
He lifts the hammer in the shop,
And drives the saw and plane;
He's fearless in the battle shock,
And always leads the van
Of young America's brave sons,—
They never quailed nor ran.
3. "I CAN!" He is a fiery youth,
And WILL a brother twin,
And, arm in arm, in love and truth.
They'll either die or win.
Shoulder to shoulder, ever ready,
All firm and fearless still
These brothers labor,—true and steady,—
"I CAN," and brave "I WILL."
4. "I CAN," e'en on his pleasure trips,
Travels by telegraph;
He plumes the snowy wing of ships,
And never works by half;
His music is the humming loom,
And shuttles are his dancers.,
Then clear the way, and quick give room
For the noble-souled "I CAN," sirs!
5. "I CAN!" Indeed, we know you can!
'Tis lithe in every limb,
To your blood 'tis a busy fan,
How can the flame burn dim?
It tensely draws your sturdy nerves,—
No bow's without a string,
And when nor bow nor bow-string swerves,
An arrow's on the wing.
6. There is a magic in the power
Of an unbending will,
That makes us stronger every hour,
For greater efforts still.
Then banish from you every CAN'T,
And show yourself a MAN,
And nothing will your purpose daunt,
Led by the brave "I CAN!"
QUESTIONS.—1. What does "I can" do? 2. Who is
called his twin brother? 3. What is said of an unbending
will?
CAS' ED, invested.
ARM' OR, defensive arms.
STORM' ING, taking by assault.
AIR' Y, fanciful; visionary.
FOR' TRESS, fort; strong-hold.
DE TAIN', hinder; keep back.
WEAP' ONS, instruments for defense, or offense.
UN WOR' THY, undeserving.
RE GRET', sorrow for the past.
PHAN' TOM, specter; ghost-like.
SCARCE' LY, hardly.
ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.
1. ARISE`! for the day is passing,
And you lie dreaming on;
Your brothers are cased in armor,
And forth to the fight are gone!
A place in the ranks awaits you;
Each man has some part to play;
The Past and the Future are nothing
In the face of stern TO-DAY.
2. ARISE from your dreams of the Future,—
Of gaining some hard-fought field,
Of storming some airy fortress,
Or bidding some giant yield;
Your Future has deeds of glory,
Of honor, (God grant it may!)
But your arm will never be stronger,
Or needed as now,—TO-DAY.
3. ARISE`! if the Past detain you,
Her sunshine and storms forget;
No chains so unworthy to hold you
As those of a vain regret;
Sad or bright, she is lifeless ever;
Cast her phantom arms away,
Nor look back, save to learn the lesson
Of a nobler strife TO-DAY.
4. ARISE`! for the day is passing;
The sound that you scarcely hear,
Is the enemy marching to battle!
(f.) Rise`! RISE`! for the foe is near!
Stay not to sharpen your weapons,
Or the hour will strike at last,
When, from dreams of a coming battle,
You may wake to find it past!
QUESTIONS.—1. What reasons are assigned why we should
arouse to effort now, to-day? 2. What rule for the
falling inflection on arise? See Rule VIII., page 33.
3. How, according to the notation mark, should the last verse
be read?
REV O LU' TION, change of government.
FAN' CI ED, thought; imagined,
UN GEN' ER OUS, mean; ignoble.
AC KNOWL' EDG ED, owned.
PLOT' TING, planning; contriving.
DE SIGN', purpose; intention.
COR RE SPOND' ENCE, intercourse by letters.
CON' QUEST, victory.
IN' TER VIEW, meeting; conference.
SOL' I TA RY, lonely; retired.
CON GRAT' U LA TING, rejoicing with.
IS' SU ED, started up; come forth.
SUS PECT' ING, mistrusting.
DE TECT' ED, exposed; found out.
A' MI A BLE, lovely; agreeable.
FEL' ON, criminal.
CON' SE QUENCE, (CON, with; SEQUENCE, a
following,) a following with, as an effect, or
result.
IM PRESS' IVE, (IM, in; PRESS, to bear upon;
IVE, tending to,) tending to press in, or upon;
producing an effect.
IN VOLV' ED, (IN, in; VOLVED, rolled,) rolled
in; enveloped.
1. One of the saddest events in the history of the American
Revolution is the treason of Arnold, and, in
consequence of it, the death of Major Andre. Arnold
was an officer in the American army, who, though brave, had a
proud and impatient spirit.
2. He fancied he had not all the honor and the pay due for
his services, and, having plunged himself into debt by his
expensive style of living, these things soured his heart;
and, as is the case with ungenerous minds, he never
acknowledged a fault, or forgave an injury. More than this,
he sought revenge against his countrymen by plotting
treason against his country.
3. Soon after forming this bad design, he opened a secret
correspondence with the English General, Henry Clinton, and,
at the same time, asked General Washington to give him the
command of West Point, an important post on the Hudson river.
Washington let him have it, and this he determined to betray
into the hands of the enemy, provided he could make out of it
a good bargain for himself.
4. He wrote to General Clinton what he would do, and asked to
have a secret interview with some English officer, in order
to agree upon the terms. General Clinton was delighted; for
he thought an army divided against itself, must prove an easy
conquest; and he asked Major Andre, a gallant young officer,
to meet Arnold, and settle the price of his treason.
5. Andre did not wish to engage in such business; but he
obeyed, and went up the Hudson in an English sloop-of-war for
this purpose. Arnold agreed to meet him at a certain spot,
and when night came on, sent a little boat to bring him
ashore. He landed at the foot of a mountain called the Long
Clove, on the western side of the river, a few miles from
Haverstraw, where he found the traitor hid in a clump of
bushes.
6. Little did poor Andre foresee the fatal consequences of
this step. All that still star-light night they sat and
talked; daylight came, and the business was not concluded.
Arnold dismissed the boatmen, and led his companion to a
solitary farm-house on the river's bank, where the papers
were finally drawn up, and hid in one of Andre's stockings.
Andre felt how exposed he was to danger in the enemy's
country, and heartily wished himself back to the sloop.
7. Forced now, however, to go by land, Arnold gave him a pass
to go through the American lines; and, at sunset, he set off,
on horseback, with a guide. They crossed the river, and,
getting along on their dangerous journey with but few alarms,
the guide left the next morning, and Andre rode briskly on,
congratulating himself upon leaving all dangers behind, for
he was rapidly nearing the English lines, when there was a
loud shout, "Stand! HALT!" and three men [Footnote:
Paulding, Williams, and Van Wart.] issued from the woods, one
seizing the bridle, and the others presenting their guns.
8. Andre told them he had a pass to White Plains, on urgent
business from General Arnold, and begged them not to detain
him; but the men, suspecting that all was not right, began to
search him; and, hauling off his boots, they discovered his
papers in his stockings.
9. Finding himself detected, he offered them any sum of
money, if they would let him go. "No;" answered the sturdy
men, "not if you would give us ten thousand guineas;" for,
though poor, they were above selling their country at any
price. Andre was sent a prisoner to General Washington's
camp. Arnold, on learning the news of his capture,
immediately fled from West Point, and made his escape to the
English sloop.
10. According to the rules of war, poor Andre was sentenced
to the death of a spy. Great efforts were made to save him.
General Clinton offered a large sum to redeem him. So young,
so amiable, so gallant, and to meet a felon's doom! but, in
ten days he was hung.
11. Arnold lived; but, with the thirty thousand
dollars—the price of his treachery—he lived a
miserable man, despised even by those who bought him. And one
impressive lesson which the story teaches, is, that the
consequences of guilt do not fall alone on the guilty
man; others are often involved in distress, disgrace, and
ruin.
QUESTIONS.—1. What is one of the saddest events in the
history of the American Revolution? 2. Who was Arnold? 3.
What reason is assigned why he plotted treason against his
country? 4. What measures did he adopt to do this? 5. With
whom, and where did he make the agreement? 6. By whom was
Andre detected? 7. What became of Andre and Arnold?
SE CUR' ED, obtained.
HES' I TA TED, paused.
MIS' ER A BLE, wretched.
SUP' PLI ANT, petitioner; beggar.
PECUL' IAR, singular; remarkable.
IN DIC' A TIVE, showing; intimating.
SO LIC' IT ED, asked; requested.
COS TUME', mode of dress.
VIG' OR OUS, stout; strong.
SYN' O NYM, a word meaning the same as some other word.
IN' FA MY, utter disgrace.
[Headnote 1: TAL' LEY RAND, a distinguished French statesman,
was born Feb. 13th, 1754. He died May 20th, 1838.]
1. There was a day when Talleyrand[Headnote 1] arrived in
Havre, direct from Paris. It was the darkest hour of the
French Revolution. Pursued by the blood-hounds of the Reign
of Terror, stripped of every wreck of property or power,
Talleyrand secured a passage to America, in a ship about to
sail. He was a beggar and a wanderer in a strange land, to
earn his bread by daily labor.
2. "Is there an American staying at your house?" he asked the
landlord of the hotel. "I am bound to cross the water, and
should like a letter to a person of influence in the New
World." The landlord hesitated a moment, then replied: "There
is a gentleman up-stairs, either from America or Britain; but
whether an American or an Englishman, I can not tell."
3. He pointed the way, and Talleyrand, who, in his life, was
Bishop, Prince, and Prime Minister, ascended the stairs. A
miserable suppliant, he stood before the stranger's door,
knocked, and entered. In the far corner of the dimly-lighted
room, sat a man of some fifty years, his arms folded, and his
head bowed on his breast. From a window directly opposite, a
faint light rested on his forehead.
4. His eyes looked from beneath the downcast brows, and gazed
on Talleyrand's face with a peculiar and searching
expression. His face was striking in outline,—the mouth
and chin indicative of an iron will. His form, vigorous, even
with the snows of fifty winters, was clad in a dark, but rich
and distinguished costume.
5. Talleyrand advanced, stated that he was a fugitive; and,
under the impression that the gentleman before him was an
American, he solicited his kind and generous offices. He
related his history in eloquent French and broken English.
6. "I am a wanderer, and an exile. I am forced to flee to the
New World, without a friend or home. You are an American!
Give me, then, I beseech you, a letter of yours, so that I
may be able to earn my bread. I am willing to toil in any
manner; the scenes of Paris have seized me with such horror,
that a life of labor would be a paradise to a career of
luxury in France. You will give me a letter to one of your
friends? A gentleman like yourself has, doubtless, many
friends."
7. The strange gentleman rose. With a look that Talleyrand
never forgot, he retreated to the door of the next
chamber,—his eyes looking still from beneath his
darkened brow. He spoke as he retreated backward,—his
voice was full of meaning. "I am the only man born in the New
World, who can raise his hand to God and say, I have not a
friend, not one, in all America!" Talleyrand never forgot the
overwhelming sadness of that look which accompanied these
words.
8. "Who are you?" he cried, as the strange man retreated to
the next room: "your name?" "My name," he replied, with a
smile that had more of mockery than joy in its convulsive
expression,—"my name is Benedict Arnold!" He was gone:
Talleyrand sank into his chair, gasping the words, "ARNOLD,
THE TRAITOR!"
9. Thus, you see, he wandered over the earth another Cain,
with the wanderer's mark upon his brow. Even in that secluded
room, in that inn at Havre, his crimes found him out, and
forced him to tell his name: that name the synonym of infamy.
The last twenty years of his life are covered with a cloud,
from whose darkness but a few gleams of light flash out upon
the page of history.
10. The manner of his death is not exactly known; but we can
not doubt that he died utterly friendless,—that remorse
pursued him to the grave, whispering "John Andre" in his
ear,—and that the memory of his course of infamy gnawed
like a canker at his heart, murmuring forever, "True to your
country, what might you have been, O ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR!"
QUESTIONS.—1. Who was Talleyrand? 2. Why was he obliged
to flee from Paris? 3. Whom did he seek at Havre? 4. Why did
he wish to see the stranger? 5. Describe the appearance of
this stranger. 6. What did he say to Talleyrand? 7. Who did
the stranger prove to be? 8. What is said of Arnold? 9. Where
is Havre? 10. Where is Paris? 11. What is meant by New
World?
LO CO MO' TIVE, steam-engine to propel rail-cars.
COL LIS' ION, (s like zh,) shock; violent
contact.
EN GIN EER', one who manages an engine.
PRE CIP' I TA TED, thrown headlong.
RE-EN FORCE' MENTS, additional forces.
OB' STI NATE, unyielding.
CORPS, (kore,) body of troops.
BANK' RUPT CY, insolvency.
E NOR' MOUS, immense; very large.
AS' SETS, amounts due.
RE MIT' TANCE, money remitted.
PRE SERV' ED, secured; saved.
MA TU' RI TY, time of payment.
RE PRIEVE', respite.
IN SOLV' ENT, one unable to pay his debts.
PROV O CA' TION, incitement to anger.
IG NO MIN' I OUS, disgraceful.
SAC RI FIC' ED, (c like z,) thrown away.
FREEMAN HUNT.
1. A railroad train was rushing along at almost lightning
speed. A curve was just ahead, beyond which was a station, at
which the cars usually passed each other. The conductor was
late,—so late that the period during which the down
train was to wait, had nearly elapsed: but he hoped yet to
pass the curve safely. Suddenly, a locomotive dashed into
sight right ahead. In an instant, there was a collision. A
shriek, a shock, and fifty souls were in eternity; and all
because an engineer had been behind time.
2. A great battle was going on. Column after column had been
precipitated for eight mortal hours on the enemy posted along
the ridge of a hill. The summer sun was sinking to the west;
re-enforcements for the obstinate defenders were already in
sight; it was necessary to carry the position with one final
charge, or every thing would be lost. A powerful corps had
been summoned from across the country, and, if it came up in
season, all would yet be right. The great conqueror,
confident in its arrival, formed his reserve into an
attacking column, and led them down the hill. The whole world
knows the result. Grouchy [Footnote: Pronounced Groo'
shee.] failed to appear; the imperial guard was beaten
back; Waterloo was lost. Napoleon died a prisoner at St.
Helena, because one of his marshals was behind time.
3. A leading firm, in commercial circles had long struggled
against bankruptcy. As it had enormous assets in California,
it expected remittances by a certain day; and if the sums
promised arrived, its credit, its honor, and its future
prosperity would be preserved. But week after week elapsed
without bringing the gold. At last, came the fatal day on
which the firm had bills maturing to enormous amounts. The
steamer was telegraphed at daybreak; but it was found on
inquiry that she brought no funds; and the house failed. The
next arrival brought nearly half a million to the insolvents,
but it was too late; they were ruined, because their agent,
in remitting, had been behind time.
4. A condemned man was led out for execution, he had taken
human life, but under circumstances of the greatest
provocation, and public sympathy was active in his behalf.
Thousands had signed petitions for a reprieve, a favorable
answer had been expected the night before, and, though it had
not come, even the sheriff felt confident that it would yet
arrive in season. Thus the morning passed without the
appearance of the messenger. The last moment was up. The
prisoner took his place on the drop, the cap was drawn over
his eyes, the bolt was drawn, and a lifeless body hung
suspended in the air. Just at that moment a horseman came
into sight, galloping down the hill, his steed covered with
foam. He carried a packet in his right hand, which he waved
to the crowd. He was the express rider with the reprieve. But
he had come too late. A comparatively innocent man had died
an ignominious death, because a watch had been five minutes
too slow, making its bearer arrive behind time.
5. It is continually so in life. The best laid plans, the
most important affairs, the fortunes of individuals, the
wealth of nations, honor, happiness, life itself, are daily
sacrificed because somebody is "behind time." There are men
who always fail in whatever they undertake, simply because
they are "behind time." Five minutes in a crisis are worth
years. It is but a little period, yet it has often saved a
fortune, or redeemed a people. If there is one virtue that
should be cultivated more than another by him who would
succeed in life, it is punctuality; if there is one
error that should be avoided, it is being behind time.
QUESTIONS.—1. What sad results are mentioned, in
consequence of being behind time? 2. What virtue
should be cultivated, and what error avoided? 3. What is the
use of the hyphen in the word re-enforcements? See
SANDERS' NEW SPELLER, page 165.
TWIN' ED, interwoven.
GAR' LAND, wreath of flowers.
MUS' ED, thought; meditated.
AN TIQUE', (an teek',) ancient.
MOLD, shape; form.
RARE, scarce; seldom seen.
SOOTH ED, calmed; quieted.
THROB' BED, beat; palpitated.
CO' ZY, snug; comfortable.
EBB' ED, flowed back.
JOUR' NEY, travel.
LONG' ING, earnestly desiring.
TIE, bond of affection.
RIV' EN, torn asunder.
1. A little girl sat amid the flowers,
In the blush and bloom of childhood's hours;
She twined the buds in a garland fair,
And bound them up in her shining hair:
"Ah, me!" said she, "how happy I'll be,
When ten years more have gone over me,
And I am a maiden with youth's bright glow
Flushing my cheek, and lighting my brow!"
2. A maiden mused in a pleasant room,
Where the air was filled with a soft perfume;
Vases were near of antique mold,
And beautiful pictures, rare and old;
And she, amid all the beauty there,
Was by far the loveliest and most fair.
"Ah, me!" said she, "how happy I'll be,
When my heart's own choice comes back to me,
When I proudly stand by my dear one's side,
With the thrilling joy of a youthful bride!"
3. A mother bent o'er the cradle nest
Where she soothed her babe to his smiling rest;
She watched the sleep of her cherub-boy,
And her spirit throbbed with exulting joy.
"Ah, me!" said she, "how happy I'll be,
When he reaches manhood, proud and free,
And the world bows down, in its rapture wild,
It the earnest words of my darling child!"
4. An aged one sat by the cozy hearth,
Counting life's sands as they ebbed from earth;
Feeble and frail; the race she run
Had borne her along to the setting sun.
"Ah, me!" said she, "how happy I'll be,
When from time's long fever my soul is free,
When the world fades out with its weary strife,
And I soar away to a better life!"
5. 'Tis thus we journey from youth to age,
Longing to turn to another page,
Striving to hasten the years away,
Lighting our hearts with the future's ray,
Hoping on earth till its visions fade,
Wishing and waiting, through sun and shade,
But turning, when earth's last tie is riven,
To the beautiful rest of a fadeless Heaven.
QUESTIONS.—1. When did the little girl think she would
be happy? 2. What did she say when she became old? 3. What
are we constantly expecting from youth to age? 4. What is the
meaning of the suffix ing, in such words as
longing, striving, lighting, &c.? See SANDERS
& McELLIGOTT'S ANALYSIS, page 134, Ex. 176.
VET' ER AN, old soldier.
GRASP' ED, seized hold of.
AN' CIENT, old.
MUR' MUR, ED, uttered in a low voice.
IM MOR' TAL, imperishable.
RAG' ED, was furious.
RE MAIN', still exists.
SIRE, father.
LIGHT' EN ED, (EN, make; ED, did,) did make
light.
WILLIAM R. WALLACE.
1. He lay upon his dying bed,
(pl.) His eye was growing dim,
When, with a feeble voice, he called
His weeping son to him:
"Weep not, my boy," the veteran said,
"I bow to Heaven's high will;
But quickly from yon antlers bring,
The sword of Bunker Hill."
2. The sword was brought; the soldier's eye
Lit with a sudden flame;
And, as he grasped the ancient blade,
He murmured Warren's[1] name;
Then said, "My boy, I leave you gold,
But what is richer still,
I leave you, mark me, mark me, now,
The sword of Bunker Hill.
3. "'Twas on that dread, immortal day,
I dared the Briton's band,
A captain raised his blade on me,
I tore it from his hand;
And while the glorious battle raged,
It lightened Freedom's will;
For, boy, the God of Freedom blessed
The sword of Bunker Hill.
4. "Oh! keep this sword," his accents broke,—
A smile—and he was dead;
But his wrinkled hand still grasped the blade,
Upon that dying bed.
The son remains, the sword remains,
Its glory growing still,
And twenty millions bless the sire
And sword of Bunker Hill.
[Footnote 1: General Warren, a brave and valuable officer,
fell by a musket-ball, while fighting the British at Bunker's
Hill, June 17th, 1775.]
QUESTIONS.—1. What request did the old veteran make of
his son? 2. What bequest did he make to him? 3. How did he
obtain that sword? 4. What did he say to his son? 5. Who was
Warren?
LE' GEND, fictitious narrative.
MOR' TAL, deadly.
COM' BAT, battle; conflict.
PRI ME' VAL, first; primitive.
MUS' CU LAR, strong; vigorous.
CA DAV' ER OUS, pale; sickly.
REF U GEE', runaway; fugitive.
QUAR' TER, mercy; indulgence.
PIN' ION ED, confined; shackled.
A BYSS', yawning gulf.
PRO POS' AL, offer; proposition.
DI SHEV' EL ED, disordered.
IM BO' SOM ED, surrounded; inclosed.
CON FESS' ED, owned; acknowledged.
RE LENT' ING, pitying; compassionate.
RAN' DOM, venture.
SU PER STI' TION, false religious belief.
A VENGE', take satisfaction for.
UN CON' SCIOUS, unaware.
SUB LIM' I TY, grandeur.
LIPPARD.
1. It was here in the wilds of the Wis sa hi' kon, on the day
of battle, as the noonday sun came shining through the
thickly clustered leaves, that two men met in mortal combat.
They grappled in deadly conflict near a rock that rose, like
the huge wreck of some primeval world, at least one hundred
feet above the dark waters of the Wis sa hi'kon.
2. That man with the dark brow and the darker gray
eye,—with the muscular form, clad in the blue
hunting-frock of the Revolution,—is a Continental,
named Warner. His brother was murdered at the massacre of
Pao'li. That other man, with long black hair drooping
along his cadaverous face, is clad in the half-military
costume of a Tory refugee. That is the murderer of
Pao'li, named Dabney.
3. They had met there in the woods by accident; and now they
fought, not with sword or rifle, but with long and deadly
hunting-knives, that flash in the light as they go turning,
and twining, and twisting over the green-sward. At last, the
Tory is down!—down on the green-sward, with the knee of
the Continental upon his breast,—that up-raised knife
quivering in the light,—that dark-gray eye flashing
death into his face!
4. "Quarter! I yield!" gasped the Tory, as the knee was
pressed upon his breast. "Spare me!—I yield!"
5. "My brother," said the patriot soldier, in a low
tone of deadly hate,—"My brother cried for
quarter on the night of Pa o' li, and, even as he clung to
your knees, you struck that knife into his heart. Oh, I will
give you the quarter of Pa o' li!" And his hand was raised
for the blow, and his teeth were clinched in deadly hate. He
paused for a moment, and then pinioned the Tory's arms, and,
with one rapid stride, dragged him to the verge of the rock,
and held him quivering over the abyss.
6. "Mercy!" gasped the Tory, turning black and ashy by turns,
as that awful gulf yawned below. "Mercy! I have a wife! a
child! spare me!"
7. Then the Continental, with his muscular strength gathered
for the effort, shook the murderer once more over the abyss,
and then hissed this bitter sneer between his
teeth,—"My brother had a wife and two children.
The morning after the night of Pa o' li, that wife was a
widow,—those children were orphans! Would not you like
to go and beg your life of that widow and her children?"
8. The proposal, made by the Continental in the mere mockery
of hate, was taken in serious earnest by the horror-stricken
Tory. He begged to be taken to the widow and her children, to
have the pitiful privilege of begging his life. After a
moment's serious thought, the patriot soldier consented. He
bound the Tory's arms yet tighter, placed him on the rock
again, and then led him up the woods. A quiet cottage,
imbosomed among the trees, broke on their eyes.
9. They entered that cottage. There, beside the desolate
hearth-stone, sat the widow and her children. She was a
matronly woman of about thirty years, with a face faded by
care, a deep, dark eye, and long, disheveled hair about her
shoulder. On one side was a dark-haired boy, of some six
years; on the other, a little girl, one year younger, with
light hair and blue eyes. The Bible, an old, venerable
volume, lay open on that mother's lap.
10. And then that pale-faced Tory flung himself on his knees,
confessed that he had butchered her husband on the night of
Pa o'li, but begged his life at her hands! "Spare me, for
the sake of my wife—my child!" He had expected that
his pitiful moan would touch the widow's heart; but not one
relenting gleam softened her pale face.
11. "The Lord shall judge between us!" she said in a cold,
icy tone, that froze the murderer's heart. "Look! The Bible
lies open before me. I will close that volume, and then this
boy shall open it, and place his finger at random upon a
line, and by that line you shall live or die!" This
was a strange proposal, made in full faith of a wild and dark
superstition of the olden time. For a moment, the Tory,
kneeling there, livid as ashes, was wrapt in thought. Then,
in a faltering voice, he signified his consent.
12. Raising her dark eyes to heaven, the mother prayed the
Great Father to direct the finger of her son. She closed the
book, and handed it to that boy, whose young cheek reddened
with loathing as he gazed upon his father's murderer. He took
the Bible, opened its holy pages at random, and placed his
fingers upon a verse.
13. Then there was a silence. That Continental soldier, who
had sworn to avenge his brother's death, stood there with
dilating eyes and parted lips. Then the culprit, kneeling on
the floor, with a face like discolored clay, felt his heart
leap to his throat. Then, in a clear, bold voice, the widow
read this line from the Old Testament. It was short, yet
terrible: "That man shall die!"
14. Look! The brother springs forward to plunge a knife into
the murderer's heart; but the Tory, pinioned as he is, begs
that one more trial may be made by the little
girl,—that child of five years, with golden hair and
laughing eyes. The widow consents. There is an awful pause.
With a smile in her eye, without knowing what she does, the
little girl opens the Bible,—she turns her laughing
face away,—she places her fingers upon the page.
15. That awful silence grows deeper. The deep-drawn breath of
the brother, and the broken gasps of the murderer, alone
disturb the stillness. The widow and dark-eyed boy are
breathless. That little girl, unconscious as she was, caught
a feeling of awe from the countenances around her, and stood
breathless, her face turned aside, and her tiny fingers
resting on that line of life or death. At last, gathering
courage, the widow bent her eyes on the page, and read. It
was a line from the New Testament: "LOVE YOUR ENEMIES." Ah!
that moment was sublime!
16. Oh, awful Book of God! in whose dread pages we see Job
talking face to face with Jehovah, or Jesus waiting by
Samaria's well, or wandering by the waves of dark Galilee!
Oh, awful Book! shining to-night, as I speak, the light of
that widow's home,—the glory of the mechanic's
shop,—shining where the world comes not, to look on the
last night of the convict in his cell, lightening the way to
God, even over that dread gibbet!
17. Oh, Book of terrible majesty and child-like
love,—for sublimity that crushes the soul into
awe,—of beauty that melts the heart with rapture! you
never shone more strangely beautiful than there in the lonely
cot of the Wissa hi'kon, where you saved the murderer's life.
For,—need I tell you?—that murderer's life was
saved. That widow recognized the finger of God, and even
the stern brother was awed into silence. The murderer went
his way.
18. Now look ye, how wonderful are the ways of Heaven! That
very night, as the widow sat by her lonely hearth, her
orphans by her side,—sat there with a crushed heart and
hot eye-balls, thinking of her husband, who, she supposed,
now lay moldering on the blood-drenched soil of Pa o'
li,—there was a tap at the door. She opened it, and
that husband, living, though covered with wounds, was in her
arms! He had fallen at Pa o' li, but not in death. He was
alive,—his wife lay panting on his breast. That
night there was a prayer in that wood-embowered cot of the
Wis sa hi' kon.
QUESTIONS.—1. What two men are said to have engaged in
deadly combat? 2. Which gained the mastery? 3. What did the
patriot soldier say to the Tory, when he cried,
Quarter? 4. What, when the Tory told him he had a wife
and child? 5. What proposal was made to him? 6. How was his
fate to be decided? 7. Was his life spared? 8. What proved
the justice of the decision?
VES' TI BULE, porch, entrance.
VI' BRATE, move to and fro.
IM MOR' TALS, undying creatures.
MON' U MENTS, memorials.
A CHIEVE', accomplish.
MU TA BLE, changeable.
IM MOR TAL' I TY, deathless existence.
IL LU' MIN ATE, enlighten.
UN DER STAND' ING, intellect.
RE AL' I TIES, truths; facts.
AS SAULTS', violent attacks.
DE SER' TION, abandonment.
IN EX HAUST' I BLE, never-failing.
CHAR' TER, title; deed.
E.H. CHAPIN.
1. Young friends', in whatever pursuits you may engage, you
must not forget that the lawful objects of human efforts, are
but means to higher results and nobler ends. Start not
forward in life with the idea of becoming mere seekers of
pleasure,—sportive butterflies searching for gaudy
flowers. Consider and act with reference to the true ends of
existence.
2. This world is but the vestibule of an immortal life. Every
action of your life touches on some chord that will vibrate
in eternity. These thoughts and motives within you, stir the
pulses of a deathless spirit. Act not, then, as mere
creatures of this life, who, for a little while, are to walk
the valleys and the hills, to enjoy the sunshine and to
breathe the air, and then pass away and be no more; but
act as immortals, with an aim and a
purpose worthy of your high nature.
3. Set before you, as the chief object to be obtained, an
end that is superior to any on earth,—a
desirable end, A PERFECT END. Labor to accomplish a work
which shall survive unchanged and beautiful, when time shall
have withered the garland of youth, when thrones of power and
monuments of art shall have crumbled into ashes; and,
finally, aim to achieve something, which, when these our
mutable and perishing voices are hushed forever, shall live
amid the songs and triumphs of IMMORTALITY.
4. Well will it be for you, if you have a guide
within, which will aid you in every issue which will arm you
in every temptation, and comfort you in every sorrow.
Consult, then, that Volume whose precepts will never fail
you. Consult it with a deep aspiration after the true and
good, and it shall illuminate your understanding with divine
realities.
5. Open your soul, and it shall breathe into it a holy
influence, and fill all its wants. Bind it close to your
heart; it will be a shield against all the assaults of evil.
Read it in the lonely hour of desertion; it will be the best
of companions. Open it when the voyage of life is troubled';
it is a sure chart. Study it in poverty'; it will unhoard to
you inexhaustible riches. Commune with it in sickness'; it
contains the medicine of the soul. Clasp it when dying'; IT
IS THE CHARTER OF IMMORTALITY.
QUESTIONS.—1. What ought we not to forget? 2. How ought
the world to be regarded? 3. How ought we to act and labor?
4. What ought we to consult?
IN TREP' ID, brave; heroic.
BE TO' KEN ED, showed; indicated.
E LAS' TIC, springy; agile.
AT' TI TUDE, posture; position.
UN' DER GROWTH, shrubbery.
CON FRONT', stand before.
CA TAS' TRO PHE, disaster; calamity.
DE TER' RED, hindered; prevented.
HUR' RI CANE, violent tempest.
BUF' FET ING, beating with the hands.
ATH LET' IC, strong; powerful.
MI RAC' U LOUS, wonderful.
TRE MEN DOUS, terrible; frightful.
DES' PE RATE, rash; furious.
IN VOL' UN TA RY, spontaneous.
CAT' A RACT, waterfall.
RE SUS' CI TATE, revive; bring to life.
CH AR' AC TER IZ ED, distinguished.
1. It was a calm, sunny day in the year 1750; the scene, a
piece of forest land in the north of Virginia, near a noble
stream of water. Implements of surveying were lying about,
and several men reclining under the trees, betokened, by
their dress and appearance, that they composed a party
engaged in laying out the wild lands of the country.
2. These persons had apparently just finished their dinner.
Apart from the group, walked a young man of a tall and
compact frame, and moved with the elastic tread of one
accustomed to constant exercise in the open air. His
countenance wore a look of decision and manliness not usually
found in one so young, for he was apparently little over
eighteen years of age. His hat had been cast off, as if for
comfort, and he had paused, with one foot advanced, in a
graceful and natural attitude.
3. Suddenly there was a shriek, then another, and several in
rapid succession. The voice was that of a woman, and seemed
to proceed from the other side of a dense thicket. At the
first scream, the youth turned his head in the direction of
the sound; but when it was repeated, he pushed aside the
undergrowth which separated him from it, and, quickening his
footsteps, as the cries succeeded each other in alarming
rapidity, he soon dashed into an open space on the banks of
the stream, where stood a rude log-cabin.
4. As the young man broke from the undergrowth, he saw his
companions crowded together on the banks of the river, while
in the midst stood the woman, from whom proceeded the
shrieks, held back by two of the men, but struggling
vigorously for freedom. It was but the work of a moment for
the young man to make his way through the crowd and confront
the female. The instant her eye fell on him, she exclaimed,
"Oh! sir, you will do something for me. Make them release
me,—for the love of God! My boy,—my poor boy
is drowning, and they will not let me go!" "It would be
madness; she will jump into the river," said one, "and the
rapids would dash her to pieces in a moment!"
5. The youth had scarcely waited for these words, for he
recollected the child, a bold little boy of four years old,
whose beautiful blue eyes and flaxen ringlets made him a
favorite with all who knew him. He had been accustomed to
play in the little inclosure before the cabin, but the gate
having been left open, he had stolen incautiously out,
reached the edge of the bank, and was in the act of looking
over, when his mother saw him.
6. The shriek she uttered only hastened the catastrophe she
feared; for the child, frightened at the cry of its mother,
lost its balance, and fell into the stream, which here went
foaming and roaring along amid innumerable rocks,
constituting the most dangerous rapids known in that section
of the country. Scream now followed scream in rapid
succession, as the agonized mother rushed to the bank.
7. The party we left reclining in the shade within a few
steps of the accident, were immediately on the spot.
Fortunate it was that they were so near, else the mother
would have jumped in after her child, and both been lost.
Several of the men approached the brink, and were on the
point of springing in after the child, when the sight of the
sharp rocks crowding the channel, the rush and whirl of the
waters, and the want of any knowledge where to look for the
boy, deterred them, and they gave up the enterprise.
8. Not so with the noble youth. His first work was to throw
off his coat; next to spring to the edge of the bank. Here he
stood for a moment, running his eyes rapidly over the scene
below, taking with a glance the different currents and the
most dangerous of the rocks, in order to shape his course
when in the stream. He had scarcely formed his conclusion,
when he saw in the water a white object, which he knew to be
the boy's dress, and he plunged into the wild and roaring
rapids.
9. "Thank God, he will save my child," cried the
mother; "there he is!—oh! my boy, my darling boy,
how could I leave you!" Every one had rushed to the brink
of the precipice, and was now following with eager eyes the
progress of the youth, as the current bore him onward, like a
feather in the embrace of the hurricane. Now it seemed as if
he would be dashed against a jutting rock, over which the
water flew in foam, and a whirlpool would drag him in, from
whose grasp escape would appear impossible.
10. At times, the current bore him under, and he would be
lost to sight; then, just as the spectators gave him up, he
would appear, though far from where he vanished, still
buffeting amid the vortex. Oh, how that mother's straining
eyes followed him in his perilous career! how her heart sunk
when he went under,—and with what a gush of joy when
she saw him emerge again from the waters, and, flinging the
waves aside with his athletic arms, struggle on in pursuit of
her boy!
11. But it seemed as if his generous efforts were not to
avail; for, though the current was bearing off the boy before
his eyes, scarcely ten feet distant, he could not, despite
his gigantic efforts, overtake the drowning child. On flew
the youth and child; and it was miraculous how each escaped
being dashed in pieces against the rocks. Twice the boy went
out of sight, and a suppressed shriek escaped the mother's
lips; but twice he reappeared, and then, with hands wrung
wildly together, and breathless anxiety, she followed his
progress, as his unresisting form was hurried with the onward
current.
12. The youth now appeared to redouble his exertions, for
they were approaching the most dangerous part of the river,
where the rapids, contracting between the narrow shores, shot
almost perpendicularly down a declivity of fifteen feet. The
rush of the waters at this spot was tremendous, and no one
ventured to approach its vicinity, even in a canoe, lest he
should be dashed in pieces. What, then, would be the youth's
fate, unless he soon overtook the child? He seemed fully
sensible of the increasing peril, and now urged his way
through the foaming current with a desperate strength.
13. Three times he was on the point of grasping the child,
when the waters whirled the prize from him. The third effort
was made just as they were entering within the influence of
the current above the fall; and when it failed, the mother's
heart sunk within her, and she groaned, fully expecting the
youth to give up his task. But no; he only pressed forward
the more eagerly; and, as they breathlessly watched amid the
boiling waters, they saw the form of the brave youth
following close after that of the boy.
14. And now, like an arrow from the bow, pursuer and pursued
shot to the brink of the precipice. An instant they hung
there, distinctly visible amid the foaming waters. Every
brain grew dizzy at the sight. But a shout of involuntary
exultation burst from the spectators, when they saw the boy
held aloft by the right arm of the youth,—a shout that
was suddenly checked with horror, when they both vanished
into the abyss below!
15. A moment elapsed before a word was spoken, or a breath
drawn. The mother ran forward, and then stood gazing with
fixed eyes at the foot of the cataract, as if her all
depended upon what the next moment should reveal. Suddenly
she gave the glad cry, (f.) "There they are! See!
they are safe!—Great God, I thank thee!" And, sure
enough, there was the youth still unharmed, and still
buffeting the waters. He had just emerged from the boiling
vortex below the cataract. With one hand he held aloft the
child, and with the other he was making for the shore.
16. They ran, they shouted, they scarcely knew what they did,
until they reached his side, just as he was struggling to the
bank. They drew him out almost exhausted. The boy was
senseless; but his mother declared that he still lived, as
she pressed him frantically to her bosom. The youth could
scarcely stand, so faint was he from his exertions.
17. Who can describe the scene that followed,—the
mother's calmness while she strove to resuscitate her boy,
and her wild gratitude to his preserver, when the child was
out of danger, and sweetly sleeping in her arms? Our pen
shrinks at the task. But her words, pronounced then, were
remembered afterwards by more than one who heard them.
18. "God will reward you," said she, "as I can
not. He will do great things for you in return for this day's
work, and the blessings of thousands besides mine will attend
you." And so it was; for, to the hero of that hour,
were subsequently confided the destinies of a mighty nation.
But, throughout his long career, what tended to make him more
honored and respected beyond all men, was the
self-sacrificing spirit, which, in the rescue of that
mother's child, as in the more august events of his life,
characterized OUR BELOVED WASHINGTON.
QUESTIONS.—1. Describe the scene where this accident
took place. 2. What did the woman say to the young man? 3.
Why would not the men release the woman? 4. What did the
young man do? 5. Did he finally succeed in saving the child?
6. What did the mother say to him? 7. Who did this youth
prove to be?
RAB' BI, teacher or doctor.
HEA' THEN, pagan; gentile.
BOUND' A RIES, limits.
WAN' DER ED, strayed.
SUB MIS' SIVE, resigned; humble.
PIL' GRIM, wanderer.
RE PEL' LED, drove off.
IN HOS' PI TA BLE, unkind to strangers.
MAN' TLE, garment, cloak.
CON SOL' ING, comforting.
RE POS' ING, lying down; resting.
CA LAM' I TY, misfortune.
POUN' CED, fell or jumped suddenly.
IM PLOR' ING, begging; entreating.
DE SPOIL' ED, robbed.
CHURL' ISH, surly; rude.
JOHN G. SANE.
1. A pious Rabbi, forced by heathen hate,
To quit the boundaries of his native land,
Wandered abroad, submissive to his fate,
Through pathless woods and wastes of burning sand.
2. A patient ass, to bear him in his flight,
A dog, to guard him from the robber's stealth,
A lamp, by which to read the law at night,—
Was all the pilgrim's store of worldly wealth.
3. At set of sun he reached a little town,
And asked for shelter and a crumb of food;
But every face repelled him with a frown,
And so he sought a lodging in the wood.
4. "'Tis very hard," the weary traveler said,
"And most inhospitable, I protest,
To send me fasting to this forest bed;
But God is good, and means it for the best!"
5. He lit his lamp to read the sacred law,
Before he spread his mantle for the night;
But the wind rising with a sudden flaw,
He read no more,—the gust put out the light.
6. "'Tis strange," he said, "'tis very strange, indeed,
That ere I lay me down to take my rest,
A chapter of the law I may not read,—
But God is good, and all is for the best!"
7. With these consoling words the Rabbi tries
To sleep,—his head reposing on a log,—
But, ere he fairly shut his drowsy eyes,
A wolf came up and killed his faithful dog.
8. "What new calamity is this?" he cried;
"My honest dog—a friend who stood the test
When others failed—lies murdered at my side!
Well,—God is good, and means it for the best."
9. Scarce had the Rabbi spoken, when, alas!—
As if, at once, to crown his wretched lot,
A hungry lion pounced upon the ass,
And killed the faithful donkey on the spot.
10. "Alas!—alas!" the weeping Rabbi said,
"Misfortune haunts me like a hateful guest;
My dog is gone, and now my ass is dead,—
Well, God is good, and all is for the best!"
11. At dawn of day, imploring heavenly grace,
Once more he sought the town, but all in vain;
A band of robbers had despoiled the place,
And all the churlish citizens were slain.
12. "Now God be praised!" the grateful Rabbi cried,
"If I had tarried in the town to rest,
I too, with these poor villagers had died,—
Sure, God is good, and all is for the best!"
13. "Had not the saucy wind put out my lamp,
By which the sacred law I would have read,
The light had shown the robbers to my camp,
And here the villains would have left me dead.
14. "Had not my faithful animals been slain,
Their noise, no doubt, had drawn the robbers near,
And so their master, it is very plain,
Instead of them, had fallen murdered here.
15. "Full well I see that this hath happened so
To put my faith and patience to the test;
Thanks to His name! for now I surely know
That God is good, and all is for the best!"
FU TU' RI TY, events to come.
CON SULT', counsel with.
PRE TEN' SIONS, claims; assumptions.
FOR' TI TUDE, patience; endurance.
MOD' EL, pattern; example.
RES IG NA' TION, submissiveness.
O VER WHELMS', overcomes.
IN GRAT' I TUDE, unthankfulness.
VAG' A BOND, vagrant; worthless.
IM' PU DENCE, sauciness.
DES' TI NY, fate; final lot.
DE CEAS' ED, dead.
DE PRIV' ED, robbed.
IN CUR' RED, brought on; caused.
CON SUL TA' TIONS, couselings.
CAL CU LA' TIONS, reckonings.
PRE TER NAT' U RAL, (PRETER, beyond;) beyond what is
natural; miraculous.
IN VOLV' ED, (IN, in; VOLVED, rolled;) rolled
in; enveloped.
IN TER RUPT', (INTER, in, between; RUPT, to
break;) break in between; stop; hinder.
[Headnote 1: JOB, a patriarch, celebrated for his patience,
constancy, and piety. For note on DAVID, see page 138.]
NOTE.—The dash at the end of a remark denotes that the
speaker is interrupted by the one with whom he is conversing.
Mrs. Credulous. Are you the fortune-teller, sir, that
knows every thing?
Fortune-Teller. I sometimes consult futurity, madam;
but I make no pretensions to any supernatural knowledge.
Mrs. C. Ay, so you say; but every body else
says you know every thing; and I have come all the way
from Boston to consult you; for you must know I have met with
a dreadful loss.
F. T. We are liable to losses in this world, madam.
Mrs. C. Yes; and I have had my share of them, though I
shall be only fifty, come Thanksgiving.
F. T. You must have learned to bear misfortunes with
fortitude, by this time.
Mrs. C. I don't know how that is, though my dear
husband, rest his soul, used to say, "Molly, you are as
patient as Job,[Headnote 1] though you never had any children
to lose, as he had."
F. T. Job was a model of patience, madam, and few
could lose their all with so much resignation.
Mrs. C. Ah, sir', that is too true'; for even the
small loss I have suffered, overwhelms me!
F. T. The loss of property, madam, comes home to the
bosom of the best of us.
Mrs. C. Yes, sir; and when the thing lost can not be
replaced, it is doubly distressing. When my poor, good man,
on our wedding day, gave me the ring, "Keep it, Molly," said
he, "till you die, for my sake." And now, that I should have
lost it, after keeping it thirty years, and locking it up so
carefully all the time, as I did—
F. T. We can not be too careful in this world, madam;
our best friends often deceive us.
Mrs. C. True, sir, true,—but who would have
thought that the child I took, as it were, out of the street,
and brought up as my own, could have been guilty of such
ingratitude? She never would have touched what was not her
own, if her vagabond lover had not put her up to it.
F. T. Ah, madam, ingratitude is the basest of all
crimes!
Mrs. C. Yes; but to think that the impudent creature
should deny she took it, when I saw it in the possession of
that wretch myself.
F. T. Impudence, madam, usually accompanies crime. But
my time is precious, and the star that rules your destiny
will set, and your fate be involved in darkness, unless I
proceed to business immediately. The star informs me, madam,
that you are a widow.
Mrs. C. La! sir, were you acquainted with my deceased
husband?
F. T. No, madam; we do not receive our knowledge by
such means. Thy name is Mary, and thy dwelling-place is
Boston.
Mrs. C. Some spirit must have told you this, for
certain.
F. T. This is not all, madam. You were married at the
age of twenty years, and were the sole heir of your deceased
husband.
Mrs. C. I perceive, sir, you know every thing.
F. T. Madam, I can not help knowing what I do
know; I must therefore inform you that your adopted daughter,
in the dead of night—
Mrs. C. No, sir; it was in the day-time.
F. T. Do not interrupt me, madam. In the dead of
night, your adopted daughter planned the robbery which
deprived you of your wedding-ring.
Mrs. C. No earthly being could have told you this, for
I never let my right hand know that I possessed it, lest some
evil should happen to it.
F. T. Hear me, madam; you have come all this distance
to consult the fates, and find your ring.
Mrs. C. You have guessed my intention exactly, sir.
F. T. Guessed'! madam'. I know this is your
object; and I know, moreover, that your ungrateful daughter
has incurred your displeasure, by receiving the addresses of
a worthless man.
Mrs. C. Every word is gospel truth.
F. T. This man has persuaded your daughter—
Mrs. C. I knew he did, I told her so. But good sir,
can you tell me who has the ring?
F. T. This young man has it.
Mrs. C. But he denies it.
F. T. No matter, madam, he has it.
Mrs. C. But how shall I obtain it again?
F. T. The law points out the way, madam,—it is
my business to point out the rogue,—you must
catch him.
Mrs. C. You are right, sir,—and if there is law
to be had, I will spend every cent I own, but I will have it.
I knew he was the robber, and I thank you for the
information. [Going.]
F. T. But thanks, madam, will not pay for all my
nightly vigils, consultations, and calculations.
Mrs. C. Oh, right, sir! I forgot to pay you. What am I
indebted to you?
F. T. Only five dollars, madam.
Mrs. C. [Handing him the money.] There it is,
sir. I would have paid twenty rather than not have found the
ring.
F. T. I never take but five, madam. Farewell, madam,
your friend is at the door with your chaise.
[He leaves the room.]
[Enter, Friend.]
Friend. Well, Mary, what does the fortune-teller say?
Mrs. C. Oh, he told me I was a widow, and lived in
Boston, and had an adopted daughter,—and——
Friend. But you knew all this before, did you not?
Mrs. C. Yes; but how should he know it? He told
me, too, that I had lost a ring,—
Friend. Did he tell you where to find it?
Mrs. C. Oh yes! he says that fellow has it, and I must
go to law and get it, if he will not give it up. What do you
think of that?
Friend. It is precisely what any fool could have told
you. But how much did you pay for this precious information?
Mrs. C. Only five dollars.
Friend. How much was the ring worth?
Mrs. C. Why, two dollars, at least.
Friend. Then you have paid ten dollars for a chaise to
bring you here, five dollars for the information that you had
already, and all this to gain possession of a ring not worth
one quarter of the expense!
Mrs. C. Oh, the rascal! how he has cheated me! I will
go to the world's end but I will be revenged.
Friend. You had better go home, and say nothing about
it; for every effort to recover your money, will only expose
your folly.
QUESTIONS.—1. What had Mrs. Credulous said, by which
the fortune-teller knew all the circumstances relative to the
loss of her ring? 2. How was she told she must get her ring?
3. What did she pay the fortune-teller? 4. How much for the
chaise? 5. What was her ring worth? 6. Was she a bright dame?
UN FAL' TER ING, steady.
CON FID' ING LY, trustingly.
SOOTH' ING LY, tenderly, calmly.
AL LUR'ING, seductive; flattering.
AP PRO' PRI ATE, proper; peculiar.
SUB MIS' SION, resignation.
IN' VA LID, sick or infirm person.
CON TENT' MENT, satifaction.
MEA' GER, scanty.
CON' FI DENCE, faith; reliance.
AS SUAG' ED, relieved; mitigated.
FER' VEN CY, heat; ardent feeling.
RA DI A TION luster.
FRU I' TION, realization; enjoyment.
[Footnote: AL' LE GO RY is a word of Greek origin. It is made
up of two parts; ALL, other; and EGORY,
discourse; the literal meaning of the compound being,
discourse about other things; that is, things
other than those expressed by the words, literally
interpreted. Allegory is, therefore, the general name for
that class of compositions, as Fables,
Apologues, Parables, and Myth, in which
there is a double signification, one literal
and the other figurative; the literal being designed
merely to give a more clear and impressive view of that which
is figurative.]
1. Many years ago, three beautiful sisters came into our
world to lighten the burdens of earth's toiling pilgrims, and
aid them in preparation for a higher state of existence.
Alike commissioned by the Great Father, they were sent on
errands of mercy, and were not to turn away from scenes of
darkness, sorrow, and suffering.
2. FAITH had a firm, unfaltering step; HOPE, a beaming eye,
ever turned to the future; and LOVE, a pitying glance, and a
helping hand. They journeyed confidingly together; and when
they found a stricken being in danger of perishing by the
wayside, FAITH soothingly whispered, "My Father doeth all
things well;" HOPE pointed to the cooling shade just in
advance; and LOVE assisted him to rise, and aided his feeble
steps.
3. Groups of fair children played near the path in which they
were traveling. Some of these did not understand the tones of
FAITH; but they all listened eagerly to the alluring strains
of HOPE, who painted brighter scenes than those they were
enjoying, and flowers more fragrant than any they yet had
gathered. LOVE delighted to linger with the youthful band,
lessening their trials, and increasing their pleasures.
4. Her gentle touch arrested the little hand that was lifted
against a playmate, and her soothing voice calmed the angry
passions which were swelling in the bosom. When a child
stumbled in the way, she tenderly raised it up again, or when
a thorn pierced the unwary finger, she kindly removed it, and
bound up the bleeding wound.
5. While the sisters were busy in their appropriate mission,
a pale-cheeked lad mingled with the group of merry children,
though too weak to share their sports. FAITH stole to his
side, and whispered of the great Parent above, who afflicts
in wisdom, and chastens in love. His eye brightened while she
spoke, and he looked upward with that trust and submission
which he had never before experienced.
6. Then HOPE came, with visions of returning health, when his
frame would be strong and his heart buoyant. But when HOPE
and FAITH were gone, again his head drooped, and the tear
started. Then LOVE sat down by the invalid, twining a garland
of summer blossoms for his pale brow, and singing sweet
melodies which charmed his listening ear. The pain was all
gone now; smiles wreathed his pallid lips, and the sick boy
laughed as merrily as his more robust companions.
7. The sisters, in their journeyings, entered the abode of
poverty. It was a humble dwelling, and yet it looked
cheerful, yea, even inviting, when the three graced it with
their presence. FAITH shed a spirit of calm contentment and
heavenly trust in those lowly walls; HOPE whispered of the
better mansions prepared for the followers of the Lamb; and
LOVE, not less exalted than her sisters, threw a charm over
the meager fare and scanty attire of the inmates. FAITH
taught them to offer the daily prayer in trusting confidence;
HOPE pointed beyond this world to joys which eye hath not
seen, nor ear heard; while LOVE lessened each burden, and
increased each simple pleasure. FAITH, HOPE, and CHARITY! ye,
indeed, can make a paradise of the humblest home!
8. There was a darkened chamber, with a wan form tossing
restlessly upon the couch. Wealth was there; but it could not
allay pain, or prolong life. FAITH, noiseless as a spirit
form, glided to the sick one's side. "Though He slay me, yet
will I trust in Him," was her language, as she pointed
upward. HOPE fain would have whispered of length of days, but
she knew this could not be; so she spoke of life eternal,
where there is no more pain. Then LOVE smoothed the pillow,
and bathed the fevered brow, pausing not in her tender
ministries through the night-watches. When morning dawned,
the spirit of the sick man passed away, though not until
FAITH, and HOPE, and LOVE had assuaged the anguish of the
parting pang.
9. Weeping mourners gathered around the dead. There were
tears,—for "tears well befit earth's partings;" there
was sorrow,—for what bitterness is like unto that of
the bereaved, when the grave opens to infold the heart's best
treasure? Yet FAITH, and HOPE, and LOVE were there, assuaging
those tears, and mitigating that sorrow. FAITH, even while
her cheeks were wet, exclaimed, "The Lord gave, and the Lord
hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."
10. HOPE'S language was, "Not lost, but gone before;" and her
eye, having lost none of its brightness, saw with prophetic
vision a reunion yet to come. LOVE tenderly wiped away each
gathering tear, and gave deeper fervency to the trusting
confidence of FAITH, and the inspiring strains of HOPE. And
when the sleeper was committed to the dust, these gentle
sisters lingered in the lonely house, and by the darkened
hearth.
11. Such are FAITH, HOPE, and CHARITY,—given by God to
lighten human sorrow, and bless the creatures He has made.
They have each a mission to fulfill,—different, it is
true, and yet they move in harmony. FAITH enables us to
submit trustingly to daily trials, viewing a kind Father's
hand in each passing event. HOPE, when the sky is dark, and
the path thorny, points not only to fairer scenes below, but
to that brighter world where there is no night and no sorrow.
12. LOVE lightens every burden, and reflects upon earth a
faint radiation of heavenly blessedness,—for the
Scriptures assure us that "God is love: and every one that
loveth is born of God." The time will come when, the purposes
of the wise Creator being accomplished, Faith and Hope will
cease. Faith will be lost in sight, Hope in fruition; but
Love will remain, binding the spirits of the redeemed in
blissful communion, and uniting them to God the Father and
Christ the Elder Brother.
13. Faith, Hope, and Charity! blessed spirits! May they be
inmates of every heart! May they assist each of us in the
peculiar trials which none can know but ourselves! They will
come to us if we seek their presence; but they must be
carefully nurtured. Let us cherish them in our bosoms, and
they will bless us constantly in our pilgrimage below, and
conduct us to the presence of our God.
TRANSPORT' ED, highly delighted.
THREAT' EN ING, impending.
COR' O NAL, crown; chaplet.
MYR' I AD, innumerable.
LUS' CIOUS, delicious.
LUS TY, strong; vigorous.
WAR' BLING, singing; caroling.
CHURL, sour, surly man.
RE FRESH', cool; make fresh.
LAN' GUID, dull; sluggish.
DROUTH' Y, dry; arid.
SUS TAIN', uphold; support.
UN GRUDG'ING, free-hearted; liberal.
NIG GARD, miser; stingy person.
S.W. PARTRIDGE.
1. "Not to myself alone,"
The little opening flower transported cries.
"Not to myself alone I bud and bloom;
With fragrant breath the breezes I perfume,
And gladden all things with my rainbow dyes.
The bee comes sipping, every eventide,
His dainty fill;
The butterfly within my cup doth hide
From threatening ill."
2. "Not to myself alone,"
The circling star with honest pride doth boast,
"Not to myself alone I rise and set;
I write upon night's coronal of jet
His power and skill who formed our myriad host;
A friendly beacon at heaven's open gate,
I gem the sky.
That man might ne'er forget, in every fate,
His home on high."
3. "Not to myself alone,"
The heavy-laden bee doth murmuring hum,
"Not to myself alone, from flower to flower,
I rove the wood, the garden, and the bower,
And to the hive at evening weary come;
For man, for man, the luscious food I pile
With busy care,
Content if he repay my ceaseless toil
With scanty share."
4. "Not to myself alone,"
The soaring bird with lusty pinion sings,
"Not to myself alone I raise my song;
I cheer the drooping with my warbling tongue,
And bear the mourner on my viewless wings;
I bid the hymnless churl my anthem learn,
And God adore;
I call the worldling from his dross to turn,
And sing and scar."
5. "Not to myself alone,"
The streamlet whispers on its pebbly way,
"Not to myself alone I sparkling glide;
I scatter health and life on every side,
And strew the fields with herb and floweret gay.
I sing unto the common, bleak and bare,
My gladsome tune;
I sweeten and refresh the languid air
In droughty June."
6. "Not to myself alone:"--
O man, forget not thou,--earth's honored priest,
Its tongue, its soul, its life, its pulse, its heart,--
In earth's great chorus to sustain thy part!
Chiefest of guests at Love's ungrudging feast,
Play not the niggard; spurn thy native clod,
And self disown;
Live to thy neighbor; live unto thy God;
Not to thyself alone!
QUESTIONS.—1. What things are mentioned, that
contribute to our comfort and happiness? 2. How does the
suffix less, affect the meaning of the words cease,
view, hymn, &c.? 3. What is the meaning of the
suffixes let and et, in the words
streamlet and floweret? See SANDERS &
McELLIGOTT'S ANALYSIS, page 140, Ex. 185 and 187.
NURS'ING, nourishing; cherishing.
AB HOR', detest; loathe.
RE LI' ED, depended.
FRA TER' NAL, brotherly.
SU PER' NAL, heavenly.
COM BINE', unite; join together.
RE HEARS' AL, recital; repetition.
BIG' OT RY, blind zeal; prejudice.
SHEATHE, put in a sheath.
U NI VERS AL, general.
CUS TOM, practice; usage.
TAL' ENT, natural ability.
AF FECT'ING, making false show.
IS' O LATE, separate; detach.
W.H. COBB.
1. If men cared less for wealth and fame,
And less for battle-fields and glory,—
If writ in human hearts a name
Seemed better than in song and story,—
If men instead of nursing pride,
Would learn to hate it and abhor it,—
If more relied
On love to guide,—
The world would be the better for it.
2. If men dealt less in stocks and lands,
And more in bonds and deeds fraternal,—
If Love's work had more willing hands
To link this world to the supernal,—
If men stored up Love's oil and wine,
And on bruised human hearts would pour it,—
If "yours" and "mine"
Would once combine,—
The world would be the letter for it.
3. If more would act the play of Life,
And fewer spoil it in rehearsal,—
If Bigotry would sheathe his knife
Till Good became more universal,—
If Custom, gray with ages grown,
Had fewer blind men to adore it,—
If talent shone
In Truth alone,—
The world would be the better for it.
4. If men were wise in little things,
Affecting less in all their dealings,—
If hearts had fewer rusted strings
To isolate their kindly feelings,—
If men, when Wrong beats down the Right,
Would strike together and restore it,—
If Right made Might
In every fight,—
The world would be the letter for it.
In reading these antithetic sentences, an excellent effect
may be produced by dividing the class equally into two parts,
and letting one part read, in concert, the line marked 1st
Voice, and the other part, the line marked 2d
Voice; or, one pupil may read one line, and the next
pupil the other, alternately.
1st Voice. A wise son maketh a glad father;
2d Voice, but a foolish son is the heaviness of his
mother.
1 V. Treasures of wickedness profit nothing;
2 V. but righteousness delivereth from death.
1 V. He becometh poor, that dealeth with a slack
hand;
2 V. but the hand of the diligent maketh rich.
1 V. Blessings are upon the head of the just;
2 V. but violence covereth the mouth of the wicked.
1 V. The memory of the just is blessed;
2 V. but the name of the wicked shall rot.
1 V. The wise in heart will receive commandment;
2 V. but a prating fool shall fall.
1 V. He that walketh uprightly, walketh surely;
2 V. but he that perverteth his ways, shall be known.
1 V. Wise men lay up knowledge;
2 V. but the mouth of the wicked is near destruction.
1 V. He is in the way of life, that keepeth
instruction;
2 V. but he that refuseth reproof, erreth.
1 V. It is as sport to a fool to do mischief;
2 V. but a man of understanding hath wisdom.
1 V. The fear of the Lord prolongeth days;
2 V. but the years of the wicked shall be shortened.
1 V. The hope of the righteous shall be gladness;
2 V. but the expectation of the wicked shall perish.
1 V. The righteous shall never be removed;
2 V. but the wicked shall not inhabit the earth.
1 V. The mouth of the just bringeth forth wisdom;
2 V. but the froward tongue shall be cut out.
1 V. A false balance is an abomination to the
Lord;
2 V. but a just weight is his delight.
1 V. Riches profit not in the day of wrath;
2 V. but righteousness delivereth from death.
1 V. The righteousness of the perfect shall direct
his way;
2 V. but the wicked shall fall by his own wickedness.
1 V. By the blessing of the upright the city is
exalted;
2 V. but it is overthrown by the mouth of the wicked.
1 V. Where no counsel is, the people fall,
2 V. but in the multitude of counselors there is
safety.
1 V. He that diligently seeketh good, procureth
favor;
2 V. but he that seeketh mischief, it shall come unto
him.
1 V. The righteous man regardeth the life of his
beast;
2 V. but the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.
1 V. The lip of truth shall be established
forever;
2 V. but a lying tongue is but for a moment.
1 V. Lying lips are abomination to the Lord;
2 V. but they that deal truly are His delight.
1 V. The hand of the diligent shall bear rule;
2 V. but the slothful shall be under tribute.
1 V. A wise son heareth his father's instruction;
2 V. but a scorner heareth not rebuke.
1 V. He that keepeth his mouth, keepeth his life;
2 V. but he that openeth wide his lips, shall have
destruction.
1 V. A scorner seeketh wisdom, and findeth it
not;
2 V. but knowledge is easy unto him that
understandeth.
1 V. There is a way which seemeth right unto a
man;
2 V. but the end thereof are the ways of death.
1 V. A wise man feareth, and departeth from evil;
2 V. but the fool rageth, and is confident.
1 V. The poor is hated even of his neighbor;
2 V. but the rich hath many friends.
1 V. He that oppresseth the poor, reproacheth his
Maker;
2 V. but he that honoreth Him, hath mercy on the
poor.
1 V. He that is slow to wrath, is of great
understanding;
2 V. but he that is hasty in spirit, exalteth folly.
1 V. A soft answer turneth away wrath;
2 V. but grievous words stir up anger.
1 V. He that walketh with wise men, shall be
wise;
2 V. but a companion of fools shall be destroyed.
1 V. Counsel in the heart of man is like deep
water;
2 V. but a man of understanding will draw it out.
1 V. The wicked is driven away in his wickedness;
2 V. but the righteous hath hope in his death.
IM PRES' SION, idea; notion.
AT TRAC' TIONS, allurements.
SA TI' E TY, excessive fullness.
SAT' ED, glutted; satiated.
PAM' PER ED, over-fed.
SUC' CU LENT, full of sap; juicy.
UM BRA' GEOUS, shady.
GOR' GEOUS, showy; brilliant.
DREAR' I NESS, gloominess.
REG' IS TER, record; note down.
SUG GEST' IVE, giving signs.
DEC LA RA' TION, announcement.
EX TREM' I TIES, ends.
DRA' PER Y, hangings; decorations.
EN CHANT' MENT, charms; fascination.
FRET' TED, furnished with frets, of ornamental raised
work.
DEC O RA' TIONS, adornments.
[Headnote 1: AR' A BESQUES, is a word, denoting ornaments
after the Arabian manner, often intricate and fantastic, from
the intermingling of foliage, fruits, &c., with other
objects real or imaginary.]
HENRY WARD BEECHER.
1. It is the impression of many, that only in summer,
including spring and autumn, of course, is the country
desirable as a residence. The country in summer, and the city
for the winter. It is true, that the winter gives attractions
to the city, in endless meetings, lectures, concerts, and
indoor amusements; but it is not true that the country loses
all interest when the leaves are shed and the grass is gone.
On the contrary, to one who has learned how to use his senses
and his sensibilities, there are attractions in the winter of
a peculiar kind, and pleasures which can be reaped only then.
2. It appears to me, that winter comes in to relieve the year
of satiety. The mind grows sated with greenness. After eight
or nine months of luxuriant growths, the eye grows accustomed
to vegetation. To be sure, we never are less pleased with the
wide prospect; with forms of noble trees, with towns and
meadows, and with the whole aspect of nature. But it is the
pleasure of one pampered. We lose the keen edge of hunger.
The eye enjoys, without the relish of newness. We expect to
enjoy. Every thing loses surprise.
3. Of course, the sky is blue, the grass succulent, the
fields green, the trees umbrageous, the clouds silent and
mysterious. They were so yesterday, they are so to-day, they
will be so to-morrow, next week, next month. In short, the
mind does not cease to feel the charm of endless growths; but
needs variety, change of diet, less of perpetual feasting,
and something of the blessings of a fast. This winter
gives. It says to us: You have had too much. You are
luxurious and dainty. You need relief and change of diet.
4. The cold blue of the sky, the cold gray of rocks, the
sober warmth of browns and russets, take the place of more
gorgeous colors. If, now, one will accept this change in the
tone of nature, after a time a new and relishful pleasure
arises. The month formed by the last fortnight of November
and the first two weeks of December, is, to me, the saddest
of the year. It most nearly produces the sense of
desolateness and dreariness of any portion of the year.
5. From the hour that the summer begins to shorten its days,
and register the increasing change along the horizon, over
which the sun sets, farther and farther toward the south, we
have a genial and gentle sadness. But sadness belongs to all
very deep joys. It is almost as needful to the perfectness of
joy, as shadows in landscapes are to the charm of the
picture. Then, too, comes the fading out of
flowers,—each variety in its turn, saying, "Farewell
till next summer."
6. Scarcely less suggestive of departing summer are the
new-comers, the late summer golden-rod, the asters, and all
autumnal flowers. Long experience teaches us that these are
the latest blossoms that fall from the sun's lap, and next to
them is snow. By association we already see white in the
yellow and blue. Then, too, birds are thinking of other
things. No more nests, no more young, no more
songs,—except signal-notes and rallying-calls; for they
are evidently warned, and go about their little remaining
daily business, as persons who expect every hour to depart to
a distant land.
7. It is scarcely ever that we see the birds go. They
are here to-day, and gone to-morrow. They disappear without
observation. The fields are empty and silent. It seems as if
the winds had blown them away with the leaves. The first
sight of northern waterfowl, far up in the air, retreating
from Labrador and the short, Arctic summer, is always to us
like the declaration: "Summer is gone; winter is behind us;
it will soon be upon you." At last come the late days of
November. All is gone,—frosts reap and glean more
sharply every night.
8. A few weeks bring earnest winter. Then begin to dawn other
delights. The bracing air, the clean snow-paths, the sled and
sleigh, the revelation of forms that all summer were
grass-hidden; the sharp-outlined hills lying clear upon the
sky; the exquisite tracery of trees,—especially of all
such trees as that dendral child of God, the elm, whose
branches are carried out into an endless complexity of fine
lines of spray, and which stands up in winter, showing in its
whole anatomy, that all its summer shade was founded upon the
most substantial reality.
9. In winter, too, particularly in the latter periods of it,
the extremities of shrubs and branches begin to take on ruddy
hues, or purplish browns, and the eye knows that these are
the first faint blushes of coming summer. Now, too, we find
how beautiful are the mosses in the woods; and under them we
find solitary green leaves, that have laughed all winter
because they had outwitted the frost.
10. Wherever flowing springs gush from sheltered spots
looking south, one will find many green edges, young grass,
and some few tougher leaves. Now, too, in still days, the
crow swings heavily through the air, cawing with a pleasing
harshness. For dieting has performed its work. Your appetite
is eager. A little now pleases you more than abundance did in
August. Every tiny leaf is to you like a cedar of Lebanon.
11. All these things are unknown to dwellers in cities. It is
nothing to them that a robin appeared for the first time
yesterday morning, or that a blue-bird sang over against the
house. Some new prima-donna[Footnote: The first female
singer in an opera.] exhausts their admiration. They are yet
studying laces, and do not care for the fringe of swamps, for
the first catkins of the willow. They are still coveting the
stores of precious stones at the jewelers, and do not care
for my ruby buds, and red dogwood, and scarlet winter
berries, and ground pine, and partridge-berry leaves.
12. There is one sight of the country, at about this time of
the year—the first of March—that few have seen,
or else they have passed it by as if it were not worthy of
record. I mean the drapery of rocks in gorges, or along
precipitous sides of hills or mountains. The seams of rocks
are the outlets of springs. The water, trickling through, is
seized by the frost, and held fast in white enchantment.
Every day adds to the length of the ice drapery; and, as the
surface is overlaid by new issuings, it is furred and fretted
with silver-white chasings, the most exquisite.
13. Thus, one may find a succession, in a single gorge, of
extraordinary ice-curtains, and pendent draperies, of varying
lengths, of every fantastic form, of colors varying by
thickness, or by the tinge of earth or rock shining through
them. In my boyhood, I used to wander along these fairy
halls, imagining them to be now altars in long, white
draperies; now, grand cathedral pillars of white marble;
then, long tapestries chased in white, with
arabesques[Headnote 1] and crinkled vines and leaves.
14. Sometimes they seemed like gigantic bridal decorations,
or like the robes of beings vast and high, hung in their
wardrobes while they slept. But, whatever fancy interpreted
them, or whether they were looked upon with two good, sober,
literal eyes, they were, and still are, among the most
delightful of winter exhibitions, to those who are wise
enough to search out the hidden beauty of winter in the
country.
QUESTIONS.—1. What are some of the attractions of
winter in the city? 2. What are some of the delights of
winter in the country? 3. What is said of the drapery of
rocks? 4. What did the writer imagine them to be, in boyhood?
UN SUL' LIED, pure; clear.
PHE NOM' E NON, appearance.
TRANS PAR' EN CY, clearness.
AS TON' ISH ING, amazing.
RAM I FI CA' TION, branch, or branching out.
IN DE SCRIB' A BLY, beyond description.
MA JES' TIC, grand.
OC CA' SION AL, occurring at times.
IM PRESS'IVE, powerful; effective.
IN TER SECT' ING, meeting and crossing.
PEN' E TRA TING, piercing.
E' THER, thin or refined air.
CON GEAL' ED, frozen.
BUR' NISH ING, brightening.
EN GEN' DER ED, produced.
EM' BLEM, symbol.
CON TEM PLA' TION, meditation.
EL E VA' TION, loftiness.
1.
"Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasured snow,
Or winds begun their hazy skies to blow,
At evening, a keen eastern breeze arose,
And the descending rain unsullied froze.
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew,
The ruddy morn disclosed at once to view
The face of Nature in a rich disguise,
And brightened every object to my eyes.
For every shrub, and every blade of grass,
And every pointed thorn, seemed wrought in glass."
2. Since Sunday, [Feb. 1st, 1852,] we have had presented to
our view, the beautiful phenomenon of FROSTED TREES, the most
astonishing and brilliant that I ever remember to have
noticed. The previous storm and mist had thickly covered
every exposed object,—the loftiest trees, the minutest
blade, hill and dale, with the icy garment. This transparency
was most perfect, defining every form and ramification into
exact models of the entire body, branch, or limb.
3. Dwellings and barns were incrusted by the chilling vapor.
It hung upon the manes of the cattle, and decorated, wherever
seen, the humble grass, which appeared bending, like threads
of crystal. The small bushes were indescribably beautiful,
and seemed as if chiseled out of the whitest marble. As far
as the eye could extend, over brooks, fields, and woods, the
same striking and singular sight was universal.
4. I could not remain contented in the house, and toward
sunset, hastened away, where the view might be free and
uninterrupted. Here, the scene, if possible, was more
impressive and interesting. There was scarcely a breath of
air, and the general silence was only interrupted by the
occasional flight of some winter bird, which, alighting on a
limb, would shake down a thousand feathery showers, until he
seemed frightened at the unusual sound. The forest trees made
a truly majestic appearance, with their naked, giant arms and
mossy branches intersecting each other, and fast bound by the
frozen barriers.
5. I shall not attempt to describe the brilliancy of the
undergrowth and dwarf trees, upon whose limbs hung a delicate
frosting, like unwrought silver, nor the crimson glow of the
holly-berries through their transparent and icy
covering,—all, all was a dazzling and splendid winter
array,
"That buries wide the works of man."
It brought to my mind some of the Eastern fairy tales, and
their gardens ornamented with shrubs and plants of sparkling
crystals.
6. The exposed sides of the rocks and fences were completely
iced over, not the smallest particle escaping the penetrating
and congealed ether. It was truly astonishing to examine its
thickness. On some twigs, not larger than a wheat straw, the
ice measured half an inch through. One would scarcely imagine
what an immense weight of the frozen mass a tree will
sustain, before it breaks under the unusual load. Many
branches were bent so low that I could reach them with my
hands; and, shaking off their frosted barks, they would
instantly spring far above my reach. Every few minutes, I was
startled by the rattling noise of these falling icicles from
some neighboring tree or grove.
7. Just when the sun went down, there was not a single cloud
to be seen in the horizon, and his cold, bright, setting rays
brought out, on every hand, frozen gems, diamonds, rubies,
and sapphires, in every possible prismatic beauty, wherever
his departing beams fell. Presently the moon bathed the
whitened earth, and every congealed drop, in her soft light,
burnishing, with dazzling icy brilliancy, trees, dwellings,
and streams. I am an ardent lover of Nature and her scenery,
and have often, delighted, gazed upon the Queen of Night; but
never did I behold such a brilliant moonlight night as
this.
8. Who could help bringing to mind the sublimities of Job and
of David,—"The hoary frost of heaven, who hath
engendered it? The waters are hid, as with a stone, and the
face of the deep is frozen."—"By the breath of the
Mighty God, ice is produced, and the waters which were spread
on all sides, are held in chains." The Psalmist says, "He
giveth the snow like wool, He scattereth the hoar-frost like
ashes. Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow."—Well
may poets look to the falling snow-flake for their images of
purity and innocence, ere it receives the stain of earth. I
know of no litter emblem.
9. Such a winter's night! and the skies! the skies! So
resplendent in brightness are the hosts of heaven at this
moment, that they should be contemplated by every lover and
student of the works of God. Their numbers who can
count,—their twinkling beauty who can describe, as
onward they roll in the deep blue of midnight? In their
contemplation are inspired "thoughts that wander through
eternity," with an elevation of feeling, as if we were
separated from the toils and tumults of earth, and exalted
into a higher state of being than that in which we toiled
through the day! These heavens tell us of a WISDOM and POWER
we can not search or estimate. There we seem to stand more
immediately in the vailed presence of the Infinite Majesty,
who "laid the foundations of the earth, when the morning
stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for
joy."
QUESTIONS.—1. Describe the appearance of frosted trees.
2. What is said of the appearance of shrubs, bushes, &c.?
3. What, of the weight sustained by a single tree? 4. What
was the appearance at sunset? 5. What passages of Scripture
did the scene bring to mind? 6. Of what is the snowflake an
emblem? 7. What is said of the skies?
SPLEN' DOR, brightness; glory.
E TER' NAL LY, everlastingly.
WAY'-WEA RY, tired; fatigued.
GAZE, eager look.
EV' ER GREEN, always green.
LONG' ED, earnestly desired.
RE POSE, rest; quietude.
RAN' SOM ED, redeemed.
PAL' ACE, mansion; abode.
UN CEAS' ING LY, constantly.
JAMES G. CLARK.
1. There's a land far away, 'mid the stars, we are told,
Where they know not the sorrows of time,—
Where the pure waters wander through valleys of gold,
And life is a treasure sublime;
'Tis the land of our God, 'tis the home of the soul,
Where the ages of splendor eternally roll,—
Where the way-weary traveler reaches his goal,
On the evergreen Mountains of Life.
2. Our gaze can not soar to that beautiful land,
But our visions have told of its bliss;
And our souls by the gale from its gardens are fanned,
When we faint in the desert of this;
And we sometimes have longed for its holy repose,
When our spirits were torn with temptations and woes,
And we've drank from the tide of the river that flows
From the evergreen Mountains of Life.
3. Oh! the stars never tread the blue heavens at night,
But we think where the ransomed have trod;
And the day never smiles from his palace of light,
But we feel the bright smile of our God.
We are traveling homeward, through changes and gloom,
To a kingdom where pleasures unceasingly bloom,
And our guide is the glory that shines through the tomb,
From the evergreen Mountains of Life.
QUESTIONS.—1. What is said of that land far away? 2.
How do we know there is such a land? 3. Of what do the stars
remind us?
IM AG' IN A RY, not real.
AN TIC' I PATE, take beforehand.
PRE FER' RED, chosen.
OC CUR' RED, happened.
SUS TAIN', support; uphold.
PER MIT', allow.
IN VIS' I BLE, unseen.
EN CHAIN', bind; fasten.
FORE BOD' ING, dread of evil.
IN VEN' TION, contrivance.
CON FER' RED, bestowed.
AP PRE HEN' SION, dread; fear.
CHARLES SWAIN.
1. Let to-morrow take care of to-morrow;
Leave things of the future to fate;
What's the use to anticipate sorrow?
Life's troubles come never too late.
If to hope overmuch be an error,
'Tis one that the wise have preferred;
And how often have hearts been in terror
Of evils that never occurred.
2. Have faith, and thy faith shall sustain thee;
Permit not suspicion and care
With invisible bonds to enchain thee,
But bear what God gives thee to bear.
By His Spirit supported and gladdened,
Be ne'er by forebodings deterred;
But think how oft hearts have been saddened
By fears of what never occurred!
3. Let to-morrow take care of to-morrow;
Short and dark as our life may appear,
We may make it still darker by sorrow,
Still shorter by folly and fear;
Half our troubles are half our invention,
And often from blessings conferred,
Have we shrunk in the wild apprehension
Of evils that never occurred!
QUESTIONS.—1. What is said of imaginary evils? 2. How
may we be supported under trials? 3. What tends to shorten
life? 4. Whence proceed half our troubles? 5. What rule for
doubling the r and d in such words as
occurred, saddened, &c.? See SANDERS' NEW
SPELLER, page 168, Rule II.
WASTE, desolate region.
PRO CEED', come forth.
CHASM, gap; opening.
COILS, folds; convolutions.
MAN I FEST, plain; evident.
PRE SERV' ER, protector.
AL LE' GI ANCE, duty; loyalty.
RAY, make bright; adorn.
EX PAND, swell; dilate.
FA' THER LAND, native land.
GUER DON, reward; recompense.
PROF' FER, offer; tender.
PIT' E OUS, mournful; sorrowful.
IM PET' U OUS LY, furiously.
AT TRACT', (AT, to; TRACT, draw;) draw to;
allure.
IN VEST', (IN, to; VEST, clothe;) clothe in or
with; inclose; surround.
PRO TEST, (PRO, before; TEST, witness;)
witness before; openly declare.
[Headnote 1: PY THON is the name of a large serpent, fabled
to have been slain by the god Apollo.]
A. WALCHNER.
1. Sir Walter of Thurn, over the Syrian waste,
Rides away with a flowing rein;
But he hears a groan that checks his haste,
As if death were in the strain.
He spurs his steed
Whence the sounds proceed;
And there, from a rocky chasm, arise
Fierce cries of pain, that assail the skies;
And his horse uprears
In excess of fears,
As the glance of a lion attracts his eyes.
2. Fierce struggling there in the monster folds
Of a serpent that round him twines;
Sir Walter a moment the scene beholds,
Then to save the beast inclines.
His good sword stout
From its sheath leaps out,
When down it falls on the Python's[Headnote 1] crest,
And cleaves the coils that the lion invest;
And the noble beast,
From its thrall released,
Shows grateful joy most manifest.
3. He shakes his mane, and bends his form,
And licks his preserver's hand,
As if he yields allegiance warm
To his supreme command.
Like the faithful hound
To be constant found,
And follow his steps for evermore;
And thus he follows, on sea and shore,
In the battle's tide,
He stands by his side,
Or with him rests when the strife is o'er.
4. In Palestine Sir Walter is known,—
Long years attest his fame;
And many brave deeds he there hath done,
That ray with glory his name;
But his heart doth expand
For the fatherland,
And he fain its pleasant scenes would see,
With his friendly lion for company;
But with fearful breast,
The sailors protest,
As they glanced at the beast and his majesty.
5. Rich guerdon he proffers, and golden store;
But though the prize were great,
The sailors hurry away from the shore
As if from the doom of fate.
The poor beast moans
In piteous tones,
Then darts impetuously o'er the sands,—
Then looks to the ship, and mournfully stands;
Then plunges into the gloomy wave,
The perils of the depths to brave.
Already he nears the flying bark,
Already his roar of grief they hark;
But his strength is spent, and the sea is strong,
And he may not the fearful struggle prolong.
His dying glances are fondly cast
Along the track where the loved one passed;
Then sinks to his grave
Beneath the wave,
And the night and the ocean behold him the last.
QUESTIONS.—1. What did Sir Walter discover as he was
riding over the Syrian waste? 2. What did he do? 3. What did
the lion do, after being released? 4. Did the sailors allow
the lion to go on board the ship? 5. What did the lion then
do? 6. What became of him?
VAL' IANT, strong; courageous,
INC LI NA' TION, desire; tendency.
RE PLEN' ISH ED, filled up.
DIS SEV' ER, part; sunder.
SHIV' ER, dash to pieces.
EC STAT' IC, rapturous.
CON CLU' SION, result.
CON CEP' TION, thought; idea.
DEF' ER ENCE, respect.
PHYS I CAL, material.
AR' RANT, mere; vile.
TIME'-BAN DI ED, time-lost.
DE VEL' OP ED, brought out.
CON STEL LA' TIONS, clusters of stars.
DE SIGN ED, planned.
COM BIN' ED, united.
UNINTERRUPTED, (UN, not; INTER, in between;
RUPTED, broken;) not broken in between; unbroken.
It is sometimes desirable to have each member of the class
read a piece complete in itself. To answer this end, the
following collection of brief, though beautiful productions,
have been brought together all under one head.
I.
WHAT REALLY BENEFITS US.
It is not what we earn, but what we save, that makes us rich.
It is not what we eat, but what we digest, that makes us
strong. It is not what we read, but what we remember, that
makes us learned. It is not what we intend, but what we do,
that makes us useful. It is not a few faint wishes, but a
life-long struggle, that makes us valiant.
II.
GOD'S LOVE.
There's not a flower that decks the vale,
There's not a beam that lights the mountain,
There's not a shrub that scents the gale,
There's not a wind that stirs the fountain,
There's not a hue that paints the rose,
There's not a leaf around us lying,
But in its use or beauty shows
God's love to us, and love undying!
III.
LIFE-WORK.
To acquire a thorough knowledge of our own hearts and
characters, to restrain every irregular inclination, to
subdue every rebellious passion, to purify the motives of our
conduct, to form ourselves to that temperance which no
pleasure can seduce, to that meekness which no provocation
can ruffle, to that patience which no affliction can
overwhelm, and that integrity which no interest can shake;
this is the task which is assigned to us,—a task
which can not be performed without the utmost diligence and
care.
IV.
HUMILITY.
The brightest stars are burning suns;
The deepest water stillest runs;
The laden bee the lowest flies;
The richest mine the deepest lies;
The stalk that's most replenished,
Doth bow the most its modest head.
Thus, deep Humility we find
The mark of every master-mind;
The highest-gifted lowliest bends,
And merit meekest condescends,
And shuns the fame that fools adore,—
That puff that bids a feather soar.
V.
BENEFITS OF ADVERSITY.
A smooth sea never made a skillful mariner. Neither do
uninterrupted prosperity and success qualify man for
usefulness or happiness. The storms of adversity, like the
storms of the ocean, rouse the faculties and excite the
invention, prudence, skill, and fortitude of the voyager.
VI.
OUR MOUNTAIN HOMES.
MRS. S.R.A. BARNES.
Why turn we to our mountain homes
With more than filial feeling?
'Tis here that Freedom's altars rise,
And Freedom's sons are kneeling!
Why sigh we not for softer climes?
Why cling to that which bore us?
'Tis here we tread on Freedom's soil,
With Freedom's sunshine o'er us!
VII.
MAKE A BEGINNING.
If you do not begin, you will never come to the end. The
first weed pulled up in the garden, the first seed set in the
ground, the first dollar put in the savings-bank, and the
first mile traveled on a journey, are all important things;
they make a beginning, and thereby give a hope, a
promise, a pledge, an assurance that you are in earnest in
what you have undertaken. How many a poor, idle, erring,
hesitating outcast is now creeping his way through the world,
who might have held up his head and prospered, if, instead of
putting off his resolutions of amendment and industry, he had
only made a beginning!
VIII.
INFLUENCE.
GEORGE W. BUNGAY.
1. Drop follows drop, and swells
With rain the sweeping river;
Word follows word, and tells
A truth that lives forever.
2. Flake follows flake, like sprites
Whose wings the winds dissever;
Thought follows thought, and lights
The realm of mind forever.
3. Beam follows beam to cheer,
The cloud a bolt might shiver;
Throb follows throb, and fear
Gives place to joy forever.
4. The drop, the flake, the beam,
Teach us a lesson ever;
The word, the thought, the dream
Impress the soul forever.
IX.
PLEASURE IN ACQUIRING KNOWLEDGE.
CAROLINE F. ORNE.
1. Note the ecstatic joy of the student, who has labored long
over a problem or proposition, but finally comes to a logical
conclusion; who has struggled with the misty darkness of his
own mind, for a clear view of some difficult subject, until
the clouds, one after another, have dispersed, and he
beholds, with his mental vision, in bright and glorious
light, the conception for which he labored. Think you he
would exchange his joys for the pleasures of sense'? It is of
a higher and more ennobling character, and not to be bartered
for paltry wealth.
2. What dignity and self-respect invest the man of thought!
His very looks bespeak of mind. He is approached with
deference, as a being of higher order in the scale of
intelligence,—as one who has a right to command and be
obeyed. For what moves mind, but mind? A strong intellect,
coming in contact with one of less energy, will as naturally
move it, as superior physical strength will overcome the
weaker.
X.
WHAT IS FAME?
MOTHERWELL.
What is glory`? What is fame`?
The echo of a long-lost name`;
A breath`, an idle hour's brief talk`;
The shadow of an arrant naught`;
A flower that blossoms for a day`,
Dying next morrow';
A stream that hurries on its way,
Singing of sorrow';
A fortune that to lose were gain`;
A word of praise, perchance of blame`;
The wreck of a time-bandied name`—
Ay` this is glory`! this is fame`!
XI.
CULTIVATED INTELLECT.
Ah! well do we all know the worth of intelligence, the power
of knowledge, and the beauty and glory of wisdom. It is
educated manhood that wakes up the sleeping soil,
covers the earth with good, that gathers in the golden
harvest, that clothes the naked, that feeds the hungry. It is
the cultivated mind that applies the strength of the
ox and the fleetness of the horse; that bridges the river,
that turns to use the flying winds, that makes the lightning
its swift messenger, that makes beautiful palaces of dull
clay, that rouses the dead ore to active life, that covers
the sea with ships, and the land with mighty engines of
wealth. It is the developed intellect that flies
through the upper air, that mingles with the stars, that
follows the moon in her course, that overtakes the
constellations in their orbits, that weighs the sun, that
measures the distance to the polar star. It is the
enlightened soul that worships God.
XII.
GOD'S WORKS ATTEST HIS GREATNESS.
MRS. OPIE.
1. There's not a leaf within the bower;
There's not a bird upon the tree;
There's not a dew-drop on the flower,
But bears the impress, Lord, of Thee.
2. Thy hand the varied leaf designed,
And gave the bird its thrilling tone;
Thy power the dewdrop's tints combined,
Till like the diamond's blaze they shone.
3. Yes, dewdrops, leaves, and buds, and all
The smallest, like the greatest things,—
The sea's vast space, the earth's wide ball,
Alike proclaim Thee King of kings.
4. But man alone to bounteous Heaven,
Thanksgiving's conscious strains can raise;
To favored man alone 'tis given
To join the angelic choir in praise!
MO NOT' O NOUS, dull; uniform.
HAR POON', barbed spear.
AG' I TA TED, disturbed.
RE VER' BER ATES, rebounds; re-echoes.
WRITHES, twists, or turns in agony.
CON TOR' TIONS, twistings; writhings.
VE LOC' I TY, swiftness.
IG NITES', takes fire.
FRIC' TION, rubbing together.
COILS, winds into a ring.
PRO JECT' ED, thrown out or forward.
VO CIF' ER A TED, shouted.
IN FU' RI A TED, enraged.
UN RE LENT' ING, unfeeling.
CON VUL' SIONS, violent spasms.
REN COUN' TER, fight; conflict.
1. Let the reader suppose himself on the deck of a
South-seaman, cruising in the North Pacific ocean. He may be
musing over some past event, the ship may be sailing gently
along over the smooth ocean, every thing around solemnly
still, with the sun pouring its intense rays with dazzling
brightness. Suddenly the monotonous quietude is broken by an
animated voice from the masthead, exclaiming, "There he
spouts!"
2. The captain starts on deck in an instant, and inquires
"Where away?" but, perhaps, the next moment every one
aloft and on deck, can perceive an enormous whale lying about
a quarter of a mile from the ship, on the surface of the sea,
having just come up to breathe,—his large "hump"
projecting three feet out of the water. At the end of every
ten seconds, the spout is seen rushing from the fore part of
his enormous head, followed by the cry of every one on board,
who join in the chorus of "There again!" keeping time
with the duration of the spout.
3. But, while they have been looking, a few seconds have
expired. They rush into the boats, which are directly lowered
to receive them; and in two minutes from the time of first
observing the whale, three or four boats are down, and are
darting through the water with their utmost speed toward
their intended victim, perhaps accompanied with a song from
the headsman, who urges the quick and powerful plying of the
oar, with the common whaling chant of
"Away, my boys, away, my boys, 'tis time for us to go."
4. But, while they are rushing along, the whale is breathing;
they have yet, perhaps, some distance to pull before they can
get a chance of striking him with the harpoon. His "spoutings
are nearly out," he is about to descend, or he hears the
boats approaching. The few sailors left on board, and who are
anxiously watching the whale and the gradual approach of the
boats, exclaim, "Ah, he is going down!" Yet he spouts
again, but slowly, the water is seen agitated around him; the
spectators on board with breathless anxiety think they
perceive him rising in preparation for his descent. "He
will be lost!" they exclaim; for the boats are not yet
near enough to strike him, and the men are still bending
their oars in each boat with all their strength, to claim the
honor of the first blow with the harpoon.
5. The bow-boat has the advantage of being the nearest to the
whale; the others, for fear of disturbing the unconscious
monster, are now ordered to drop astern. One more spout is
seen slowly curling forth,—it is his last; but the boat
shoots rapidly alongside of the gigantic creature. "Peak
your oars!" exclaims the mate, and directly they flourish
in the air; the glistening harpoon is seen above the head of
the harpooner. In an instant it is darted with unerring force
and aim, and is buried deeply in the side of the huge animal.
It is "socket up;" that is, it is buried in his flesh up to
the socket which admits the handle or pole of the harpoon.
6. A cheer from those in the boats, and from the seamen on
board, reverberates along the still deep at the same moment.
The sea, which a moment before was unruffled, now becomes
lashed into foam by the immense strength of the wounded
whale, which, with its vast tail, strikes in all directions
at his enemies. Now his enormous head rises high into the
air, then his flukes are seen lashing everywhere, his huge
body writhes in violent contortions from the agony the
harpoon has inflicted. The water all around him is a mass of
foam, and the sounds of the blows from his tail on the
surface of the sea, can be heard for miles!
7. "Stern all!" cries the headsman; but the whale
suddenly disappears; he has "sounded;" the line is running
through the groove at the head of the boat, with
lightning-like velocity; it smokes; it ignites from the heat
produced by the friction; but the headsman, cool and
collected, pours water upon it as it passes. But an oar is
now held up in their boat; it signifies that their line is
rapidly running out; two hundred fathoms are nearly
exhausted; up flies one of the other boats, and "bends on"
another line, just in time to save that which was nearly
lost.
8. But still the monster descends; he is seeking to rid
himself of his enemies by descending deeply into the dark and
unknown depths of the vast ocean. Two more lines are
exhausted,—he is six hundred fathoms deep! "Stand
ready to bend on!" cries the mate to the fourth boat;
(for sometimes they take the whole four lines away with
them,—eight hundred fathoms!!) but, it is not
required, he is rising. "Haul in the slack!" observes
the headsman, while the boat-steerer coils it again carefully
into the tubs as it is drawn up.
9. The whale is now seen approaching the surface; the
gurgling and bubbling water which rises, proclaims that he is
near; his nose starts from the sea; the rushing spout is
projected high and suddenly, from his agitation. The slack of
the line is now coiled in the tubs, and those in the fast
boat, haul themselves gently toward the whale. The
boat-steerer places the headsman close to the fin of the
trembling animal, who immediately buries his long lance in
the vitals of the leviathan, while, at the same moment, those
in one of the other boats, dart another harpoon into his
opposite side. Then, "Stern all!" is again
vociferated, and the boats shoot rapidly away from the
danger.
10. Mad with the agony which he endures from these fresh
attacks, the infuriated "sea monster" rolls over and over,
and coils an amazing length of line around him. He rears his
enormous head, and, with wide-expanded jaws, snaps at every
thing around him. He rushes at the boats with his
head,—they are propelled before him with vast
swiftness, and sometimes utterly destroyed.
11. He is lanced again,—and his pain appears more than
he can bear. He throws himself, in his agony, completely out
of his element; the boats are violently jerked, by which one
of the lines is snapped asunder; at the same time the other
boat is upset, and its crew are swimming for their lives. The
whale is now free! he passes along the surface with
remarkable swiftness, "going head out;" but the two boats
that have not yet "fastened," and are fresh and free, now
give chase.
12. The whale becomes exhausted from the blood which flows
from his deep and dangerous wounds, and the two hundred
fathoms of line belonging to the overturned boat, which he is
dragging after him through the water, checks him in his
course; his pursuers again overtake him, and another harpoon
is darted and buried deeply in his flesh.
13. The fatal lance is, at length, given; the blood gushes
from the nostrils of the unfortunate animal in a thick, black
stream, which stains the clear blue water of the ocean to a
considerable distance around the scene of the affray. The
immense creature may now again endeavor to "sound," to escape
from his unrelenting pursuers; but he is powerless. He soon
rises to the surface, and passes slowly along until the
death-pang seizes him, when his appearance is awful in the
extreme.
14. Suffering from suffocation, or from the stoppage of some
important organ, the whole strength of his enormous frame is
set in motion, for a few seconds, when his convulsions throw
him into a hundred different contortions of the most violent
description, by which the sea is beaten into foam, and boats
are sometimes crushed to atoms, with their crews.
15. But this violent action being soon over, the now
unconscious animal passes rapidly along, describing in his
rapid course the segment of a circle; this is his "flurry,"
which ends in his sudden dissolution. The mighty rencounter
is finished. The gigantic animal rolls over on his side, and
floats an inanimate mass on the surface of the crystal
deep,—a victim to the tyranny and selfishness, as well
as a wonderful proof of the great power of the mind of
man.
QUESTIONS.—1. How are whales generally discovered? 2.
Why do they come to the surface of the water? 3. How far do
they sometimes descend in the ocean? 4. Describe the manner
in which they are captured.
A'ER O NAUT, one who sails in the air.
RE DOUB LED, repeated.
MAG NIF I CENT, grand; splendid.
EL' E VA TED, raised; excited.
GON' DO LA, small boat.
BE GIRT', surrounded.
RO TA RY, turning; revolving.
IN TEN' SI TY, extreme degree.
A' ER OS TAT, air-balloon.
IN TER MI NA BLE, boundless.
VA' RI E GA TED, diversified; varied.
VERG' ING, tending; inclining.
OB LIQUE' LY, slantingly.
RES PI RA' TION, act of breathing.
ZE' NITH, point in the heavens directly over head.
MAN' DI BLES, jaws.
EU ROC' LY DON, tempestuous wind.
WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.
1. My hour had now come, and I entered the car. With a
singular taste, the band struck up, at this moment, the
melting air of "Sweet Home." It almost overcame me. A
thousand associations of youth, friends, of all that I must
leave, rushed upon my mind. But I had no leisure for
sentiment. A buzz ran through the assemblage; unnumbered
hands were clapping, unnumbered hearts beating high; and
I was the cause. Every eye was upon me. There was
pride in the thought.
2. "Let go!" was the word. The cheers redoubled;
handkerchiefs waved from many a fair hand; bright faces
beamed from every window, and on every side. One dash with my
knife, and I rose aloft, a habitant of air. How magnificent
was the sight which now burst upon me! How sublime were my
sensations! I waved the flag of my country; the cheers of the
multitude from a thousand housetops, reached me on the
breeze; and a taste of the rarer atmosphere elevated my
spirits into ecstasy.
3. The city, with a brilliant sunshine striking the spires
and domes, now unfolded to view a sight incomparably
beautiful. My gondola went easily upward, cleaving the depths
of heaven like a vital thing. A diagram placed before you, on
the table, could not permit you to trace more definitely than
I now could, the streets, the highways, basins, wharves, and
squares of the town. The hum of the city arose to my ear, as
from a vast bee-hive; and I seemed the monarch-bee, directing
the swarm.
4. I heard the rattling of carriages, the hearty
yo-heavo-s! of sailors from the docks that, begirt
with spars, hemmed the city round. I was a spectator of all,
yet aloof, and alone. Increasing stillness attended my way;
and, at last, the murmurs of earth came to my ear like the
vast vibrations of a bell. My car tilted and trembled, as I
rose. A swift wind sometimes gave the balloon a rotary
motion, which made me deathly sick for a moment; but strong
emotion conquered all my physical ailings.
5. My brain ached with the intensity of my rapture. Human
sounds had fainted from my ear. I was in the abyss of heaven,
and alone with my God. I could tell my direction by
the sun on my left; and, as his rays played on the aerostat,
it seemed only a bright bubble, wavering in the sky, and I, a
suspended mote, hung by chance to its train. Looking below
me, the distant Sound and Long Island appeared to the east;
the bay lay to the south, sprinkled with shipping; under me,
the city, girded with bright rivers and sparry forests.
6. The free wind was on my cheek, and in my locks; afar, the
ocean rolled its long, blue waves, checkered with masses of
shadow, and gushes of ruby sunlight; to the north and west,
the interminable land, variegated like a map, dotted with
purple, and green, and silver, faded to the eye. The
atmosphere which I now breathed, seemed to dilate my heart at
every breath. I uttered some audible expressions. My voice
was weaker than the faintest sound of a reed. There was no
object near to make it reverb or echo.
7. My barometer now denoted an immense hight; and, as I
looked upward and around, the concave above seemed like a
mighty waste of purple air, verging to blackness. Below, it
was lighter; but a long, lurid bar of cloud stretched along
the west, temporarily excluding the sun. The shadows rushed
afar into the void, and a solemn, Sabbath twilight reigned
around. I was now startled by a fluttering in my gondola. It
was my carrier-pigeon. I had forgotten him entirely. I
attached a string to his neck, with a label, announcing my
hight, then nearly four miles, and the state of the
barometer.
8. As he sat on the side of the car, and turned his tender
eyes upon me in mute supplication, every feather shivering
with apprehension, I felt that it was a guilty act to push
him into the waste beneath. But it was done; he attempted to
rise, but I out-sped him; he then fell obliquely, fluttering
and moaning, till I lost him in the haze. My greatest
altitude had not yet been reached. I was now five miles from
terra firma. [Footnote: Solid earth.] I began to
breathe with difficulty. The atmosphere was too rare for safe
respiration.
9. I pulled my valve-cord to descend. It refused to obey my
hand. For a moment I was horror-struck. What was to be done?
If I ascended much higher, the balloon would explode. I threw
over some tissue paper to test my progress. It is well known
that this will rise very swiftly. It fell, as
if blown downward by a wind from the zenith. I was going
upward like an arrow. I attempted to pray, but my parched
lips could not move. I seized the cord again, with desperate
energy. Blessed Heaven! it moved.
10. I threw out more tissue. It rose to me like a wing of
joy. I was descending. Though far from sunset, it was now
dark about me, except a track of blood-red haze in the
direction of the sun. I encountered a strong current of wind;
mist was about me; it lay like dew upon my coat. At last, a
thick bar of vapor being past, what a scene was disclosed! A
storm was sweeping through the sky, nearly a mile beneath;
and I looked down upon an ocean of rainbows, rolling in
indescribable grandeur, to the music of the thunder-peal, as
it moaned afar and near, on the coming and dying wind.
11. A frightened eagle had ascended through the tempest, and
sailed for minutes by my side, looking at me with panting
weariness, and quivering mandibles, but with a dilated eye,
whose keen iris flashed unsubdued. Proud emblem of my
country! As he fanned me with his heavy wing, and looked with
a human intelligence at the car, my pulse bounded with
exulting rapture. Like the genius of my native land, he had
risen above every storm, unfettered and FREE.
12. But my transports were soon at an end. He attempted to
light on the balloon, and my heart sunk; I feared his huge
claws would tear the silk. I pulled my cord; he rose, as I
sank, and the blast swept him from my view in a moment. A
flock of wild-fowl, beat by the storm, were coursing below,
on bewildered pinions; and, as I was nearing them, I knew I
was descending. A breaking rift now admitted the sun. The
rainbows tossed and gleamed; chains of fleecy rack, shining
in prismatic rays of gold, and purple, and emerald,
"beautiful exceedingly," spread on every hand.
13. Vast curtains of clouds pavilioned the immensity,
brighter than celestial roses; masses of mist were lifted on
high, like strips of living fire, more radiant than the sun
himself, when his glorious noontide culminates from the
equator. A kind of aërial Euroclydon now smote my car,
and three of the cords parted, which tilted my gondola to the
side, filling me with terror. I caught the broken cords in my
hand, but could not tie them.
14. The storm below was now rapidly passing away, and beneath
its waving outline, to the south-east, I saw the ocean. Ships
were speeding on their course, and their bright sails melting
into distance; a rainbow hung afar; and the rolling anthems
of the Atlantic came like celestial hymnings to my ear.
Presently all was clear below me. The fresh air played
around. I had taken a noble circuit; and my last view was
better than the first, I was far over the bay, "afloating
sweetly to the west." The city, colored by the last blaze of
day, brightened remotely to the view.
15. Below, ships were hastening to and fro through the
Narrows, and the far country lay smiling like an Eden. Bright
rivers ran like ribbons of gold and silver, till they were
lost in the vast inland, stretching beyond the view; the
gilded mountains were flinging their purple shadows over many
a vale; bays were blushing to the farewell day-beams; and now
I was passing over a green island. I sailed to the mainland;
saw the tall, old trees waving to the evening breeze; heard
the rural lowing of herds, and the welcome sound of human
voices; and, finally, sweeping over forest-tops and embowered
villages, at last, descended with the sun, among a
kind-hearted, surprised, and hospitable community, in as
pretty a town as one could desire to see, "safe and well."
QUESTIONS.—1. What demonstrations were made by the
people as the aeronaut began to ascend? 2. How did the city
and other objects appear to him? 3. What could he hear? 4.
Describe the appearance of the ocean. 5. What did he do with
his carrier-pigeon? 6. How high did he ascend? 7. Describe
his descent. 8. What is said about the eagle that came near
him? 9. Describe the appearance of the clouds beneath him.
BOUN' TY, charity; favor.
FRU' GAL, prudent; economical.
FLOUR' ISH ED, thrived; prospered.
DIS CHARG' ED, performed.
BREED' ING, education.
EM BRAC' ED, accepted.
MAIN TAIN' ED, supported.
TRUDG' ED, traveled.
BE GUIL' ED, amused.
LE' GAL, lawful.
TWAIN, two.
BE WITCH' ING, charming.
YOUNK' ER, lad; youngster.
MED' I TA TIVE, thoughtful.
PRO VOK' ED, (PRO, forward, forth; VOKED,
called;) called forth; excited.
IN CLUDE', (IN, in; CLUDE, shut;) shut in;
inclose.
IN SERT', (IN, in; SERT, join, set;) join, or
set in; put in.
JOHN G. SAXE.
1. "Once on a time," as ancient tales declare,
There lived a farmer in a quiet dell
In Massachusetts, but exactly where,
Or when, is really more than I can tell,—
Except that quite above the public bounty,
He lived within his means and Bristol county.
2. By patient labor and unceasing care,
He earned, and so enjoyed, his daily bread;
Contented always with his frugal fare,
Ambition to be rich ne'er vexed his head;
And thus unknown to envy, want, or wealth,
He flourished long in comfort, peace, and health.
3. The gentle partner of his humble lot,
The joy and jewel of his wedded life,
Discharged the duties of his peaceful cot,
Like a true woman and a faithful wife;
Her mind improved by thought and useful reading,
Kind words and gentle manners showed her breeding.
4. Grown old, at last, the farmer called his son,
The youngest, (and the favorite I suppose,) And said,—
"I long have thought, my darling John,
'Tis time to bring my labors to a close;
So now to toil I mean to bid adieu,
And deed, my son, the homestead-farm to you."
5. The boy embraced the boon with vast delight,
And promised, while their precious lives remained,
He'd till and tend the farm from morn till night,
And see his parents handsomely maintained;
God help him, he would never fail to love, nor
Do aught to grieve his gen'rous old gov'nor.
6. The farmer said,—"Well, let us now proceed,
(You know there's always danger in delay,)
And get 'Squire Robinson to write the deed;
Come,—where's my staff?—we'll soon be on the way."
But John replied, with tender, filial care,
"You're old and weak—I'll catch the Dapple Mare."
7. The mare was saddled, and the old man got on,
The boy on foot trudged cheerfully along,
The while, to cheer his sire, the duteous son
Beguiled the weary way with talk and song.
Arrived, at length, they found the 'Squire at home,
And quickly told him wherefore they had come.
8. The deed was writ in proper form of law,
With many a "foresaid," "therefore," and "the same,"
And made throughout without mistake or flaw,
To show that John had now a legal claim
To all his father's land—conveyed, given, sold,
Quit-claimed, et cetera,[Footnote 1]—to have and hold.
9. Their business done, they left the lawyer's door,
Happier, perhaps, than when they entered there;
And started off as they had done before,—
The son on foot, the father on the mare.
But ere the twain a single mile had gone,
A brilliant thought occurred to Master John.
10. Alas for truth!—alas for filial duty!—
Alas that Satan in the shape of pride,
(His most bewitching form save that of beauty,)
Whispered the lad—"My boy, you ought to ride!"
"Get off!" exclaimed the younker—"'t isn't fair
That you should always ride the Dapple Mare!"
11. The son was lusty, and the sire was old,
And so, with many an oath and many a frown,
The hapless father did as he was told;
The man got off the steed, the boy got on,
And rode away as fast as she could trot,
And left his sire to trudge it home on foot!
12. That night, while seated round the kitchen fire
The household sat, cheerful as if no word
Or deed, provoked the injured father's ire,
Or aught to make him sad had e'er occurred,—
Thus spoke he to his son: "We quite forgot,
I think, t'include that little turnip lot!"
13. "I'm very sure, my son, it wouldn't hurt it,"
Calmly observed the meditative sire,
"To take the deed, my lad, and just insert it;"
Here the old man inserts it—in the fire!
Then cries aloud with most triumphant air,
"Who now, my son, shall ride the Dapple Mare?"
[Footnote 1: And so forth.]
QUESTIONS.—1. What proposition did the father make to
his son? 2. What did the son promise to do? 3. How did the
son treat his father after he got the deed? 4. What did the
old gentleman do?
HARD' I HOOD, bravery.
MAIN TRUCK, small cap at the top of a flagstaff or
masthead.
A GHAST', horrified.
GROUPS, clusters; crowds.
PAL' LID, pale.
LU' RID, dismal; gloomy.
HUE, color.
RIV' ET TED, firmly fixed.
FOLD' ED, embraced; clasped.
GEORGE P. MORRIS.
1. Old Ironsides at anchor lay,
(sl.) In the harbor of Mahon[1];
A dead calm rested on the bay,—
The waves to sleep had gone,—
When little Jack,[2] the captain's son,
With gallant hardihood,
Climbed shroud and spar,—and then upon
The main-truck rose and stood!
2. A shudder ran through every vein,—
All eyes were turned on high!
There stood the boy, with dizzy brain,
Between the sea and sky!
No hold had he above,—below,
Alone he stood in air!
At that far hight none dared to go,—
No aid could reach him there.
3. We gazed,—but not a man could speak;
With horror all aghast,
In groups, with pallid brow and cheek,
We watched the quivering mast!
The atmosphere grew thick and hot,
And of a lurid hue,
As, riveted unto the spot,
Stood officers and crew.
4. The father came on deck. He gasped,
"O God, Thy will be done!"
Then suddenly a rifle grasped,
And aimed it at his son!
"Jump far out, boy, into the wave!
Jump, or I fire!" he said.
"That only chance your life can save:
('') Jump! jump, boy!" He obeyed.
5. He sank,—he rose,—he lived,—he moved,—
He for the ship struck out!
On board we hailed the lad beloved
With many a manly shout.
His father drew, in silent joy,
Those wet arms round his neck,
Then folded to his heart the boy,
And fainted on the deck!
[Footnote 1: MA HON', (Ma hone,) a sea-port town on
the island of Minorca, in the Mediterranean Sea.]
[Footnote 2: A name commonly applied to a young sailor.]
QUESTIONS.—1. What did the captain's son do, on board
the Ironsides? 2. Describe his situation. 3. What is said of
the officers and crew? 4. What did the father say and do? 5.
What did the boy do?
COM MIN' GLE, mix or unite.
PE DES' TRI AN, traveler on foot.
PROM' I NENT, important.
TRAG' lC, fatal; mournful.
NAR RATE', tell; relate.
YORE, olden time.
WI' LY, craft; cunning.
RE LENT' LESS, hard-hearted; cruel.
WIG' WAM, Indian hut or cabin.
EM BARK' ED, went aboard.
TWANG, quick, sharp sound.
SPA' CIOUS, large; capacious.
WA' RI LY, cautiously.
MYS TE' RI OUS LY, strangely.
OM' IN OUS, foreboding ill.
IM PLA' CA BLE, relentless.
UN TRACE' A BLE, (UN, not; TRACE, mark; ABLE,
that can be;) that can not be marked, or traced; not
found out.
L.M. STOWELL.
1. In the State of New York, where the dark, foaming waters
of the Black River, after roaring and surging through many
pleasant fields, beautiful groves, and dense woodlands,
commingle with the clear, cold waters of Lake Ontario, the
wandering pedestrian or the lone fisherman may see, resting
upon a gravelly flat, the remains of an old Indian
canoe, whose once beautiful proportions, now untraceable
in its rottenness, bore a prominent part in the tragic event
I am about to narrate.
2. Through these pleasant valleys, among the broken hills,
and in the majestic forests, of yore, the wily Indian and his
dusky mate, held undisputed possession; and many are the
incidents, yet unwritten, of tragic and thrilling interest,
that transpired around the red men's camp-fire, ere the white
man disturbed their forest homes.
3. Si öus' ka, or the "Wild Flower," was the daughter of
a powerful chief of the Onondagas, and the only being ever
known to turn the relentless old chief from a savage purpose.
Something of this influence was owing to her great beauty;
but more to the gentleness of which that beauty was the
emblem. Her downcast eye, her trembling lip, her quiet,
submissive motion, all bespoke its language; and many were
the young chieftains that sought to win her affections.
4. Among her admirers were two young chiefs of the Oneidas,
with whom the Onondagas were on the most friendly terms. Si
öus' ka's father, in order to cherish the friendly
feeling of the two tribes, and, at the same time, strengthen
his power, besought her to accept the more powerful chief,
"Eagle Eye." He did not plead in vain; for she had long loved
the young Oneida.
5. One bright sunny morning, in early spring, as the old
chief was out hunting, the young Oneida crossed his path,
upon which the old man advanced, and, laying his hand upon
his shoulder, pointed to the dwelling of Si öus' ka. Not
a word was spoken. The proud old man and the strong, young
chief proceeded toward her wigwam, and entered together.
6. Si öus' ka was seated in one corner, engaged upon
some fancy basket-work, and did not notice their approach
until they had entered. The old chief looked upon her with an
expression of love, which his stern countenance never wore
except in her presence. "Siöus'ka," he said in a subdued
tone, "Go to the wigwam of the Oneida, that your father's
tribe may be strengthened, and many moons may shine upon
their peace and prosperity."
7. There was mingled joy and modesty in the upward glance of
the "Wild Flower" of the Onondagas, and, when the young chief
saw the light of her mild eye suddenly and timidly vailed by
its deeply-fringed lid, he knew that her love had lost none
of its power. The marriage song was soon sung in the royal
wigwam, in which the sweet voice of Siöus'ka was happily
heard to mingle.
8. When the rejected chief of the Oneidas heard that the
"Wild Flower" had mated with the "Eagle Eye," his wrath knew
no bounds, and he secretly resolved upon revenge. Two years
passed away, and, as yet, no good opportunity had arrived;
for he dared not attack "Eagle Eye" in open conflict, for
fear of his superior powers; and, assassin-like, he sought to
give the blow unperceived.
9. At length, the spring came, and a number of the tribe
prepared to visit Lake Ontario, on a fishing and hunting
excursion. Among the number who went, were the "Eagle Eye,"
Siöus'ka, and their little boy. They were obliged to
carry their light, birchen canoes from home, and these were
packed with the necessary tackle, skins for beds, &c. The
strong men of the party carried the canoes on their
shoulders, and the women the smaller articles of furniture.
10. They had advanced across the country, until they reached
the Black River, and, by carrying their canoes around falls
and rapids, gently floated down the stream till they reached
the great falls, about six miles from the Lake. Here they
halted for the night, and encamped about half a mile above
the falls.
11. The morning came; and, as the first beam of the rising
sun pierced the forest shade, the party again embarked in
their canoes for the mouth of the river, the gaudy canoe of
Si ous' ka, which her father had given her, taking the lead.
They had scarcely started from the shore, ere the sharp twang
of a bow-string was heard from the shore, and an unerring
arrow pierced the heart of "Eagle Eye." He fell over the side
of the canoe, and was swept by the current over the great
falls.
12. The party immediately started in pursuit of the coward
murderer; but they sought in vain. His hiding-place was too
sure,—he had taken refuge in a cave, the entrance of
which was hid from observation by a thick clump of cedars.
Here he remained till he was certain the company had
departed. This cave is still there, and I have often been in
its many chambers,—some of which are very spacious.
13. The fatal shaft was winged from the bow of the revenged
Oneida chief. Having been apprised of the expedition, he had
warily dogged the steps of the party, until a favorable
opportunity presented itself, and then satisfied his secret
longing for revenge upon the enemy, whom he did not dare to
attack even-handed. The party sought him far and near; but,
as no trace of any one could be found, they imagined, with
superstitious fear, that the "Great Spirit" had thus summoned
"Eagle Eye" to the "Spirit's Hunting Ground."
14. When they returned to their canoes, no traces of Si ous'
ka and her child were to be found. They, too, had
mysteriously disappeared, and the whole party, with ominous
silence, hastened around the falls, and away from the fearful
place. When Si ous' ka saw the fatal shaft pierce her
companion, with, a fearful shriek she fell into the bottom of
the canoe, hid herself in the furs, and immediately her
reason forsook her.
15. When she recovered, she found that her canoe, urged on by
the current, had floated into a large cave, and was firmly
wedged in between two rocks; and her little boy, with his bow
and arrow in his hand, was quietly sleeping by her side.
Dislodging the canoe, she plied the oars, and was soon
outside the cave.
16. On finding her people had left her, she sought the shore,
and, fastening the canoe, proceeded below the falls, where
she found the body of the ill-fated "Eagle Eye," where it had
washed ashore. With superhuman strength, she bore the mangled
body to a thick grove of cedars, and, with her own hands, dug
a rude grave, and covered his remains with dried leaves and
earth. That night she kept her lonely watch beside the grave
of all that she held dear on earth, save her boy, intending
to follow the party on the morrow.
17. The morning came, and the mid-day sun began to descend
toward the western hills, ere she left the grave of the
murdered chief. But, at length, she sorrowfully departed;
and, on arriving where she moored the canoe the day before,
what was her surprise to see the murderer of her husband,
quietly sleeping upon the skins where last "Eagle Eye" had
reposed, in the bow of the canoe.
18. From that moment Si öus' ka was changed. Her quiet,
submissive air immediately gave place to fierce sternness,
and the eye that had always beamed with the smile of love,
shot forth flashes of bitter hate and passion, implacable as
the most bloodthirsty of her tribe. Noiselessly throwing the
oars from the boat, with a wild shriek, she quickly swung it
around into the rapidly rolling current, and it was hurried
toward the brink of that awful cataract, over which no living
being had ever passed alive.
19. The young chief, awakened by that fearful, exulting cry
of revenge, and seeing the peril of his situation, leaped
from the bark that was hurrying him to sure destruction, and
vainly sought to gain the shore. After struggling with the
swift tide for a moment, in which he was carried nearer and
nearer the awful brink, he turned, and, with a wild,
unearthly yell, plunged over, and the boiling waters only
responded to his death-wail, as he sunk to rise no more, and
his spirit joined that of his victim in the "Spirit Land."
20. After the gentle "Wild Flower" had avenged the death of
the "Eagle Eye," she returned to her father's wigwam, and
spent the remainder of her life to the memory of her heart's
first devotion. The canoe, all battered and broken, floated
to the mouth of the river, bottom side up, where it was seen
by one of the party while fishing, drawn to the shore, and
left to decay. The party supposed that "Eagle Eye," Sious'ka,
and her child, had all perished in some mysterious manner.
QUESTIONS.—1. Who was Sious'ka? 2. Who became her
husband? 3. What effect had her marriage upon the rejected
Oneida chief? 4. In what way did he seek revenge? 5. How did
Sious'ka avenge the death of her husband?
EN TER TAIN' ED, had; harbored.
PE CUL IAR' I TY, something special.
CHA GRIN'ED, (sha grin'ed,) vexed.
MOR' TI FI ED, hurt in feeling.
OUT STRIP', go beyond; excel.
RI' VAL RY, emulation.
RE VERS' ES, troubles; difficulties.
IN VIG' OR A TED, made strong.
DES O LA' TION, waste; ruin.
REF' UGE, shelter; protection.
SYM' PA THIZ ED, (SYM, with; PATH, feeling;
IZE, make, have; ED, did;) did have feeling
with. See Note on the suffix IZE, p. 132 of the ANALYSIS.
[Headnote 1: SIS' ER A, captain of the army of the
Canaanitish king, Jabin. He was utterly defeated by Barak.
Fleeing on foot, he took refuge in the tent of Jael, wife of
Heber. There, while asleep, Jael drove a nail through his
temples, and so he died. His mother, finding he did not
return from the battle, "looked out at a window, and cried
through the lattice, Why is his chariot so long in coming?"
Read 4th and 5th chapters of Judges.]
ALBERT BARNES.
1. Many of us who are advanced beyond the period of
childhood, went out from home to embark on the stormy sea of
life. Of the feelings of a father, and of his interest in our
welfare, we have never entertained a doubt, and our home was
dear because he was there; but there was a peculiarity in the
feeling that it was the home of our mother. Where she
lived, there was a place that we felt was home. There
was one place where we would always be welcome, one
place where we would be met with a smile, one
place where we would be sure of a friend.
2. The world might be indifferent to us. We might be
unsuccessful in our studies or our business. The new friends
which we supposed we had made, might prove to be false. The
honor which we thought we deserved, might be withheld from
us. We might be chagrined and mortified by seeing a rival
outstrip us, and bear away the prize which we sought. But
there was a place where no feelings of rivalry were
found, and where those whom the world overlooked, would be
sure of a friendly greeting. Whether pale and wan by study,
care, or sickness, or flushed with health and flattering
success, we were sure that we should be welcome there.
3. Though the world was cold toward us, yet there was
one who always rejoiced in our success, and always was
affected in our reverses; and there was a place to
which we might go back from the storm which began to pelt us,
where we might rest, and become encouraged and invigorated
for a new conflict. So have I seen a bird, in its first
efforts to fly, leave its nest, and stretch its wings, and go
forth to the wide world. But the wind blew it back, and the
rain began to fall, and the darkness of night began to draw
on, and there was no shelter abroad, and it sought its way
back to its nest, to take shelter beneath its mother's wings,
and to be refreshed for the struggles of a new day; but then
it flew away to think of its nest and its mother no more.
4. But not thus did we leave our home when we bade adieu to
it to go forth alone to the manly duties of life. Even amidst
the storms that then beat upon us, and the disappointments
that we met with, and the coldness of the world, we felt
still that there was one who sympathized in our
troubles, as well as rejoiced in our success, and that,
whatever might be abroad, when we entered the door of her
dwelling, we should be met with a smile. We expected that a
mother, like the mother of Sisera[Headnote 1], as she "looked
out at her window," waiting for the coming of her son laden
with the spoils of victory, would look out for our
coming, and that our return would renew her joy and
ours in our earlier days.
5. It makes a sad desolation when, from such a place, a
mother is taken away, and when, whatever may be the sorrows
or the successes in life, she is to greet the returning son
or daughter no more. The home of our childhood may be still
lovely. The old family mansion—the green
fields—the running stream—the moss-covered
well—the trees—the lawn—the rose—the
sweet-brier—may be there. Perchance, too, there may be
an aged father, with venerable locks, sitting in his
loneliness, with every thing to command respect and love; but
she is not there. Her familiar voice is not heard. The mother
has been borne forth to sleep by the side of her children who
went before her, and the place is not what it was.
6. There may be those there whom we much love; but she
is not there. We may have formed new relations in life,
tender and strong as they can be; we may have another home,
dear to us as was the home of our childhood, where there is
all in affection, kindness, and religion, to make us happy;
but that home is not what it was, and it will
never be what it was again. It is a loosening of one
of the cords which bound us to earth, designed to prepare us
for our eternal flight from every thing dear here below, and
to teach us that there is no place here, that is to be
our permanent home.
QUESTIONS.—1. What renders home doubly endearing? 2.
Where are we always welcome? 3. Who always rejoices in our
successes, and is affected in our reverses? 4. Who was
Sisera, and what account is given of him?
UN SPOT' TED, pure; unstained.
FAL' TER, fail.
TRA' CER Y, traces; impressions.
IM' PRESS, mark: stamp.
DO MIN' ION, authority; predominance.
SHRINK, withdraw.
PUR SU' ING, following.
STERN ER, harsher; more rigid.
DE FY', dare; challenge.
WHO' SO, any person whatever.
TO' KEN, sign; indication.
BROTH' ER HOOD, fraternity.
HOME JOURNAL.
1. Write, mother, write!
A new, unspotted book of life before thee,
Thine is the hand to trace upon its pages
The first few characters, to live in glory,
Or live in shame, through long, unending ages!
Write, mother, write!
Thy hand, though woman's, must not faint nor falter:
The lot is on thee,—nerve thee then with care,—
A mother's tracery time may never alter;
Be its first impress, then, the breath of prayer!
Write, mother, write!
2. Write, father, write!
Take thee a pen plucked from an eagle's pinion,
And write immortal actions for thy son;
Teach him that man forgets man's high dominion,
Creeping on earth, leaving great deeds undone!
Write, father, write!
Leave on his life-book a fond father's blessing,
To shield him 'mid temptation, toil, and sin.
And he shall go to glory's field, possessing
Strength to contend, and confidence to win.
Write, father, write!
3. Write, sister, write!
Nay, shrink not, for a sister's love is holy!
Write words the angels whisper in thine ears,—
No bud of sweet affection, howe'er lowly,
But planted here, will bloom in after years.
Write, sister, write!
Something to cheer him, his rough way pursuing,
For manhood's lot is sterner far than ours;
He may not pause,—he must be up and doing,
Whilst thou sitt'st idly, dreaming among flowers.
Write, sister, write!
4. Write, brother, write!
Strike a bold blow upon those kindred pages,—
Write; shoulder to shoulder, brother, we will go;
Heart linked to heart, though wild the conflict rages,
We will defy the battle and the foe.
Write, brother, write!
We who have trodden boyhood's path together,
Beneath the summer's sun and winter's sky,
What matter if life brings us some foul weather,
We may be stronger than adversity!
Write, brother, write!
5. Fellow immortal, write!
One GOD reigns in the Heavens,—there is no other,—
And all mankind are brethren—thus 'tis spoken,—
And whoso aids a sorrowing, struggling brother,
By kindly word, or deed, or friendly token,
Shall win the favor of our heavenly Father,
Who judges evil, and rewards the good,
And who hath linked the race of man together,
In one vast, universal brotherhood!
Fellow immortal, write!
QUESTIONS.—1. What may the mother write in the
Life-Book? 2. What, the father? 3. What, the sister? 4. What,
the brother? 5. What may all write?
ODE, short poem.
PA TER' NAL, coming by inheritance.
AT TIRE', clothing; raiment.
UN CON CERN' ED LY, without care.
REC RE A' TION, amusement.
IN' NO CENCE, freedom from guilt.
MED I TA' TION, contemplation.
UN LA MENT' ED, unmourned.
POPE.
Written when the author was twelve years of age.
1. Happy the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.
2. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
3. Blest who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years glide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day.
4. Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixed; sweet recreation;
And innocence, which most doth please
With meditation.
5. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
QUESTIONS.—1. Who, did the writer think, were happy? 2.
How did he wish to live and die? 3. Analyse the word
recreation, (RE back; CREATION, act of
bringing into life;) act of bringing back to life; a
reviving.
AD MI RA' TION, esteem.
FRA TER' NAL, brotherly.
IN SIG NIF' I CANCE, worthlessness.
CRIT' IC AL, perilous.
THOR' OUGH LY, completely; fully.
COM PRE HEND', understand.
CON VIC' TION, strong belief.
COM PE TI' TION, strife; rivalry.
EM U LA' TION, competition.
IN TRIN' SIC AL LY, really; truly.
AP PRE' CI ATE, value; esteem.
BRAWN, physical strength.
PIN' NA CLE, summit; highest point.
SIN' U OUS, winding; bending.
LE GIT' I MATE, lawful.
REQ' UI SITE, necessary.
CON SER VA' TION, act of keeping.
DE VEL' OP MENT, training.
J.G. HOLLAND.
1. The first great lesson a young man should learn, is, that
he knows nothing; and that the earlier and more
thoroughly this lesson is learned, the better it will be for
his peace of mind, and his success in life. A young man bred
at home, and growing up in the light of parental admiration
and fraternal pride, can not readily understand how it is,
that every one else can be his equal in talent and
acquisition. If bred in the country, he seeks the life of the
town, he will very early obtain an idea of his
insignificance.
2. This is a critical period in his history. The result of
his reasoning will decide his fate. If, at this time, he
thoroughly comprehend, and in his soul admit and accept the
fact, that he knows nothing and is nothing; if
he bow to the conviction that his mind and his person are but
ciphers, and that whatever he is to be, and is to
win, must be achieved by hard work, there is
abundant hope of him.
3. If, on the contrary, a huge self-conceit still hold
possession of him, and he straightens stiffly up to the
assertion of his old and valueless self,—or, if he sink
discouraged upon the threshold of a life of fierce
competitions, and more manly emulations, he might as well be
a dead man. The world has no use for such a man, and he has
only to retire or be trodden upon.
4. When a young man has thoroughly comprehended the fact that
he knows nothing, and that, intrinsically, he is of
but little value, the next thing for him to learn is
that the world cares nothing for him,—that he is
the subject of no man's overwhelming admiration and
esteem,—that he must take care of himself.
5. If he be a stranger, he will find every man busy with his
own affairs, and none to look after him. He will not be
noticed until he becomes noticeable, and he will not
become noticeable, until he does something to prove
that he has an absolute value in society. No letter of
recommendation will give him this, or ought to give him this.
No family connection will give him this, except among those
few who think more of blood than brains.
6. Society demands that a young man shall be somebody,
not only, but that he shall prove his right to the
title; and it has a right to demand this. Society will
not take this matter upon trust,—at least, not for a
long time; for it has been cheated too frequently. Society is
not very particular what a man does, so that it prove him to
be a man: then it will bow to him, and make room for
him.
7. There is no surer sign of an unmanly and cowardly spirit,
than a vague desire for help,—a wish to
depend, to lean upon somebody, and enjoy the
fruits of the industry of others. There are multitudes of
young men who indulge in dreams of help from some quarter,
coming in at a convenient moment, to enable them to secure
the success in life which they covet. The vision haunts them
of some benevolent old gentleman, with a pocket full of
money, a trunk full of mortgages and stocks, and a mind
remarkably appreciative of merit and genius, who will,
perhaps, give or lend them from ten to twenty thousand
dollars, with which they will commence and go on swimmingly.
8. To me, one of the most disgusting sights in the world, is
that of a young man with healthy blood, broad shoulders, and
a hundred and fifty pounds, more or less, of good bone and
muscle, standing with his hands in his pockets, longing for
help. I admit that there are positions in which the most
independent spirit may accept of assistance,—may, in
fact, as a choice of evils, desire it; but for a man who is
able to help himself, to desire the help of others in the
accomplishment of his plans of life, is positive proof that
he has received a most unfortunate training, or that there is
a leaven of meanness in his composition, that should make him
shudder.
9. When, therefore, a young man has ascertained and fully
received the fact that he does not know any thing, that the
world does not care any thing about him, that what he wins
must be won by his own brain and brawn, and that while he
holds in his own hands the means of gaining his own
livelihood and the objects of his life, he can not receive
assistance without compromising his self-respect and selling
his freedom, he is in a fair position for beginning life.
When a young man becomes aware that only by his own
efforts can he rise into companionship and competition
with the sharp, strong, and well-drilled minds around him, he
of ready for work, and not before.
10. The next lesson is, that of patience, thoroughness
in preparation, and contentment with the regular channels of
business effort and enterprise. This is, perhaps, one of the
most difficult to learn, of all the lessons of life. It is
natural for the mind to reach out eagerly for immediate
results.
11. As manhood dawns, and the young man catches in its first
light the pinnacles of realized dreams, the golden domes of
high possibilities, and the purpling hills of great delights,
and then looks down upon the narrow, sinuous, long, and dusty
path by which others have reached them, he is apt to be
disgusted with the passage, and to seek for success through
broader channels, by quicker means. Beginning at the very
foot of the hill, and working slowly to the top, seems a very
discouraging process; and precisely at this point, have
thousands of young men made shipwreck of their lives.
12. Let this be understood, then, at starting; that the
patient conquest of difficulties, which rise in the regular
and legitimate channels of business and enterprise, is not
only essential in securing the successes which you seek, but
it is essential to that preparation of your mind, requisite
for the enjoyment of your successes, and for retaining them
when gained. It is the general rule of Providence, the world
over, and in all time, that unearned success is a curse. It
is the rule of Providence, that the process of earning
success, shall be the preparation for its conservation and
enjoyment.
13. So, day by day, and week by week; so, month after month,
and year after year, work on, and in that process gain
strength and symmetry, and nerve and knowledge, that when
success, patiently and bravely worked for, shall come, it may
find you prepared to receive it and keep it. The development
which you will get in this brave and patient labor, will
prove itself, in the end, the most valuable of your
successes. It will help to make a man of you. It will
give you power and self-reliance. It will give you not only
self-respect, but the respect of your fellows and
the public.
QUESTIONS.—1. What is the first lesson a young man
should learn? 2. What is the next lesson he should learn? 3.
What does society demand of a young man? 4. What is a sure
sign of an unmanly and cowardly spirit? 5. When is a young
man in a fair position for beginning life? 6. What is a
general rule of Providence?
PRE SUMP' TION, arrogance.
SOPH' ISTS, professed teachers of wisdom.
AC COST' ED, addressed.
GEN' IUS, natural aptitude.
IN DUC' ED, prevailed upon.
PHI LOS' O PHER, lover of wisdom.
BAR' BA ROUS, foreign; uncivilized.
DIS SUADE', turn away from.
EX CESS' IVE. overmuch.
ES TEEM' ED, highly regarded.
RE TRENCH, lessen; curtail.
SU PER' FLU OUS, extravagant; needless.
UN DER TAK' ING, engaging in.
IN CA PAC' I TY, inability.
[Headnote 1: THE MIS' TO CLES, a celebrated Athenian
statesman and military leader, was born about 514 before
Christ.]
[Headnote 2: CI' MON, an illustrious Athenian general and
statesman, born about the year 510, before Christ. He
belonged to the aristocratic party of his time, and
contributed to the banishment of Themistocles, the leader of
the opposite party. He was also the political opponent of
Pericles.]
[Headnote 3: PER' I CLES, an Athenian statesman, born about
495 before Christ. He labored to make Athens the capital of
all Greece, and the seat of art and refinement.]
[Headnote 4: PLA' TO, a celebrated Greek philosopher, born in
Athens about the year 429 before Christ. He was a pupil of
Socrates.]
ROLLIN.
1. The young people of Athens, amazed at the glory of
Themistocles,[Headnote 1] of Cimon,[Headnote 2] of
Pericles,[Headnote 3] and full of a foolish ambition, after
having received some lessons from the sophists, who promised
to render them very great politicians, believed themselves
capable of every thing, and aspired to fill the highest
places. One of them, named Glaucon, took it so strongly in
his head that he had a peculiar genius for public
affairs, although he was not yet twenty years of age, that no
person in his family, nor among his friends, had the power to
divert him from a notion so little befitting his age and
capacity.
2. Socrates, who liked him on account of Plato[Headnote 4]
his brother, was the only one who succeeded in making him
change his resolution. Meeting him one day, he accosted him
with so dexterous a discourse, that he induced him to listen.
He had already gained much influence over him. "You have a
desire to govern the republic?" said Socrates. "True,"
replied Glaucon. "You can not have a finer design," said the
philosopher, "since, if you succeed in it, you will be in a
state to serve your friends, to enlarge your house, and to
extend the limits of your native country.
3. "You will become known not only in Athens, but through all
Greece; and it may be that your renown will reach even to the
barbarous nations, like that of Themistocles. At last, you
will gain the respect and admiration of everybody." A
beginning so flattering pleased the young man exceedingly,
and he very willingly continued the conversation. "Since you
desire to make yourself esteemed and respected, it is clear
that you think to render yourself useful to the public."
"Assuredly." "Tell me, then, I beseech you, what is the first
service that you intend to render the state?"
4. As Glaucon appeared to be perplexed, and considered what
he ought to answer,—"Probably," replied Socrates, "it
will be to enrich the republic, that is to say, to increase
its revenues." "Exactly so." "And, undoubtedly, you know in
what the revenues of the state consist, and the extent to
which they may be increased. You will not have failed to make
it a private study, to the end that if one source should
suddenly fail, you may be able to supply its place
immediately with another." "I assure you," answered Glaucon,
"that this is what I have never thought of."
5. "Tell me, at least, then, the necessary expenses of
maintaining the republic. You can not fail to know of what
importance it is to retrench those which are superfluous." "I
confess to you that I am not more instructed with regard to
this article than the other." "Then it is necessary to defer
till another time the design that you have of enriching the
republic; for it is impossible for you to benefit the state
while you are ignorant of its revenues and expenses."
6. "But," said Glaucon, "there is still another means that
you pass over in silence,—one can enrich a state by the
ruin of its enemies." "You are right." replied Socrates,
"but, in order to do that, you must be the more powerful;
otherwise you run the risk of losing that which you possess.
So, he who speaks of undertaking a war, ought to know the
power of both parties, to the end that if he finds his party
the stronger, he may boldly risk the adventure; but, if he
find it the weaker, he should dissuade the people from
undertaking it.
7. "But, do you know what are the forces of our republic, by
sea and by land, and what are those of our enemies'? have you
a statement of them in writing'? You will do me the pleasure
to allow me a perusal of it." "I have none yet," replied
Glaucon. "I see, then," said Socrates, "that we shall not
make war so soon, if they intrust you with the
government; for there remain many things for you to know, and
many cares to take."
8. The sage mentioned many other articles, not less
important, in which he found Glaucon equally inexperienced,
and he pointed out how ridiculous they render themselves, who
have the rashness to intermeddle with government, without
bringing any other preparation to the task than a great
degree of self-esteem and excessive ambition. "Fear, my
dear Glaucon," said Socrates, "fear, lest a too ardent desire
for honors should blind you; and cause you to take a part
that would cover you with shame, in bringing to light your
incapacity, and want of talent."
9. The youth was wise enough to profit by the good advice of
his instructor, and took some time to gain private
information, before he ventured to appear in public. This
lesson is for all ages.
QUESTIONS.—1. To what did the young people of Athens
aspire? 2. What did Glaucon believe he possessed? 3. Who
succeeded in making him change his resolution? 4. How did
Socrates do this? 5. What did Socrates finally say to him?
CREST, topmost height.
TOR' RENTS, rushing streams.
TYPE, symbol; token.
AE' RIE, (â' ry,) eagle's nest.
VAULT' ED, arched.
LIQ' UID, (lik' wid,) clear; flowing.
BASK, lie exposed to warmth.
CAN' O PY, covering.
REV' EL RY, noisy merriment.
BIDE, stay; continue.
VO LUP' TU OUS, devoted to pleasure.
HAUNTS, places of resort.
EX PIRES', dies; becomes extinct.
SMOL' DER ING, burning and smoking without vent.
HER' IT AGE, inheritance.
QUENCH' ED, extinguished.
PEN' NON, flag; banner.
WRENCH, wrest; twist off.
CRA' VEN, base; cowardly.
1. I build my nest on the mountain's crest,
Where the wild winds rock my eaglets to rest,—
Where the lightnings flash, and the thunders crash,
And the roaring torrents foam and dash;
For my spirit free henceforth shall be
A type of the sons of Liberty.
2. Aloft I fly from my aërie high,
Through the vaulted dome of the azure sky;
On a sunbeam bright take my airy flight,
And float in a flood of liquid light;
For I love to play in the noontide ray,
And bask in a blaze from the throne of day.
3. Away I spring with a tireless wing,
On a feathery cloud I poise and swing;
I dart down the steep where the lightnings leap,
And the clear blue canopy swiftly sweep;
For, dear to me is the revelry
Of a free and fearless Liberty.
4. I love the land where the mountains stand,
Like the watch-towers high of a Patriot band;
For I may not bide in my glory and pride,
Though the land be never so fair and wide,
Where Luxury reigns o'er voluptuous plains,
And fetters the free-born soul in chains.
5. Then give to me in my flights to see
The land of the pilgrims ever free!
And I never will rove from the haunts I love
But watch, from my sentinel-track above,
Your banner free, o'er land and sea,
And exult in your glorious Liberty.
6. O, guard ye well the land where I dwell,
Lest to future times the tale I tell,
When slow expires in smoldering fires
The goodly heritage of your sires,—
How Freedom's light rose clear and bright
O'er fair Columbia's beacon-hight,
Till ye quenched the flame in a starless night.
7. Then will I tear from your pennon fair
The stars ye have set in triumph there;
My olive-branch on the blast I'll launch,
The fluttering stripes from the flagstaff wrench,
And away I'll flee; for I scorn to see
A craven race in the land of the free!
QUESTIONS.—1. Where does the eagle build its nest? 2.
Describe its flights. 3. Where does it love to dwell? 4. Of
what is the eagle a type? 5. What warning does it give to the
people of this country? 6. What is there peculiar in the
construction of the first, third, and fifth lines of each
verse?
AN' THEM, ode; song.
DAUNT' LESS, bold; fearless.
WAG' ED, carried on.
UN AW' ED, undismayed.
SCROLL, roll of paper; document.
COUNT' LESS, unnumbered.
ROY' AL, regal; noble.
U' NI VERSE, whole creation.
BAF' FLED, frustrated.
TY RAN' NIC, oppressive; despotic.
CURB, check; restrain.
SUC CEED' ING, following.
HURL' ED, thrown.
PEAL' ED, resounded.
[Headnote 1: HEL' LES PONT, now the Dardanelles, a narrow
strait between Asia and Europe.]
[Headnote 2: XER' XES, (zerks' ees,) the celebrated
king of Persia, during his famous expedition into Greece,
caused a bridge of boats to be built over the Hellespont; but
the work having been destroyed by a storm, he was greatly
enraged against the sea, and ordered it to be lashed, and
fetters to be cast into it to restrain its violence.]
SARAH JANE LIPPINCOTT.
1. Yes, ye are few,—and they were few,
Who, daring storm and sea,
Once raised upon old Plymouth rock
"The anthem of the free."
2. And they were few at Lexington,
To battle, or to die,—
That lightning-flash, that thunder-peal,
Told that the storm was nigh.
3. And they were few, who dauntless stood,
Upon old Bunkers hight,
And waged with Britain's strength and pride
The fierce, unequal fight.
4. And they were few, who, all unawed
By kingly "rights divine,"
The Declaration, rebel scroll,[1]
Untrembling dared to sign.
5. Yes, ye are few; for one proud glance
Can take in all your band,
As now against a countless host,
Firm, true, and calm, ye stand.
6. Unmoved by Folly's idiot laugh,
Hate's curse, or Envy's frown,—
Wearing your rights as royal robes,
Your manhood as a crown,—
7. With eyes whose gaze, unvailed by mists,
Still rises, clearer, higher,—
With stainless hands, and lips that Truth
Hath touched with living fire,—
8. With one high hope, that ever shines
Before you as a star,—
One prayer of faith, one fount of strength,
A glorious few ye are!
9. Ye dare not fear, ye can not fail,
Your destiny ye bind
To that sublime, eternal law
That rules the march of mind.
10. See yon bold eagle toward the sun
Now rising free and strong,
And see yon mighty river roll
Its sounding tide along!
11. Ah! yet near earth the eagle tires,
Lost in the sea, the river;
But naught can stay the human mind,—
'Tis upward, onward, ever!
12. It yet shall tread the starlit paths,
By highest angels trod,
And pause but at the farthest world
In the universe of God.
13. 'Tis said that Persia's baffled king,
In mad, tyrannic pride,
Cast fetters on the Hellespont,[Headnote 1]
To curb its swelling tide:
14. But freedom's own true spirit heaves
The bosom of the main;
It tossed those fetters to the skies,
And bounded on again!
15. The scorn of each succeeding age
On Xerxes'[Headnote 2] head was hurled,
And o'er that foolish deed has pealed
The long laugh of a world.
16. Thus, thus, defeat, and scorn, and shame,
Is his, who strives to bind
The restless, leaping waves of thought,
The free tide of the mind.
[Footnote 1: The reference is to the Declaration of
Independence, made July 4th, 1776.]
QUESTIONS.—1. Who raised the anthem of the free on
Plymouth Rock? 2. What is said of the few on Bunker's Hight?
3. How many signed the Declaration of Independence? Ans. 56.
4. What is said of the eagle? 5. Of the human mind? 6. Of
Freedom? 7. Where is the Hellespont?
FRESH' EN ED, grew brisk or strong.
FIT FUL LY, at intervals.
IN DI CA' TION, sign; token.
EN THU' SI ASM, strong feeling.
AP PRE HEND' ING, fearing.
A BAN' DON, give up; forsake.
HAW' SERS, cables; large ropes.
VOL UN TEER' ED, offered willingly.
IN' TER VAL, intervening time.
DE VOT' ED, doomed; ill-fated.
THWARTS, seats placed across a boat.
GUAR' AN TY, warrant.
IN EV' I TA BLY, certainly; surely.
AC CU' MU LA TED, collected; heaped.
STAN' CHION, (stan' shun,) small post.
VI' ED, strove; contended.
DIS' LO CA TED, out of joint; disjointed.
AM' PU TA TED, cut off.
GREENVILLE M. WEEKS.
1. On the afternoon of December 29th, 1862, she put on steam,
and, in tow of the "Rhode Island," passed Fortress Monroe,
and out to sea. As we gradually passed out, the wind
freshened somewhat; but the sun went down in glorious clouds
of purple and crimson, and the night was fair and calm above
us, though, in the interior of our little vessel, the air had
already begun to lose its freshness. We suffered more or less
from its closeness through the night, and woke in the morning
to find it heavy with impurity, from the breaths of some
sixty persons, composing the officers and crew.
2. Sunshine found us on deck, enjoying pure air, and watching
the east. During the night we had passed Cape Henry, and now,
at dawn, found ourselves on the ocean,—the land only a
blue line in the distance. A few more hours, and that had
vanished. No sails were visible; and the Passaic, which we
had noticed the evening before, was now out of sight. The
morning and afternoon passed quietly; we spent most of our
time on deck, on account of the confined air below, and,
being on a level with the sea, with the spray dashing over us
occasionally, amused ourselves with noting its shifting hues
and forms, from the deep green of the first long roll, to the
foam-crest and prismatic tints of the falling wave.
3. As the afternoon advanced, the freshening wind, the
thickening clouds, and the increasing roll of the sea, gave
those most accustomed to ordinary ship-life, some new
experiences. The little vessel plunged through the rising
waves, instead of riding them, and, as they increased in
violence, lay, as it were, under their crests, which washed
over her continually; so that, even when we considered
ourselves safe, the appearance was that of a vessel sinking.
4. "I'd rather go to sea in a diving-bell!" said one, as the
waves dashed over the pilot-house, and the little craft
seemed buried in water. "Give me an oyster-scow!" cried
another,—"any thing! only let it be wood, and
something that will float over, instead of
under the water!" Still she plunged on; and about 6:30
P.M., we made Cape Hatteras; in half an hour we had rounded
the point. A general hurrah went up,—"Hurrah for the
first iron-clad that ever rounded Cape Hatteras! Hurrah for
the little boat that is first in every thing!"
5. At half-past seven, a heavy shower fell, lasting about
twenty minutes. At this time the gale increased; black, heavy
clouds covered the sky, through which the moon glittered
fitfully, allowing us to see in the distance a long line of
white, plunging foam rushing toward us,—sure
indication, to a sailor's eye, of a stormy time. A gloom
overhung every thing; the banks of cloud seemed to settle
around us; the moan of the ocean grew louder and more
fearful. Still our little boat pushed doggedly on: victorious
through all, we thought that here, too, she would conquer,
though the beating waves sent shudders through her whole
frame.
6. An hour passed; the air below, which had all day been
increasing in closeness, was now almost stifling; but our men
lost no courage. Some sang as they worked; and the cadence of
their voices, mingling with the roar of waters, sounded like
a defiance to Ocean. Some stationed themselves on top of the
turret, and a general enthusiasm filled all breasts, as huge
waves, twenty feet high, rose up on all sides, hung suspended
for a moment like jaws open to devour, and then, breaking,
gnashed over in foam from side to side.
7. Those of us new to the sea, and not apprehending our
peril, hurrahed for the largest wave; but the captain and one
or two others, old sailors, knowing its power, grew
momentarily more and more—anxious, feeling, with a
dread instinctive to the sailor, that, in case of extremity,
no wreck yet known to ocean, could be so hopeless as this.
Solid iron from keelson to turret-top, clinging to any thing
for safety, if the "Monitor" should go down, would only
insure a share in her fate. No mast., no spar, no floating
thing, to meet the outstretched hand in the last moment.
8. The sea gathered force from each attack. Thick and fast
came the blows on the iron mail of the "Monitor," and still
the brave little vessel held her own, until, at half-past
eight, the engineer, faithful to the end, reported a leak.
The pumps were instantly set in motion, and we watched their
progress with an intense interest. She had seemed to us like
an old-time knight, in armor, battling against fearful odds,
but still holding his ground. We who watched, when the blow
came which made the strong man reel and the life-blood spout,
felt our hearts faint within us; then, again, ground was
gained, and the fight went on, the water lowering somewhat
under the laboring pumps.
9. From nine to ten it kept pace with them. From ten to
eleven the sea increased in violence, the waves now dashing
entirely over the turret, blinding the eyes, and causing
quick catchings of the breath, as they swept against us. At
ten the engineer had reported the leak as gaining on us; at
half-past ten, with several pumps in constant motion, one of
which threw out three thousand gallons a minute, the water
was rising rapidly, and nearing the fires. When these were
reached, the vessel's doom was sealed; for, with their
extinction, the pumps must cease, and all hope of keeping the
"Monitor" above water more than an hour or two, expired.
10. Our knight had received his death-blow, and lay
struggling and helpless under the power of a stronger than
he. A consultation was held, and, not without a conflict of
fueling, it was decided that signals of distress should be
made. Ocean claimed our little vessel, and her trembling
frame and failing fire proved she would soon answer his call;
yet a pang went through us, as we thought of the first
iron-clad lying alone at the bottom of this stormy sea, her
guns silenced, herself a useless mass of metal. Each quiver
of her strong frame seemed to plead with us not to abandon
her.
11. The work she had done, the work she was to
do, rose before us: might there not be a possibility of
saving her yet? Her time could not have come so soon. But we
who descended for a moment to the cabin, knew, by the
rising-water through which we waded, that the end was near.
Small time was there for regrets. Rockets were thrown up, and
answered by the "Rhode Island," whose brave men prepared at
once to lower boats, though, in that wild sea, it was almost
madness.
12. The "Monitor" had been attached to the "Rhode Island" by
two hawsers, one of which had parted at about seven P.M. The
other remained firm; but now it was necessary it should be
cut. How was that possible, when every wave washed clean over
the deck? What man could reach it alive? "Who'll cut the
hawser?" shouted Captain Bankhead. Acting master Stodder
volunteered, and was followed by another. Holding by one hand
to the ropes at her side, they cut through, by many blows of
the hatchet, the immense rope which united the vessels.
Stodder returned in safety, but his brave companion was
washed over, and went down.
13. Meanwhile the boat launched from the "Rhode Island," had
started, manned by a crew of picked men. A mere heroic
impulse could not have accomplished this most noble deed. For
hours they had watched the raging sea. Their captain and
they knew the danger; every man who entered that boat,
did it at the peril of his life; and yet all were ready. Are
not such acts as these convincing proofs of the divinity of
human nature'? We watched her with straining eyes; for few
thought she could live to reach us. She neared; we were sure
of her, thank Heaven!
14. In this interval, the cut hawser had become entangled in
the paddle-wheel of the "Rhode Island," and she drifted down
upon us; we, not knowing this fact, supposed her coming to
our assistance; but a moment undeceived us. The launch sent
to our relief was now between us and her,—too near for
safety. The steamer bore swiftly down, stern first, upon our
starboard quarter. "Keep off! keep off!" we cried, and
then first saw she was helpless.
15. Even as we looked, the devoted boat was caught between
the steamer and the iron-clad,—a sharp sound of
crushing wood was heard,—thwarts, oars, and splinters
flew in air,—the boat's crew leaped to the "Monitor's"
deck, Death stared us in the face; our iron prow must go
through the Rhode Island's side,—and then an end to
all. One awful moment we held our breath,—then the
hawser was cleared,—the steamer moved off, as it were,
step by step, first one, then another, till a ship's length
lay between us, and then we breathed freely.
16. But the boat!—had she gone to the bottom, carrying
brave souls with her? No; there she lay, beating against our
iron sides; but still, though bruised and broken, a lifeboat
to us. There was no hasty scramble for life when it was found
she floated,—all held back. The men kept steady on at
their work of bailing,—only those leaving, and in the
order named, whom the captain bade save themselves. They
descended from the turret to the deck with mingled fear and
hope, for the waves tore from side to side, and the coolest
head and bravest heart could not guaranty safety. Some were
washed over as they left the turret, and, with a vain clutch
at the iron deck, a wild throwing up of the arms, went down,
their death-cry ringing in the ears of their companions.
17. The boat sometimes held her place by the "Monitor's"
side, then was dashed hopelessly out of reach, rising and
falling on the waves. A sailor would spring from the deck to
reach her, to be seen for a moment in mid-air, and then, as
she rose, fall into her. So she gradually filled up; but some
poor souls who sought to reach her, failed, even as they
touched her receding sides, and went down. We had a little
messenger-boy, the special charge of one of our sailors, and
the pet of all; he must inevitably have been lost, but for
the care of his adopted father, who, holding him firmly in
his arms, escaped, as by a miracle, being washed overboard,
but finally succeeded in placing him safely in the boat.
18. The last but one to make the desperate venture, was the
surgeon; he leaped from the deck, at the very instant when
the boat was being swept away by the merciless sea. Making
one final effort, he threw his body forward as he fell,
striking across the boat's side so violently, it was thought
some of his ribs must be broken. "Haul the Doctor in!"
shouted Lieutenant Greene, perhaps remembering how, a little
time back, he himself, almost gone down in the unknown sea,
had been "hauled in" by a quinine rope flung him by the
Doctor. Stout sailor-arms pulled him in; one more sprang to a
place in her, and the boat, now full, pushed off,—in a
sinking condition, it is true, but still bearing hope with
her, for she was wood.
19. Over the waves we made little progress, though pulling
for life. The men stuffed their pea-jackets into the leaks,
and bailed incessantly. We neared the "Rhode Island;" but now
a new peril appeared. Eight down upon our center, borne by
the might of the rushing water, came the whale-boat sent to
rescue others from the iron-clad. We barely floated; if she
struck us with her bows full on us, we must go to the bottom.
One sprang, and, as she neared, with outstretched arms, met
and turned her course. She passed against us, and his hand,
caught between the two boats, was crushed, and the arm,
wrenched from its socket, fell a helpless weight against his
side; but life remained. We were saved, and an arm was a
small price to pay for life.
20. We reached the "Rhode Island;" ropes were flung over her
side, and caught with a death-grip. Some lost their hold,
were washed away, and again dragged in by the boat's crew.
What chance had one whose right arm hung a dead weight, when
strong men with their two hands, went down before him? He
caught at a rope, found it impossible to save himself alone,
and then for the first time said,—"I am injured; can
any one help me?" Ensign Taylor, at the risk of his own life,
brought the rope around his shoulder in such a way that it
could not slip, and he was drawn up in safety.
21. In the mean time, the whale-boat, which had nearly caused
our destruction, had reached the side of the "Monitor;" and
now the captain said, "It is madness to remain here longer:
let each man save himself." For a moment, he descended to the
cabin for a coat, and his faithful servant followed to secure
a jewel-box, containing the accumulated treasure of years. A
sad, sorry sight it was! In the heavy air the lamps burned
dimly, and the water, waist-deep, splashed sullenly against
the sides of the wardroom. One lingering look, and he left
the "Monitor's" cabin forever!
22. Time was precious; he hastened to the deck, where, in the
midst of a terrible sea, Lieutenant Greene nobly held his
post. He seized the rope from the whale-boat, wound it about
an iron stanchion, then around his wrists, and, by this
means, was drawn aboard the boat. Thus, one by one, watching
their time between the waves, the men filled in, and, at
last, after making all effort for others, and none for
themselves, Captain Bankhead and Lieutenant Greene took their
places in the boat The gallant Brown pushed off, and soon
laid his boat-load safe upon the "Rhode Island's" deck.
23. Here the heartiest and most tender reception met us. Our
drenched clothing was replaced by warm and dry garments, and
all on board vied with each other in acts of kindness. The
only one who had received any injury, Surgeon Weeks,
[Footnote: The writer of this account.] was carefully
attended to, the dislocated arm set, and the crushed fingers
amputated, by the gentlest and most considerate of surgeons,
Dr. Webber, of the "Rhode Island."
24. For an hour or more we watched, from the deck of the
steamer, the lonely light upon the "Monitor's" turrets; a
hundred times we thought it gone forever,—a hundred
times it reappeared, till, at last, about two o'clock,
Wednesday morning, December 31st, it sank, and we saw it no
more. An actor in the scenes of that wild night, when the
"Monitor" went down, relates the story of her last cruise.
Her work is now over. She lies a hundred fathoms deep
under the stormy-waters off Cape Hatteras; but she has made
herself a name, which will not soon be forgotten by the
American people.
QUESTIONS.—1. When and where was the Monitor lost? 2.
What signal service had she rendered? 3. Who was the writer
of this account?
RE SPON SI BIL' I TIES, obligations.
LA' TENT, secret; hidden.
IN IQ' UI TY, wickedness.
EF FECT' IVE, powerful; efficient.
REC' TI TUDE, right.
PEN' E TRA TIVE, entering; piercing.
MAL' ICE, ill-will; hatred.
CHIV' AL RY, heroism; valor.
WAN' TON LY, wastefully.
SHEEN, brightness.
SHIM' MER, glitter; gleam.
RE VER' SION, future possession.
IN SID' I OUS, crafty; deceitful.
A THWART', across.
SUS' TE NANCE, food; support.
IM POS' ED, laid on; assigned.
GAIL HAMILTON.
1. Oh, if this latent power could be aroused! If woman would
shake off this slumber, and put on her strength, her
beautiful garments, how would she go forth conquering and to
conquer! How would the mountains break forth into singing,
and the trees of the field clap their hands! How would our
sin-stained earth arise and shine, her light being come, and
the glory of the Lord being risen upon her!
2. One can not do the world's work; but one can do
one's work. You may not be able to turn the world from
iniquity; but you can, at least, keep the dust and rust from
gathering on your own soul. If you can not be directly and
actively engaged in fighting the battle, you can, at least,
polish your armor and sharpen your weapons, to strike an
effective blow when the hour comes. You can stanch the blood
of him who has been wounded in the fray,—bear a cup of
cold water to the thirsty and fainting,—give help to
the conquered, and smiles to the victor.
3. You can gather from the past and the present stores of
wisdom, so that, when the future demands it, you may bring
forth from your treasures things new and old. Whatever of
bliss the "Divinity that shapes our ends" may see fit to
withhold from you, you are but very little lower than the
angels, so long as you have the
"Godlike power to do,—the godlike aim to know."
4. You can be forming habits of self-reliance, sound
judgment, perseverance, and endurance, which may, one day,
stand you in good stead. You can so train yourself to right
thinking and right acting, that uprightness shall be your
nature, truth your impulse. His head is seldom far wrong,
whose heart is always right. We bow down to mental greatness,
intellectual strength, and they are divine gifts; but
moral rectitude is stronger than they. It is
irresistible,—always in the end triumphant.
5. There is in goodness a penetrative power that
nothing can withstand. Cunning and malice melt away before
its mild, open, steady glance. Not alone on the fields where
chivalry charges for laurels, with helmet and breastplate and
lance in rest, can the true knight exultingly exclaim,
"My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure;"
but wherever man meets man, wherever there is a prize to be
won, a goal to be reached. Wealth, and rank, and beauty, may
form a brilliant setting to the diamond; but they only expose
more nakedly the false glare of the paste. Only when the
king's daughter is all glorious within, is it fitting and
proper that her clothing should be of wrought gold.
6. From the great and good of all ages rings out the same
monotone. The high-priest of Nature, the calm-eyed poet who
laid his heart so close to hers, that they seemed to throb in
one pulsation, yet whose ear was always open to the "still
sad music of humanity," has given us the promise of his
life-long wisdom in these grand words:—
"True dignity abides with him alone
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,
Can still suspect and still revere himself."
7. Through the din of twenty rolling centuries, pierces the
sharp, stern voice of the brave old Greek: "Let every man,
when he is about to do a wicked action, above all things in
the world, stand in awe of himself, and dread the witness
within him." All greatness, and all glory, all that earth
has to give, all that Heaven can proffer, lies within the
reach of the lowliest as well as the highest; for He who
spake as never man spake, has said that the very "kingdom of
God is within you."
8. Born to such an inheritance, will you wantonly cast it
away? With such a goal in prospect, will you suffer yourself
to be turned aside by the sheen and shimmer of tinsel fruit?
With earth in possession, and Heaven in reversion, will you
go sorrowing and downcast, because here and there a pearl or
ruby fails you? Nay, rather forgetting those things which are
behind, and reaching forth unto those which are before,
press forward!
9. Discontent and murmuring are insidious foes; trample them
under your feet. Utter no complaint, whatever betide; for
complaining is a sign of weakness. If your trouble can be
helped, help it; if not, bear it. You can be
whatever you will to be. Therefore, form and
accomplish worthy purposes.
10. If you walk alone, let it be with no faltering tread.
Show to an incredulous world
"How grand may be Life's might,
Without Love's circling crown."
Or, if the golden thread of love shine athwart the dusky
warp of duty, if other hearts depend on yours for sustenance
and strength, give to them from your fullness no stinted
measure. Let the dew of your kindness fall on the evil and
the good, on the just and on the unjust.
11. Compass happiness, since happiness alone is victory. On
the fragments of your shattered plans, and hopes, and
love,—on the heaped-up ruins of your past, rear a
stately palace, whose top shall reach unto heaven, whose
beauty shall gladden the eyes of all beholders, whose doors
shall stand wide open to receive the way-worn and weary. Life
is a burden, but it is imposed by God. What you make
of it, it will be to you, whether a millstone about
your neck, or a diadem upon your brow. Take it up bravely,
bear it on joyfully, lay it down triumphantly.
QUESTIONS.—1. What are some of the duties of women? 2.
What is said of goodness? 3. What was the adage of the old
Greek? 4. What is said of discontent and murmuring?
ID' I OT, one devoid of reason.
HOR' RI BLE, awful; dreadful.
WOE' FUL, afflicted.
HAR' ROW, disturb; harass.
PRE SERVE', safely keep.
SOOTH, fact; truth.
SPOIL' ED, stripped; plundered.
YEARN' ING, longing.
IN SUF' FER A BLE, intolerable.
CAN' TON, district; region.
PAS TIME, amusement; diversion.
ES PI' ED, saw; discovered.
MOUNT AIN EER', dweller on a mountain.
BRAWN' Y, strong; firm.
FAG OTS, bundles of sticks.
AUG MENT', increase; make larger.
BEA' CON, signal-fire.
BE TIDE', happen; befall.
J. SHERIDAN KNOWLES.
Emma. I never knew a weary night before!
I have seen the sun a dozen times go down,
And still no William,—and the storm was on,
Yet have I laid me down in peace to sleep,
The mountain with the lightning all a-blaze,
And shaking with the thunder,—but to-night
Mine eyes refuse to close, (sl.) The old man
rests:
Pain hath outworn itself, and turned to ease.
How deadly calm's the night! ('') What's that? I'm
grown
An idiot with my fears. I do not know,—
The avalanche! Great Power that hurls it down,
Watch o'er my boy, and guide his little steps!
What keeps him? 'tis but four hours' journey hence:
He'd rest; then four hours back again. What keeps
him?
Erni would sure be found by him,—he knows
The track, well as he knows the road to Altorf!
Melchtal. Help! (in his sleep.)
Emma. What's the matter? Only the old man
dreaming.
He thinks again they're pulling out his eyes.
I'm sick with terror! Merciful powers! what's this
That fills my heart with horrible alarm?
And yet it can not see.
Melch. (waking) Where am I?
Emma. Father!
Melch. My daughter, is it thou'! Thank Heaven, I'm
here! Is't day yet'?
Emma. No'.
Melch. Is't far on the night'?
Emma. Methinks, about the turn on't.
Melch. Is the boy
Come back'?
Emma. No', father'.
Melch. Nor thy husband'?
Emma. No'.
Melch. A woeful wife and mother have I made thee!
Would thou hadst never seen me.
Emma. Father'!
Melch. Child'!
Emma. Methinks I hear a step !—I do!
(knocking.) A knock!
Melch. 'Tis William!
Emma. No; it is not William's knock. (Opens the
door.) I told you so. Your will?
Enter STRANGER.
Stran. Seeing a light, I e'en made bold to knock, to
ask for shelter; For I have missed my way.
Emma. Whence come you` friend'?
Stran. From Altorf.
Emma. Altorf'! Any news from thence'?
Stran. Ay`! News to harrow parents' hearts, and make
The barren bless themselves that they are childless!
Emma. May Heaven preserve my boy!
Melch. What say'st thy news?
Stran. Art thou not Melchtal—he whose eyes, 'tis
said,
The tyrant has torn out'?
Melch. Yes`, friend', the same.
Stran. Is this thy cottage'?
Melch. No`; 'tis William Tell's.
Stran. 'Tis William Tell's—and that's his
wife—Goodnight.
Emma. (Rushing between him and the door.) Thou
stirr'st not hence until thy news be told!
Stran. My news! In sooth 'tis nothing thou would'st
heed.
Emma. 'Tis something none should heed so well as I!
Stran. I must be gone,
Emma. Thou seest a tigress, friend,
Spoiled of her mate and young, and yearning for them.
Don't thwart her! Come, thy news! What fear'st thou,
man?
What more hath she to dread, who reads thy looks,
And knows the most has come? Thy news! Is't bondage'?
Stran. It is.
Emma. Thank Heaven, it is not death! Of one—Or
two?
Stran. Of two.
Emma. A father and a son,
Is't not?
Stran. It is.
Emma. My husband and my son
Are in the tyrant's power! There's worse than that!
What's that is news to harrow parents' breasts.
The which the thought to only tell, 'twould seem,
Drives back the blood to thine?—Thy news, I say!
Wouldst thou be merciful, this is not mercy!
Wast thou the mark, friend, of the bowman's aim.
Wouldst thou not hare the fatal arrow speed,
Rather than watch it hanging in the string?
Thou'lt drive me mad! Let fly at once!
Melch. Thy news from Altorf, friend, whatever it is!
Stran. To save himself and child from certain
death,
Tell is to hit an apple, to be placed
Upon the stripling's head.
Melch. My child! my child!
Speak to me! Stranger, hast thou killed her?
Emma. No!
No`, father'. I'm the wife of William Tell;
Oh, but to be a man!—to have an arm
To fit a heart swelling with the sense of wrong!
Unnatural—insufferable wrong!
When makes the tyrant trial of his skill?
Stran. To-morrow.
Emma. Spirit of the lake and hill,
Inspire thy daughter! On the head of him
Who makes his pastime of a mother's pangs,
Launch down thy vengeance by a mother's hand.
Know'st the signal when the hills shall rise'? (To
Melchtal.)
Melch. Are they to rise'?
Emma. I see thou knowest naught.
Stran. Something's on foot! 'Twas only yesterday,
That, traveling from our canton, I espied
Slow toiling up a steep, a mountaineer
Of brawny limb, upon his back a load
Of fagots bound. Curious to see what end
Was worthy of such labor, after him
I took the cliff; and saw its lofty top
Receive his load, which went but to augment
A pile of many another.
Emma. 'Tis by fire! Fire is the signal for the hills
to rise! (Rushes out.)
Melch. Went she not forth!
Stran. She did,—she's here again,
And brings with her a lighted brand.
Melch. My child,
What dost thou with a lighted brand?
(Re-enter EMMA with a brand.)
Emma. Prepare
To give the signal for the hills to rise!
Melch. Where are the fagots, child, for such a blaze?
Emma. I'll find the fagots, father. (Exit.)
Melch. She's gone Again!
Stran. She is,—I think into her chamber.
Emma. (Rushing in.)—Father, the pile is
fired!
Melch. What pile, my child!
Emma. The joists and rafters of our cottage, father!
Melch. Thou hast not fired thy cottage?—but thou
hast;
Alas, I hear the crackling of the flames!
Emma. Say'st thou, alas! when I do say, thank
Heaven.
Father, this blaze will set the land a-blaze
With fire that shall preserve, and not destroy it.
(f.) Blaze on! BLAZE ON! Oh, may'st thou be a
beacon
To light its sons enslaved to liberty!
How fast it spreads! A spirit's in the fire:
It knows the work it does.—(Goes to the door, and
opens it.)
The land is free!
Yonder's another blaze! Beyond that, shoots
Another up!—Anon will every hill
Redden with vengeance! Father, come! Whate'er
Betides us, worse we're certain can't befall,
And better may! Oh, be it liberty,
Safe hearts and homes, husbands and children!
Come,—
It spreads apace. (ff.) Blaze on—blaze
on—BLAZE ON!
QUESTIONS.—1. What rule for the rising inflection on
father? See Note I., page 32. 2. What rule for the
falling inflection on no? See Rule I., page 28.
HON' OR A BLE, noble; illustrious.
IN' TEL LECT, mind; understanding.
SCORE, account; motive.
CLEV' ER, skillful; expert.
SO' CIAL, familiar.
CON FU' SION, fuss; tumult.
CON DE SCEN' SION, loveliness; deference.
COM PRE HEN' SION, understanding.
[Headnote 1: CROE SUS, a very wealthy king of ancient Lydia,
in Asia Minor, was born about 591 before Christ.]
KHEMNITZER.
1. So goes the world`;—if wealthy, you may call
This—friend, that—brother`;—friends and brothers all
Though you are worthless, witless,—never mind it;
You may have been a stable-boy,—what then?
'Tis wealth, my friends, makes honorable men.
You seek respect, no doubt, and you will find it.
2. But, if you are poor', heaven help you`! though your sire
Had royal blood in him`, and though you
Possess the intellect of angels too.
'Tis all in vain`;—the world will ne'er inquire
On such a score`:—why should it take the pains?
'Tis easier to weigh purses`, sure, than brains'.
3. I once saw a poor fellow, keen and clever.
Witty and wise`; he paid a man a visit,
And no one noticed him', and no one ever
Gave him a welcome`. "Strange`," cried I', "whence is it`?"
He walked on this side', then on that`,
He tried to introduce a social chat`;
Now here', now there`, in vain he tried`;
Some formally and freezingly replied,
And some said by their silence,—"Better stay at home."
4. A rich man burst the door,
As Croesus[Headnote 1] rich;—I'm sure
He could not pride himself upon his wit`;
And, as for wisdom, he had none of it`;
He had what's better`,—he had wealth.
What a confusion!—all stand up erect,—
These crowd around to ask him of his health;
These bow in honest duty and respect;
And these arrange a sofa or a chair,
And these conduct him there.
"Allow me, sir, the honor`;"—Then a bow
Down to the earth`.—Is't possible to show
Meet gratitude for such kind condescension`!
5. The poor man hung his head,
And to himself he said,
"This is indeed beyond my comprehension:"
Then looking round, one friendly face he found,
And said,—"Pray tell me why is wealth preferred
"To wisdom?"—"That's a silly question, friend!"
Replied the other,—"have you never heard.
A man may lend his store
Of gold or silver ore,
But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend?"
QUESTIONS.—1. How do you account for the different
inflections in the last line of the second verse? See page
31, Note I. 2. What rule for the falling inflection on
condescension? See page 29, Note I.
EX HI BI' TIONS, displays.
CIR CUM SCRIB' ED, encompassed.
NA' VIES, ships of war.
ARM' A MENTS, forces equipped for war.
IM PED' ED, hindered, obstructed.
LE VI' A THAN, huge sea-monster.
MAG NIF' I CENCE, grandeur.
UN A BAT' ED, undiminished.
RE SERV' ED, kept.
EN TRANC' ED, enraptured.
PROM' ON TO RY, headland.
RE VEAL'ED, laid open.
SYM' BOL, token; sign.
AD A MAN TINE, exceedingly hard.
AP PER TAIN' ING, belonging.
TRANS FORM' ING, changing.
[Headnote 1: AC' TI UM is the ancient name of a promontory of
Albania, in Turkey in Europe, near which was fought (B.C. 29)
the celebrated naval battle that made Augustus Caesar master
of the Roman world.]
[Headnote 2: SAL' A MIS, an island opposite Attica, in
Greece, near which (B.C. 480) occurred the famous naval
engagement which resulted in the defeat of the Persians.]
[Headnote 3: NAV A RI' NO is a seaport town on the
southwestern coast of Greece. It was the scene of the
memorable victory of the combined English, French, and
Russian fleets over those of the Turks and Egyptians, gained
on the 20th of October, 1827.]
[Headnote 4: TRA FAL GAR', a cape on the southwestern coast
of Spain. It is famous for the great naval battle, fought in
its vicinity, Oct. 21st, 1805, between the fleets of the
French and Spanish on the one side, and the English, under
Lord Nelson, on the other. The English were victorious,
though Nelson was mortally wounded.]
WALTER COLTON.
1. The most fearful and impressive exhibitions of power known
to our globe, belong to the ocean. The volcano, with its
ascending flame and falling torrents of fire, and the
earthquake, whose footstep is on the ruin of cities, are
circumscribed in the desolating range of their visitations.
But the ocean, when it once rouses itself in its chainless
strength, shakes a thousand shores with its storm and
thunder. Navies of oak and iron are tossed in mockery from
its crest, and armaments, manned by the strength and courage
of millions, perish among its bubbles.
2. The avalanche, shaken from its glittering steep, if it
rolls to the bosom of the earth, melts away, and is lost in
vapor; but if it plunge into the embrace of the ocean, this
mountain mass of ice and hail is borne about for ages in
tumult and terror; it is the drifting monument of the ocean's
dead. The tempest on land is impeded by forests, and broken
by mountains; but on the plain of the deep it rushes
unresisted; and when its strength is at last spent, ten
thousand giant waves still roll its terrors onward.
3. The mountain lake and the meadow stream are inhabited only
by the timid prey of the angler; but the ocean is the home of
the leviathan,—his ways are in the mighty deep. The
glittering pebble and the rainbow-tinted shell, which the
returning tide has left on the shore, and the watery gem
which the pearl-diver reaches at the peril of his life, are
all that man can filch from the treasures of the sea. The
groves of coral which wave over its pavements, and the halls
of amber which glow in its depths, are beyond his approaches,
save when he goes down there to seek, amid their silent
magnificence, his burial monument.
4. The islands, the continents, the shores of civilized and
savage realms, the capitals of kings, are worn by time,
washed away by the wave, consumed by the flame, or sunk by
the earthquake; but the ocean still remains, and still rolls
on in the greatness of its unabated strength. Over the
majesty of its form and the marvel of its might, time and
disaster have no power. Such as creation's dawn beheld, it
rolleth now.
5. The vast clouds of vapor which roll up from its bosom,
float away to encircle the globe: on distant mountains and
deserts they pour out their watery treasures, which gather
themselves again in streams and torrents, to return, with
exulting bounds, to their parent ocean. These are the
messengers which proclaim in every land the exhaustless
resources of the sea; but it is reserved for those who go
down in ships, and who do business in the great waters, to
see the works of the Lord and His wonders in the deep.
6. Let one go upon deck in the middle watch of a still night,
with naught above him but the silent and solemn skies, and
naught around and beneath him but an interminable waste of
waters, and with the conviction that there is but a plank
between him and eternity, a feeling of loneliness, solitude,
and desertion, mingled with a sentiment of reverence for the
vast, mysterious and unknown, will come upon him with a
power, all unknown before, and he might stand for hours
entranced in reverence and tears.
7. Man, also, has made the ocean the theater of his
power. The ship in which he rides that element, is one of the
highest triumphs of his skill. At first, this floating fabric
was only a frail bark, slowly urged by the laboring oar. The
sail, at length, arose and spread its wings to the wind.
Still he had no power to direct his course when the lofty
promontory sunk from sight, or the orbs above him were lost
in clouds. But the secret of the magnet is, at length,
revealed to him, and his needle now settles, with a fixedness
which love has stolen as the symbol of its constancy, to the
polar star.
8. Now, however, he can dispense even with sail, and wind,
and flowing wave. He constructs and propels his vast engines
of flame and vapor, and, through the solitude of the sea, as
over the solid land, goes thundering on his track. On the
ocean, too, thrones have been lost and won. On the fate of
Actium[Headnote 1] was suspended the empire of the world. In
the gulf of Salamis,[Headnote 2] the pride of Persia found a
grave; and the crescent set forever in the waters of
Navarino;[Headnote 3] while, at Trafalgar[Headnote 4] and the
Nile, nations held their breath,
As each gun,
From its adamantine lips,
Spread a death-shade round the ships
Like the hurricane's eclipse
Of the sun.
9. But, of all the wonders appertaining to the ocean, the
greatest, perhaps, is its transforming power on man. It
unravels and weaves anew the web of his moral and social
being. It invests him with feelings, associations, and
habits, to which he has been an entire stranger. It breaks up
the sealed fountain of his nature, and lifts his soul into
features prominent as the cliffs which beetle over its surge.
10. Once the adopted child of the ocean, he can never bring
back his entire sympathies to land. He will still move in his
dreams over that vast waste of waters, still bound in
exultation and triumph through its foaming billows. All the
other realities of life will be comparatively tame, and he
will sigh for his tossing element, as the caged eagle for the
roar and arrowy light of his mountain cataract.
QUESTIONS.—1. What is said of the volcano and
earthquake? 2. Of the avalanche and tempest? 3. Of the ocean?
4. Of ships? 5. Where have naval battles been fought? 6. What
influence has the ocean on man?
RE LAX' ED, loosened.
AS SI DU' I TIES, kind, constant attentions.
CON SIGN' ED, committed; given over.
EX TE' RI OR, outer appearance.
UN AF FECT' ED, sincere.
UN PRE TEND' ING, unostentatious.
HA BIL' I MENTS, vestments.
SU PER STI' TIOUS, full of scruples.
REC' ON CILE, make willing.
PEN' E TRATES, sees through.
PER VADE', (PER, through; VADE, go, or
pass;) pass through; appear throughout.
WALTER COLTON.
1. Death is a fearful thing, come in what form it
may,—fearful, when the vital chords are so gradually
relaxed, that life passes away sweetly as music from the
slumbering harp-string,—fearful, when in his own quiet
chamber, the departing one is summoned by those who sweetly
follow him with their prayers, when the assiduities of
friendship and affection can go no farther, and who discourse
of heaven and future blessedness, till the closing ear can no
longer catch the tones of the long-familiar voice, and who,
lingering near, still feel for the hushed pulse, and then
trace in the placid slumber, which pervades each feature, a
quiet emblem of the spirit's serene repose.
2. What, then, must this dread event be to one, who meets it
comparatively alone, far away from the hearth of his home,
upon a troubled sea, between the narrow decks of a restless
ship, and at that dread hour of night, when even the
sympathies of the world seem suspended! Such has been the end
of many who traverse the ocean; and such was the hurried end
of him, whose remains we have just consigned to a watery
grave.
3. He was a sailor; but, beneath his rude exterior, he
carried a heart touched with refinement, pride, and
greatness. There was something about him, which spoke of
better days and a higher destiny. By what errors or
misfortunes he was reduced to his humble condition, was a
secret which he would reveal to none. Silent, reserved, and
thoughtful, he stood a stranger among his free companions,
and never was his voice heard in the laughter or the jest. He
has undoubtedly left behind many who will long look for his
return, and bitterly weep when they are told they shall see
his face no more.
4. As the remains of the poor sailor were brought up on deck,
wound in that hammock which, through many a stormy night, had
swung to the wind, one could not but observe the big tear
that stole unconsciously down the rough cheeks of his hardy
companions. When the funeral service was read to that most
affecting passage, "we commit this body to the deep," and the
plank was raised which precipitated to the momentary eddy of
the wave the quickly disappearing form, a heavy sigh from
those around, told that the strong heart of the sailor can be
touched with grief, and that a truly unaffected sorrow may
accompany virtue, in its most unpretending form, to its ocean
grave. Yet how soon is such a scene forgotten!
"As from the wing the sky no scar retains,
The parted wave no furrow from the keel,
So dies in human hearts the thought of death."
5. There is something peculiarly melancholy and impressive in
a burial at sea: there is here no coffin or hearse,
procession or tolling bell,—nothing that gradually
prepares us for the final separation. The body is wound in
the drapery of its couch, much as if the deceased were only
in a quiet and temporary sleep. In these habiliments of
seeming slumber, it is dropped into the wave, the waters
close over it, the vessel passes quickly on, and not a
solitary trace is left to tell where sunk from light and
life, one that loved to look at the sky and breathe this
vital air.
6. There is nothing that, for one moment, can point to the
deep, unvisited resting-place of the departed,—it is a
grave in the midst of the ocean,—in the midst of a
vast, untrodden solitude. Affection can not approach it, with
its tears; the dews of heaven can not reach it; and there is
around it no violet, or shrub, or murmuring stream.
7. It may be superstitious; but no advantages of wealth, or
honor, or power, through life, would reconcile me at its
close to such a burial. I would rather share the coarse and
scanty provisions of the simplest cabin, and drop away
unknown and unhonored by the world, so that my final
resting-place be beneath some green tree, by the side of some
living stream, or in some familiar spot, where the few that
loved me in life, might visit me in death.
8. But, whether our grave be in the fragrant shade, or in the
fathomless ocean, among our kindred, or in the midst of
strangers, the day is coming when we shall all appear at one
universal bar, and receive from a righteous Judge the award
of our deeds. He that is wisest, penetrates the future the
deepest.
QUESTIONS.—1. What is said of death? 2. What, of death
at sea? 3. What renders a burial at sea peculiarly melancholy
and impressive?
MYS TE' RI OUS, secret; mystical.
UN RECK' ED, unheeded.
AR' GO SIES, ships of great burden.
WR ATH' FUL, furious; raging.
PAL' A CES, splendid mansions.
SCORN' FUL, disdainful.
DE CAY', ruin; destruction.
BOOM' ING, roaring.
FES' TAL, joyous; merry.
RE CLAIM', claim again; recover.
MRS. HERMANS.
1. What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells?
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main!
Pale, glistening pearls, and rainbow-colored shells,
Bright things which gleam unrecked of, and in vain!
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!
We ask not such from thee.
2. Yet more, the depths have more! what wealth untold,
Far down, and shining through their stillness lies!
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,
Won from ten thousand royal argosies!
Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main!
Earth claims not these again.
3. Yet more, the depths have more! thy waves have rolled
Above the cities of a world gone by!
Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,
Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry.
Dash o'er them, Ocean! in thy scornful play!
Man yields them to decay.
4. Yet more, the billows and the depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar;
The battle-thunders will not break their rest.
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave!
5. Give back the lost and lovely,—those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long,
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown;
But all is not thine own.
6. To thee the love of woman hath gone down;
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown,
Yet must thou hear a voice,—Restore the dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!
Restore the dead, thou Sea!
QUESTIONS.—1. What are some of the treasures of the
deep? 2. What treasures has the sea won from trading vessels?
3. Over what does the sea roll? 4. What does the writer call
on the sea to restore?
UN FOR' TU NATE, wretched person.
CER E MENTS, grave-clothes.
SCRU' TI NY, inquiry.
MU' TI NY, resistance to rightful rule.
WON' DER MENT, curiosity.
PROV' I DENCE, care; protection.
A MAZE' MENT, astonishment.
DIS' SO LUTE, abandoned; licentious.
SPUR' RED, pushed on; impelled.
CON' TU ME LY, scorn; insult.
IN HU MAN' I TY, cruel treatment.
IN SAN' I TY, madness.
THOMAS HOOD.
1. One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
2. Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care,
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
3. Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
While the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.
4. 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.
5. Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny,
Rash and undutiful;
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
6. Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,—
Her fair auburn tresses;
While wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
7. 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'?
8. Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
9. Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly,
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
10. Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood with amazement,
Houseless by night.
11. The bleak winds 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 mystery,
Swift to be hurled—
Anywhere, anywhere,
Out of the world!
12. In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran—
Picture it—think of it,
Dissolute Man!
13. Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care,
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
14. Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest,
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
15. Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Savior!
RE' QUI EM, hymn in honor of the dead.
WED, joined; united.
HENCE' FORTH, hereafter.
DROOP, languish; fail.
AF FEC TION, love.
DIM' MED, dull; obscured.
1. Breathe low, thou gentle wind,
(pl) Breathe soft and low;
The beautiful lies dead!
The joy of life is fled!
And my lone heart is wed
Henceforth to woe!
2. That thou should'st droop and die
At early morn!
While yet thy graceful dew
A joyous fragrance drew
From every flower that grew
Life's path along!
3. The green earth mourns for thee,
Thou dearest one;
A plaintive tone is heard,
And flower and leaflet stirred,
And every fav'rite bird
Sings sad and lone.
4. Pale is thy brow, and dimmed
Thy sparkling eye!
Affection's sweetest token
Is lost fore'er and broken!
The last kind word is spoken,—
Why did'st thou die?
5. Breathe low, thou gentle wind,
Breathe soft and low;
The beautiful lies dead!
The joy of life is fled!
And my lone heart is wed
Henceforth to woe!
QUESTIONS.—1. What rule for changing y into
i in the word beautiful? See ANALYSIS, page 13,
Rule XI. 2. Why are r and m doubled in the
words stirred, dimmed? See Rule IX. 3. What is the
meaning of the suffix let, in the word leaflet?
See page 240, Ex. 185.
LUX U' RI ANT, rich; plentiful.
UN OS TEN TA' TIOUS, plain; not showy.
RE VER EN' TIAL, deeply respectful.
RE CEP' TA CLE, place of reception.
SEM' I CIR CLE, half-circle.
REC OG NI' TION, act of knowing.
AG RI CUL' TUR AL, relating to farming.
BEN E DIC' TION, blessing.
DI' A RY, note-book; journal.
SO JOURN' ED, resided for a while.
AC CLA MA' TIONS, shouts.
TRI UMPH' AL, relating to victory.
GRAT U LA' TION, rejoicing.
IN AUG U RA' TION, act of investing with office.
EN FRAN' CHIS ED, freed; liberated.
[Headnote 1: SAR COPH' A GUS, (SARCO, flesh; and
PHAGUS, that which eats or devours,) is made up of two
Greek words, signifying together flesh-eating, and was
applied by the ancients to a species of stone, used for
making coffins. Hence, sarcophagus came to signify a
stone-coffin. The form of the plural in Latin, is
sarcophagi.]
[Headnote 2: BAS' TILE, (bas' teel,) an old state
prison in Paris, built in 1369, and destroyed by a mob in
1789.]
A.C. RITCHIE.
1. At this moment, we drew near the rude wharf at Mount
Vernon; the boat stopped, and the crowd of passengers landed.
By a narrow pathway we ascended a majestic hill thickly
draped with trees. The sun scarcely found its way through the
luxuriant foliage. We mounted slowly, but had only spent a
few minutes in ascending, when we came suddenly upon a
picturesque nook, where a cluster of unostentatious, white
marble shafts, shot from the greenly sodded earth, inclosed
by iron railings. Those unpretending monuments mark the
localities where repose the mortal remains of Washington's
kindred.
2. Just beyond stands a square brick building. In the center
you see an iron gate. Here the crowd pauses in reverential
silence. Men lift their hats and women bow their heads. You
behold within, two sarcophagi.[Headnote 1] In those moldering
tombs lie the ashes of the great Washington and his wife. Not
a word is uttered as the crowd stand gazing on this lowly
receptacle of the dust of America's mighty dead.
3. Are there any in that group who can say, "this was
our country's father'?" If there be, can they stand
pilgrims at that grave without Washington's examples, his
counsels, his words, heretofore, it may be, half-forgotten,
stealing back into their minds, until the sense of reverence
and gratitude is deepened almost to awe? Do they not feel
that Washington's spirit is abroad in the world, filling the
souls of a heaven-favored people with the love of freedom and
of country, though his ashes are gathered here'?
4. Some one moves to pass on; and, with that first step, the
spell is broken; others follow. Herman and Jessie linger
last. After a period of mute and moving reflection, they turn
away and slowly approach the mansion that, in simple, rural
stateliness, stands upon a noble promontory, belted with
woods, and half-girdled by the sparkling waters of the
Potomac, which flow in a semicircle around a portion of the
mount.
5. The water and woodland view from the portico is highly
imposing. But it was not the mere recognition of the
picturesque and beautiful in nature, that moved Herman and
Jessie. They would have felt that they were on holy ground,
had the landscape been devoid of natural charm. Here the feet
of the first of heroes had trod, and here, in boyhood, he had
sported with his beloved brother Lawrence.
6. In those forests, those deep-wooded glens, he had hunted,
when a stripling, by the side of old Lord Fairfax; here he
took his first lessons in the art of war; to this home he
brought his bride; by this old-fashioned, hospitable-looking
fireside, he sat with that dear and faithful wife; beneath
yonder alley of lofty trees he has often wandered by her
side; here he indulged the agricultural tastes in which he
delighted; here resigned his Cincinnatus vocation, and bade
adieu to his cherished home at the summons of his country.
7. Here his wife received the letter which told her that he
had been appointed Commander-in-chief of the army; here, when
the glorious struggle closed at the trumpet notes of
victory—when the British had retired—when, with
tears coursing down his benignant, manly countenance, he had
uttered a touching farewell—bestowed a paternal
benediction on the American army, and resigned all public
service— here he returned, thinking to resume
the rural pursuits that charmed him, and to end his days in
peace!
8. Here are the trees, the shrubbery he planted with his own
hands, and noted in his diary; here are the columns of the
portico round which he twined the coral honeysuckle; the ivy
he transplanted still clings to yonder garden wall; these
vistas he opened through yon pine groves to command far-off
views! Here the valiant Lafayette sojourned with him; there
hangs the key of the Bastile[Headnote 2] which he presented.
9. Here flocked the illustrious men of all climes, and were
received with warm, unpretending, almost rustic hospitality.
Here the French Houdon modeled his statue, and the English
Pine painted his portrait, and caused that jocose remark, "I
am so hackneyed to the touches of the painters' pencil, that
I am altogether at their beck, and sit like 'Patience on a
monument!'"
10. Then came another summons from the land he had saved, and
he was chosen by unanimous voice its chief ruler. Thousands
of men, women, and children, sent up acclamations, and called
down blessings on his head, as he made his triumphal progress
from Mount Vernon to New York, to take the presidential oath.
The roar of cannon rent the air. The streets through which he
passed, were illuminated and decked with flags and wreaths.
Bonfires blazed on the hills. From ships and boats floated
festive decorations. At Gray's Ferry, he passed under
triumphal arches.
11. On the bridge across the Assumpink, at Trenton, (the very
bridge over which he had retreated in such blank despair,
before the army of Cornwallis, on the eve of the battle of
Princeton,) thirteen pillars, twined with laurel and
evergreens, were reared by woman's hands. The foremost of the
arches those columns supported, bore the inscription, "The
Defender of the Mothers will he the Protector of the
Daughters." Mothers, with their white-robed daughters,
were assembled beneath the vernal arcade. Thirteen maidens
scattered flowers beneath his feet, as they sang an ode of
gratulation. The people's hero ever after spoke of this
tribute, as the one that touched him most deeply.
13. When his first presidential term expired, and his heart
yearned for the peace of his domestic hearth, the entreaties
of Jefferson, Randolph, and Hamilton, forced him to forget
that home for the one he held in the hearts of patriots, and
to allow his name to be used a second time. A second time he
was unanimously elected to preside over his country's
welfare. But, the period happily expired, he thankfully laid
aside the mantle of state, the scepter of power, and, five
days after the inauguration of Adams, returned here to his
Mount Vernon home. And here the good servant, whom his Lord,
when He came, found watching and ready, calmly yielded up his
breath, exclaiming, "It is well!" and his spirit was wafted
to Heaven by the blessings of his enfranchised countrymen.
QUESTIONS.—1. Where is Mount Vernon? 2. What is said of
Washington's tomb? 3. Mention some of the things which he did
here? 4. What demonstrations were made by the people, as he
went to New York to take the oath of office? 5. Did he serve
more than one term as President?
CHIV' AL ROUS, gallant; heroic.
HAL' LOW, consecrate; keep sacred.
MER' CE NA RY, mean; venal.
AD VEN' TUR ER, fortune-seeker.
VAN' QUISH ED, conquered.
OUT' CAST, exile; castaway.
TRAP' PINGS, ornaments; equipments.
CRU SADE', battle zealously.
CA REER' ED, moved rapidly.
PHAL' ANX, compact body of men.
TRANS PORT' ING, exulting.
TRO PHIES, memorials of victory.
PA' GEANT, pompous; showy.
MIN' ION, favorite.
CHARLES SPRAGUE.
1. While we bring our offerings for the mighty of our
own land, shall we not remember the chivalrous spirits
of other shores, who shared with them the hour of
weakness and woe'? Pile to the clouds the majestic column of
glory`; let the lips of those who can speak well, hallow each
spot where the bones of your bold repose`; but forget not
those who, with your bold, went out to battle.
2. Among those men of noble daring, there was one, a
young and gallant stranger, who left the blushing vine-hills
of his delightful France. The people whom he came to succor,
were not his people; he knew them only in the
melancholy story of their wrongs. He was no mercenary
adventurer, striving for the spoil of the vanquished; the
palace acknowledged him for its lord, and the valley yielded
him its increase. He was no nameless man, staking life for
reputation; he ranked among nobles, and looked unawed upon
kings.
3. He was no friendless outcast, seeking for a grave to hide
a broken heart; he was girdled by the companions of his
childhood; his kinsmen were about him; his wife was before
him. Yet from all these loved ones he turned away. Like a
lofty tree that shakes down its green glories, to battle with
the winter storm, he flung aside the trappings of place and
pride, to crusade for Freedom, in Freedom's holy land. He
came`; but not in the day of successful rebellion', not when
the new-risen sun of Independence had burst the cloud of
time, and careered to its place in the heavens'.
4. He came when darkness curtained the hills, and the tempest
was abroad in its anger`; when the plow stood still in the
field of promise, and briers cumbered the garden of beauty`;
when fathers were dying, and mothers were weeping over them`;
when the wife was binding up the gashed bosom of her husband,
and the maiden was wiping the death-damp from the brow of her
lover`. He came when the brave began to fear the power of
man, and the pious to doubt the favor of God. It was
then that this one joined the ranks of a revolted
people.
5. Freedom's little phalanx bade him a grateful welcome. With
them he courted the battle's rage; with theirs, his arm was
lifted; with theirs, his blood was shed. Long and doubtful
was the conflict. At length, kind Heaven smiled on the good
cause, and the beaten invaders fled. The profane were driven
from the temple of Liberty, and, at her pure shrine, the
pilgrim-warrior, with his adored commander, knelt and
worshiped. Leaving there his offering, the incense of an
uncorrupted spirit, he at length rose, and, crowned with
benedictions, turned his happy feet toward his long-deserted
home.
6. After nearly fifty years, that one has come again.
Can mortal tongue tell? can mortal heart feel, the sublimity
of that coming? Exulting millions rejoice in it; and their
loud, long, transporting shout, like the mingling of many
winds, rolls on, undying, to Freedom's farthest mountains. A
congregated nation comes around him. Old men bless him, and
children reverence him. The lovely come out to look upon him;
the learned deck their halls to greet him; the rulers of the
land rise up to do him homage.
7. How his full heart labors! He views the rusting trophies
of departed days; he treads the high places where his
brethren molder; he bends before the tomb of his "father;"
[Footnote: Washington] his words are tears,—the speech
of sad remembrance. But he looks round upon a ransomed land
and a joyous race; he beholds the blessings these trophies
secured, for which these brethren died, for which that
"father" lived; and again his words are tears,—the
eloquence of gratitude and joy.
8. Spread forth creation like a map; bid earth's dead
multitudes revive; and of all the pageant splendors that ever
glittered to the sun, when looked his burning eye on a sight
like this? Of all the myriads that have come and gone, what
cherished minion ever ruled an hour like this? Many have
struck the redeeming blow for their own freedom; but who,
like this man, has bared his bosom in the cause of strangers?
9. Others have lived in the love of their own people; but
who, like this man, has drank his sweetest cup of welcome
with another? Matchless chief! of glory's immortal tablets
there is one for him, for him alone! Oblivion shall
never shroud its splendor; the everlasting flame of Liberty
shall guard it, that the generations of men may repeat the
name recorded there, the beloved name of LA FAYETTE.
QUESTIONS.—1. Of what country was La Fayette a native?
2. What was his position at home? 3. In what condition was
this country when he came to join our army? 4. How many years
after, before he revisited this country? 5. What
demonstrations were manifested by the people? 6. What is said
of his fame?
PRO FU' SION, abundance; variety.
CON FU' SION, intricacy; indistinct movement.
COM MO TION, agitation; shaking.
RE SULT', effect.
DI MIN' ISH, lessen.
MYS' TER Y, maze; secrecy.
HIS' TO RY, plain matter of fact.
PA' GES, boy-servants; attendants.
SPAR' RING, boxing; disputing.
PUP' PETS, dolls; small figures of persons.
FIN ISH, completion.
GLO' RI OUS, grand; splendid.
RE JECT, refuse; deny.
RE FLECT' ED, turned back; borrowed.
REV. DR. HARBAUGH.
1. Weaver at his loom is sitting,
Throws his shuttle to and fro;
Foot and treadle,
Hand and pedal,
Upward, downward,
Hither, thither,
How the weaver makes them go!
As the weaver wills they go.
Up and down the web is plying,
And across the woof is flying;
What a rattling!
What a battling!
What a shuffling!
What a scuffling!
As the weaver makes his shuttle,
Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.
2. Threads in single,
Threads in double;
How they mingle!
What a trouble,
Every color!
What profusion!
Every motion—
What confusion!
While the web and woof are mingling,
Signal bells above are jingling,
Telling how each figure ranges,
Telling when the color changes,
As the weaver makes his shuttle,
Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.
3. Weaver at his loom is sitting,
Throws his shuttle to and fro;
'Mid the noise and wild confusion,
Well the weaver seems to know,
As he makes his shuttle go,
What each motion,
And commotion,
What each fusion,
And confusion,
In the grand result will show:
Weaving daily,
Singing gayly,
As he makes his busy shuttle,
Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.
4. Weaver at his loom is sitting,
Throws his shuttle to and fro;
See you not how shape and order
From the wild confusion grow,
As he makes his shuttle go'?
As the web and woof diminish,
Grows beyond the beauteous finish:
Tufted plaidings,
Shapes and shadings,
All the mystery
Now is history:
And we see the reason subtle,
Why the weaver makes his shuttle,
Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.
5. See the Mystic Weaver sitting,
High in Heaven—His loom below.
Up and down the treadles go:
Takes for web the world's long ages,
Takes for woof its kings and sages,
Takes the nobles and their pages,
Takes all stations and all stages.
Thrones are bobbins in His shuttle;
Armies make them scud and scuttle.
6. Web into the woof must flow,
Up and down the nations go,
As the Weaver wills they go.
Men are sparring,
Powers are jarring,
Upward, downward,
Hither, thither,
See how strange the nations go,
Just like puppets in a show.
Up and down the web is plying
And across the woof is flying.
What a rattling!
What a battling!
What a shuffling!
What a scuffling!
As the Weaver makes His shuttle
Hither, thither, scud and scuttle.
7. Calmly see the Mystic Weaver,
Throw His shuttle to and fro;
'Mid the noise and wild confusion,
Well the Weaver seems to know
What each motion
And commotion,
What each fusion
And confusion,
In the grand result will show,
As the nations,
Kings and stations,
Upward, downward,
Hither, thither,
As in mystic dances, go.
8. In the Present all is mystery,
In the Past 'tis beauteous History.
O'er the mixing and the mingling,
How the signal bells are jingling!
See you not the Weaver leaving
Finished work behind in weaving'?
See you not the reason subtle,
As the web and woof diminish,
Changing into beauteous finish,
Why the Weaver makes His shuttle,
Hither, thither, scud and scuttle'?
9. Glorious wonder! What a weaving!
To the dull beyond believing!
Such no fabled ages know.
Only Faith can see the mystery
How, along the aisle of History
Where the feet of sages go,
Loveliest to the purest eyes,
Grand the mystic tapet lies!
Soft and smooth and even-spreading
As if made for angels' treading;
Tufted circles touching ever,
Inwrought figures fading never;
Every figure has its plaidings,
Brighter form and softer shadings;
Each illuminated,—what a riddle!—
From a Cross that gems the middle.
10. 'Tis a saying—some reject it,—
That its light is all reflected:
That the tapet's hues are given
By a Sun that shines in Heaven!
'Tis believed, by all believing
That great God Himself is weaving!
Bringing out the world's dark mystery
In the light of Faith and History;
And, as web and woof diminish,
Comes the grand and glorious finish:
When begin the golden ages,
Long foretold by seers and sages.
QUESTIONS.—1. Describe the process of weaving. 2. Who
are weaving the web of history?
CON FOUND', perplex; confuse.
WOOF, cloth; texture.
RAR' ER, scarcer; more excellent.
PRAI' RIES, large tracts of land, with few trees, and
covered with grass.
SAV' AGE, wild; uncultivated.
SAVAN'NA, open meadow or plain.
PI O NEERS', persons that go before to prepare the way for
others.
SCOUTS, spies.
HEART' EN, encourage.
SCAN' NED, closely examined.
CLEAV' ING, parting; separating.
HOL' I DAY, day of rest or joy.
HARPERS' MAGAZINE.
1. Work away!
For the Master's eye is on us,
Never off us, still upon us,
Night and day!
Work away!
Keep the busy fingers plying,
Keep the ceaseless shuttles flying,
See that never thread lie wrong;
Let not clash or clatter round us,
Sound of whirring wheels, confound us;
Steady hand! let woof be strong
And firm, that has to last so long?
Work away!
2. Keep upon the anvil ringing
Stroke of hammer; on the gloom
Set 'twixt cradle and the tomb,
Showers of fiery sparkles flinging;
Keep the mighty furnace glowing;
Keep the red ore hissing, flowing
Swift within the ready mold;
See that each one than the old
Still be fitter, still be fairer
For the servant's use, and rarer
For the Master to behold:
Work away!
3. Work away!
For the Leader's eye is on us,
Never off us, still upon us,
Night and day!
Wide the trackless prairies round us,
Dark and unsunned woods surround us,
Steep and savage mountains bound us;
Far away
Smile the soft savannas green,
Rivers sweep and roll between:
Work away!
4. Bring your axes, woodmen true;
Smite the forest till the blue
Of heaven's sunny eye looks through
Every wild and tangled glade;
Jungled swamp and thicket shade
Give to day!
5. O'er the torrents fling your bridges,
Pioneers! Upon the ridges
Widen, smooth the rocky stair,—
They that follow far behind
Coming after us, will find
Surer, easier footing there;
Heart to heart, and hand with hand,
From the dawn to dusk of day,
Work away!
Scouts upon the mountain's peak,—
Ye that see the Promised Land,
Hearten us! for ye can speak
Of the Country ye have scanned,
Far away!
6. Work away!
For the Father's eye is on us,
Never off us, still upon us,
Night and day!
WORK AND PRAY!
Pray! and Work will be completer;
Work! and Prayer will be the sweeter;
Love! and Prayer and Work the fleeter
Will ascend upon their way!
7. Fear not lest the busy finger
Weave a net the soul to stay;
Give her wings,—she will not linger,
Soaring to the source of day;
Clearing clouds that still divide us
From the azure depths of rest,
She will come again! beside us,
With the sunshine on her breast,
Sit, and sing to us, while quickest
On their task the fingers move,
While the outward din wars thickest,
Songs that she hath learned above.
8. Live in Future as in Present;
Work for both while yet the day
Is our own! for lord and peasant,
Long and bright as summer's day,
Cometh, yet more sure, more pleasant,
Cometh soon our Holiday;
Work away!
PROP O SI' TION, proposal.
AD HE' SION, attraction.
AB SURD I TY, folly; nonsense.
VIS' ION ARY, fanciful; imaginary.
DIS CUS' SION, debate; controversy.
THE' O RY, idea; scheme of doctrine.
AM BAS' SA DOR, messenger; deputy.
NAV' I GA TORS, voyagers; seamen.
SPEC U LA' TION, theory; mental view.
EN' TER PRISE, attempt; undertaking.
FRI VOL' I TY, levity; triflingness.
PRE SENT' I MENT, previous notice.
AN TIP' O DES, (ANTI, opposite; PODES, the
feet;) having their feet opposite to ours; that is,
living on the other side of the earth.
[Headnote 1: GEN O ESE', a native of Genoa,—a famous
fortified seaport city in Northern Italy.]
[Headnote 2: LAC TAN' TIUS, one of the fathers of the Latin
church, born about the year A.D. 250. He was celebrated as a
teacher of eloquence, and before his conversion to
Christianity, had so successfully studied the great Roman
orator that he afterwards received the appellation of the
"Christian Cicero."]
FROM VINET.
QUEEN ISABELLA OF SPAIN, DON GOMEZ, AND COLUMBUS.
Isabella. And so, Don Gomez, it is your conclusion
that we ought to dismiss the proposition of this worthy
Genoese.[Headnote 1]
Don Gomez. His scheme, your majesty, seems to me
fanciful in the extreme; but I am a plain matter-of-fact man,
and do not see visions and dreams, like some.
Isa. And yet Columbus has given us cogent reasons for
believing that it is practicable to reach the eastern coast
of India by sailing in a westerly direction.
Don G. Admitting that his theory is correct, namely,
that the earth is a sphere, how would it be possible for him
to return, if he once descended that sphere in the direction
he proposes`? Would not the coming back be all up-hill'?
Could a ship accomplish it with even the most favorable
wind'?
Columbus. Will your majesty allow me to suggest that,
if the earth is a sphere, the same laws of adhesion and
motion must operate at every point on its surface; and the
objection of Don Gomez would be quite as valid against our
being able to return from crossing the Strait of Gibraltar.
Don G. This gentleman, then, would have us believe the
monstrous absurdity, that there are people on the earth who
are our antipodes,—who walk with their heads down, like
flies on the ceiling.
Col. But, your majesty, if there is a law of
attraction which makes matter gravitate to the earth, and
prevents its flying off into space, may not this law operate
at every point on the round earth's surface'?
Isa. Truly, it so seems to me; and I perceive nothing
absurd in the notion that this earth is a globe floating or
revolving in space.
Don G. May it please your majesty, the ladies are
privileged to give credence to many wild tales which we plain
matter-of-fact men can not admit. Every step I take, confutes
this visionary idea of the earth's rotundity. Would not the
blood run into my head, if I were standing upside down! Were
I not fearful of offending your majesty, I would quote what
the great Lactantius[Headnote 2] says.
Isa. We are not vain of our science, Don Gomez; so let
us have the quotation.
Don G. "Is there any one so foolish," he asks, "as to
believe that there are antipodes with their feet opposite to
ours,—that there is a part of the world in which all
things are topsy-turvy, where the trees grow with their
branches downward, and where it rains, hails, and snows,
upward'?"
Col. I have already answered this objection. If there
are people on the earth who are our antipodes, it should be
remembered that we are theirs also.
Don G. Really, that is the very point wherein we
matter-of-fact men abide by the assurance of our own senses.
We know that we are not walking with our heads downward.
Isa. To cut short the discussion, you think that the
enterprise which the Genoese proposes, is one unworthy of our
serious consideration; and that his theory of an unknown
shore to the westward of us is a fallacy.
Don G. As a plain matter-of-fact man, I must confess
that I so regard it. Has your majesty ever seen an ambassador
from this unknown coast?
Isa. Don Gomez, do you believe in the existence of a
world of spirits? Have you ever seen an ambassador from that
unknown world?
Don G. Certainly not. By faith we look forward to it.
Isa. Even so by faith does the Genoese look forward,
far over misty ocean, to an undiscovered shore.
Col. Your majesty is right; but let it be added that I
have reasons, oh! most potent and resistless reasons, for the
faith that is in me: the testimony of many navigators who
have picked up articles that must have drifted from this
distant coast: the nature of things, admitting that the earth
is round: the reports current among the people of one of the
northern nations, that many years ago their mariners had
sailed many leagues westward till they reached a shore where
the grape grew abundantly; these and other considerations
have made it the fixed persuasion of my mind, that there is a
great discovery reserved for the man who will sail patiently
westward, trusting in God's good providence, and turning not
back till he has achieved his purpose.
Don G. Then truly we should never hear of him again.
Speculation! mere speculation, your majesty! When this
gentleman can bring forward some solid facts that will induce
us plain matter-of-fact men to risk money in forwarding his
enterprise, it will then be time enough for royalty to give
it heed. Why, your majesty, the very boys in the streets
point at their foreheads as he passes along.
Isa. And so you bring forward the frivolity of boys
jeering at what they do not comprehend, as an argument why
Isabella should not give heed to this great and glorious
scheme? Ay, sir, though it should fail, still, it has been
urged in language so intelligent and convincing, by this
grave and earnest man, whom you think to undervalue by
calling him an adventurer, that I am resolved to test the
"absurdity," as you style it, and that forthwith.
Don G. Your majesty will excuse me if I remark, that I
have from your royal consort himself the assurance that the
finances are so exhausted by the late wars, that he can not
consent to advance the necessary funds for fitting out an
expedition of the kind proposed.
Isa. Be mine, then, the privilege! I have
jewels, by the pledging of which I can raise the amount
required; and I have resolved that they shall be pledged to
this enterprise, without any more delay.
Col. Your majesty shall not repent your heroic
resolve. I will return, your majesty; be sure I will return,
and lay at your feet such a jewel as never queen wore yet, an
imperishable fame,—a fame that shall couple with your
memory the benedictions of millions yet unborn, in climes yet
unknown to civilized man. There is an uplifting presentiment
in my mind, a conviction that your majesty will live to bless
the hour you came to this decision.
Don G. A presentiment? A plain matter-of-fact man,
like myself, must take leave of your majesty, if his
practical common-sense is to be met and superseded by
presentiments! An ounce of fact, your majesty, is worth a ton
of presentiment.
Isa. That depends altogether upon the source of the
presentiment, Don Gomez. If it come from the Fountain of all
truth, shall it not be good?
Don G. I humbly take my leave of your majesty.
QUESTIONS.—1. What reasons did Don Gomez advance in
proof that the earth is not a sphere? 2. What argument did
Columbus present in proof that it was? 3. What did Queen
Isabella resolve to do?
CON FIRM' ING, corroborating.
AS SUR AN CES, assertions.
MU TI NEER', one who resists orders.
IN FER' RED, concluded.
CRAV' ED, begged.
AS SO' CIA TING, joining; connecting.
EX PEC TA' TION, hope; a looking for.
VER' I FIED, made true; realized.
PHOS PHO RES' CENCE, faint light.
HES I TA' TION, doubt.
EN JOIN' ING, commanding; ordering.
AM PHI THE' A TER, circular theater.
CON TR AST' ED, set in opposition.
DE MEAN' OR, behavior.
DE FAULT', defect; absence.
IN SIG' NIA, marks; signs.
IN I' TIALS, first letters.
DEV AS TA TION, a laying waste.
LAMARTINE.
1. At sunrise, on the second day, some rashes recently torn
up, were seen near the vessels. A plank, evidently hewn by an
ax, a stick skillfully carved by some cutting instrument, a
bough of hawthorn in blossom,—and lastly, a bird's nest
built on a branch which the wind had broken, and full of
eggs, on which the parent bird was sitting amid the
gently-rolling waves,—were seen floating past on the
waters. The sailors brought on board these living and
inanimate witnesses of their approach to land. They were a
voice from the shore, confirming the assurances of Columbus.
Before the land actually appeared in sight, its neighborhood
was inferred from these marks of life.
2. The mutineers fell on their knees before the Admiral, whom
they had insulted but the day before, craved pardon for their
mistrust, and struck up a hymn of thanksgiving to God for
associating them with this triumph. Night fell on these songs
welcoming a new world. The Admiral gave orders that the sails
should be close-reefed, and the lead kept going; and that
they should sail slowly, being afraid of breakers and shoals,
and feeling certain that the first gleam of daybreak would
discover land under their bows.
3. On the last anxious night none slept. Impatient
expectation had removed all heaviness from their eyes; the
pilots and the seamen, clinging about the masts, yards, and
shrouds, each tried to keep the best place and the closest
watch to get the earliest sight of the new hemisphere. The
Admiral had offered a reward to the first who should cry
Land, provided his announcement was verified by its
actual discovery.
4. Providence, however, reserved to Columbus himself this
first glimpse, which he had purchased at the expense of
twenty years of his life, and of untiring perseverance. While
walking the quarter-deck alone, at midnight, and sweeping the
dark horizon with his keen eye, a gleam of fire passed and
disappeared, and again showed itself on the level of the
waves. Fearful of being deceived by the phosphorescence of
the sea, he quietly called a Spanish gentleman of Isabella's
court, in whom he had more confidence than in the pilots,
pointed out the direction in which he had seen the light, and
asked him whether he could discern any thing there.
5. He replied that he did, indeed, see a flickering light in
that quarter. To make the fact still more sure, Columbus
called another in whom he had confidence to look in the same
direction. He said he had no hesitation in pronouncing that
there was a light on the horizon. But the blaze was hardly
seen before it again disappeared in the ocean, to show itself
anew the next moment. Whether it was the light of a fire on a
low shore, alternately appearing and disappearing beyond the
broken horizon, or whether it was the floating beacon of a
fisherman's boat now rising on the waves, and now sinking in
the trough of the sea, they could not determine.
6. Thus both land and safety appeared together in the shape
of fire to Columbus and his two friends, on the night between
the 11th and 12th of October, 1492. The Admiral, enjoining
silence, kept his observation to himself, for fear of again
raising false hopes, and giving a bitter disappointment to
his ships' companies. He lost sight of the light, and
remained on deck until two in the morning,—praying,
hoping, and despairing alone, awaiting the triumph or the
return on which the morrow was to decide.
7. He was seized with that anguish which precedes the great
discoveries of truth, when, suddenly, a cannon-shot, sounding
over the sea, a few hundred yards in advance of him, burst
upon his ear the announcement of a new-born world,
which made him tremble, and fall upon his knees. It was the
signal of land in sight! made by firing a shot, as had been
arranged with the Pinta, which was sailing in advance
of the squadron, to guide their course and take soundings.
8. At this signal a general shout of "Land ho!" arose
from all the yards and riggings of the ships. The sails were
furled, and daybreak was anxiously awaited. The mystery of
the ocean had breathed its first whisper in the bosom of
night. Daybreak would clear it up openly to every eye.
Delicious and unknown perfumes reached the vessels from the
outline of the shore, with the roar of the waves upon the
reefs and the soft land breeze.
9. The fire seen by Columbus indicated the presence of man,
and of the first element of civilization. Never did the night
appear so long in clearing away from the horizon; for this
horizon was to Columbus and his companions a second creation
of God. The dawn, as it spread over the sky, gradually raised
the shores of an island from the waves. Its distant
extremities were lost in the morning mist. It ascended
gradually, like an amphitheater, from the low beach to the
summit of the hills, whose dark-green covering contrasted
strongly with the blue heavens.
10. Within a few paces from where the foam of the waves
breaks on the yellow sand, forests of tall and unknown trees
stretched away, one above another, over the successive
terraces of the island. Green valleys and bright clefts in
the hollows, afforded a half glimpse into these mysterious
wilds. Here and there could be discovered a few scattered
huts, which, with their outlines and roofs of dry leaves,
looked like bee-hives, and thin columns of blue smoke rose
above the tops of the trees. Half-naked groups of men, women,
and children, more astonished than frightened, appeared among
the thickets near the shore, advancing timidly, and then
drawing back, exhibiting, by their gestures and demeanor, as
much fear as curiosity and wonder, at the sight of these
strange vessels, which the previous night had brought to
their shores.
11. Columbus, after gazing in silence on this foremost shore
of the land so often determined by his calculations, and so
magnificently colored by his imagination, found it to exceed
even his own expectations. He burned with impatience to be
the first European to set foot on the sand, and to plant the
flag of Spain,—the standard of the conquest of God and
of his sovereigns, effected by his genius. But he restrained
the eagerness of himself and of his crew to land, being
desirous of giving to the act of taking possession of a new
world, a solemnity worthy of the greatest deed,
perhaps, ever accomplished by a seaman; and, in default of
men, to call God and His angels, sea, earth, and sky, as
witnesses of his conquest of an unknown hemisphere.
12. He put on all the insignia of his dignities as Admiral of
the Ocean, and the Viceroy of these future realms; he wrapped
himself in his purple cloak, and taking in his hand an
embroidered flag, in which the initials of Ferdinand and
Isabella were interlaced, like their two kingdoms, and,
surmounted by a crown, he entered his boat, and pulled toward
the shore, followed by the boats of his two lieutenants.
13. On landing, he fell on his knees, to acknowledge, by this
act of humility and worship, the goodness and greatness of
God in this new sphere of His works. He kissed the ground,
and, with his face on the earth, he wept tears of double
import, as they fell on the dust of this hemisphere, now, for
the first time, visited by Europeans,—tears of joy for
the overflowing of a proud spirit, grateful and
pious,—tears of sadness for this virgin soil, seeming
to foreshadow the calamities, and devastation, with fire and
sword, and blood and destruction, which the strangers were to
bring with their pride, their knowledge, and their power.
14. It was the man that shed these tears; but it was
the earth that was destined to weep. As Columbus
raised his forehead from the dust, with a Latin prayer, which
his companions have handed down to us, he thus addressed the
Sovereign Ruler of the world: (sl.) "Almighty and
eternal God, who, by the energy of thy creative word, hast
made the firmament, the earth, and sea, blessed and glorified
be Thy name in all places! May Thy majesty and dominion be
exalted forever and ever, as Thou hast permitted Thy holy
name to be made known and spread by the most humble of Thy
servants, in this hitherto unknown portion of Thy empire."
15. He then gave to this land the name of San Salvador. His
lieutenants, his pilots, and his seamen, full of gladness,
and impressed with a superstitious respect for him whose
glance had pierced beyond the visible horizon, and whom they
had offended by their unbelief,—overcome by the
evidence of their eyes, and by that mental superiority which
overawes the minds of men,—fell at the feet of the
Admiral, kissed his hands and his clothes, and recognized,
for a moment, the power and the almost divine nature of
genius; yesterday the victims of his
obstinacy,—now the companions of his success,
and sharers in the glory which they had mocked. Such is
humanity,—persecuting discoverers, yet reaping the
fruits of their inventions.
QUESTIONS.—1. What evidences had Columbus that land was
near? 2. What did the mutineers do? 3. In what month and year
was the new world discovered? 4. What is said of the
natives? 5. What did Columbus do on landing? 6. What was the
conduct of the officers and seamen?
FER' MENT, heat; glow.
EN THU' SI ASM, excitement.
PRO DIG' IOUS, very great.
SPEC I MENS, samples.
LEAGU' ED, joined; banded.
PER SUAD' ED, convinced.
PRE POS' TEROUS, absurd; ridiculous.
VAUNT' ED, boasted.
DE LU' SION, deception.
CRED' U LOUS, apt to believe.
UN RE LI' A BLE, untrustworthy.
SUS PI'' CION, doubt; mistrust.
VINET.
DON GOMEZ AND HIS SECRETARY.
Don Gomez. WHAT! what is this you tell me? Columbus
returned? A new world discovered? Impossible!
Secretary. It is even so, sir. A courier arrived at
the palace but an hour since with the intelligence. Columbus
was driven by stress of weather to anchor in the Tagus. All
Portugal is in a ferment of enthusiasm, and all Spain will be
equally excited soon. The sensation is prodigious!
Don G. Oh, it is a trick! It must be a trick!
Sec. But he has brought home the proofs of his
visit,—gold and precious stones, strange plants and
animals; and, above all, specimens of a new race of men,
copper-colored, with straight hair.
Don G. Still I say, a trick! He has been coasting
along the African shore, and there collected a few
curiosities, which he is passing off for proofs of his
pretended discovery.
Sec. It is a little singular that all his men should
be leagued with him in keeping up so unprofitable a
falsehood.
Don G. But 'tis against reason, against common sense,
that such a discovery should be made.
Sec. King John of Portugal has received him with royal
magnificence, has listened to his accounts, and is persuaded
that they are true.
Don G. We shall see, we shall see. Look you, sir, a
plain matter-of-fact man, such as I, is not to be taken in by
any such preposterous story! This vaunted discovery will turn
out no discovery at all.
Sec. The king and queen have given orders for
preparations on the most magnificent scale for the reception
of Columbus.
Don G. What delusion! Her majesty is so credulous. A
practical, common-sense man, like myself, can find no points
of sympathy in her nature.
Sec. The Indians on board the returned vessels, are
said to be unlike any known race of men.
Don G. Very unreliable all that! I take the
common-sense view of the thing. I am a matter-of-fact man;
and do you remember what I say, it will all turn out a trick!
The crews may have been deceived. Columbus may have steered a
southerly course, instead of a westerly. Any thing is
probable, rather than that a coast to the westward of us has
been discovered.
Sec. I saw the courier, who told me he had conversed
with all the sailors; and they laughed at the suspicion that
there could be any mistake about the discovery, or that any
other than a westerly course had been steered.
Don G. Still I say, a trick! An unknown coast reached
by steering west? Impossible! The earth a globe, and men
standing with their heads down in space? Folly! An ignorant
sailor from Genoa in the right, and all our learned doctors
and philosophers in the wrong? Nonsense! I'm a
matter-of-fact man, sir. I will believe what I can see, and
handle, and understand. But as for believing in the
antipodes, or that the earth is round, or that Columbus has
discovered land to the west,— Ring the bell, sir; call
my carriage; I will go to the palace and undeceive the king.
HAR' BIN GER, forerunner; precursor.
UN PIL' LAR ED, unsupported by pillars.
UN YIELDING, stubborn.
DE CREES', edicts; laws.
HAL' LOW ED, sacred; consecrated.
MOLD' ER ING, decaying.
GRENVILLE MULLEN.
1. Wake your harp's music!—louder,—higher,
And pour your strains along;
And smite again each quivering wire,
In all the pride of song!
(f.) Shout like those godlike men of old,
Who, daring storm and foe,
On this blessed soil their anthem rolled,
TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO!
2. From native shores by tempests driven,
They sought a purer sky;
And found, beneath a milder heaven,
The home of Liberty!
An altar rose,—and prayers,—a ray
Broke on their night of woe,—
The harbinger of Freedom's day,
TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO!
3. They clung around that symbol too,
Their refuge and their all;
And swore, while skies and waves were blue,
That altar should not fall!
They stood upon the red man's sod,
'Neath heaven's unpillared bow,
With home,—a country, and a God,—
TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO!
4. Oh! 'twas a hard, unyielding fate
That drove them to the seas;
And Persecution strove with Hate,
To darken her decrees:
But safe, above each coral grave,
Each booming ship did go,—
A God was on the western wave,—
TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO!
5. They knelt them on the desert sand,
By waters cold and rude,
Alone upon the dreary strand
Of oceaned solitude!
They looked upon the high, blue air,
And felt their spirits glow,
Resolved to live or perish there,—
TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO!
6. The warrior's red right arm was bared,
His eyes flashed deep and wild:
Was there a foreign footstep dared
To seek his home and child'?
The dark chiefs yelled alarm, and swore
The white man's blood should flow,
And his hewn bones should bleach their shore,
TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO!
7. But lo! the warrior's eye grew dim,—
His arm was left alone;
The still, black wilds which sheltered him,
No longer were his own!
Time fled,—and on the hallowed ground
His highest pine lies low,—
And cities swell where forests frowned,
TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO!
8. Oh! stay not to recount the tale,—
'Twas bloody, and 'tis past;
The firmest cheek might well grow pale,
To hear it to the last.
The God of Heaven who prospers us,
Could bid a nation grow,
And shield us from the red man's curse,—
TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO!
9. Come, then,—great shades of glorious men,
From your still glorious grave!
Look on your own proud land again,
O bravest of the brave!
We call you from each mouldering tomb,
And each blue wave below,
To bless the world ye snatched from doom,
TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO!
10. Then to your harps!—yet louder,—higher
And pour your strains along;
And smite again each quivering wire,
In all the pride of song!
(f.)Shout for those godlike men of old,
Who, daring storm and foe,
On this blessed soil their anthem rolled,
TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO!
QUESTIONS.—1. Who are meant by godlike men of
old? 2. Why did they flee to this country? 3. Who warred
against them?
SE RENE' LY, calmly; quietly.
SUR MOUNT', rise above; overcome.
TRAMP, tread, or travel.
EB' ON, black, as ebony.
GUARD' I AN, defender; protector.
CHIV' AL RIC, brave; heroic.
MAIL, defensive armor.
EX ALT', lift up.
FRAIL' TY, weakness.
BLIGHT' ED, blasted.
RE NOWN', fame; celebrity.
STEAD' FAST, firm; resolute.
IN TER VENE', (INTER, between; VENE, to come;)
come between; interpose.
SUC CEED', (SUC, after; CEED, to come;) come
after; follow.
PARK BENJAMIN.
1. Press on! there's no such word as fail!
Press nobly on! the goal is near,—
Ascend the mountain! breast the gale!
Look upward, onward,—never fear!
Why shouldst thou faint? Heaven smiles above,
Though storms and vapor intervene;
That Sun shines on, whose name is Love,
Serenely o'er Life's shadowed scene.
2. Press on! surmount the rocky steeps,
Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch:
He fails alone who feebly creeps;
He wins, who dares the hero's march.
Be thou a hero! let thy might
Tramp on eternal snows its way,
And, through the ebon walls of night,
Hew down a passage unto day.
3. Press on! if once and twice thy feet
Slip back and stumble, harder try;
From him who never dreads to meet
Danger and death, they're sure to fly.
To coward ranks the bullet speeds;
While on their breasts who never quail,
Gleams, guardian of chivalric deeds,
Bright courage, like a coat of mail.
4. Press on! if Fortune play thee false
To-day, to-morrow she'll be true;
Whom now she sinks she now exalts,
Taking old gifts and granting new.
The wisdom of the present hour
Makes up her follies past and gone:
To weakness strength succeeds, and power
From frailty springs;—press on! PRESS ON!
5. Press on! what though upon the ground
Thy love has been poured out like rain?
That happiness is always found
The sweetest, which is born of pain.
Oft 'mid the forest's deepest glooms,
A bird sings from some blighted tree,
And, in the dreariest desert, blooms
A never-dying rose for thee.
6. Therefore, press on! and reach the goal,
And gain the prize, and wear the crown:
Faint not! for, to the steadfast soul,
Come wealth, and honor, and renown.
To thine own self be true, and keep
Thy mind from sloth, thy heart from soil;
Press on! and thou shalt surely reap
A heavenly harvest for thy toil!
QUESTIONS.—1. What encouragement is given to those who
press on? 2. Who fails, and who wins? 3. What is said of
those who never dread to meet danger and death? 4. How are
they rewarded, who press on?
EX PAND, develop; enlarge.
EL E VATE, raise; dignify.
VAR RI A BLE, changeable.
PHAN TAS MA GO' RIA, magic lantern; illusive
representations.
UN' DU LA TING, waving; irregular.
MO BIL'I TY, movableness; readiness to move.
DO' CILE, teachable; obedient.
CE LES' TIAL, heavenly.
DIS' SI PATES, scatters, or confuses.
IN FIN' I TY, boundlessness.
GYM NAS' TIC, athletic exercise.
O PAC' I TY, state of being opaque or dark.
PA THET' IC, feeling; tender.
IN DOM' I TA BLE, unconquerable.
CO-OP' ER ATE, work with; join with.
MOUNT PER' DU, one of the high summits of the Pyrenees
mountains, in Spain. The name signifies "Lost Mountain;" in
allusion, probably, to its peak being lost in the clouds.
FROM THE FRENCH OF MICHELET.
1. There are three forms of Nature, which especially command
and elevate our souls, release her from her heavy clay and
earthly limits, and send her, exulting, to sail amidst the
wonders and mysteries of the Infinite. First, there is
the unstable Ocean of Air with its glorious banquet of
light, its vapors, its twilight, and its shifting
phantasmagoria of capricious creatures, coming into existence
only to depart the next instant.
2. Second, there is the fixed Ocean of the
Earth, its undulating and vast waves, as we see them from
the tops of "the earth o'er gazing mountains," the elevations
which testify to antique mobility, and the sublimity of its
mightier mountain-tops, clad in eternal snows. Third,
there is the Ocean of Waters, less mobile than air,
less fixed than earth, but liable, in its movements, to the
celestial bodies.
3. These three things form the gamut by which the
Infinite speaks to our souls. Nevertheless, let us point out
some very notable differences. The Air-ocean is so
mobile that we can scarcely examine it. It deceives; it
decoys; it diverts; it dissipates, and breaks up our chain of
thought.
4. For an instant, it is an immense hope, the day of all
infinity; anon, it is not so; all flies from before us, and
our hearts are grieved, agitated, and filled with doubt. Why
have I been permitted to see for a moment that immense flood
of light? The memory of that brief gleaming must ever abide
with me, and that memory makes all things here on earth look
dark.
5. The fixed Ocean of the mountains is not thus
transient or fugitive; on the contrary, it stops us at every
step, and imposes upon us the necessity of a very hard,
though wholesome gymnastic. Contemplation here has to be
bought at the price of the most violent action. Nevertheless,
the opacity of the earth, like the transparency of the air,
frequently deceives and bewilders us. Who can forget that for
ten years, Ramon, in vain, sought to reach Mount Perdu though
often within sight of it?
6. Great, very great, is the difference between the
elements; the earth is mute and the ocean speaks. The ocean
is a voice. It speaks to the distant stars; it answers to
their movements in its deep and solemn language. It speaks to
the earth on the shores, replying to the echoes that reply
again; by turns wailing, soothing, threatening—its
deepest roar is presently succeeded by a sad, pathetic
silence.
7. And it especially addresses itself to man. It is
creation's living eloquence. It is Life speaking to Life. The
millions, the countless myriads of beings to which it gives
birth, are its words. All these, mingled together make the
unity, the great and solemn voice of the ocean. And "what are
those wild waves saying?" They are talking of
Life,—of Immortality.
8. An indomitable strength is at the bottom of
Nature—how much more so at Nature's summit, the Soul!
And it speaks of partnership, of union. Let us accept the
swift exchange which, in the individual, exists between the
diverse elements; let us accept the superior Law which unites
the living members of the same body—Humanity; and,
still more, let us accept and respect the supreme Law which
makes us co-operate with the great Soul, associated as we
are—in proportion with our powers—with the loving
harmony of the world—copartners in the life of God.
QUESTIONS.—1. What are three great forms of Nature? 2.
What is said of the Air-ocean? 3. How does the Ocean address
itself to man?
MO NOP' O LIZED, engrossed.
CEL' E BRA TED, praised; talked of.
PO' TENT LY, powerfully.
MAR' I TIME, pertaining to sea.
SA GAC' I TY, acuteness.
IN TRE PID' I TY, daring valor.
SAN' GUINE, bloody; cruel.
EC CEN TRIC' I TY, peculiarity, oddity.
WA' RI NESS, cautiousness.
ED' I BLE, eatable.
E MAN' CI PA TED, freed; liberated.
IN TER ME' DI ATE, lying between.
DEV AS TA TING, laying waste.
DOUB' LE, sail around.
[Headnote 1: BASQUES, (basks), an ancient and peculiar
people, living on the slopes of the Pyrenees Mountains.]
[Headnote 2: BRE' TON, a native of Brittany, an ancient
province in France.]
[Headnote 3: NOR' MAN, that is, Northman, a name given to the
ancient inhabitants of Norway, Denmark, and Sweden, and
afterward to their descendants who settled in the north of
France.]
FROM THE FRENCH OF MICHELET.
1. Who opened up to men the great distant navigation? Who
revealed the ocean, and marked out its zones and its liquid
highways? Who discovered the secrets of the globe? The
Whale and the Whaler! And all this before Columbus and
the famous gold-seekers, who have monopolized all the glory,
found again, with much outcry about their discovery, what had
so long before been discovered by the whalers.
2. That crossing of the ocean, which was so boastfully
celebrated in the fifteenth century, had often been made, not
only by the narrow passage between Iceland and Greenland,
but, also, by the open sea; for the Basques[Headnote 1] went
to Newfoundland. The smallest danger was the mere voyage; for
these men, who went to the very end of the then known
world, to challenge the whale to single combat, to steer
right away into the Northern sea, to attack the mighty
monster, amid darkness and storms, with the dense fog all
around, and the foaming waves below,—those who could do
this, were not the men to shrink from the ordinary dangers of
the voyage.
3. Noble warfare! Great school of courage! That fishery was
not then, as it is now, an easy war to wage,
made from a distance, and with a potently murderous machine.
No; the fisher then struck with his own strong hand, impelled
and guided by his own fearless heart, and he risked life to
take life. The men of that day killed but few whales; but
they gained infinitely in maritime ability, in patience, in
sagacity, and in intrepidity. They brought back less
of oil; but more, far more of glory.
4. Every nation has its own peculiar genius. We recognize
each by its own style of procedure. There are a hundred forms
of courage, and these graduated varieties formed, as it were,
another heroic game. At the North, the Scandinavian, the rude
race from Norway to Flanders, had their sanguine fury. At the
South, the wild burst, the gay daring, the clear-headed
excitement, that impelled, at once, and guided them over the
world. In the center, the silent and patient firmness of the
Breton[Headnote 2], who yet, in the hour of danger, could
display a quite sublime eccentricity. And, lastly, the
Norman[Headnote 3] wariness, considerately courageous; daring
all, but daring all for success. Such was the beauty of man,
in that sovereign manifestation of human courage.
5. We owe a vast deal to the whale. But for it, the fishers
would still have hugged the shore; for, almost every edible
fish seeks the shore and the river. It was the whale that
emancipated them, and led them afar. It led them onward, and
onward still, until they found it, after having almost
unconsciously passed from one world to the other. Greenland
did not seduce them; it was not the land that they
sought; but the sea, and the tracks of the whale.
6. The ocean at large is its home, and especially the
broad and open sea. Each species has its especial preference
for this or that latitude,—for a certain zone of water,
more or less cold. And it was that preference which
traced out the great divisions of the Atlantic. The tribe of
inferior whales, that have a dorsal fin, are to be found in
the warmest and in the coldest seas,—under the line and
in the polar seas.
7. In the great intermediate region, the fierce Cachalot
inclines toward the south, devastating the warm waters. On
the contrary, the Free Whale fears the warm waters,—we
should rather say, that they did, formerly, fear
them,—they have become so scarce. They are never found
in the warm southern current; it is that fact that led
to the current being noticed, and thence to the discovery of
the true course from America to Europe. From Europe to
America, the trade winds will serve us.
8. If the Free Whale has a perfect horror of the warm waters,
and can not pass the equator, it is clear that he can not
double the southern end of America. How happens it, then,
that when he is wounded on one side of America, in the
Atlantic, he is sometimes found on the other side of America,
and in the Pacific? It proves that there is a
north-western passage. Another discovery which we owe to
the whale, and one which throws a broad light alike on the
form of the globe, and the geography of the seas!
9. By degrees, the whale has led us everywhere. Rare as he is
at present, he has led us to both poles, from the uttermost
recesses of the Pacific to Behring's Strait, and the infinite
wastes of the Antarctic waters. There is even an enormous
region that no vessel, whether war-ship or merchantman, ever
traverses, at a few degrees beyond the southern points of
America and Africa. No one visits that region but the whaler.
QUESTIONS.—1. What has been done by the whaler? 2. By
whom had Newfoundland been discovered? 3. What is said of the
courage of the whaler? 4. What proof is given that there is a
north-western passage, by water, from the Atlantic to the
Pacific?
THRALL' DOM, bondage; slavery.
IG NO' BLE, mean; degraded.
HORDE, clan; tribe.
FEUD' AL, pertaining to military tenure.
DES' POTS, tyrants.
PAL' TRY, mean; contemptible.
RAP' INE,(rapin;) plunder; violence.
FOR SOOTH', in truth; in fact.
RUF' FIAN, robber; cut-throat.
SERV' ILE, slavish; cringing.
LIM' NERS, painters.
DIS CI' PLE, learner; follower.
CORSE, corpse; dead body.
BRAWL, wrangle; contention.
DIS TAIN' ED, sullied; stained.
ECH' O ED, resounded.
[Footnote: RI EN' ZI, the last of the Roman Tribunes, was
born in Rome about the year 1310. He was assassinated Oct.
8th, 1354 He was a person of extraordinary eloquence. In his
day, Rome was a prey to contending factions of nobles. This
kept the city in constant turmoil, and subjected the people
to continual abuse and tyranny. It was the endeavor of Rienzi
to arouse them to a resolution to be free.]
MISS MITFORD.
1. Friends!
I come not here to talk. You know too well
The story of our thralldom. We are slaves!
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights
A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beam
Falls on a slave: not such as, swept along
By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads
To crimson glory and undying fame;
But base, ignoble slaves! slaves to a horde
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords,
Rich in some dozen paltry villages;
Strong in some hundred spearmen; only great
In that strange spell,—a name.
2. Each hour, dark fraud,
Or open rapine, or protected murder,
Cries out against them. But this very day,
An honest man, my neighbor,—there he stands,
Was struck, struck like a dog, by one who wore
The badge of Ursini; because, forsooth,
He tossed not high his ready cap in air,
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts,
At sight of that great ruffian!
3. (f.) Be we men,
And suffer such dishonor'? MEN, and wash not
The stain away in blood'? Such shames are common!
I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to ye,
I had a brother once, a gracious boy,
Full of gentleness, of calmest hope,
Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look
Of heaven upon his face, which limners give
To the beloved disciple!
4. How I loved
That gracious boy! Younger by fifteen years,
Brother at once, and son! He left my side,
A summer bloom on his fair cheek,—a smile
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour,
That pretty, harmless boy was slain! (p.) I saw
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried
For vengeance! (ff.) Rouse ye, Romans!—ROUSE YE, SLAVES!
Have ye brave sons? Look in the next fierce brawl
To see them die! Have ye fair daughters? Look
To see them live, torn from your arms, distained,
Dishonored; and if ye dare call for justice,
Be answered by the lash!
5. Yet this is Rome,
That sat on her seven hills, and, from her throne
Of beauty, ruled the world! Yet we are Romans!
Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman,
Was greater than a king! And once again,—
Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread
Of either Brutus! Once again I swear,
The eternal city shall be free!
QUESTIONS.—1. In what condition did the writer say the
Roman people were? 2. What wrongs are complained of? 3. What
special cases are mentioned? 4. What are the people exhorted
to do? 5. What is the meaning of the suffix dom, in
the word thralldom? See ANALYSIS, page 142, Ex. 189.
6. What is the meaning of the suffix less, in the word
harmless? See page 140, Ex. 187. 7. How, according to
the notation mark, should the first part of the third verse
be read? 8. What rule for the rising inflections, third
verse? See page 28, Rule I.
MUL' TI PLY, increase; continue.
COL'TER, part of the plow that cuts the sod.
GE' NI AL, productive.
BE NIG' NANT, kind; bounteous.
SAUN' TER ING, loitering.
WOOD' BINE, honeysuckle.
RE SPLEN DENT, splendid, beautiful.
PO' TENT, powerful.
ROAD' STEAD, place where ships may anchor.
RE LI' ANT, trusting; depending.
PES TI LEN' TIAL, infectious; noxious.
PER PET' U AL, continual.
STER' ILE, barren.
[Headnote 1: LE ON' I DAS, the celebrated Spartan leader who,
with three hundred men, perished in the effort to resist the
Persian hosts, at the mountain pass of Thermopylae, (B.C.,
480.)]
[Headnote 2: MARS' TON, that is, Marston Moor, a place in
Yorkshire, England, memorable for the defeat of Charles I.,
(in 1644,) by the forces of Cromwell and others.]
[Headnote 3: BAN' NOCK BURN, a village in Stirlingshire,
Scotland, famous for the battle between the patriots, under
Robert Bruce, and the English invading army, under Edward
II., fought, June 25, 1314.]
[Headnote 4: AR MA' DA, a great naval armament sent by Philip
II. of Spain, in 1588, for the conquest of England. It failed
utterly, however, of its object, having been scattered and
disabled by violent storms.]
1. Clang! clang! the massive anvils ring,—
Clang! clang! a hundred hammers swing,
Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky,
The mighty blows still multiply:
Clang! clang!
Say, brothers of the dusky brow,
What are your strong arms forging now?
2. Clang! clang!—we forge the colter now—
The colter of the kindly plow;
Benignant Father, bless our toil;
May its broad furrow still unbind
To genial rains, to sun and wind,
The most productive soil!
3. Clang! clang!—our colter's course shall be
On many a sweet and sunny lea,
By many a streamlet's silver tide,
Amidst the song of morning birds,
Amidst the low of sauntering herds,
Amidst soft breezes which do stray
Through woodbine-hedges and sweet May,
Along the green hill's side.
4. When regal Autumn's bounteous hand,
With wide-spread glory clothes the land,—
When, to the valleys, from the brow
Of each resplendent slope, is rolled
A ruddy sea of living gold,
We bless,—we bless the PLOW.
5. Clang! clang!—again, my mates, what glows
Beneath the hammer's potent blows?
Clink! clank!—we forge the giant chain,
Which bears the gallant vessel's strain,
'Midst stormy winds and adverse tides;
Secured by this, the good ship braves
The rocky roadstead and the waves
Which thunder on her sides.
6. Anxious no more, the merchant sees
The mist drive dark before the breeze.
The storm-cloud on the hill;
Calmly he rests, though, far away
In boisterous climes, his vessel lay
Reliant on our skill.
7. Say, on what sands these links shall sleep,
Fathoms beneath the solemn deep`?
By Afric's pestilential shore',—
By many an iceberg, lone and hoar',—
By many a palmy western isle,
Basking in spring's perpetual smile',—
By stormy Labrador'?
8. Say, shall they feel the vessel reel,
When, to the battery's deadly peal,
The crashing broadside makes reply'?
Or else, as at the glorious Nile,
Hold grappling ships, that strive the while,
For death or victory'?
9. Hurrah!—cling! clang!—once more, what glows,
Dark brothers of the forge, beneath
The iron tempest of your blows
The furnace's fiery breath?
10. Clang! clang!—a burning torrent, clear
And brilliant, of bright sparks is poured
Around and up in the dusky air,
As our hammers forge the SWORD.
11. The sword! a name of dread; yet when
Upon the freeman's thigh 'tis bound,
While for his altar and his hearth,—
While for the land that gave him birth,
The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound,
How sacred is it then!
12. Whenever for the truth and right
It flashes in the van of fight,
Whether in some wild mountain pass
As that where fell Leonidas[Headnote 1];
Or on some sterile plain and stern,
A Marston[Headnote 2] or a Bannockburn[Headnote 3];
Or, mid fierce crags and bursting rills,
The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills,—
Or, as when sunk the Armada's[Headnote 4] pride,
It gleams above the stormy tide,—
Still, still, whene'er the battle word
Is LIBERTY, when men do stand
For justice and their native land,
Then Heaven bless THE SWORD!
QUESTIONS.—1. What things are mentioned as being
forged? 2. What is said of the colter? 3. What, of the iron
cable? 4. What, of the sword?
BEN E FAC' TION, gift; favor.
E LATE', flushed with success.
IN HER' ENT, natural.
PER FEC' TION, excellence.
VIG' ILS, watchfulness.
UN BRIB' ED, not influenced by gifts.
CON SO LA' TION, comfort.
AV' E NUE, way; entrance.
A TROC' I TIES, enormities.
MOCK' ER Y, derision; ridicule.
FAC' UL TIES, powers of the mind.
CA PAC' I TIES, abilities.
I.
SWIFTNESS OF TIME.
IDLER.
Let him that desires to see others happy, make haste to give
while his gift can be enjoyed, and remember that every moment
of delay takes away something from the value of his
benefaction. And let him who proposes his own happiness,
reflect, that while he forms his purpose, the days roll on,
and "the night cometh when no man can work."
II.
THE SHIP OF STATE.
LONGFELLOW.
Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
Sail on, O Union, strong and great!
Humanity, with all its fears,
With all the hopes of future years,
Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
We know what Master laid thy keel,
What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
In what a forge, and what a heat,
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope.
III.
THE TRUE HERO.
HORACE BUSHNELL.
The true hero is the great, wise man of duty,—he whose
soul is armed by truth and supported by the smile of
God,—he who meets life's perils with a cautious but
tranquil spirit, gathers strength by facing its storms, and
dies, if he is called to die, as a Christian victor at the
post of duty. And, if we must have heroes, and wars wherein
to make them, there is none so brilliant as a war with
wrong,—no hero so fit to be sung as he who hath gained
the bloodless victory of truth and mercy.
IV.
HEART ESSENTIAL TO GENIUS.
W.G. SIMMS.
We are not always equal to our fate,
Nor true to our conditions. Doubt and fear
Beset the bravest, in their high career,
At moments when the soul, no more elate
With expectation, sinks beneath the time.
The masters have their weakness. "I would climb,"
Said Raleigh, gazing on the highest hill,—
"But that I tremble with the fear to fall."
Apt was the answer of the high-souled queen:
"If thy heart fail thee, never climb at all!"
The heart! if that be sound, confirms the rest,
Crowns genius with his lion will and mien,
And, from the conscious virtue in the breast,
To trembling nature gives both strength and will.
V.
EDUCATION.
ADDISON.
I consider a human soul without education, like marble in the
quarry, which shows none of its inherent beauties until the
skill of the polisher fetches out the colors, makes the
surface shine, and discovers every ornamental cloud, spot,
and vein that runs through the body of it. Education, after
the same manner, when it works upon a noble mind, draws out
every latent virtue and perfection, which, without such
helps, are never able to make their appearance.
VI.
THE VANITY OF WEALTH.
DR. JOHNSON.
No more thus brooding o'er yon heap,
With av'rice painful vigils keep;
Still unenjoyed the present store,
Still endless sighs are breathed for more.
Oh! quit the shadow, catch the prize,
Which not all India's treasure buys!
To purchase Heaven has gold the power'?
Can gold remove the mortal hour?
In life, can love be bought with gold?
Are friendship's pleasures to be sold?
No; all that's worth a wish—a thought,
Fair Virtue gives unbribed, unbought.
Cease then on trash thy hopes to bind;
Let nobler views engage thy mind.
VII.
CONSOLATION OF THE GOSPEL.
A. ALEXANDER.
Oh, precious gospel! Will any merciless hand endeavor to tear
away from our hearts, this last, this sweetest consolation?
Would you darken the only avenue through which one ray of
hope can enter? Would you tear from the aged and infirm poor
the only prop on which their souls can repose in peace? Would
you deprive the dying of their only source of consolation?
Would you rob the world of its richest treasure? Would you
let loose the flood-gates of every vice, and bring back upon
the earth the horrors of superstition, or the atrocities of
atheism? Then endeavor to subvert the gospel; throw around
you the firebrands of infidelity; laugh at religion, and make
a mockery of futurity; but be assured that for all these
things, God will bring you into judgment.
VIII.
THE LIGHT OF HOPE.
O.W.B. PEABODY.
1. Oh, who that has gazed, in the stillness of even,
On the fast-fading hues of the west,
Has seen not afar, in the bosom of heaven,
Some bright little mansion of rest,
And mourned that the path to a region so fair
Should be shrouded with sadness and fears;—
That the night-winds of sorrow, misfortune, and care,
Should sweep from the deep-rolling waves of despair,
To darken this cold world of tears?
2. And who that has gazed, has not longed for an hour,
When misfortune forever shall cease;
And Hope, like the rainbow, unfold, through the shower,
Her bright-written promise of peace?
And, oh! if that rainbow of promise may shine
On the last scene of life's wint'ry gloom,
May its light in the moment of parting be mine;
I ask but one ray from a source so divine,
To brighten the vale of the tomb.
IX.
PAMPERING THE BODY AND STARVING THE SOUL.
EDWARD EVERETT.
1. What`! feed a child's body, and let his soul hunger'?
pamper his limbs, and starve his faculties'? Plant the earth,
cover a thousand hills with your droves of cattle, pursue the
fish to their hiding-places in the sea, and spread out your
wheat-fields across the plain, in order to supply the wants
of that body which will soon be as cold and as senseless as
the poorest clod, and let the pure spiritual essence within
you, with all its glorious capacities for improvement,
languish and pine'?
2. What`! build factories, turn in rivers upon the
water-wheels, unchain the imprisoned spirits of steam, to
weave a garment for the body, and let the soul remain
unadorned and naked'? What`! send out your vessels to the
furthest ocean, and make battle with the monsters of the
deep, in order to obtain the means of lighting up your
dwellings and workshops, and prolonging the hours of labor
for the meat that perisheth, and permit that vital spark,
which God has kindled, which He has intrusted to our care, to
be fanned into a bright and heavenly flame,—permit it,
I say, to languish and go out'?
3. What considerate man can enter a school, and not reflect,
with awe, that it is a seminary where immortal minds are
training for eternity'? What parent but is, at times, weighed
down with the thought, that there must be laid the
foundations of a building which will stand, when not merely
temple and palace, but the perpetual hills and adamantine
rocks on which they rest, have melted away`!—that a
light may there be kindled which will shine, not
merely when every artificial beam is extinguished, but when
the affrighted sun has fled away from the heavens`?
FRUIT' AGE, collection of fruits.
WAX' ES, grows; increases.
JU' BI LANT, joyous.
TINGE, imbue.
GLO' RI FI ED, exalted to glory.
UN WA' RY, incautious.
FAM' ISH ED, afflicted with hunger.
BAN' ISH ED, driven out; expelled.
RE NEW' ED, made new again.
MA TUR' ING, ripening.
VINT' AGE, produce of the vine.
DIS LOY' AL TY, unfaithfulness.
BE QUEATH' ED, left by inheritance.
CON SID' ER ATE, thoughtful.
RE VIV' I FY, (RE, again; VIV, live; IFY,
to make;) to make alive again, to bring to life;
renew.
GAIL HAMILTON.
1. "We all do fade as a leaf." Change is the essence
of life. "Passing away," is written on all things; and
passing away is passing on from strength to strength, from
glory to glory. Spring has its growth, summer its fruitage,
and autumn its festive in-gathering. The spring of eager
preparation waxes into the summer of noble work; mellowing in
its turn into the serene autumn, the golden-brown haze of
October, when the soul may robe itself in jubilant drapery,
awaiting the welcome command, "Come up higher," where
mortality shall be swallowed up in life.
2. Why, then, should autumn tinge our thoughts with sadness.
We fade as the leaf, and the leaf fades only to revivify.
Though it fall, it shall rise again. Does the bud fear to
become a blossom, or the blossom shudder as it swells into
fruit; and shall the redeemed weep that they must become
glorified'? Strange inconsistency`! We faint with the burden
and the heat of the day. We bow down under the crosses that
are laid upon our shoulders. We are bruised and torn by the
snares and pitfalls which beset our way, and into which our
unwary feet often fall.
3. We are famished, and foot-sore, and travel-stained, from
our long journey, and yet we are saddened by tokens that we
shall pass away from all these,—away from sin and
sorrow, from temptation and fall, from disappointment, and
weary waiting, and a fearful looking-for of evil, to purity
and holiness, and the full fruition of every
hope,—bliss which eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor
heart conceived,—to a world whence all that made this
dreary is forever banished, and where all that made this
delightful is forever renewed and increased,—a world
where the activities and energies of the soul shall have full
scope, and love and recognition wait upon its steps forever.
4. Let him alone fear, who does not fade as the
leaf,—him whose sources are not in God, and who does
not draw his life thence,—him whose spring is gathering
no strength, whose summer is maturing no fruit, and whose
autumn shall have no vintage. Is not this the real sorrow of
us all? not a dread of change, but a secret consciousness of
wasted power,—of disloyalty to God, as the supreme
object of our love and service.
5. Yet even here the fading leaf brings hope. Our future is
always before us. The past is fixed. No tears can wash away
its facts. Let us waste no vain regrets upon it; but, from
the wisdom which its very mistakes and sins have bequeathed
us, start afresh on the race. Though yesterday we were weak,
and selfish, and indolent, let us to-day—at this
moment—begin to be strong, and brave, and helpful, and
just, and generous, and considerate, and tender, and
truthful, and pure, and patient, and forgiving. "Now" is a
glorious word. "HENCEFORTH" is always within our grasp.
QUESTIONS.—1. To what are we compared? 2. What is said
of change? 3. What change takes place in the leaf? 4. What,
in man? 5. Who have reason to fear? 6. What is said of the
past and the future?
UN HEED' ED, not regarded.
EX POS' ED, unprotected.
EX HORT' ED, urged; persuaded.
AT TUN' ED, put in tune.
ES SEN' TIAL, real; true.
AN NOUNC' ED, proclaimed.
POLLOCK.
1. The seasons came and went, and went and came,
To teach men gratitude; and, as they passed,
Gave warning of the lapse of time, that else
Had stolen unheeded by: the gentle flowers
Retired, and, stooping o'er the wilderness,
Talked of humility, and peace, and love.
The dews came down unseen at evening tide.
And silently their bounties shed, to teach
Mankind unostentatious charity.
2. With arm in arm the forest rose on high,
And lesson gave of brotherly regard;
And, on the rugged mountain brow exposed,
Bearing the blast alone, the ancient oak
Stood, lifting high his mighty arm, and still
To courage in distress exhorted loud.
The flocks, the herds, the birds, the streams, the breeze,
Attuned the heart to melody and love.
3. Mercy stood in the cloud, with eye that wept
Essential love; and, from her glorious brow,
Bending to kiss the earth in token of peace,
With her own lips, her gracious lips, which God
Of sweetest accent made, she whispered still,
She whispered to Revenge, Forgive! forgive!
4. The Sun, rejoicing round the earth, announced
Daily the wisdom, power, and love of God.
The Moon awoke, and, from her maiden face
Shedding her cloudy locks, looked meekly forth,
And, with her virgin stars, walked in the heavens,—
Walked nightly there, conversing as she walked
Of purity, and holiness, and God.
5. In dreams and visions, sleep instructed much.
Day uttered speech to day, and night to night
Taught knowledge: silence had a tongue: the grave,
The darkness, and the lonely waste, had each
A tongue, that ever said, Man! think of God!
Think of thyself! think of eternity!
6. Fear God, the thunders said; Fear God, the waves;
Fear God, the lightning of the storm replied;
Fear God, deep loudly answered back to deep.
And, in the temples of the Holy One,
Messiah's messengers, the faithful few,
Faithful 'mong many false, the Bible opened,
And cried: Repent! repent, ye Sons of Men!
Believe, be saved.
QUESTIONS.—1. What do the seasons teach? 2. What, the
trees? 3. What, the sun and moon? 4. What, Messiah's
messengers?
BE DECK' ED, adorned.
AR RAY', dress; attire.
MAN' TLED, spread; rushed.
DE VO' TION, attachment.
I DOL A TROUS, excessive.
SEV' ER ED, rent; sundered.
EN CIR' CLED, inclosed; surrounded.
SA' BLES, mourning clothes.
GIFT' ED, talented.
FOUND ED, established.
AL LURE', (AL, to; LURE, draw;) draw to;
entice.
[Footnote: These lines are founded on the following passage
of Jewish history:—"It was the custom of the Jews to
select the tenth of their sheep after this manner: The lambs
were separated from their dams, and inclosed in a sheep-cot,
with only one narrow way out; the lambs hastened to join the
dams, and a man, placed at the entrance, with a rod dipped in
ocher, touched every tenth lamb, and so marked it with his
rod, saying, 'LET THIS BE HOLY.' Hence, God says by his
prophet, 'I will cause you to pass under the rod.'"]
MARY S.B. DANA.
1. I saw the young bride, in her beauty and pride,
Bedecked in her snowy array;
And the bright flush of joy mantled high on her cheek,
And the future looked blooming and gay:
And with a woman's devotion she laid her fond heart
At the shrine of idolatrous love;
And she anchored her hopes to this perishing earth,
By the chain which her tenderness wove.
But I saw, when those heartstrings were bleeding and torn,
And the chain had been severed in two,
She had changed her white robes for the sables of grief,
And her bloom for the paleness of woe!
But the Healer was there, pouring balm on her heart,
And wiping the tears from her eyes;
And He strengthened the chain He had broken in twain,
And fastened it firm to the skies!
There had whispered a voice,—'twas the voice of her God:
"I love thee—I love thee—pass under the rod!"
2. I saw the young mother in tenderness bend
O'er the couch of her slumbering boy;
And she kissed the soft lips as they murmured her name,
While the dreamer lay smiling in joy.
Oh, sweet as the rose-bud encircled with dew,
When its fragrance is flung on the air,
So fresh and so bright to that mother he seemed,
As he lay in his innocence there.
But I saw when she gazed on the same lovely form,
Pale as marble, and silent, and cold,
But paler and colder her beautiful boy,
And the tale of her sorrow was told!
But the Healer was there, who had stricken her heart,
And taken her treasure away;
To allure her to heaven, He has placed it on high,
And the mourner will sweetly obey.
There had whispered a voice,—'twas the voice of her God:
"I love thee—I love thee—pass under the rod!"
3. I saw, too, a father and mother who leaned
On the arms of a dear gifted son;
And the star in the future grew bright to their gaze,
As they saw the proud place he had won;
And the fast coming evening of life promised fair,
And its pathway grew smooth to their feet,
And the starlight of love glimmered bright at the end,
And the whispers of fancy were sweet.
And I saw them again, bending low o'er the grave,
Where their hearts' dearest hope had been laid;
And the star had gone down in the darkness of night,
And the joy from their bosoms had fled.
But the Healer was there, and His arms were around,
And He led them with tenderest care;
And He showed them a star in the bright upper world,
'Twas their star shining brilliantly there!
They had each heard a voice,—'twas the voice of their God:
"I love thee—I love thee—pass under the rod!"
QUESTIONS.—1. What custom is alluded to, in the passage
"I will cause you to pass under the rod?" See note. 2.
Where is that passage found in the Scriptures? Ans. Ezekiel,
20th chap., 37th verse. 3. What instances are mentioned of
individuals "passing under the rod?"
PET' U LANT, cross; fretful.
CA LAM' I TY, misfortune.
SA TIR' IC AL, keenly severe; cutting.
NUI' SANCE, annoyance.
JUST' I FY, give a right to.
STU PID' I TY, extreme dullness.
CUL' PABLE, blamable; censurable.
IR RI TA BIL' I TY, excitableness.
AP PEL LA' TION, name; title.
VE' HE MENT, violent; furious.
VO CIF ER A' TIONS, loud outcries.
MEN' A CES, threats.
CEN' SUR ED, blamed.
VIN DI CA' TION, justification.
LON GEV' I TY, length of life.
CON TEMPT' I BLE, despicable.
OSBORNE.
MR. GRIM—MICHAEL—COUSIN MARY.
Cousin Mary. More breezes? What terrible thing has
happened now, Cousin Grim? What's the matter?
Grim. Matter enough, I should think! I sent this
stupid fellow to bring me a pair of boots from the closet;
and he has brought me two rights, instead of a right and
left.
Cousin. What a serious calamity! But, perhaps, he
thought it was but right to leave the left.
Grim. None of your jokes, if you please. This is
nothing to laugh at.
Cousin. So it would seem, from the expression on your
face,—rather something to storm at, roar at, and fall
into a frenzy about.
Michael. That's right, Miss; give him a piece of your
mind! He's the crossest little man I have met with in the new
country. You might scrape old Ireland with a fine-tooth comb,
and not find such another.
Grim. How dare you talk to me in that style? I'll
discharge you this very day!
Michael. I'm thinking of discharging you, if
you don't take better care of that sweet temper of
yours.
Grim. Leave the room, sir!
Michael. That I will, in search of better company,
saving the lady's presence.
[Exit.
Grim. There, cousin! there is a specimen of my
provocations! Can you wonder at my losing my temper?
Cousin. Cousin Grim, that would be the most
fortunate thing that could befall you.
Grim. What do you mean?
Cousin. I mean, if you could only lose that
temper of yours, it would be a blessed thing for you;
though I should pity the poor fellow who found it.
Grim. You are growing satirical in your old age,
Cousin Mary.
Cousin. Cousin Grim, hear the plain truth; your ill
temper makes you a nuisance to yourself and every body about
you.
Grim. Really, Miss Mary Somerville, you are getting to
be complimentary!
Cousin. No; I am getting to be candid. I have
passed a week in your house, on your invitation. I leave you
this afternoon; but, before I go, I mean to speak my mind.
Grim. It seems to me that you have spoken it rather
freely already.
Cousin. What was there, in the circumstance of poor
Michael's bringing you the wrong boots, to justify your
flying into a rage, and bellowing as if your life had been
threatened?
Grim. That fellow is perpetually making just such
provoking blunders!
Cousin. And do you never make provoking blunders'?
Didn't you send me five pounds of Hyson tea, when I wrote for
Souchong'? Didn't you send a carriage for me to the cars,
half an hour too late, so that I had to hire one myself,
after great trouble'? And did I roar at you, when we met,
because you had done these things'?
Grim. On the contrary, this is the first time you have
alluded to them. I am sorry they should have happened. But
surely you should make a distinction between any such
little oversight of mine, and the stupidity of a servant,
hired to attend to your orders.
Cousin. I do not admit that there should be a
distinction. You are both human; only, as you have had the
better education, and the greater advantages, stupidity or
neglect on your part, is much the more culpable.
Grim. Thank you! Go on.
Cousin. I mean to; so don't be impatient. If an
uncooked potato, or a burnt mutton-chop, happens to fall to
your lot at the dinner-table, what a tempest follows! One
would think you had been wronged, insulted, trampled on,
driven to despair. Your face is like a thunder-cloud, all the
rest of the meal. Your poor wife endeavors to hide her tears.
Your children feel timid and miserable. Your guest feels as
if she would like to see you held under the nose of the pump,
and thoroughly ducked.
Grim. The carriage is waiting for you, Miss
Somerville, and the driver has put on your baggage.
Cousin. I have hired that carriage by the hour, and so
am in no hurry. Your excuse for your irritability will be, I
suppose, that it is constitutional, and not to be
controlled. A selfish, paltry, miserable excuse! I have
turned down a leaf in Dr. Johnson's works, and will read what
he says in regard to tempers like yours.
Grim. You are always quoting Dr. Johnson! Cousin, I
can not endure it! Dr. Johnson is a bore!
Cousin. Oh, yes! to evil-doers,—but to
none else. Hear him: "There is in the world a class of
mortals known, and contentedly known, by the appellation of
passionate men, who imagine themselves entitled, by
this distinction, to be provoked on every slight occasion,
and to vent their rage in vehement and fierce vociferations,
in furious menaces, and licentious reproaches."
Grim. That will do.
Cousin. "Men of this kind," he tells us, "are often
pitied rather than censured, and are not treated with the
severity which their neglect of the ease of all about them,
might justly provoke." But he adds: "It is surely not to be
observed without indignation, that men may be found of minds
mean enough to be satisfied with this treatment; wretches who
are proud to obtain the privilege of madmen,
and——"
Grim. I will hear no more! Have done!
Cousin. So the shaft went home! I am not sorry.
Grim. No one but a meddlesome old maid would think of
insulting a man in his own house.
Cousin. So, when, at a loss for a vindication, you
reproach me with being an old maid! Cousin, it does not
distress me, either to be an old maid, or to be called one. I
must, however, remark, that the manhood that can charge
against a woman her single state, either as a matter of
ridicule or reproach, is not quite up to my standard.
Grim. Cousin Mary, I ask your pardon! But am I,
indeed, the petulant, disagreeable fellow, you would make me
out?
Cousin. My dear Caspar, you are generous enough in
large things; but, oh! consider that trifles make up a
good portion of the sum of life; and so "a small
unkindness is a great offense." Why not be cheerful,
sunny, genial, in little things? Why not look on the bright
side? Why not present an unruffled front to petty annoyances?
Why not labor,—ay, labor,—to have those around
you happy and contented, by reflecting from yourself such a
frame of mind upon them?
Life is short, at the best; why not make it cheerful? Do you
know that longevity is promoted by a tranquil, happy habit of
thought and temper'? Do you know that cheerfulness, like
mercy, is twice blessed; blessing "him that gives, and him
that takes'?" Do you know that good manners, as well as good
sense, demand that we should look at objects on their bright
side'? Do you know that it is contemptible selfishness in you
to shed gloom and sorrow over a whole family by your
moroseness and ill-humor'?
Grim. Cousin Mary, the patience with which I have
listened to your cutting remarks, will prove to you, I hope,
that, notwithstanding my angry retorts, I am convinced there
is much truth in what you have said of me. I have a favor to
ask. Send away your carriage; stay a week longer,—a
month,—a year, if you will. Hold the lash over this
ugly temper of mine,—and I give you my word that I will
set about the cure of it in earnest.
Cousin. You should have begun earlier,—in youth,
when the temper is pliable, and strong impressions can work
great changes. But we will not despair. I will tarry with you
a while, just to see if you are serious in your wish for a
reformation, and to help you bring it about.
Grim. Thank you. We hear of reformed drunkards, and
reformed thieves; and why may not a petulant temper be
reformed, but a system of total abstinence from all
harsh, unkind moods and expressions? Come, we will try.
QUESTIONS.—1. At what was Mr. Grim offended? 2. What
did Cousin Mary say would be fortunate for him? 3. What
blunder had Mr. Grim made? 4. How did he often behave at the
table? 5. What does Dr. Johnson say of such men? 6. What did
Cousin Mary finally say to him? 7. Of what was he convinced?
8. What did he resolve to do?
SAC' RI FICE, religious offering.
STRAIGHT, immediately.
SCUR' VY, low; mean.
SCRU' PLE, hesitate.
EN DURE', suffer'; tolerate.
IM PURE, filthy; unclean.
UT TER LY, entirely; completely.
BLEM' ISH, defect; deformity.
WA' VER ED, hesitated.
IM PAR' TIAL, just; free from bias.
RE FER', leave to another.
PAR' DON, forgive.
GHEE, kind of butter used in India.
DIS TRUST' ING, suspecting.
PAL PA BLE, obvious; evident.
LAUD' ING, praising.
[Footnote: The fable, here thrown into verse, is related in
English prose by Macaulay, who says:—"Thus, or nearly
thus, if we remember rightly, runs the story of the Sanscrit
Aesop."]
VERSIFIED BY J.N. McELLIGOTT.
1. A Brahmin went out, the legends say,
To buy him a sheep a certain day;
For he had solemnly vowed to slay,
In sacrifice, a sheep that day,
And wanted a sheep his vow to pay.
Three neighboring rogues
(The cunning dogs!)
Finding this out,
Went straight about
(Moved, I ween, by the very Old Nick,)
To play the Brahmin a scurvy trick.
2. So one of them met him with the cry:—
"O Brahmin! O Brahmin! won't you buy
A beautiful sheep? for here have I
A beautiful sheep for sacrifice,
As ever was seen by mortal eyes."
3. "Where is your sheep?" replied the Brahmin;
"Bring him out here, and let me examine."
With that the wag
Opened a bag,
And out he drew
To public view
An ugly, dirty, horrible dog!
Blind as a bat, and lame as a frog;
With a broken leg, climbing a log.
Or limping slowly over a bog.
4. "Wretch!" said the Brahmin indignant, "who
Shamelessly utterest things untrue,
And dost without a scruple endure
To handle creatures the most impure,
How darest thou call that cur a sheep?
Do you think, foul knave, that I'm asleep?"
5. "Cur'!" said the fellow with steady tone;
"A sheep it is, and a sheep alone;
A sheep (see here, what a splendid fleece!)
With flesh the sweetest, and fat as grease;
And such a prize
For sacrifice,
As neither gods nor men can despise,
Unless they both have dust in their eyes!"
"Sir," said the Brahmin, surprised to find
A person so utterly out of his mind,
"'Tis certain that you or I am blind."
6. Then stepping up,
Patting the pup,
Rogue the second, as if amazed,
While on the dog he steadily gazed,
Exclaims aloud:—"The gods be praised!
Since I've no need to market to go
To buy me a sheep; for here's one so
From spot and blemish perfectly free,
That better could not possibly be.
Isn't it nice?
What's your price?"
7. The Brahmin, seeing this singular thing,
Wavered in mind, like one in a swing;
Yet answered the stranger, firmly,—"Sir,
This isn't a sheep, but only a cur."
"Cur?" with disdain, the new-comer said;
"Why, man, you're surely out of your head!"
8. As this occurred,
Came rogue the third,
To whom, as being a witness new,
And likely to take impartial view,
Brahmin proposed at once to refer,
Whether the creature was sheep or cur.
All being agreed, the eager priest
Said:—"Stranger, what do you call this beast?"
"A sheep, to be sure!" the knave replied;
"As fine a sheep as ever you spied."
9. "Well," said the Brahmin, "the gods this day
Have surely taken my senses away!"
Then begging the rogue
That carried the dog,
To pardon him for doubting his word,
He, with a readiness most absurd,
Purchased the creature with rice and ghee,
Which went, of course, to the worthless three,
And which they shared with wonderful glee.
10. Thus taken in,
The poor Brahmin
Offered it up,
The filthy pup,
Which so offended the gods, that they
Sent sore disease his folly to pay:
Thinking it right the man to chastise
For so distrusting his natural eyes,
And being led by palpable lies
To offer a dog as a sacrifice.
MORAL.
Look out for the arts of the puffing tribe,—
People that praise for the sake of a bribe;
Lavishly lauding a book or a pill,
Or any thing else the pocket to fill;
Singing Simplicity fast asleep,
And making her dream a dog's a sheep.
QUESTIONS.—1. What trick did the three rogues play off
on the Brahmin? 2. In what way did they do this? 3. What
moral is taught in this fable?
E LAS TIC' I TY, returning vigor.
MIN' I FIES, lessens; makes small.
DEG RA DA' TION, abasement.
ES TRANGED, alienates.
UN ALMS' ED, not having received alms.
HA BIT' U AL, accustomed.
EX TRAV' A GANCE, superfluous expense.
IM PER' TI NENCE, that which is not pertinent.
SUS PI' CIOUS, distrustful.
E CON' O MY, frugality.
TRAN' QUIL, calm; undisturbed.
BE NUMB' ING, dull; stupefying.
IM PROV' I DENCE, wastefulness.
S.W. PARTRIDGE.
1. Oh, beware of debt!
It crushes out the manhood of a man,
Robs his bright eye of boldness, cheats his limbs
Of elasticity, unnerves his hand,
Beclouds his judgment, dulls his intellect,
Perils his uprightness, and stains his name,
And minifies him to his fellow-men;
Yea, far worse degradation, to himself.
2. Who hath the hurried step, the anxious eye,
Avoids the public haunt and open street,
And anxious waits for evening? Restlessly
Tosses upon his bed, and dreads the approach
Of the tell-tale morning sunlight? Who, unmanned,
Starts at the sudden knock, and shrinks with dread
E'en at his own shadow; shuns with care
The stranger's look, skulks from his fellow's glance,
And sees in every man a creditor?
3. The debtor;—he is only half a man;
He saddens and estranges his chief friends,
Burdens his dearest relatives; he hears
In vain the stranger's tale, the widow's prayer,
And sends away the orphan all unalmsed.
None dare to place him in a post of trust,
And business men regard him with a shrug.
4. "Owe no man aught." Stand in the world erect,
And lean alone upon thyself and God.
The habitual borrower will be ever found
Wicked, or weak, or both. Sweat, study, stint,
Yea, rather any thing than meanly owe.
Let thine own honest hands feed thee and thine,
And, if not thy friend's purse, at least, respect
Thine own sweet independence.
5. Have fewest wants: the book, however good,
Thou shouldst not purchase, let it go unbought;
And fashion's vests by thee be all unworn.
Soon luxuries become necessities,
But self-denying thrift more joy affords
Than all the pleasures of extravagance.
A cottage, free from clamorous creditors,
Is better than a mansion dunned; a coat,
However darned, if paid for, hath an ease,
And a respectability beside:
Gay, ill-afforded vests can never boast.
6. However cheap,
Whatever thou want'st not, buy not. That is dear,
A mere extravagant impertinence,
For which thou hast no need. Feel first the want
Ere it be satisfied; bargains full oft
Are money-wasting things, that prudent men
Will keep afar from with suspicious eye;
Perchance to any but of little use,
And to themselves, most likely, none at all.
7. The habit of economy once formed,
'Tis easy to attain to prosperous things.
Thou then shalt lend, not borrow: shalt not want
A helping trifle when thy friend hath need,
Or means to seize an opportunity,—
Seed-coin, to ensure a harvest. Thou shalt then
Want not an alms for pinching poverty;
And, though a sudden sickness dam the stream,
And cut off thy supplies, thou shalt lie down
And view thy morrows with a tranquil eye;
Even benumbing age shall scare thee not,
But find thee unindebted, and secure
From all the penury and wretchedness
That dog the footsteps of improvidence.
OM NIP' O TENT, all-powerful.
IN TER' MI NA BLE, endless.
MILK Y-WAY, galaxy; luminous circle in the heavens.
AS' TRAL, starry.
IN FIN' I TUDE, unlimited extent.
IM PET' U OUS, rushing.
AS TRON O MER, one skilled in the science of the stars.
AP PROX' I MATE LY, nearly.
OM NIS' CIENCE, knowledge of all things.
PER TUR BA' TIONS, irregularities of motion.
AB' SO LUTE, entire.
PRE CIS' ION, exactness.
AD JUST' MENTS, arrangements.
RET' I NUE, company.
SAT' EL LITES, small planets revolving round others.
O.M. MITCHEL.
1. If you would know the glory of the Omnipotent Ruler
of the universe, examine the interminable range of suns and
systems which crowd the Milky-Way. Multiply the hundred
millions of stars which belong to our own "island universe"
by the thousands of these astral systems that exist in space,
within the range of human vision, and then you may
form some idea of the infinitude of His kingdom; for
lo! these are but a part of His ways.
2. Examine the scale on which the universe is built.
Comprehend, if you can, the vast dimensions of our sun.
Stretch outward through his system, from planet to planet,
and circumscribe the whole within the immense circumference
of Neptune's orbit. This is but a single unit out of the
myriads of similar systems.
3. Take the wings of light, and flash with impetuous speed,
day and night, and month, and year, till youth shall wear
away, and middle age is gone, and the extremest limit of
human life has been attained;—count every pulse, and,
at each, speed on your way a hundred thousand miles; and when
a hundred years have rolled by, look out, and behold! the
thronging millions of blazing suns are still around you, each
separated from the other by such a distance, that, in this
journey of a century, you have only left half a score behind
you.
4. Would you gather some idea of the eternity past of
God's existence,—go to the astronomer, and bid him lead
you in one of his walks through space; and, as he sweeps
outward from object to object, from universe to universe,
remember that the light from those filmy stains on the deep
pure blue of heaven, now falling on your eye, has been
traversing space for a million of years.
5. Would you gather some knowledge of the omnipotence
of God,—weigh the earth on which we dwell, then count
the millions of its inhabitants that have come and gone for
the last six thousand years. Unite their strength into one
arm, and test its power in an effort to move this earth. It
could not stir it a single foot in a thousand years; and yet
under the omnipotent hand of God, not a minute passes that it
does not fly more than a thousand miles.
6. But this is a mere atom,—the most insignificant
point among his innumerable worlds. At his bidding, every
planet, and satellite, and comet, and the sun himself, fly
onward in their appointed courses. His single arm guides the
millions of sweeping suns, and around His throne circles the
great constellation of unnumbered universes.
7. Would you comprehend the idea of the omniscience of
God,—remember that the highest pinnacle of knowledge
reached by the whole human race, by the combined efforts of
its brightest intellects, has enabled the astronomer to
compute approximately the perturbations of the planetary
worlds. He has predicted roughly the return of half a score
of comets. But God has computed the mutual perturbations of
millions of suns, and planets, and comets, and worlds,
without number, through the ages that are passed, and
throughout the ages which are yet to come, not approximately,
but with perfect and absolute precision.
8. The universe is in motion,—system rising above
system, cluster above cluster, nebula above nebula,—all
majestically sweeping around under the providence of God, who
alone knows the end from the beginning, and before whose
glory and power all intelligent beings, whether in heaven or
on earth, should bow with humility and awe.
9. Would you gain some idea of the wisdom of
God,—look to the admirable adjustments of the
magnificent retinue of planets and satellites which sweep
around the sun. Every globe has been weighed and poised,
every orbit has been measured and bent to its beautiful form.
10. All is changing; but the laws fixed by the wisdom of God,
though they permit the rocking to and fro of the system,
never introduce disorder, or lead to destruction. All is
perfect and harmonious, and the music of the spheres that
burn and roll around our sun, is echoed by that of ten
millions of moving worlds, that sing and shine around the
bright suns that reign above.
11. If, overwhelmed with the grandeur and majesty of the
universe of God, we are led to exclaim with the Hebrew
poet-king,—"When I consider Thy heavens, the work of
Thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which Thou hast
ordained, what is man, that Thou art mindful of him? and the
son of man, that Thou visitest him?"—If fearful that
the eye of God may overlook us in the immensity of His
kingdom, we have only to call to mind that other passage,
"Yet Thou hast made him but a little lower than the angels,
and hast crowned him with glory and honor. Thou madest him to
have dominion over all the works of Thy hand; Thou hast put
all things under his feet." Such are the teachings of the
word, and such are the lessons of the works of God.
MISS PAMELIA S. VINING.
1. 'Twere naught to me, yon glorious arch of night,
Decked with the gorgeous blazonry of heaven,
If, to my faith, amid its splendors bright,
No vision of the Eternal One were given;
I could but view a dreary, soulless waste,—
A vast expanse of solitude unknown,
More cheerless for the splendors o'er it cast,—
For all its grandeur more intensely lone.
2. 'Twere naught to me, this ever-changeful scene
Of earthly beauty, sunshine, and delight,—
The wood's deep shadows and the valley's green,—
Morn's tender glow, and sunset's splendors bright;
Naught, if my Father spoke not from the sky,
The cloud, the flower, the landscape, and the leaf;
My soul would pine 'mid earth's vain pageantry,
And droop in hopeless orphanage and grief.
3. 'Twere naught to me, the ocean's vast expanse,
If His perfections were not mirrored there;
Hopeless across the unmeasured waste I'd glance,
And clasp my hands in anguish, not in prayer.
Naught Nature's anthem, ever swelling up
From Nature's myriad voices; for the hymn
Breathes not of love, or gratitude, or hope,
Robbed of the tones that tell my soul of Him.
4. This wondrous universe how less than naught
Without my God! how desolate and drear!
A mock'ry, earth with her vain splendors fraught!
A gilded pageant, every rolling sphere!
The noonday sun with all his glories crowned,
A sickly meteor glimmers faint and pale!
And all earth's melodies, their sweetness drowned,
Are but the utterance of a funeral wail.
KOSSUTH.
1. Mr. President: I consider it a particular favor of
Providence that I am permitted to partake, on the present
solemn occasion, in paying the tribute of honor and gratitude
to the memory of your immortal Washington.
2. An architect having raised a proud and noble building to
the service of the Almighty, his admirers desired to erect a
monument to his memory. How was it done? His name was
inscribed upon the wall, with these additional words: "You
seek his monument—look around."
3. Let him who looks for a monument of Washington look around
the United States. The whole country is a monument to him.
Your freedom, your independence, your national power, your
prosperity, and your prodigious growth, is a monument to
Washington.
4. There is no room left for panegyric, none especially to a
stranger whom you had full reason to charge with arrogance,
were he able to believe that his feeble voice could claim to
be noticed in the mighty harmony of a nation's praise. Let
me, therefore, instead of such an arrogant attempt, pray that
that God, to whose providential intentions Washington was a
glorious instrument, may impart to the people of the United
States the same wisdom for the conservation of the present
prosperity of the land and for its future security, which he
gave to Washington for the foundation of it.
5. I yield to nobody in the world in reverence and respect to
the immortal memory of Washington. His life and his
principles were the guiding star of my life; to that star I
looked up for inspiration and advice, during the vicissitudes
of my stormy life. Hence I drew that devotion to my country
and to the cause of national freedom, which you, gentlemen,
and millions of your fellow-citizens, and your national
government, are so kind as to honor by unexampled
distinction.
6. Sir, I have studied the history of your immortal
Washington, and have, from my early youth, considered his
principles as a living source of instruction to statesmen and
to patriots.
When, in that very year in which Washington issued his
Farewell Address, M. Adet, the French Minister, presented to
him the flag of the French Republic, Washington, as President
of the United States, answered officially, with these
memorable words:
"Born in a land of liberty, having early learned its value,
having engaged in a perilous conflict to defend it, having
devoted the best years of my life to secure its permanent
establishment in my country, my anxious recollections, my
sympathetic feelings, and my best wishes, are irresistibly
attracted, whensoever in any country I see an oppressed
nation unfurl the banner of freedom."
7. Thus spoke Washington. Have I not then full reason to say,
that if he were alive his generous sympathy would be with me;
and the sympathy of a Washington never was, and never would
be, a barren word. Washington, who raised the word "honesty"
as a rule of policy, never would have professed a sentiment
which his wisdom as a statesman would not have approved.
8. Sir! here let me end. I consider it already as an immense
benefit that your generous attention connected the cause of
Hungary with the celebration of the memory of Washington.
9. Spirit of the departed! smile down from heaven upon this
appreciation of my country's cause; watch over those
principles which thou hast taken for the guiding star of thy
noble life, and the time will yet come when not only thine
own country, but liberated Europe, also, will be a living
monument to thy immortal name.
1. Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow,
Filling the sky and earth below;
Over the housetops, over the street,
Over the heads of the people you meet,
Dancing,
Flirting,
Skimming along!
Beautiful snow! it can do no wrong.
Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek,
Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak,
Beautiful snow from the Heaven above,
Pure as an angel, gentle as love!
2. Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow,
How the flakes gather and laugh as they go?
Whirling about in its maddening fun,
It plays in its glee with every one;
Chasing,
Laughing,
Hurrying by,
It lights on the face and it sparkles the eye!
And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound,
Snap at the crystals that eddy around.
The town is alive, and its heart in a glow
To welcome the coming of beautiful snow.
3. How wild the crowd goes swaying along,
Hailing each other with humor and song!
How the gay sledges, like meteors, flash by,
Bright for the moment, then lost to the eye!
Ringing,
Swinging,
Dashing they go
Over the crust of the beautiful snow;
Snow so pure when it falls from the sky,
To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by,
To be trampled and tracked by thousands of feet,
Till it blends with the filth in the horrible street
4. How strange it should be that this beautiful snow,
Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go!
How strange it should be, when the night comes again
If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain!
Fainting,
Freezing,
Dying alone,
Too wicked for prayer, too weak for a moan
To be heard in the crazy town,
Gone mad in the joy of the snow coming down;
To lie and so die, in my terrible woe,
With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow!