Front matter (continued 4)

5. Oats harvest arrives, and the fields are waving with yellow grain. Now be wary, O kind-hearted cradler, and tread not into those pure white eggs ready to burst with life! Soon there is a peeping sound heard, and lo! a proud mother walketh magnificently in the midst of her children, scratching and picking, and teaching them how to swallow. Happy she, if she may be permitted to bring them up to maturity, and uncompelled to renew her joys in another nest.

6. The assiduities of a mother have a beauty and a sacredness about them that command respect and reverence in all animal nature, human or inhuman—what a lie does that word carry—except, perhaps, in monsters, insects, and fish. I never yet heard of the parental tenderness of a trout, eating up his little baby, nor of the filial gratitude of a spider, nipping the life out of his gray-headed father, and usurping his web.

7. But if you would see the purest, the sincerest, the most affecting piety of a parent's love, startle a young family of quails, and watch the conduct of the mother. She will not leave you. No, not she. But she will fall at your feet, uttering a noise which none but a distressed mother can make, and she will run, and flutter, and seem to try to be caught, and cheat your outstretched hand, and affect to be wing-broken and wounded, and yet have just strength to tumble along, until she has drawn you, fatigued, a safe distance from her threatened children and the young hopes of her heart; and then will she mount, whirring with glad strength, and away through the maze of trees you have not seen before, like a close-shot bullet, fly to her skulking infants,

8. Listen now. Do you hear those three half-plaintive notes, quickly and clearly poured out? She is calling the boys and girls together. She sings not now "Bob White!" nor "Ah! Bob White!" That is her husband's love call, or his trumpet blast of defiance. But she calls sweetly and softly for her lost children. Hear them "Peep! peep! peep!" at the welcome voice of their mother's love! They are coming together. Soon the whole family will meet again.

9. It is a foul sin to disturb them; but retread your devious way, and let her hear your coming footsteps, breaking down the briers, as you renew the danger. She is quiet. Not a word is passed between the fearful fugitives. Now, if you have the heart to do it, lie low, keep still, and imitate the call of the hen quail. O mother! mother! how your heart would die if you could witness the deception! The little ones raise up their trembling heads, and catch comfort and imagined safety from the sound. "Peep! peep!" They come to you, straining their little eyes, and, clustering together and answering, seem to say, "Where is she? Mother! mother! we are here!"

DEFINITIONS.—1. A-quat'ic, frequenting the water. 2. Vo'cal, having a voice. 3. I-den'ti-fied, united. Cu-pid'i-ty, eager desire to possess something. 4. Tus'sock, a tuft of grass or twigs. 5. Cra'dler, one who uses a cradle, which is an instrument attached to a scythe in cutting grain. 6. U-surp'ing, seizing and holding in possession by force. 7. Af-fect', to pretend. 9. De'vi-ous, winding.

NOTE.—l. Boreas is the name which the ancient Greeks gave to the north wind.

LVIII. THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

1. By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead;— Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the one, the Blue; Under the other, the Gray.

2. These, in the robings of glory, Those, in the gloom of defeat, All, with the battle blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet;— Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the laurel, the Blue; Under the willow, the Gray.

3. From the silence of sorrowful hours, The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers, Alike for the friend and the foe;— Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the roses, the Blue; Under the lilies, the Gray.

4. So, with an equal splendor, The morning sun rays fall, With a touch, impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all;— Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Broidered with gold, the Blue; Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

5. So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain, With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain;— Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Wet with the rain, the Blue; Wet with the rain, the Gray.

6. Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done: In the storm of the years that are fading, No braver battle was won;— Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the blossoms, the Blue; Under the garlands, the Gray.

7. No more shall the war cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever, When they laurel the graves of our dead;— Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Love and tears, for the Blue; Tears and love, for the Gray. —F. M. Finch.

NOTE.—The above touching little poem first appeared in the "Atlantic Monthly" in September, 1867. It commemorates the noble action on the part of the women at Columbus, Miss., who in decorating the graves strewed flowers impartially on those of the Confederate and of the Federal soldiers.

LIX. THE MACHINIST'S RETURN.

[Adapted from a letter written by a correspondent of the Washington "Capital."]

1. On our way from Springfield to Boston, a stout, black-whiskered man sat immediately in front of me, in the drawing-room car, whose maneuvers were a source of constant amusement. He would get up every five minutes, hurry away to the narrow passage leading to the door of the car, and commence laughing in the most violent manner, continuing that healthful exercise until he observed that some one was watching him, when he would return to his seat.

2. As we neared Boston these demonstrations increased in frequency and violence, but the stranger kept his seat and chuckled to himself. He shifted the position of his two portmanteaus, or placed them on the seat as if he was getting ready to leave. As we were at least twenty-five miles from Boston, such early preparations seemed extremely ridiculous. He became so excited at last that he could not keep his secret. Some one must be made a confidant; and as I happened to be the nearest to him, he selected me.

3. Turning around suddenly, and rocking himself to and fro in his chair, he said, "I have been away from home three years. Have been in Europe. My folks don't expect me for three months yet, but I got through and started. I telegraphed them at the last station—they've got the dispatch by this time." As he said this he rubbed his hands, and changed the portmanteau on his left to the right, and then the one on the right to the left.

4. "Have you a wife?" said I. "Yes, and three children," was the answer. He then got up and folded his overcoat anew, and hung it over the back of the seat. "You are somewhat nervous just now, are you not?" said I.

5. "Well, I should think so," he replied. "I have n't slept soundly for a week. Do you know," he went on, speaking in a low tone, "I am almost certain this train will run off the track and break my neck before I get to Boston. I have had too much good luck lately for one man. It can't last. It rains so hard, sometimes, that you think it's never going to stop; then it shines so bright you think it's always going to shine; and just as you are settle in either belief, you are knocked over by a change, to show you that you know nothing about it."

6. "Well, according to your philosophy," I said, "you will continue to have sunshine because you are expecting a storm." "Perhaps so," he replied; "but it is curious that the only thing which makes me think I shall get through safe is, I fear that I shall not."

7. "I am a machinist," he continued; "I made a discovery; nobody believed in it; I spent all my money in trying to bring it out; I mortgaged my home—everything went. Everybody laughed at me—everybody but my wife. She said she would work her fingers off before I should give it up. I went to England. At first I met with no encouragement whatever, and came very near jumping off London Bridge. I went into a workshop to earn money enough to come home with: there I met the man I wanted. To make a long story short, I've brought home 50,000 Pounds with me, and here I am."

8. "Good!" I exclaimed. "Yes," said he, "and the best of it is, she knows nothing about it. She has been disappointed so often that I concluded I would not write to her about my unexpected good luck. When I got my money, though, I started for home at once."

9. "And now, I suppose, you will make her happy?" "Happy!" he replied; "why, you don't know anything about it! She's worked night and day since I have been in England, trying to support herself and the children decently. They paid her thirteen cents apiece for making shirts, and that's the way she has lived half the time. She'll come down to the depot to meet me in a gingham dress and a shawl a hundred years old, and she'll think she's dressed up! Perhaps she won't have any fine dresses in a week or so, eh?'" 10. The stranger then strode down the passageway again, and getting in a corner where he seemed to suppose that he was out of sight, went through the strangest pantomime,—laughing putting his mouth into the drollest shapes, and swinging himself back and forth in the limited space.

11. As the train was going into the depot, I placed myself on the platform of the car in front of the one in which I had been riding, and opposite the stranger, who, with a portmanteau in each hand, was standing on the lowest step, ready to jump to the ground. I looked from his face to the faces of the people before us, but saw no sign of recognition. Suddenly he cried, "There they are!"

12. Then he laughed outright, but in a hysterical way, as he looked over the crowd in front of him. I followed his eye and saw, some distance back, as if crowded out by the well-dressed and elbowing throng, a little woman in a faded dress and a well-worn hat, with a face almost painful in its intense but hopeful expression, glancing rapidly from window to window as the coaches passed by.

13. She had not seen the stranger, but a moment after she caught his eye. In another instant he had jumped to the platform with his two portmanteaus, and, pushing his way through the crowd, he rushed towards the place where she was standing. I think I never saw a face assume so many different expressions in so short a time as did that of the little woman while her husband was on his way to meet her.

14. She was not pretty,—on the contrary, she was very plain-looking; but somehow I felt a big lump rise in my throat as I watched her. She was trying to laugh, but, God bless her, how completely she failed in the attempt! Her mouth got into the position to laugh, but it never moved after that, save to draw down at the corners and quiver, while her eyes blinked so fast that I suspect she only caught occasional glimpses of the broad-shouldered fellow who elbowed his way so rapidly toward her.

15. As he drew close, and dropped the portmanteaus, she turned to one side, and covered her face with her hands; and thus she was when the strong man gathered her up in his arms as if she were a child, and held her sobbing to his breast.

16. There were enough staring at them, heaven knows; so I turned my eyes away a moment, and then I saw two boys in threadbare roundabouts standing near, wiping their eyes on their sleeves, and bursting into tears anew at every fresh demonstration on the part of their mother. When I looked at the stranger again he had his hat drawn over his eyes; but his wife was looking up at him, and it seemed as if the pent-up tears of those weary months of waiting were streaming through her eyelids.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Ma-neu'vers, movements. 2. Dem-on-stra'-tions, expression of the feelings by outward signs. Port-man'teau (pro. port-man'to), a traveling bag, usually made of leather. Con-fi-dant', one to whom secrets are intrusted. 3. Dis-patch', a message. 6. Phi-los'o-phy, reasoning. 7. Ma-chin'ist, a constructor of ma-chines and engines. Mort'gaged (pro. mor'gajd), given as security for debt. 9. Ging'ham, a kind of cotton cloth which is dyed before it is woven. 10. Pan'to-mime, acting without speaking, dumb show. 12. Hys-ter'ic-al, convulsive, fitful.

LX. MAKE WAY FOR LIBERTY.

James Montgomery (b. 1771, d. 1854) was born in Irvine, Ayrshire, Scotland. His father, a Moravian preacher, sent him to a Moravian school at Fulneck, Yorkshire, England, to be educated. In 1794 he started "The Sheffield Iris," a weekly paper, which he edited, with marked ability, till 1825. He was fined and imprisoned twice for publishing articles decided to be seditious. His principal poetical works are "The World before the Flood," "Greenland," "The West Indies," "The Wanderer in Switzerland," "The Pelican Island," and "Original Hymns, for Public, Private, and Social Devotion." Mr. Montgomery's style is generally too diffuse; but its smoothness and the evident sincerity of his emotions have made many of his hymns and minor poems very popular. A pension of 300 Pounds a year was granted to him in 1833.

1. "Make way for Liberty!" he cried; Made way for Liberty, and died!

2. In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, A living wall, a human wood! A wall, where every conscious stone Seemed to its kindred thousands grown; A rampart all assaults to bear, Till time to dust their frames should wear A wood like that enchanted grove, In which, with fiends, Rinaldo strove, Where every silent tree possessed A spirit prisoned in its breast, Which the first stroke of coming strife Would startle into hideous life: So dense, so still, the Austrians stood, A living wall, a human wood!

3. Impregnable their front appears, All horrent with projected spears, Whose polished points before them shine, From flank to flank, one brilliant line, Bright as the breakers' splendors run Along the billows to the sun.

4. Opposed to these, a hovering band, Contending for their native laud; Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke From manly necks the ignoble yoke, And forged their fetters into swords, On equal terms to fight their lords; And what insurgent rage had gained, In many a mortal fray maintained: Marshaled once more at Freedom's call, They came to conquer or to fall, Where he who conquered, he who fell. Was deemed a dead or living Tell!

5. And now the work of life and death Hung on the passing of a breath; The fire of conflict burned within; The battle trembled to begin; Yet, while the Austrians held their ground, Point for attack was nowhere found; Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed, The unbroken line of lances blazed; That line 't were suicide to meet, And perish at their tyrants' feet; How could they rest within their graves, And leave their homes the home of slaves? Would they not feel their children tread With clanking chains above their head?

6. It must not be: this day, this hour, Annihilates the oppressor's power All Switzerland is in the field, She will not fly, she can not yield; Few were the numbers she could boast, But every freeman was a host, And felt as though himself were he On whose sole arm hung victory.

7. It did depend on one, indeed: Behold him! Arnold Winkelried! There sounds not to the trump of fame The echo of a nobler name. Unmarked he stood amid the throng, In rumination deep and long, Till you might see with sudden grace, The very thought come o'er his face; And by the motion of his form: Anticipate the bursting storm; And by the uplifting of his brow, Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. But 't was no sooner thought than done; The field was in a moment won.

8. "Make way for Liberty!" he cried: Then ran, with arms extended wide, As if his dearest friend to clasp; Ten spears he swept within his grasp: "Make way for Liberty!" he cried, Their keen points met from side to side; He bowed among them like a tree, And thus made way for Liberty.

9. Swift to the breach his comrades fly; "Make way for Liberty!" they cry, And through the Austrian phalanx dart, As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart; While instantaneous as his fall, Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all. An earthquake could not overthrow A city with a surer blow.

10. Thus Switzerland again was free, Thus Death made way for Liberty!

DEFINITIONS.—2. Pha'lanx, a body of troops formed in close array. Con'scious, sensible, knowing. Kin'dred, those of like nature, relatives. Ram'part, that which defends from assault, a bulwark. 3. Im-preg'na-ble, that can not be moved or shaken. Hor'rent, standing out like bristles. 4. In-sur'gent, rising in opposition to authority. 13. An-ni'hi-lates, destroys. 7. Ru-mi-na'tion, the act of musing, meditation. 9. Breach, a gap or opening made by breaking.

NOTES.—The incident related in this poem is one of actual occurrence, and took place at the battle of Sempach, fought in 1386 A.D., between only 1,300 Swiss and a large army of Austrians. The latter had obtained possession of a narrow pass in the mountains, from which it seemed impossible to dislodge them until Arnold von Winkelried made a breach in their line, as narrated.

Rinaldo is a knight in Tasso's "Jerusalem Delivered" (Canto XVIII, 17-40), who enters an enchanted wood, and, by cutting down a tree in spite of the nymphs and phantoms that endeavor in every way to stop him, breaks the spell; the Christian army are thus enabled to enter the grove and obtain timber for their engines of war.

LXI. THE ENGLISH SKYLARK.

Elihu Burritt (b. 1810, d. 1879). "the learned blacksmith," was born in New Britain, Conn. His father was a shoemaker. Having received only a limited amount of instruction at the district school, he was apprenticed to a blacksmith about 1827. During his apprenticeship he labored hard at self-instruction. He worked at his trade many years, from ten to twelve hours each day, but managed, in the meantime to acquire a knowledge of many ancient and modern languages. He made translations from several of these, which were published in the "American Eclectic Review." In 1844 he commenced the publication of "The Christian Citizen." His leading literary works are "Sparks from the Anvil," "A Voice from the Forge," "Peace Papers," and "Walks to John o' Groat's House." From the last of these the following selection is abridged.

1. Take it in all, no bird in either hemisphere equals the English lark in heart or voice, for both unite to make it the sweetest, the happiest, the welcomest singer that was ever winged, like the high angels of God's love. It is the living ecstasy of joy when it mounts up into its "glorious privacy of light."

2. On the earth it is timid, silent, and bashful, as if not at home, and not sure of its right to be there at all. It is rather homely withal, having nothing in feather, feature, or form to attract notice. It is seemingly made to be heard, not seen, reversing the old axiom addressed to children when getting noisy.

3. Its mission is music, and it floods a thousand acres of the blue sky with it several times a day. Out of that palpitating speck of living joy there wells forth a sea of twittering ecstasy upon the morning and evening air. It does not ascend by gyrations, like the eagle and birds of prey. It mounts up like a human aspiration.

4. It seems to spread its wings and to be lifted straight upwards out of sight by the afflatus of its own happy heart. To pour out this in undulating rivulets of rhapsody is apparently the only motive of its ascension. This it is that has made it so loved of all generations.

5. It is the singing angel of man's nearest heaven, whose vital breath is music. Its sweet warbling is only the metrical palpitation of its life of joy. It goes up over the rooftrees of the rural hamlet on the wings of its song, as if to train the human soul to trial flights heavenward.

6. Never did the Creator put a voice of such volume into so small a living thing. It is a marvel—almost a miracle. In a still hour you can hear it at nearly a mile's distance. When its form is lost in the hazy lace work of the sun's rays above, it pours down upon you all the thrilling semitones of its song as distinctly as if it were warbling to you in your window.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Ec'sta-sy, overmastering joy, rapture. 2. Ax'i-om, a self-evident truth. 3. Pal'pi-tat-ing, throbbing, fluttering. Wells, pours, flows. Gy-ra'tions, circular or spiral motions. 4. Af—fla'tus, breath, inspiration. Un'du-la-ting, rising and falling like waves. Rhap'so-dy, that which is uttered in a disconnected way under strong excitement. Gen-er-a'tion, the mass of beings at one period. 5. Met'ric-al, arranged in measures, as poetry and music. Roof 'tree, the beam in the angle of a roof, hence the roof itself. Ham'let, a little cluster of houses.

LXII. HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE.

William Collins (b. 1721, d. 1759) was born at Chichester, England. He was educated at Winchester and Oxford. About 1745, he went to London as a literary adventurer, and there won the esteem of Dr. Johnson. His "Odes" were published in 1746, but were not popular. He was subsequently relieved from pecuniary embarrassment by a legacy of 2,000 Pounds from a maternal uncle; but he soon became partially insane, and was for some time confined in an asylum for lunatics. He afterwards retired to Chichester, where he was cared for by his sister until his death.

1. How sleep the brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blessed! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mold, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

2. By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There honor comes a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair To dwell a weeping hermit there!

LXIII. THE RAINBOW.

John Keble (b. 1792. d. 1866) was born near Fairfax, Gloucestershire, England. He graduated at Oxford with remarkably high honors, and afterwards was appointed to the professorship of poetry in that university. Since his death, Keble College, at Oxford, has been erected to his memory. In 1835, he became vicar of Hursley and rector of Otterbourne, and held these livings until his death. His most famous work is "The Christian Year," a collection of sacred poems.

1. A fragment of a rainbow bright Through the moist air I see, All dark and damp on yonder height, All bright and clear to me.

2. An hour ago the storm was here, The gleam was far behind; So will our joys and grief appear, When earth has ceased to blind.

3. Grief will be joy if on its edge Fall soft that holiest ray, Joy will be grief if no faint pledge Be there of heavenly day.

LXIV. SUPPOSED SPEECH OF JOHN ADAMS.

Daniel Webster (b. 1782, d. 1852) was born in Salisbury, N.H. He spent a few months of his boyhood at Phillips Academy, Exeter, but fitted for college under Rev. Samuel Wood, of Boscawen, N.H. He graduated from Dartmouth College in 1801. He taught school several terms, during and after his college course. In 1805, he was admitted to the bar in Boston, and practiced law in New Hampshire for the succeeding eleven years. In 1812, he was elected to the United States House of Representatives. In 1816, he removed to Boston, and in 1827 was elected to the United States Senate, which position he held for twelve years. In 1841, he was appointed Secretary of State. He returned to the Senate in 1845. In 1850, he was reappointed Secretary of State and continued in office until his death. He died at his residence, in Marshfield, Mass. Mr. Webster's fame rests chiefly on his state papers and speeches. As a speaker he was dignified and stately, using clear, pure English. During all his life he took great interest in agriculture, and was very fond of outdoor sports.

1. Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this vote. It is true, indeed, that, in the beginning, we aimed not at independence. But

"There's a divinity that shapes our ends."

The injustice of England has driven us to arms; and blinded to her own interest, she has obstinately persisted, till independence is now within our grasp. We have but to reach forth to it, and it is ours. Why then should we defer the declaration? Is any man so weak as now to hope for a reconciliation with England, which shall leave either safety to the country and its liberties, or security to his own life and his own honor! Are not you, sir, who sit in that chair, is not he, our venerable colleague, near you, are you not both already the proscribed and predestined objects of punishment and of vengeance? Cut off from all hope of royal clemency, what are you, what can you be, while the power of England remains, but outlaws?

2. If we postpone independence, do we mean to carry on, or to give up, the war? Do we mean to submit, and consent that we shall be ground to powder, and our country and its rights trodden down in the dust? I know we do not mean to submit. We NEVER shall submit! Do we intend to violate that most solemn obligation ever entered into by men, that plighting, before God, of our sacred honor to Washington, when, putting him forth to incur the dangers of war, as well as the political hazards of the times, we promised to adhere to him in every extremity with our fortunes and our lives? I know there is not a man here, who would not rather see a general conflagration sweep over the land, or an earthquake sink it, than one jot or tittle of that plighted faith fall to the ground. For myself, having twelve months ago, in this place, moved you that George Washington be appointed commander of the forces raised, or to be raised, for the defense of American liberty; may my right hand forget her cunning, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I hesitate or waver in the support I give him.

3. The war, then, must go on. We must fight it through. And if the war must go on, why put off the Declaration of Independence? That measure will strengthen us. It will give us character abroad. Nations will then treat with us, which they never can do while we acknowledge ourselves subjects in arms against our sovereign. Nay, I maintain that England herself will sooner treat for peace with us on the footing of independence, than consent, by repealing her acts, to acknowledge that her whole conduct toward us has been a course of injustice and oppression. Her pride will be less wounded by submitting to that course of things, which now predestinates our independence, than by yielding the points in controversy to her rebellious subjects. The former, she would regard as the result of fortune; the latter, she would feel as her own deep disgrace. Why, then, do we not change this from a civil to a national war? And since we must fight it through, why not put ourselves in a state to enjoy all the benefits of victory, if we gain the victory.

4. If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall not fail. The cause will raise up armies; the cause will create navies. The people—the people, if we are true to them, will carry us, and will carry themselves, gloriously through this struggle. I care not how fickle other people have been found. I know the people of these colonies; and I know that resistance to British aggression is deep and settled in their hearts, and can not be eradicated. Sir, the Declaration of Independence will inspire the people with increased courage. Instead of a long and bloody war for the restoration of privileges, for redress of grievances, for chartered immunities, held under a British king, set before them the glorious object of entire independence, and it will breathe into them anew the spirit of life.

5. Read this declaration at the head of the army; every sword will be drawn, and the solemn vow uttered to maintain it, or perish on the bed of honor. Publish it from the pulpit; religion will approve it, and the love of religious liberty will cling around it, resolved to stand with it or fall with it. Send it to the public halls; proclaim it there; let them see it who saw their brothers and their sons fall on the field of Bunker Hill and in the streets of Lexington and Concord, and the very walls will cry out in its support.

6. Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs, but I see—I see clearly through this day's business. You and I, indeed, may rue it. We may not live to see the time this declaration shall be made good. We may die; die colonists; die slaves; die, it may be, ignominiously and on the scaffold. Be it so: be it so. If it be the pleasure of Heaven that my country shall require the poor offering of my life, the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But while I do live, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a country, and that a FREE country.

7. But whatever may be our fate, be assured—be assured that this Declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, and it may cost blood; but it will stand, and it will richly compensate for both. Through the thick gloom of the present I see the brightness of the future as the sun in heaven. We shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When we are in our graves, our children will honor it. They will celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires, and illuminations. On its annual return they will shed tears,—copious, gushing tears; not of subjection and slavery, not of agony and distress, but of exultation, of gratitude, and of joy.

8. Sir, before God I believe the hour is come. My judgment approves the measure, and my whole heart is in it. All that I have, and all that I am, and all that I hope in this life, I am now ready here to stake upon it; and I leave off as I began, that, live or die, survive or perish, I am for the Declaration. It is my living sentiment, and, by the blessing of God, it shall by my dying sentiment; independence now, and INDEPENDENCE FOREVER.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Rec-on-cil-i-a'tion, renewal of friendship. Col'league (pro. kol'leg), an associate in some civil office. Pro-scribed', doomed to destruction, put out of the protection of the law. Pre-des'tined, decreed beforehand. Clem'en-cy, mercy, indulgence.

Notes.—Mr. Webster, in a speech upon the life and character of John Adams, imagines some one opposed to the Declaration of Independence to have stated his fears and objections before Congress while deliberating on that subject. He then supposes Mr. Adams to have replied in the language above.

1. The quotation is from "Hamlet," Act V, Scene 2.

You, sir, who sit in that chair. This was addressed to John Hancock, president of the Continental Congress. Our venerable colleague refers to Samuel Adams. After the battles of Concord and Lexington, Governor Gage offered pardon to all the rebels who would lay down their arms, excepting Samuel Adams and John Hancock.

LXV. THE RISING.

Thomas Buchanan Read (b. 1822, d. 1872) was born in Chester County, Pennsylvania. In 1839 he entered a sculptor's studio in Cincinnati, where he gained reputation as a portrait painter. He afterwards went to New York, Boston, and Philadelphia, and, in 1850, to Italy. He divided his time between Cincinnati, Philadelphia, and Rome, in the latter years of his life. Some or his poems are marked by vigor and strength, while others are distinguished by smoothness and delicacy. The following selection is abridged from "The Wagoner of the Alleghanies."

1. Out of the North the wild news came, Far flashing on its wings of flame, Swift as the boreal light which flies At midnight through the startled skies.

2. And there was tumult in the air, The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat, And through the wide land everywhere The answering tread of hurrying feet, While the first oath of Freedom's gun Came on the blast from Lexington. And Concord, roused, no longer tame, Forgot her old baptismal name, Made bare her patriot arm of power, And swelled the discord of the hour.

3. The yeoman and the yoeman's son, With knitted brows and sturdy dint, Renewed the polish of each gun, Recoiled the lock, reset the flint; And oft the maid and matron there, While kneeling in the firelight glare, Long poured, with half-suspended breath, The lead into the molds of death.

4. The hands by Heaven made silken soft To soothe the brow of love or pain, Alas! are dulled and soiled too oft By some unhallowed earthly stain; But under the celestial bound No nobler picture can be found Than woman, brave in word and deed, Thus serving in her nation's need: Her love is with her country now, Her hand is on its aching brow.

5. Within its shade of elm and oak The church of Berkley Manor stood: There Sunday found the rural folk, And some esteemed of gentle blood, In vain their feet with loitering tread Passed 'mid the graves where rank is naught: All could not read the lesson taught In that republic of the dead.

6. The pastor rose: the prayer was strong; The psalm was warrior David's song; The text, a few short words of might,— "The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!"

7. He spoke of wrongs too long endured, Of sacred rights to be secured; Then from his patriot tongue of flame The startling words for Freedom came. The stirring sentences he spake Compelled the heart to glow or quake, And, rising on his theme's broad wing, And grasping in his nervous hand The imaginary battle brand, In face of death he dared to fling Defiance to a tyrant king.

8. Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed In eloquence of attitude, Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher; Then swept his kindling glance of fire From startled pew to breathless choir; When suddenly his mantle wide His hands impatient flung aside, And, lo! he met their wondering eyes Complete in all a warrior's guise.

9. A moment there was awful pause,— When Berkley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease! God's temple is the house of peace!" The other shouted, "Nay, not so, When God is with our righteous cause: His holiest places then are ours, His temples are our forts and towers That frown upon the tyrant foe: In this the dawn of Freedom's day There is a time to fight and pray!"

10. And now before the open door— The warrior priest had ordered so— The enlisting trumpet's sudden soar Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er, Its long reverberating blow, So loud and clear, it seemed the ear Of dusty death must wake and hear. And there the startling drum and fife Fired the living with fiercer life; While overhead with wild increase, Forgetting its ancient toll of peace, The great bell swung as ne'er before: It seemed as it would never cease; And every word its ardor flung From off its jubilant iron tongue Was, "WAR! WAR! WAR!"

11. "Who dares"—this was the patriot's cry, As striding from the desk he came— "Come out with me, in Freedom's name, For her to live, for her to die?" A hundred hands flung up reply, A hundred voices answered "I!"

DEFINITIONS.—l. Bo're-al, northern. 3. Yeo'man, a freeholder, a man freeborn. Dint, stroke. 5. Man'or, a tract of land occupied by tenants. Gen'tle (pro. jen'tl), well born, of good family. 7. Theme, a subject on which a person speaks or writes. 8. Guise, external appearance in manner or dress. 10. Soar, a towering flight.

NOTES.—2. Forgot her … name. The reference is to the meaning of the word "concord,"—harmony, union.

4. Celestial bound; i.e., the sky, heaven.

6. The pastor. This was John Peter Gabriel Muhlenberg, who was at this time a minister at Woodstock, in Virginia. He was a leading spirit among those opposed to Great Britain, and in 1775 he was elected colonel of a Virginia regiment. The above poem describes his farewell sermon. At its close he threw off his ministerial gown, and appeared in full regimental dress. Almost every man in the congregation enlisted under him at the church door. Muhlenberg became a well-known general in the Revolution, and after the war served his country in Congress and in various official positions.

LXVI. CONTROL YOUR TEMPER.

John Todd, D.D. (b. 1800, d. 1873), was born in Rutland, Vt. In 1842 he was settled as a pastor of a Congregational Church, in Pittsfield, Mass, In 1834, he published "Lectures to Children"; in 1835, "The Student's Manual," a valuable and popular work, which has been translated into several European languages; in 1836, "The Sabbath-School Teacher"; and in 1841, "The Lost Sister of Wyoming." He was one of the founders of the Mount Holyoke Female Seminary.

1. No one has a temper naturally so good, that it does not need attention and cultivation, and no one has a temper so bad, but that, by proper culture, it may become pleasant. One of the best disciplined tempers ever seen, was that of a gentleman who was naturally quick, irritable, rash, and violent; but, by having the care of the sick, and especially of deranged people, he so completely mastered himself that he was never known to be thrown off his guard.

2. The difference in the happiness which is received or bestowed by the man who governs his temper, and that by the man who does not, is immense. There is no misery so constant, so distressing, and so intolerable to others, as that of having a disposition which is your master, and which is continually fretting itself. There are corners enough, at every turn in life, against which we may run, and at which we may break out in impatience, if we choose.

3. Look at Roger Sherman, who rose from a humble occupation to a seat in the first Congress of the United States, and whose judgment was received with great deference by that body of distinguished men. He made himself master of his temper, and cultivated it as a great business in life. There are one or two instances which show this part of his character in a light that is beautiful.

4. One day, after having received his highest honors, he was sitting and reading in his parlor. A roguish student, in a room close by, held a looking-glass in such a position as to pour the reflected rays of the sun directly in Mr. Sherman's face. He moved his chair, and the thing was repeated. A third time the chair was moved, but the looking-glass still reflected the sun in his eyes. He laid aside his book, went to the window, and many witnesses of the impudence expected to hear the ungentlemanly student severely reprimanded. He raised the window gently, and then—shut the window blind!

5. I can not forbear adducing another instance of the power he had acquired over himself. He was naturally possessed of strong passions; but over these he at length obtained an extraordinary control. He became habitually calm, sedate, and self-possessed. Mr. Sherman was one of those men who are not ashamed to maintain the forms of religion in their families. One morning he called them all together, as usual, to lead them in prayer to God; the "old family Bible" was brought out, and laid on the table.

6. Mr. Sherman took his seat, and placed beside him one of his children, a child of his old age; the rest of the family were seated around the room; several of these were now grown up. Besides these, some of the tutors of the college were boarders in the family, and were present at the time alluded to. His aged and superannuated mother occupied a corner of the room, opposite the place where the distinguished judge sat.

7. At length, he opened the Bible, and began to read. The child who was seated beside him made some little disturbance, upon which Mr. Sherman paused and told it to be still. Again he proceeded; but again he paused to reprimand the little offender, whose playful disposition would scarcely permit it to be still. And this time he gently tapped its ear. The blow, if blow it might be called, caught the attention of his aged mother, who now, with some effort, rose from the seat, and tottered across the room. At length she reached the chair of Mr. Sherman, and, in a moment, most unexpectedly to him, she gave him a blow on the ear with all the force she could summon. "There," said she, "you strike your child, and I will strike mine."

8. For a moment, the blood was seen mounting to the face of Mr. Sherman; but it was only for a moment, when all was calm and mild as usual. He paused; he raised his spectacles; he cast his eye upon his mother; again it fell upon the book from which he had been reading. Not a word escaped him; but again he calmly pursued the service, and soon after sought in prayer an ability to set an example before his household which would be worthy of their imitation. Such a victory was worth more than the proudest one ever achieved on the field of battle.

DEFINITIONS.—1. Con-trol', subdue, restrain, govern. Cul'ture, cultivation, improvement by effort. Dis'ci-plined, brought under control, trained. 2. In-tol'er-a-ble, not capable of being borne. 3. Def 'er-ence, regard, respect. 4. Rep'ri-mand-ed, reproved for a fault. 6. Su-per-an'nu-a-ted, impaired by old age and infirmity. 8. A-chieved', gained.

NOTE.—Roger Sherman (b. 1721, d. 1793) was born at Newton Massachusetts, and until twenty-two years of age was a shoemaker. He then removed to New Milford, Connecticut, and was soon afterward appointed surveyor of lands for the county. In 1754, he was admitted to the bar. At various times he was elected a judge; sent to the Legislature, to the Colonial Assembly, and to the United States Congress; made a member of the governor's council of safety; and, in 1776, a member of the committee appointed to draft the Declaration of Independence, of which he was one of the signers.

LXVII. WILLIAM TELL.

James Sheridan Knowles (b. 1784, d. 1862), a dramatist and actor, was born in Cork, Ireland. In 1792 his father removed to London with his family. At the age of fourteen, Sheridan wrote an opera called "The Chevalier de Grillon." In 1798 he removed to Dublin, and soon after began his career as an actor and author. In 1835 he visited America. In 1839 an annual pension of 200 Pounds was granted him by the British government. Several years before his death he left the stage and became a Baptist minister. The best known of his plays are "Caius Gracchus," "Virginius," "Leo, the Gypsy," "The Hunchback," and "William Tell," from the last of which the following two lessons are abridged.