加拿大语文经典读本4（英文原版）(txt+pdf+epub+mobi电子书下载)

作者：加拿大教育部

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加拿大语文经典读本4（英文原版）试读：

LESSON 1 TO THE QUEEN

REVERED, beloved—O you that hold

A nobler office upon earth

Than arms, or power of brain, or birth

Could give the warrior kings of old,

Victoria, —since your Royal grace

To one of less desert allows

This laurel greener from the brows

Of him that utter'd nothing base;

And should your greatness, and the careALFRED TENNYSON

That yokes with empire, yield you time

To make demand of modern rhyme

If aught of ancient worth be there;

Then—while a sweeter music wakes,

And thro' wild March the throstle calls,

Where all about your palace walls

The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes—

Take, Madam, this poor book of song;

For tho' the faults were thick as dust

In vacant chambers, I could trust

Your kindness. May you rule us long,

And leave us rulers of your blood

As noble till the latest day!

May children of our children say,

'She wrought her people lasting good;

Her court was pure; her life serene;

God gave her peace; her land reposed;

A thousand claims to reverence closed

In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen;

'And statesmen at her council met

Who knew the seasons when to take

Occasion by the hand, and make

The hounds of freedom wider yet

'By shaping some august decree,

Which kept her throne unshaken still,

Broad based upon her people's will,

And compass'd by the inviolate sea.'—ALFRED TENNYSON

LESSON 2 RECESSIONAL

GOD of our fathers known of old,

Lord of our far flung battle line,

Beneath whose awful hand we hold

Dominion over palm and pine:

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies,

The captains and the kings depart;

Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,

An humble and a contrite heart.

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Far called our navies melt away,

On dune and headland sinks the fire;

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!

Judge of the Nations, space us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose

Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe:

Such boasting as the Gentiles use,

Or lesser breeds without the Law,

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget —lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust

In reeking tube and iron shard,

All valiant dust that builds on dust

And guarding calls not Thee to guard,

For frantic boast and foolish word,

Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord! Amen.—RUDYARD KIPLING

LESSON 3 AX GRINDING

WHEN I was a little boy, I remember one cold winter's morning I was accosted by a smiling man with an ax on his shoulder. "My pretty boy," said he, "has your father a grindstone?"

"Yes, sir," said I.

"You are a fine little fellow!" said he. "Will you let me grind my ax on it?"Pleased with the compliment of "fine little fellow," "Oh, yes, sir," I answered. "It is down in the shop.""And will you, my man," said he, patting me on the head, "get me a little hot water? How could I refuse? I ran and soon brought a kettleful."How old are you?—and what's your name?" continued he, without waiting for a reply. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN}/ts"I'm sure you are one of the finest lads that I have ever seen. Will you just turn a few minutes for me?" Tickled with the flattery, like a little fool, I went to work, and bitterly did I rue the day.

It was a new ax, and I toiled and tugged till I was almost tired to death. The school-bell rang, and I could not get away My hands were blistered, and the ax was not half ground. At length, however, it was sharpened, and the man turned to me with," Now, you little rascal, you've played truant. Scud to the school, or you'll rue it!"

"Alas!" thought I, "it was hard enough to turn a grindstone this cold day, but now to be called a little rascal is too much." It sank deep into my mind, and often have I thought of it since.

When I see a merchant over-polite to his customers, begging them to take a little brandy and throwing his goods on the counter, thinks I, "that man has an ax to grind."

When I see a man flattering the people and making great professions of attachment to liberty, who is in private life a tyrant, methinks, "Look out, good people! That fellow would set you turning grindstones!"

When I see a man hoisted into office by party spirit, without a single qualification to render him either respectable or useful, "Alas!" methinks, "deluded people, you are doomed for a season to mm the grindstone for a booby."—BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

LESSON 4 CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

HALF a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of death

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!" he said.

Into the valley of death

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward the Light Brigade!"

Was there a man dismayed?

Not though the soldier knew

Some one had blundered:

Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do and die.

Into the valley of death

Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them,

Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of death,

Into the mouth of hell

Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,

Flashed as they turned in air,

Sabring the gunners there,

Charging an army, while

All the world wondered:

Plunged in the battery smoke,

Right through the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the sabre-stroke

Shattered and sundered.

Then they rode back, but not—

Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

While horse and hero fell,

They that had fought so well

Came through the jaws of death,

Back from the mouth of hell,

All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?

O, the wild charge they made!

All the world wondered.

Honor the charge they made!

Honor the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred!—ALFRED TENNYSON

LESSON 5 FROM THE SERMON ON THE MOUNT

AND seeing the multitudes he went up into a mountain; and when he was set, his disciples came unto him; and he opened his mouth and taught them, saying:

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God. Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are ye when men shall revile you and persecute you and say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice and be exceeding glad, for great is your reward in heaven.

"Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbor and hate thine enemy; but I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you; that ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for He maketh His sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.

LESSON 6 OLIVER CROMWELL AND CHARLES I

NOT long after King James I. took the place of Queen Elizabeth on the throne of England, there lived an English knight at a place called Hinchinbrooke. His name was Sir Oliver Cromwell. The old house in which he dwelt had been occupied by his ancestors before him for a good many years. In it there was a great hall hung round with coats-of-arms and helmets, cuirasses and swords, which his forefathers had used in battle.

This Sir Oliver Cromwell had a nephew, who had been called Oliver after himself, but who was generally known in the family by the name of little Noll. The child was often sent to visit his uncle, who probably found him a troublesome little fellow to take care of. He was forever in mischief and always running into some danger or other, from which he seemed to escape only by miracle. Even while he was an infant in the cradle a strange accident had befallen him. A huge ape, which was kept in the family, snatched up little Noll in his arms, and clambered with him to the roof of the house. There this ugly beast sat grinning at the affrighted spectators, as if it had done the most praiseworthy thing imaginable. Fortunately, however, he brought the child safe down again.

One morning, when Noll was five or six years old, a royal messenger arrived at Hinchinbrooke with tidings that King James was coming to dine with Sir Oliver Cromwell. This was a high honor, to be sure, but a very great trouble; for all the lords and ladies, knights, guards, and squires, who waited on the king, were to be feasted as well as himself. However, Sir Oliver expressed much thankfulness for the king's intended visit, and ordered his butler and cook to make the best preparations in their power. So a great fire was kindled in the kitchen, and the neighbors knew by the smoke which poured out of the chimney that boiling, baking, stewing, roasting and frying were going on merrily.

By and by the sound of trumpets was heard approaching, and a heavy old-fashioned coach, surrounded by guards on horseback, drove up to the house. Sir Oliver with his hat in his hand stood at the gate to receive the king. His majesty was dressed in a suit of green ;he had a feather in his hat, and a triple ruff round his neck, and over his shoulder was slung a hunting-horn instead of a sword. Altogether he had not the most dignified aspect in the world, but the spectators gazed at him as if there was something superhuman and divine in his person. They even shaded their eyes with their hands as if they were dazzled by the glory of his countenance.

"How are ye, man?" cried King James, speaking in a Scottish accent, for Scotland was his native country "By my crown, Sir Oliver, but I am glad to see ye!'

The good knight thanked the king, at the same time kneeling down while his majesty alighted. When King James stood on the ground, he directed Sir Oliver's attention to a little boy who had come with him in the coach. He was six or seven years old, and wore a hat and feather, and was more richly dressed than the king himself. "I have brought my son Charlie to see ye," said the king. "I hope, Sir Oliver, ye have a son of your own to be his playmate."

Sir Oliver Cromwell made a reverential bow to the little prince, whom one of the attendants had now taken out of the coach, it was wonderful to see how all the spectators, even the aged men with their gray beards, humbled themselves before this child. They looked as if they were ready to kneel down and worship him. The poor little prince! From his earliest infancy not a soul had dared to contradict him; everybody around him had acted as if he were a superior being, so that, of course, he had imbibed the same opinion of himself. He naturally supposed that the kingdom of Great Britain and all its people had been created solely for his benefit and amusement.

"What a noble little prince he is!" exclaimed Sir Oliver. "No, please Your Majesty, I have no son to be the playmate of his royal highness; but there is a nephew of mine about the house. He is near the prince's age and will be but too happy to wait upon his Royal Highness."

"Send for him, man! send for him!" said the king.

But as it happened, there was no need of sending for Master Noll. While King James was speaking, a rugged, bold faced, sturdy little urchin thrust himself through the throng of courtiers and attendants, and greeted the prince with a broad stare. His doublet and hose, which had been put on new and clean in honor of the king's visit, were already soiled and torn with the rough play in which he had spent the morning. He looked no more abashed than if King James were his uncle, and the prince one of his playfellows. This was little Noll himself.

"Here, please Your Majesty, is my nephew," said Sir Oliver, somewhat ashamed of Noll's appearance and demeanor. "Oliver, make your obeisance to the king's majesty"

The boy made a pretty respectful obeisance to the king, for in those days children were taught to pay reverence to their elders. King James, who prided himself greatly on his scholarship, asked Noll a few questions in the Latin grammar, and then introduced him to his son. The little prince in a very grave manner extended his hand, not for Noll to shake, but that he might kneel down and kiss it.

"Nephew," said Sir Oliver, "pay your duty to the prince." "I owe him no duty," cried Noll, thrusting aside the prince's hand with a rude laugh. "Why should I kiss that boy's hand?" All the courtiers were amazed and confounded, and Sir Oliver the most of all. But the king laughed heartily, saying that little Noll had a stubborn English spirit, and that it was well for his son to learn betimes what sort of a OLIVER CROMWELLpeople he was to rule over. So King James and his train entered the house, and the prince with Noll and some other children was sent to play in a separate room while his Majesty was at dinner, The young people soon became acquainted, for boys, whether the sons of monarchs or of peasants, all like play and are pleased with one another's society With what games they diverted themselves I cannot tell. Perhaps they played at ball, or blind man's buff, perhaps at leap-frog.

Meanwhile King James and his nobles were feasting with Sir Oliver in the great hall. The king sat in a gilded chair under a canopy at the head of a long table. Whenever any of the company addressed him, it was with the deepest reverence. If the attendants offered him the various delicacies of the festival, it was upon their bended knees. But fate had ordained that good King James should not finish his dinner in peace. All of a sudden there arose a terrible uproar in the room where the children were at play Angry shouts and shrill cries of alarm were mixed up together, while the voices of elder persons were likewise heard, trying to restore order among the children. The king and everybody else at table looked aghast.

"Mercy on us!" muttered Sir Oliver; "that graceless nephew of mine is in some mischief or other." Getting up from table he ran to see what was the matter, followed by many of the guests and the king among them. They all crowded to the door of the playroom. On looking in, they beheld the little Prince Charles with his rich dress all torn, and covered with the dust of the floor. His royal blood was streaming from his nose in great abundance. He gazed at Noll with a mixture of rage and affright, and at the same time with a puzzled expression, as if he could not understand how any mortal boy should dare to give him a beating. As for Noll, there stood his sturdy little figure, bold as a lion, looking as if he were ready to fight not only the prince but king and kingdom too.

"You little villain!" cried his uncle. "What have you been about? Down on your knees this instant and ask the prince's pardon. How dare you lay your hands on the king's majesty's royal son?"

"He struck me first," grumbled the valiant little Noll, "and I've only given him his due."

Sir Oliver and the guests lifted up their hands in astonishment and horror. No punishment seemed severe enough for this wicked little varlet, who had dared to resent a blow from the king's own son. Some of the courtiers were of opinion that Noll should be sent prisoner to the Tower of London, and brought to trial for high treason. Others, in their zeal for the king's service, were about to lay hands on the boy to chastise him in the royal presence. But King James, who sometimes showed a good deal of sagacity, ordered them to desist.

"Thou art a bold boy," said he, looking fixedly at little Noll; "and if thou live to be a man, my son Charlie would do wisely to be friends with thee."

"I never will!' cried the little prince, stamping his foot.

"Peace, Charlie, peace!" said the king; and then added, addressing Sir Oliver and the attendants, "Harm not the urchin, for he has taught my son a good lesson, if Heaven do but give him grace to profit by it. Hereafter, should he be tempted to tyrannize over the stubborn race of Englishmen, let him remember little Noll Cromwell and his own bloody nose."

So the king finished his dinner and departed, and for many a long year the childish quarrel between Prince Charles and Noll Cromwell was forgotten. But when old King James was dead and Charles sat upon his throne, he seemed to forget that he was but a man, and that his meanest subjects were men as well as he. He wished to have the property and lives of the people of England entirely at his own disposal. But the Puritans, and all who loved liberty, rose against him and beat him in many battles. Throughout this war, between the king and nobles on one side and the people of England on the other, there was a famous leader, who did more toward the ruin of royal authority than all the rest. The contest seemed like a wrestlingmatch between King And the king was overthrown.When the discrowned monarch was brought to trial, that warlike leader sat in the judgment-hall. Many judges were present besides himself but he alone had the power to save King Charles, or to doom him to the scaffold. After sentence was pronounced, he was entreated by his own children, on their knees, to rescue his majesty from death. CHARLES"No!" said he sternly. "Better that one man should perish than that the whole country should be ruined for his sake. It is resolved that he shall die!"

When Charles, no longer a king, was led to the scaffold, his great enemy stood at a window of the royal palace of Whitehall. He beheld the poor victim of pride and an evil education and misused power, as he laid his head upon the block. He looked on while the executioner lifted the fatal axe and smote off that anointed head at a single blow.

At night, when the body of Charles was laid in the coffin in I a gloomy chamber, the general entered, lighting himself with a torch. Its gleam showed that he was now growing old; his visage was scarred with many battle-marks; his brow was wrinkled with care. Probably there was not a single trait that belonged to the little Noll who had battled so stoutly with Prince Charles. Yet this was he! He lifted the coffin-lid and caused the light of his torch to fall upon the dead monarch's face. Then his mind went back overall the marvelous events that had brought the hereditary King of England to this dishonored coffin, and had raised himself to the possession of kingly power.

"Why was it," said Cromwell to himself, or might have said, "why was it that this great king fell, and that poor Noll Cromwell has gained all the power of the realm?" King Charles had fallen, because, in his manhood the same as when a child, he disdained to feel that every human creature was Iris brother. He deemed himself a superior being and fancied that his subjects were created only for a king to rule over. And Cromwell rose, because, in spite of his many faults, he mainly fought for the rights of his fellowmen.—NATHANTEL HAWTHORNE

LESSON 7 THE BATTLE OF MARSTON MOOR

To HORSE. to horse! Sir Nicholas, the clarion's note is high!

To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas, the big drum makes reply!

Ere this hath Lucas marched with his gallant cavaliers,

And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter in our ears.

To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas! White Guy is at the door,

And the raven whets Ns beak o'er the field of Marston Moor.

Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief and broken prayer,

And she brought a silken banner down the narrow turret-stair;

Oh! Many were the tears that those radiant eyes had shed

As she traced the bright word "Glory" in the gay and glancing thread;

And mournful was the smile which o'er those lovely features ran

As she said: "It is your lady's gift; unfurl it in the van!"

"It shall flutter noble wench where the best and boldest ride,

Midst the steel-dad files of Skippon, the black dragoons of Pride;

The recreant heart of Fairfax shall feel a sicklier qualm,

And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm,

When they see my lady's gewgaw flaunt proudly on their wing,

And hear her loyal soldiers shout 'For God and for the King! '"

'Tis soon. The ranks are broken, along the royal line

They fly, the braggarts of the court! the bullies of the Rhine!

Stout Langdale's cheer is heard no more, and Astley's helm is down,

And Rupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and with a frown,

And cold Newcastle mutters, as be follows in their flight,

"The German boar had better far have supped in York to-night.'

The knight is left alone, his steel cap cleft in twain,

His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many a gory stain;

Yet still he waves his banner and cries amid the rout,

"For Church and King, fair gentlemen! spur on, and fight it out!

And now he wards a Roundhead's pike. and now he hums a stave,

And now he quotes a stage play, and now he fells a knave.

God aid thee now, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no thought of fear;

God aid thee now, Sir Nicholas! for fearful odds are here!

The rebels hem thee in, and at every cut and thrust,

"Down, down," they cry, "with Belial! down with him to the dust!"

"I would," quoth grim old Oliver, "that Belial's trusty sword

This day were doing battle for the saints and for the Lord!"

The Lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower,

The gray haired warder watches from tie castle's topmost tower

"What news, what news, old Hubert? "—"The battle's lost and won:

The royal troops are melting like mists before the sun!

And a wounded man approaches—I'm blind and cannot see,

Yet sure I am that sturdy step my master's step must be!"

"I've brought thee back thy banner, wench, from as rude and red a fray

As e'er was proof of soldier's thew, or theme for minstrel's lay!

Here, Hubert, bring the silver bowl and liquor quantum surf;

I'll make a shift to drain it yet, ere I part with boots and Buff—

Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing forth his life,

And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife

"Sweet! we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship for France,

And mourn in merry paris for this poor land's mischance;

For if the worst befall me, why better axe and rope,

Than life with Lenthall for a king, and Peters for a pope

Alas! alas! my gallant Guy!—curse on the crop eared boor

Who sent me, with my standard, on foot from Marston Moor! "—WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED

LESSON 8 THE BATTLE OF NASEBY

OH! wherefore come ye forth in triumph from the North,

With your hands and your feet and your raiment all red?

And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?

And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?

Oh, evil was the root and bitter was the fruit

And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod;

For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the Strong,

Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God.

It was about the noon of a glorious day in June,

That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine;

And the man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair,

Bald Astley and Sir Marmaduke and Rupert of the Rhine!

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,

The General rode along us to form us for the fight,

When a murmuring sound broke out and swelled into a shout

Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right.

And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,

The cry of battle rises along their charging line! —

For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws!

For Charles King of England and Rupert of the Rhine!

The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums.

His bravos of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall,

They are bursting on our flanks; —grasp your pikes; — close your ranks; —

For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.

They are here! —they rush on! We are broken—we are gone; —

Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast,

O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right;

Stand back m back, in God's name, and fight to the last.

Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given ground;

Hark! hark! what means the trampling of horsemen on our real?

Whose banner do I see, boys? —'Tis he, thank God, 'tis he, boys!

Bear up another minute. Brave Oliver is here!

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row,

Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes,

Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst,

And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some nook to hide

Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar.

And he—he turns, he flies! —shame to those cruel eyes

That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war.

Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and ere ye strip the slain,

First give another stab to make your guest secure,

Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets,

The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.

Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold,

When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans today,

And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks,

Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.

Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate,

And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades,

Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths,

Your stage plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?

Notes: Lord Macaulay's poem on the battle of Naseby is supposed to be spoken by one of the sergeants of the Parliamentary forces. This was the most important battle of the English Civil War, and was fought on the 14th of June, 1645, resting in a decisive victory for the Parliamentary forces under Fairfax and Cromwell Charles 1, was with the Royal army, the main body of which was under the command of Lord Astley, Prince Rupert leading the right wing, Sir Marmaduke Langdale the left, and the King himself the reserve. The King fled, losing his cannon, baggage, and nearly 5,000 men taken prisoners.

LESSON 9 A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP

NOON by the north clock! noon by the east! High noon, too, by these hot sunbeams which fall scarcely: aslope upon my head and almost make the water bubble and smoke in the trough under my nose. Truly; we public characters have a rough time of it! And among all the public characters chosen at the March meeting, where is he that sustains for a single year the burden of such manifold duties as are imposed in perpetuity upon the Town Pump?

The title of "town treasurer" is rightfully mine as guardian of the best treasure that the town has. The overseers of the poor ought to make me their chairman, since I provide bountifully for the pauper without expense to him that pays taxes. I am at the head of the firedepartment and one of the physicians of the board of health.

As a keeper of the peace, all water-drinkers will confess me equal to the constable. I perform some of the duties of the town clerk by promulgating public notices when they are pasted on my front. To speak within bounds, I am the chief person of the municipality and exhibit, moreover, an admirable pattern to my brother officers by the cool, steady, upright, downright, and impartial discharge of my business and the constancy with which I stand to my post.

Summer or winter nobody seeks me in vain, for all day long I am seen at the busiest corner, lust market, stretching out my arms to rich and poor alike; and at night I hold a lantern over my bead, both to show where I am and to keep people out of the gutters.

At this sultry noontide I am cup-beater to the parched populace for whose benefit an iron goblet is chained to my' waist. Like a dram-seller on the mall, at muster-day I cry aloud to all and sundry in my plainest accents and at the very tip-top of my voice: "Here it is, gentlemen! here is the good liquor! Walk up—walk up, gentlemen! walk up! walk up! Here is the superior stuff! Here is the unadulterated ale of Father Adam—better than Cognac, Hollands, Jamaica, strong beer, or wine of any price, Here it is, by the hogshead or the single glass, and not a cent to pay! Walk up, gentlemen! Walk up, and help yourselves?

It were a pity if all this outcry should draw no customers. Here they come! A hot day, gentlemen! Quaff and away again, so as to keep yourselves in a nice, cool sweat! You, my friend, will need another capful to wash the dust out of your throat, if it be as thick there as it score of miles today, and, like a wise man, have passed by the taverns and stopped at the running brooks and wellcurbs. Otherwise, betwixt heat without and fire within you would have been burned to a cinder, or melted down to nothing at all in the fashion of a jelly-fish! Drink, and make room for that other fellow who seeks my aid to quench the fiery fever of last night's potations—which he drained from no cup of mine.

Welcome, most rubicund sir! You and I have been great strangers hitherto; nor, to express the truth, will my nose be anxious for a closer intimacy till the fumes of your breath be a little less potent. Mercy on you, man! the water absolutely hisses down your red-hot gullet and is converted quite to steam. Fill again, and tell me on the word of an honest toper, did you ever in cellar, tavern, or any kind of a dram shop, spend the price of your children's food for a swig half so delicious? Now, for the first time these ten years, you know the flavor of cold water. Good by, and whenever you are thirsty remember that I keep a constant supply at the old stand.

Who next?—Oh, my little friend, you are let loose from school, and come hither to scrub your blooming face, and drown the memory of certain taps of the ferule and other schoolboy troubles in a draught from the Town Pump. Take it, pure as the current of your young life. Take it, and may your heart and tongue never be scorched with a fiercer thirst than now! There, my dear child! put down the cup, and yield your place to this elderly gentleman, who treads so tenderly over the stones that I suspect he is afraid of breaking them.

What! he limps by without so much as thanking me, as if my hospitable offers were meant only for people who have no winecellars. Well, well, sir! no harm done, I hope! Go, draw the cork, tip the decanter; but when your great toe shall set you a-roaring it will be no affair of mine. If gentlemen love the pleasant titillation of the gout, it is all one to the Town Pump. This thirsty dog with his red tongue lolling out does not scorn my hospitality, but stands on his hind legs and laps eagerly out of the trough. See how lightly he capers away again! Jowler, did your worship ever have the gout?

Are you all satisfied? Then wipe your mouths, my good friends, and, while my spout has a moment's leisure, I will delight the town with a few historical reminiscences. In far antiquity, beneath a darksome shadow of venerable boughs, a spring bubbled out of the leaf-strewn earth in the very spot where you behold me on the sunny pavement. The water was as bright and clear, and deemed as precious, as liquid diamonds. The Indian Sagamores drank of it from time immemorial, till the fearful deluge of fire water burst Upon the red men and swept the whole race away from the cold fountains. Endicott and his followers came next and often knelt down to drink, dipping their long beards in the spring. The richest goblet then was of birch -bark.

Governor Winthrop drank here out of the hollow of his hand. The elder Higginson here wet his palm and laid it on the brow of the first town-born child. For many years it was the watering-place and, as it were, the washbowl of the vicinity, whither all decent folks resorted to purify their visages, and gaze at them afterward—at least the pretty maidens did in the mirror which it made. On Sabbath-days, whenever a babe was to be baptized, the sexton filled his basin here and placed it on the communion-table of the humble meetinghouse, which partly covered the site of yonder stately brick one.

Thus one generation after another was consecrated to Heaven by its waters, cast its waxing and waning shadows into its glassy bosom, and vanished from the earth as if mortal life were but a flitting image in a fountain. Finally, the fountain vanished also. Cellars were dug on all sides, and cart-loads of gravel flung upon its source, whence oozed a turbid stream forming a mud-puddle at the corner of two streets.

But in the course of time a Town Pump was sunk into the source of the ancient spring, and when the first decayed another took its place, and then another, and still another, till here stand I, gentlemen and ladies, to serve you, with my iron goblet. Drink, and be refreshed! The water is pure and cold as that which slaked the thirst of the red Sagamore beneath the aged boughs, though now the gem of the wilderness is treasured under these hot stones, where no shadow falls but from the brick buildings. And be it the moral of my story, that, as the wasted and long-lost fountain is now known and prized again, so shall the virtues of cold water, too little valued since your fathers'days, be recognized by all.

Your pardon, good people! I must interrupt my stream of eloquence and spout forth a stream of water to replenish the trough for this teamster and his two yoke of oxen, who have come from Topsfield, or somewhere along that way No part of my business is pleasanter than the watering of cattle. Look! How rapidly they lower the water-mark on the sides of the trough, till their capacious stomachs are moistened with a gallon or two apiece, and they can afford time to breathe it in with sighs of calm enjoyment. Now they roll their quiet eyes around the brim of their monstrous drinking vessel. An ox is your true toper.—NATHANTEL HAWTHORNE

LESSON 10 THE NIGHTINGLE AND THE GOLW-WORM

A NIGHTINGALE that all day long

Had cheered the village with his song,

Nor yet at eve his note suspended,

Nor yet when eventide was ended,

Began to feel, as well he might,

The keen demands of appetite;

When, looking eagerly around,WILLIAM COWPER

He spied, far off upon the ground,

A something shining in the dark,

And knew the glow worm by his spark.

So, stooping down from hawthorn top,

He thought to put him in his crop.

The worm, aware of his intent,

Harangued him thus right eloquent:

"Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,

'As much as I your minstrelsy,

You would abhor to do me wrong,

As much as I to spoil your song;

For 'twas the self-same Pow'r divine

Taught you to sing and me to shine,

That you with music, I with light,

Might beautify and cheer the night."

The songster heard this short oration,

And warbling out his approbation.

Released him, as my story tells,

And found a supper somewhere else.

Hence jarring sectaries may learn

Their real interest to discern:

That brother should not war with brother

And worry and devour each other;

But sing and shine by sweet consent,

Till life's poor transient night is spent,

Respecting in each other's case

The gifts of nature and of grace.

Those Christians best deserve the name,

Who studiously make peace their aim:—

Peace, both the duty and the prize

Of him that creeps and him that flies.—WILLIAM COWPER————————England, with all thy faults, I love thee still,My country! and, while yet a nook is leftWhere English minds and manners may be found,Shall be constrain'd to love thee.—william cowper

LESSON 11 AN ADJUDGED CASE

BETWEEN Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose,

The spectacles set them unhappily wrong;

The point in dispute was, as all the world knows,

To which the said spectacles ought to belong.

So the Tongue was the Lawyer and argued the cause

With a great deal of skill and a wig full of learning,

While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws,

So famed for his talent in nicely discerning.

"In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear,

And your lordship," he said, "will undoubtedly find

That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear,

Which amounts to possession time out of mind."

Then, holding the spectacles up to the court—

"Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle

As wide as the ridge of the Nose is, in short,

Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle.

Again, would your lordship a moment suppose

('Tis a case that has happened and may be again),

That the visage or countenance had not a Nose,

Pray who would or who could wear spectacles then?

On the whole it appears, and my argument shows

With a reasoning the court will never condemn,

That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,

And the Nose was as plainly intended for them."

Then, shifting his side as a lawyer knows how,

He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes,

But what were his arguments few people know,

For the court did not think they were equally wise.

So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone,

Decisive and clear without one "if" or "but"—

That whenever the Nose put his spectacles on,

By daylight or candlelight, Eyes should be shut.—WILLIAM COWPER

LESSON 12 THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN MOORE

THE preparations for embarkation were completed on the morning of the sixteenth, and the general gave notice that he intended, if the French did not move, to begin embarking the reserve at four in the afternoon. This was about midday He mounted his horse, and set off to visit the outposts.

Before he had proceeded far, a messenger came to tell him that the enemy's line were getting under arms, and a deserter arriving at the same moment confirmed the intelligence. He spurred forward. Their light troops were pouring rapidly down the hill on the right wing of the British, and the advanced picket were already beginning to fire. Lord William Bentinck's brigade, consisting of ROBERT SOUTHEYthe fourth, forty second, and fiftieth regiments, maintained this post. It was a bad position, and yet, if the troops gave way on that point, the ruin of the army was inevitable. The Guards were in their rear.

General Paget was ordered to advance with the reserve and to support Lord William. The enemy opened a cannonade with eleven heavy guns advantageously placed on the hills. Two strong columns, one advancing from a wood the other skirting its edge, directed their march towards the right wing. A third column approached the centre; a fourth advanced slowly upon the left; a fifth remained half-way down the hill in the same direction. Both in number and weight of guns they had a decided superiority and they fired with such effect from the commanding situation which they had chosen, that the balls in their bounding reached the British reserve, and occasioned some loss there.

Sir David Baird had his arm shattered with a grape-shot as he was leading on his division. The two lines of infantry advanced against each other. They were separated by stone walls and hedges, which intersected the ground; but as they closed it was perceived that the French line extended beyond the right flank of the British, and a body of the enemy was observed moving up the valley to turn it.

Marshal Soult's intention was to force the right of the British, and thus to interpose between Corunna and the army and cut it off from the place of embarkation. Failing in this attempt he was now endeavoring to outflank it. Half of the fourth regiment was therefore ordered to fall back, forming an obtuse angle with the other half. This manoeuvre was excellently performed and they commenced a heavy flanking fire. Sir John Moore called out to them that this was exactly what he wanted to be done, and rode on to the fiftieth, commanded by Majors Napier and Stanhope. They got over an enclosure in their front, charged the enemy most gallantly, and drove them out of the village of Elvina; but Major Napier, advancing too far in the pursuit, received several wounds and was made prisoner, and Major Stanhope was killed.

The general now proceeded to the forty second. "Highlanders," said he, "remember Egypt." They rushed on and drove the French before them until they were Stopped by a wall; Sir John accompanied them in this charge. He now sent Captain Hardinge to order up a battalion of Guards to the left flank of the fortysecond. The officer commanding the light infantry conceived at this that they were to be relieved by the Guards because their ammunition was nearly expended, and he began to fall back. The general discovering the mistake said to them: "My brave fortysecond, join your comrades; ammunition is coming, and you have your bayonets!" Upon this, they instantly moved forward. Captain Hardinge returned, and pointed out to the general where the Guards were advancing.

The enemy kept up a hot fire and their artillery played incessantly on the spot where they were standing. A cannon shot struck Sir John and carried away his left shoulder and part of the collar-bone, leaving the arm hanging by the flesh. He fell from his horse on his back; his countenance did not change, neither did he betray the least sensation of pain. Captain Hardinge, who dismounted and took him by the hand, observed him anxiously watching the forty-second, which was warmly engaged, and told him they were advancing, and upon that intelligence his countenance brightened.

Colonel Graham, who now came up to assist him, seeing the composure of his features began to hope that he was not wounded, till he saw the dreadful laceration. From the size of the wound it was in vain to make any attempt at stopping the blood, and Sir John consented to be removed in a blanket to the rear. In raising him up, his sword, hanging on the wounded side, touched his arm, and became entangled between his legs. Captain Hardinge observing his composure began to hope that the wound might not be mortal, and said to him he trusted he might be spared to the army and recover. Moore turned his head, and looking steadfastly at the wound for a few seconds replied: "No, Hardinge, I feel that to be impossible."

As the soldiers were carrying him slowly along, he made them frequently turn round that he might see the field of battle and listen to the firing, and he was well pleased when the sound grew fainter.

A spring wagon came up, bearing Colonel Wynch, who was wounded; the Colonel asked who was in the blanket, and being told it was Sir John Moore wished him to be placed on the wagon. Sir John asked one of the Highlanders whether he thought the wagon or the blanket was best, and the man said the blanket would not shake him so much, as he and the other soldiers would keep the step and carry him easy So they proceeded with him to his quarters at Corunna, weeping as they went.—ROBERT SOUTHEY

LESSON 13 BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried;

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning,

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;

But little He'll reck if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him!

But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;

And we heard the distant and random gun

That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone—

But we left him alone with his glory.—CHARLES WOLFE

LESSON 14 THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE

THERE'S a white stone placed upon yonder tomb—

Beneath is a soldier lying;

The death-wound came amid sword and plume

When banner and ball were flying.

Yet now he sleeps, the turf on his breast,

By wet wild-flowers surrounded;

The church shadow falls o'er the place of his rest,

Where the steps of his childhood bounded.

There were tears that fell from manly eyes,

There was woman's gentle weeping,

And the wailing of age and infant cries,

O'er the grave where be lies sleeping.

He had left his home in his spirit's pride

With his father's sword and blessing;

He stood with the valiant side by side,

His country's wrongs redressing.

He came again in the light of his fame

When the red campaign was over;

One heart that in secret had kept his name

Was claimed by the soldier lover.

But the cloud of strife came up on the sky;

He left his sweet home for battle,

Left his young child's lisp for the loud war-cry

And the cannon's long death-rattle.

He came again—but an altered man:

The path of the grave was before him,

And the smile that he wore was cold and wan,

For the shadow of death hung o'er him.

He spoke of victory—spoke of cheer:

These are words that are vainly spoken

to the childless mother, or orphan's ear,

Or the widow whose heart is broken.

A helmet and sword are engraved on the stone

Half hidden by yonder willow;

There he sleeps whose death in battle was won,

But who died on his own home pillow!—LFTITA ELIZABETH LANDON

LESSON 15 THE HEROES OF THE LONG SAULT

Adam Daulac was a young man of good family, who had come to the colony three years before at the age of twenty-two. He had held some military command in France, though in what rank does not appear. He had been busy for some time among the young men of Montreal, inviting them to join him in the enterprise he meditated. Sixteen of them caught his spirit. They bound themselves by oath to accept no quarter; and, having gained Maisonneuve's consent, they made their wills, confessed, and received the sacraments.

After a solemn farewell they embarked in several canoes well supplied with arms and ammunition. They were very indifferent canoe-men, and it is said that they lost a week in vain attempts to pass the swift current of Ste. Anne at the head of the Island of Montreal. At length they were successful and, entering the mouth of the Ottawa, crossed the Lake of Two Mountains, and slowly advanced against the current.

About the first of May they reached the foot of the formidable rapid called the Long Sault, where a tumult of waters foaming among ledges and boulders barred the onward way. It was needless to go farther. The Iroquois were sure to pass the Sault, and could be fought here as well as elsewhere. Just below the rapid, where the forests sloped gently to the shore, among the bushes and stumps of a rough clearing made in constructing it, stood a palisade fort, the work of an Algonquin war party in the past autumn. It was a mere enclosure of trunks of small trees planted in a circle, and was already in ruin. Such as it was, the Frenchmen took possession of it. They made their fires and slung their kettles on the neighboring shore, and here they were soon joined by forty Hurons and four Algonquins. Daulac, it seems, made no objection to their company, and they all bivouacked together. Morning, noon, and night, they prayed in three different tongues, and when at sunset the long reach of forest on the farther shore basked peacefully in the level rays, the rapids joined their hoarse music to the notes of their evening hymn.

In a day or two their scouts came in with tidings that two Iroquois canoes were coming down the Sault. Daulac had time to set his men in ambush among the bushes at a point where he thought the strangers likely to land. He judged aright. Canoes bearing five Iroquois approached and were met by a volley fired with such precipitation that one or more of them escaped, fled into the forest, and told their mischance to their main body, two hundred in number, on the river above. A fleet of canoes suddenly appeared, bounding down the rapids, filled with warriors eager for revenge. The allies had barely time to escape to their fort, leaving their kettles still slung over the fires. The Iroquois made a hasty and desultory attack and were quickly repulsed. They next opened a parley, hoping no doubt to gain some advantage by surprise. Failing in this, they set themselves, after their custom on such occasions, to building a rude fort of their own in the neighboring forest.

This gave the French a breathing-time, and they used it for strengthening their defences. Being provided with tools, they planted a row of stakes within their palisade to form a double fence, and filled the intervening space with earth and stones to the height of a man, leaving some twenty loop holes, at each of which three marksmen were stationed. Their work was still unfinished when the Iroquois were upon them again. They had broken to pieces the birch canoes of the French and their Allies, and, kindling the bark, rushed up to pile it blazing against the palisade; but so brisk and steady a fire met them that they recoiled and at last gave way They came on again, and again were driven back, leaving many of their number on the ground, among them the principal chief of the Senecas.

This dashed the spirits of the Iroquois, and they sent a canoe to call to their aid five hundred of their warriors, who were mustered near the mouth of the Richelieu. These were the allies whom, but for this untoward check, they were on their way to join for a combined attack on Quebec, Three Rivers, and Montreal. It was maddening to see their grand project thwarted by a few French and Indians ensconced in a paltry redoubt scarcely better than a cattle pen, but they were forced to digest the affront as best they might.

Meanwhile, crouched behind trees and logs, they beset the fort, harassing its defenders day and night with a scattering fire and a constant menace of attack. Thus five days passed. Hunger, thirst, and want of sleep wrought fatally on the strength of the French and their allies, who, pent up together in their narrow prison, fought and prayed by turns. Deprived as they were of water, they could not swallow the crushed Indian corn, or "hominy," which was their only food. Some of them, under cover of a brisk fire, ran down to the river and filled such small vessels as they had; but this pittance only tantalized their thirst. They dug a hole in the fort, and were rewarded at last by a little muddy water oozing through the clay.

Among the assailants were a number of Hurons, adopted by the Iroquois and fighting on their side. These renegades now tried to seduce their countrymen in the fort. Half dead with thirst and famine they took the bait, and one, two, or three at a time climbed the palisade and ran over to the enemy, amid the hootings and execrations of those whom they deserted. Their chief stood firm, and when he saw his nephew join the other fugitives, he fired his pistol at him in a rage. The four Algonquins, who had no mercy to hope for, stood fast with the courage of despair.

On the fifth day an uproar of unearthly yells from seven hundred savage throats, mingled with a clattering salute of musketry, told the Frenchmen that the expected reinforcement had come; and soon, in the forest and on the clearing, a crowd of warriors mustered for the attack. Knowing from the Huron deserters the weakness of their enemy they had no doubt of an easy victory They advanced cautiously, as was usual with the Iroquois before their blood was up, screeching, leaping from side to side, and firing as they came on; but the French were at their posts, and every loop hole darted its tongue of fire. The Iroquois, astonished at the persistent vigor of the defence, feil back discomfited. The fire of the French, who were themselves completely under cover, had told upon them with deadly effect. Three days more wore away in a series of futile attacks, made with little concert or vigor; and during all this time Daulac and his men, reeling with exhaustion, fought and prayed as before, sure of a martyr's reward.

The uncertain vacillating temper common to all Indians now began to declare itself. Some of the Iroquois were for going home. Others revolted at the thought, and declared that it would be an eternal disgrace to lose so many men at the hands of so paltry an enemy, and yet fail to take revenge. It was resolved to make a general assault, and volunteers were called for to lead the attack. No precaution was neglected. Large and heavy shields four or five feet high were made by lashing together with the aid of cross-bars three split logs. Covering themselves with these mantelets, the chosen band advanced, followed by the motley throng of warriors. In spite of a brisk fire they reached the palisade, and, crouching below the range of shot, hewed furiously with their hatchets to cut their way through. The rest followed close and swarmed like angry hornets around the little fort, hacking and tearing to get in.

Daulac had crammed a large musketoon with powder and plugged up the muzzle. Lighting the fuse inserted in it he tried to throw it over the barrier to burst like a grenade among the crowd of savages without; but it struck the ragged top of one of the palisades, fell back among the Frenchmen, and exploded, killing or wounding several of them, and nearly blinding others. In the confusion that followed, the iroquois got possession of the loopholes, and, thrusting in their guns, fired on those within. In a moment more they had torn a breach in the palisade, but, nerved with the energy of desperation, Daulac and his followers sprang to defend it. Another breach was made and then another. Danlac was struck dead, but the survivors kept up the fight. With a sword or a hatchet in one hand and a knife in the other, they threw themselves against the throng of enemies, striking and stabbing with the fury of madmen, till the Iroquois, despairing of taking them alive, fired volley after volley, and shot them down. All was over, and a burst of triumphant yells proclaimed the dear-bought victory.

Searching the pile of corpses, the victors found four Frenchmen still breathing. Three had scarcely a spark of life, and, as no time was to be lost, they burned them on the spot. The fourth, less fortunate, seemed likely to survive, and they reserved him for future torments. As for the Huron deserters, their cowardice profited them little. The Iroquois regardless of their promises fell upon them, burned some at once, and carried the rest to their villages for a similar fate. Five of the number had the good fortune to escape, and it was from them, aided by admissions made long afterwards by the Iroquois themselves, that the French of Canada derived all their knowledge of this glorious disaster.

To the colony it proved a salvation. The Iroquois had had fighting enough. If seventeen Frenchmen, four Algonquins, and one Huron, behind a picket fence, could hold seven hundred warriors at bay so long, what might they expect from many such, fighting behind walls of stone? For that year they thought no more of capturing Quebec and Montreal, but went home dejected and amazed, to howl over their losses and nurse their dashed courage for a day of vengeance.—FRANCIS PARKMAN————————And what is so rare as a day in June?Then, if ever, come perfect days;Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,And over it softly her warm ear lays;Whether we look, or whether we listen,We hear life murmur, or see it glisten.—James Russel Lowell

LESSON 16 JACQUES CARTIER

IN the seaport of St. Malo 'twas a smiling morn in May

When the Commodore Jacques Cartier to the westward sail'd away;

In the crowded old cathedral all the town were on their knees

For the safe return of kinsmen from the undiscover'd seas;

And every autumn blast that swept o'er pinnacle and pier

Fill'd manly hearts with sorrow and gentle hearts with fear.

A year passed o'er St. Malo-again came round the day

When the Commodore Jacques Cartier to the westward sail'd away;

But no tidings from the absent had come the way they went,

And tearful were the vigils that many a maiden spent;

And manly hearts were filled with gloom, and gentle hearts with fear,

When no tidings came from Cartier at the closing of the year.

But the Earth is as the Future, it hath its hidden side;

And the Captain of St. Malo was rejoicing in his pride

In the forests of the North—while his townsmen mourn'd his loss

He was rearing on Mount Royal the fleur-de-lis and cross;

And when two months were over and added to the year

St. Malo hail'd him home again, cheer answering to cheer.

He told them of a region, hard, iron-bound, and cold,

Nor seas of pearl abounded, nor mines of shining gold;

Where the wind from Thule freezes the word upon the lip,

And the ice in spring comes sailing athwart the early ship;

He told them of the frozen scene until they thrilled with fear

And piled fresh fuel on the hearth to make him better cheer.

But when he changed the strain—he told how soon are cast

In early spring the fetters that hold the waters fast;

How the winter causeway broken is drifted out to sea,

And the rills and rivers sing with pride the anthem of the free;

How the magic wand of summer clad the landscape to his eyes

Like the dry bones of the just when they wake in Paradise.

He told them of the Algonquin braves—the hunters of the wild,

Of how the Indian mother in the forest rocks her child;

Of how, poor souls, they fancy in every living thing

A spirit good or evil that claims their worshipping;

Of how they brought their sick and maim'd for him to breathe upon,

And of the wonders wrought for them through the

Gospel of St. John.

He told them of the river whose mighty current gave

Its freshness for a hundred leagues to Ocean's briny wave;

He told them of the glorious scene presented to his sight

What time he rear'd the cross and crown on Hochelaga's height,

And of the fortress cliff that keeps of Canada the key;

And they welcomed back Jacques Cartier from his perils o'er the sea.—THOMAS D'ARCY MCGEE

LESSON 17 THE VISION OF MIRZA

"On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after having washed myself and offered up my morning devotions I ascended the high hills of Bagdad, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains I fell into a profound contemplation on the vanity of human life; and, passing from one thought to another, 'Surely' said I, 'man is but a shadow, and life a dream.'

"Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd with a musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him, he applied it to his lips and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceeding sweet and wrought into a variety of runes that were inexpressibly melodious and altogether different from anything I had ever heard. They put me in mind of those Heavenly airs that are played to the departed souls of good men upon their first arrival in Paradise, to wear out the impressions of their last agonies and qualify them for the pleasures of that happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures.

"I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a Genius and that several had been entertained with music who had passed by it, but never heard that the musician had before made himself visible. When he had raised my thoughts by those transporting airs which he played to taste the pleasures of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished he beckoned me to approach the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence which is due to a superior nature, and as my heart was subdued by the captivating strains I had heard I fell down at his feet and wept. The Genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion and affability that familiarized him to my imagination and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with which I approached him. He lifted me up from the ground, and taking me by the hand, 'Mirza,' said he, 'I have heard thee in thy soliloquies; follow me.'

"He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing me on the top of it, 'Cast thine eyes eastward,' said he, 'and tell me what thou seest.'

"'I see,' said I, 'a huge valley and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it.'

"'The valley that thou seest,' said he, 'is the Vale of Misery and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great Tide of Eternity.'

"'What is the reason,' said I, 'that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other?'

"'What thou seest,' said he, 'is that portion of eternity which is called Time, measured out by the sun and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation. Examine now this sea that is thus bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it.'

'"I see a bridge,' said I, 'standing in the midst of the tide.'

"'The bridge thou seest,' said he, 'is Human Life; consider it attentively.'

"Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with Several broken arches, which, added to those that were entire, made up the number about an hundred. As I was counting the arches, the Genius told me that this bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches, but that a great flood swept away the rest and left the bridge in the ruinous condition in which I now beheld it. 'But tell me further,' said he, 'what thou discoverest on it.'

"'I see multitudes of people passing over it,' said I, 'and a black cloud hanging on each end of it.' As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that flowed underneath it, and upon further examination perceived there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon than they fell through them into the tide and immediately disappeared. These hidden pitfalls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud, but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer together towards the end of the arches that were entire.

"There were indeed some persons, but their number was very small, that continued a kind of bobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk.

"I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity and catching at everything that stood by them to save themselves. Some were looking up towards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in their eyes and danced before them; but often, when they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed and down they sank. In this confusion of objects, I observed some with scimitars in their hands, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have escaped had they not been thus forced upon them.

"The Genius, seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it. 'lake thine eyes off the bridge,' said he, 'and tell me if thou yet seest anything thou dost not comprehend.'

"Upon looking up, 'What mean,' said I, 'those great flights of birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settling upon it from time to time? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and, among many other feathered creatures, several little winged boys, that perch in great numbers upon the middle arches.'

"'These,' said the Genius, 'are Envy, Avarice, Superstition, Despair, Love, with the like cares and passions that infest human life.'

"I here fetched a deep sigh. 'Alas,' said I, 'man was made in vain! how is he given away to misery and mortality! —tortured in life, and swallowed up in death?

"The Genius, being moved with compassion towards me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. Look no more,' said he, 'on man in the first stage of his existence, in his setting out for eternity, but cast thine eye on that thick mist into which the tide bears the several generations of mortals that fall into it.'

"I directed my sight as I was ordered, and, whether or no the good Genius strengthened it with any supernatural force, or dissipated part of the mist that was before too thick for the eye to penetrate, I saw the valley opening at the farther end and spreading forth into an immense ocean, that had a huge rock of adamant running through the midst of it and dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested on one half of it insomuch that I could discover nothing in it, but the other appeared to me a vast ocean planted with innumerable islands, that were covered with fruits and flowers and interwoven with a thousand little shining seas that ran among them. I could see persons dressed in glorious habits with garlands on their heads passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of fountains, or resting on beds of flowers, and could hear a confused harmony of singing birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical instruments.

"Gladness grew in me upon the discovery of so delightful a scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle that I might fly away to those happy seats; but the Genius told me there was no passage to them, except through the gates of death that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. 'The islands,' said he, 'that lie so fresh and green before thee, and with which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, are more in number than the sands on the sea shore; there are myriads of islands behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching farther than thine eye or even thine imagination can extend itself. These are the mansions of good men after death, who, according to the degree and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed among these several islands, which abound with pleasures of different kinds and degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfections of those who axe settled in them: every island is a paradise accommodated to its respective inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirza, habitations worth contending for! Does life appear miserable that gives the opportunities of earning such a reward? Is death to be feared that will convey thee to so happy an existence? Think not man was made in vain, who has such an eternity reserved for him.'

"l gazed with inexpressible pleasure on these happy islands. At length, said I, 'Show me now, I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds that cover the ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant.' The Genius making me no answer, I turned about to address myself to him a second time, but I found that he had left me. I then turned again to the vision which I had been so long contemplating, but, instead of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the long hollow valley of Bagdad, with oxen, sheep, and camels grazing upon the sides of it."—JOSEPH ADDISON

LESSON 18 ST. AGNES' EVE

DEEP on the convent-roof the snows

Are sparkling to the moon;

My breath to heaven like vapor goes:

May my soul follow soon!

The shadows of the convent-towers

Slant down the snowy sward,

Still creeping with the creeping hours

That lead me to my Lord;

Make Thou my spirit pure and clear

As are the frosty skies,

Or this first snowdrop of the year

That in my bosom lies.

As these white robes are soil'd and dark

To yonder shining ground;

As this pale taper's earthly spark

To yonder argent round;

So shows my soul before the Lamb,

My spirit before Thee;

So in mine earthly house I am,

To that I hope to be.

Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far

Thro'all yon starlight keen

Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,

In raiment white and clean.

He lifts me to the golden doors;

The flashes come and go,

All heaven bursts her starry floors,

And strows her lights below,

And deepens on and up! the gates

Roll back, and far within

For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits

To make me pure of sin.

The Sabbaths of Eternity

One Sabbath deep and wide—

A light upon the shining sea—

The Bridegroom with his bride!—ALFRED TENNYSON

LESSON 19 SIR GALAHAD

MY good blade carves the casques of men,

My tough lance thrusteth sure,

My strength is as the strength of ten

Because my heart is pure.

The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,

The hard brands shiver on the steel,

The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly,

The horse and rider reel:

They reel, they roll in clanging lists,

And when the tide of combat stands,

Perfume and flowers fail in showers,

That lightly rain from ladies' hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend

On whom their favors fall!

For them I battle till the end

To save from shame and thrall;

But all my heart is drawn above,

My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine;

I never felt the kiss of love

Nor maiden's hand in mine.

More bounteous aspects on me beam,

Me mightier transports move and thrill;

So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer

A virgin heart in work and will.

When down the stormy crescent goes

A light before me swims,

Between dark stems the forest glows,

I hear a noise of hymns;

Then by some secret shrine I ride;

I hear a voice but none are there;

The stalls are void, the doors are wide,

The tapers burning fair.

Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,

The silver vessels sparkle clean,

The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,

And solemn chants resound between.

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres

I find a magic bark;

I leap on board: no helmsman steers:

I float till all is dark.

A gentle sound, an awful light!

Three angels bear the holy Grail:

With folded feet, in stoles of white,

On sleeping wings they sail.

Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!

My spirit beats her mortal bars

As down dark tides the glory slides

And star-like mingles with the stars.

When on my goodly charger borne

Thro' dreaming towns I go,

The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,

The streets are dumb with snow.

The tempest crackles on the leads

And, ringing, springs from brand and mail, But o'er the dark a glory spreads

And gilds the driving haft.

I leave the plain, I climb the height,

No branchy thicket shelter yields,

But blessed forms in whistling storms

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.

A maiden knight—to me is given

Such hope I know not fear;

I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven

That often meet me here.

I muse on joy that will not cease,

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace

Whose odors haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand,

This mortal armor that I wear,

This weight and size, this heart and eyes.

Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky,

And thro' the mountain-walls

A rolling organ-harmony

Swells up and shakes and falls.

Then move the trees, the copses nod,

Wings flutter, voices hover clear:

'O just and faithful knight of God!

Ride on! the prize is near.'

So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;

By bridge and ford, by park and pale,

All-arm'd I ride whate'er betide,

Until I find the holy Grail.—ALFRED TENNYSON

LESSON 20 BEETHOVEN'S MOONLIGHT SONATA

IT happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter's evening I called upon Beethoven, for I wanted him to take a walk and afterward sup with me. In passing through some dark narrow street he paused suddenly. "hush!"he said— "what sound is that? It is from my sonata in F!" he said, eagerly "Hark! how well it is played!"

It was a little mean dwelling, and we paused outside BEETHOVENand listened. The player went on; but in the midst of the finale there was a sudden break, then the voice of sobbing: "I can not play any more. It is so beautiful it is utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh, what would I not give to go to the concert at Cologne?"

"Ah, my sister," said her companion," why create regrets, when there is no remedy? We can scarcely pay our rent."

"You are right; and yet I wish for once in my life to hear some really good music. But it is of no use."

Beethoven looked at me. "Let us go in," he said.

"Go in!" I exclaimed. "What can we go in for?"

"I will play to her," he said, in an excited tone. "Here is feeling—genius—understanding. I will play to her, and she will understand it.' And before I could prevent him his hand was upon the door.

A pale young man was sitting by the table making shoes, and near him, leaning sorrow fully upon an old fashioned harpsichord, sat a young girl with a profusion of light hair falling over her bent face. Both were cleanly but very poorly dressed, and both started and turned toward us as we entered.

"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music and was tempted to enter. I am a musician." The girl blushed and the young man looked grave somewhat annoyed.

"I—I also overheard something of what you said," continued my friend. "You wish to hear—that is, you would like that is—Shall I play for you?" There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so comic and pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken in a moment and all smiled involuntarily.

"Thank you!" said the shoemaker; "but our harpsichord is so wretched, and we have no music."

"No music!" echoed my friend. "How, then, does the Fraulein—" He paused and colored up, for the girl looked full at him and he saw that she was blind. "I—I entreat your pardon? he stammered. But I had not perceived before. Then you play by ear?"

"Entirely."

"And where did you hear the music, since you frequent no concerts?"

"I used to hear a lady practising near us when we lived at Bruhl two years. During the summer evenings her windows were generally open, and I walked to and fro outside to listen to her."

She seemed shy, so Beethoven said no more but seated himself quietly before the piano and began to play He had no sooner struck the first chord than I knew what would follow how grand he would be that night. And I was not mistaken. Never during all the years I knew him did I hear him play as he then played to that blind girl and her brother. He was inspired, and from the instant when his fingers began to wander along the keys the very tone of the instrument began to grow sweeter and more equal.

The brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture. The former laid aside his work; the latter with her head bent slightly forward and her hands pressed tightly over her breast crouched down near the end of the harpsichord, as if fearful lest even the beating of her heart should break the flow of those magical sweet sounds. It was as if we were all bound in a strange dream and only feared to wake.

Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sank, flickered, and went out. Beethoven paused, and I threw open the shutters admitting a flood of brilliant moonlight. The room was almost as light as before, and the illumination fell strongest upon the piano and player. But the chain of his ideas seemed to have been broken by the accident. His head dropped upon his breast; his hands rested upon his knees; he seemed absorbed in meditation. It was thus for some time. At length the young shoemaker rose, and approached him eagerly yet reverently: "Wonderful man!" he said, in a low tone, "who and what are you?"

The composer smiled as he only could smile, benevolently, indulgently, kingly "Listen! "he said, and he played the opening bars of the sonata in F. A cry of delight and recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming, "Then you are Beethoven!" they covered his hands with tears and kisses.

He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties. "Pray to us once more-only once more!" He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. The moon shone brightly in through the window and lit up his glorious rugged head and massive figure. "I will improvise a sonata to the moonlight!" looking up thoughtfully to the sky and stars. Then his hands dropped on the keys, and he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely movement, which crept gently over the instrument like the calm flow of moonlight over the dark earth.

This was followed by a wild elfin passage in triple time—a sort of grotesque interlude, like the dance of sprites upon the sward. Then came a swift agitato Bnale—a breathless, hurrying, trembling movement, descriptive of flight and uncertainty and vague impulsive terror, which carried us away on its rustling wings and left us all in emotion and wonder.

"Farewell to you!" said Beethoven, pushing back his chair and turning toward the door —"farewell to you!"

"You will come again?" asked they, in one breath.

He paused and looked compassionately, almost tenderly, at the face of the blind girl. "Yes, yes," he said, hurriedly, "I will come again and give the Fraulein some lessons. Farewell! I will soon come again!"

They followed us in silence more eloquent than words and stood at their door till we were out of sight and hearing.

"Let us make haste back," said Beetboven," that I may write out that sonata while I can yet remember it."

We did so, and he sat over it till long past day-dawn. And this was the origin of that moonlight sonata with which we are all so fondly acquainted.—ANON

LESSON 21 A LOST CHORD

SEATED one day at the organ

I was weary and ill at case,

And my fingers wandered idly

Over the noisy keys.

I do not know what I was playing

Or what I was dreaming then,

But I struck one chord of music

Like the sound of a great Amen.

It flooded the crimson twilight

Like the close of an Angel's Psalm,

And it lay on my fevered spirit

With a touch of infinite calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow,

Like love overcoming strife;

It seemed the harmonious echo

From our discordant life.

It linked all perplexed meanings

Into one perfect peace,

And trembled away into silence

As if it were loth to cease.

I have sought but I seek it vainly,

That one lost chord divine

Which came from the soul of the Organ

And entered into mine.

It may be that Death's bright angel

Will speak in that chord again,

It may be that only in Heaven

I shall hear that grand Amen.—ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER

LESSON 22 THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE

TEARS, idle tears, I know not what they mean;

Tears front the depth of some divine despair

Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes,

In looking on the happy Autumn-fields

And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail

That brings our friends up from the underworld,

Sad as the last which reddens over one

That sinks with all we love below the verge:

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns

The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

The easement slowly grows a glimmering square:

So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remember'd kisses after death,

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd

On lips that are for others; deep as love,

Deep as first love and wild with all regret,

O Death in Life, the days that are no more.—ALFRED TENNYSON

LESSON 23 A DIRGE

BREAK, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter

The thoughts that arise in me!

O well for the fisherman's boy

That he shouts with his sister at play

O well for the sailor lad

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanished hand

And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of the crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.—ALFRED TENNYOSN

LESSON 24 THE POET'S SONG

THE rain had fallen, the Poet arose,

He passed by the town and out of the street;

A light wind blew from the gates of the sun,

And waves of shadow went over the wheat;

And he sat him down in a lonely place

And chanted a melody loud and sweet

That made the wild swan pause in her cloud

And the lark drop down at his feet.

The swallow stopt as he hunted the fly,

The snake slipt under a spray,

The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak

And stared with his foot on the prey;

And the nightingale thought: "I have sung many songs,

But never a one so gay,

For he sings of what the world will be

When the years have died away,"—ALFRED TENNYSON

LESSON 25 WESTMINSTER ABBEY

The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the square of the cloisters, beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in the centre and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with a kind of dusky splendor. From between the arcades the eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a passing cloud and beheld the sun gilt pinnacles of the abbey towering into the azure heaven.

I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the interior of the abbey On entering here the magnitude of the building breaks fully upon the mind. The eyes gaze with wonder at clustered columns of gigantic dimensions with arches springing from them to such an amazing height, and man wandering about their bases shrunk into insignificance in comparison with his own handiwork.

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon the soul and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence. We feel that we are surrounded by the congregated bones of the great men of past times who have filled history with their deeds and the earth with their renown. And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human ambition to see how they are crowded together and jostled in the dust; what parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, to those whom when alive kingdoms could not satisfy; and how many shapes and forms and artifices are devised to catch the casual notice of the passenger and save from forgetfulness for a few short years a name which once aspired to occupy ages of the world's thought and admiration.

I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey The monuments are generally simple, for the lives of literary men afford no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakespeare and Addison have statues erected to their memories, but the greater part have busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwithstanding the simplicity of these memorials I have always observed that the visitors to the abbey remained longest about them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes the place of that cold curiosity or vague admiration with which they gaze on the splendid monuments of the great and the heroic. They linger about these as about the tombs of friends and companions, for indeed there is something of companionship between the author and the rcader. Other men are known to posterity only through the medium of history which is continually growing faint and obscure, but the intercourse between the author and his fellowmen is ever new, active, and immediate. He has lived for them more than for himself; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments and shut himself up from the delights of social life, that he might the more intimately commune with distant minds and distant ages. Well may the world cherish his renown for it has been purchased, not by deeds of violence and blood but by the diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may posterity be grateful to his memory for he has left it an inheritance, not of empty names and sounding actions but of whole treasures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins of language.

LESSON 26 IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

WHEN I am in a serious humor I very often walk by myself in Westminster Abbey, where the gloominess of the place and the use to which it is applied, with the solemnity of the building and the condition of the people who lie in it, are apt to fill the mind with a kind of melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness, that is not disagreeable. I yesterday passed a whole afternoon in the churchyard, the cloisters, and the church, amusing myself with the tombstones and inscriptions that I met within those several regions of the dead.

Most of them recorded nothing else of the buried person but that he was born upon one day and died upon another, the whole history of his life being comprehended in those two circumstances that are common to all mankind. I could not but look upon these registers of existence, whether of brass or marble, as a kind of satire upon the departed persons, who had left no other memorial of them but that they were born and that they died. The life of these men is finely described in holy writ by "the path of an arrow," which is immediately closed up and lost.

Upon my going into the church I entertained myself with the digging of a grave, and saw in every shovelful of it that was thrown up the fragment of a bone or skull intermixed with a kind of fresh mouldering earth that some time or other had a place in the

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