PART SECOND. (continued 5)

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?

LESSON LXXXII.

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.]

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

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?

LESSON LXXXIII.

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.

THE LIFE-BOOK.

HOME JOURNAL.

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?

LESSON LXXXIV.

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.

ODE ON SOLITUDE.

POPE.

Written when the author was twelve years of age.

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.

LESSON LXXXV.

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.

GETTING THE RIGHT START.

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?

LESSON LXXXVI.

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.]

THE PRESUMPTION OF YOUTH.

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?

LESSON LXXXVII.

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.

SONG OF THE AMERICAN EAGLE.

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?

LESSON LXXXVIII.

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.]

THE ARMY OF REFORM.

SARAH JANE LIPPINCOTT.

[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?

LESSON LXXXIX.

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.

THE LAST CRUISE OF THE MONITOR.

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?

LESSON XC.

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.

DUTIES AND RESPONSIBILITIES OF WOMAN.

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

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,

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:—

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

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?

LESSON XCI.

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.

SCENE FROM WILLIAM TELL.

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.

LESSON XCII.

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.]

THE RICH MAN AND THE POOR MAN.

KHEMNITZER.

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.

LESSON XCIII.

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.]

GRANDEUR OF THE OCEAN.

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,

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?

LESSON XCIV.

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.

A BURIAL AT SEA.

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!

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?

LESSON XCV.

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.

THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.

MRS. HERMANS.

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?

LESSON XCVI.

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.

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

THOMAS HOOD.

LESSON XCVII.

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.

A REQUIEM.

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.

LESSON XCVIII.

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.]

VISIT TO MOUNT VERNON.

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?