Chapter XV: Section V: The Rhetorical Pause (9)

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

"Godlike power to do,--the godlike aim to know."

4. You can be forming habits of self-reliance, sound judgment, perseverance, and endurance, which may, one day, stand you in good stead. You can so train yourself to right thinking and right acting, that uprightness shall be your nature, truth your impulse. His head is seldom far wrong, whose heart is always right. We bow down to mental greatness, intellectual strength, and they are divine gifts; but _moral rectitude_ is stronger than they. It is irresistible,--always in the end triumphant.

5. There is in _goodness_ a penetrative power that nothing can withstand. Cunning and malice melt away before its mild, open, steady glance. Not alone on the fields where chivalry charges for laurels, with helmet and breastplate and lance in rest, can the true knight exultingly exclaim,

"My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure;"

but wherever man meets man, wherever there is a prize to be won, a goal to be reached. Wealth, and rank, and beauty, may form a brilliant setting to the diamond; but they only expose more nakedly the false glare of the paste. Only when the king's daughter is all glorious within, is it fitting and proper that her clothing should be of wrought gold.

6. From the great and good of all ages rings out the same monotone. The high-priest of Nature, the calm-eyed poet who laid his heart so close to hers, that they seemed to throb in one pulsation, yet whose ear was always open to the "still sad music of humanity," has given us the promise of his life-long wisdom in these grand words:--

"True dignity abides with him alone
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,
Can still suspect and still revere himself."

7. Through the din of twenty rolling centuries, pierces the sharp, stern voice of the brave old Greek: "_Let every man, when he is about to do a wicked action, above all things in the world, stand in awe of himself, and dread the witness within him._" All greatness, and all glory, all that earth has to give, all that Heaven can proffer, lies within the reach of the lowliest as well as the highest; for He who spake as never man spake, has said that the very "kingdom of God is within you."

8. Born to such an inheritance, will you wantonly cast it away? With such a goal in prospect, will you suffer yourself to be turned aside by the sheen and shimmer of tinsel fruit? With earth in possession, and Heaven in reversion, will you go sorrowing and downcast, because here and there a pearl or ruby fails you? Nay, rather forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those which are before, _press forward_!

9. Discontent and murmuring are insidious foes; trample them under your feet. Utter no complaint, whatever betide; for complaining is a sign of weakness. If your trouble can be helped, _help it_; if not, _bear it_. You can be whatever you _will_ to be. Therefore, form and accomplish worthy purposes.

10. If you walk alone, let it be with no faltering tread. Show to an incredulous world

"How grand may be Life's might,
Without Love's circling crown."

Or, if the golden thread of love shine athwart the dusky warp of duty, if other hearts depend on yours for sustenance and strength, give to them from your fullness no stinted measure. Let the dew of your kindness fall on the evil and the good, on the just and on the unjust.

11. Compass happiness, since happiness alone is victory. On the fragments of your shattered plans, and hopes, and love,--on the heaped-up ruins of your past, rear a stately palace, whose top shall reach unto heaven, whose beauty shall gladden the eyes of all beholders, whose doors shall stand wide open to receive the way-worn and weary. Life is a burden, but it is imposed by God. What you _make_ of it, it will _be_ to you, whether a millstone about your neck, or a diadem upon your brow. _Take it up bravely, bear it on joyfully, lay it down triumphantly._

QUESTIONS.--1. What are some of the duties of women? 2. What is said of goodness? 3. What was the adage of the old Greek? 4. What is said of discontent and murmuring?

* * * * *

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.

1. So goes the world`;--if wealthy, you may call
_This_--friend, _that_--brother`;--friends and brothers all
Though you are worthless, witless,--never mind it;
You may have been a stable-boy,--what then?
'Tis _wealth_, my friends, makes _honorable_ men.
You seek respect, no doubt, and you will find it.

2. But, if you are poor', heaven help you`! though your sire
Had royal blood in him`, and though you
Possess the intellect of angels too.
'Tis all in vain`;--the world will ne'er inquire
On such a score`:--why should it take the pains?
'Tis easier to weigh purses`, sure, than brains'.

3. I once saw a poor fellow, keen and clever.
Witty and wise`; he paid a man a visit,
And no one noticed him', and no one ever
Gave him a welcome`. "Strange`," cried I', "whence is it`?"
He walked on this side', then on that`,
He tried to introduce a social chat`;
Now here', now there`, in vain he tried`;
Some formally and freezingly replied,
And some said by their silence,--"Better stay at home."

4. A rich man burst the door,
As Croesus [Headnote 1] rich;--I'm sure
He could not pride himself upon his wit`;
And, as for wisdom, he had none of it`;
He had what's better`,--he had wealth.
What a confusion!--all stand up erect,--
These crowd around to ask him of his health;
These bow in _honest_ duty and respect;
And these arrange a sofa or a chair,
And these conduct him there.
"Allow me, sir, the honor`;"--Then a bow
Down to the earth`.--_Is't_ possible to show
Meet gratitude for such kind condescension`!

5. The poor man hung his head,
And to himself he said,
"This is indeed beyond my comprehension:"
Then looking round, one friendly face he found,
And said,--"Pray tell me why is wealth preferred
"To wisdom?"--"That's a silly question, friend!"
Replied the other,--"have you never heard.
A man may lend his store
Of gold or silver ore,
But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend?"

QUESTIONS.--1. How do you account for the different inflections in the last line of the second verse? See page 31, Note I. 2. What rule for the falling inflection on _condescension_? See page 29, Note I.

* * * * *

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,

As each gun,
From its adamantine lips,
Spread a death-shade round the ships
Like the hurricane's eclipse
Of the sun.

9. But, of all the wonders appertaining to the ocean, the greatest, perhaps, is its transforming power on man. It unravels and weaves anew the web of his moral and social being. It invests him with feelings, associations, and habits, to which he has been an entire stranger. It breaks up the sealed fountain of his nature, and lifts his soul into features prominent as the cliffs which beetle over its surge.

10. Once the adopted child of the ocean, he can never bring back his entire sympathies to land. He will still move in his dreams over that vast waste of waters, still bound in exultation and triumph through its foaming billows. All the other realities of life will be comparatively tame, and he will sigh for his tossing element, as the caged eagle for the roar and arrowy light of his mountain cataract.

QUESTIONS.--1. What is said of the volcano and earthquake? 2. Of the avalanche and tempest? 3. Of the ocean? 4. Of ships? 5. Where have naval battles been fought? 6. What influence has the ocean on man?

* * * * *

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!

"As from the wing the sky no scar retains,
The parted wave no furrow from the keel,
So dies in human hearts the thought of death."

5. There is something peculiarly melancholy and impressive in a burial at sea: there is here no coffin or hearse, procession or tolling bell,--nothing that gradually prepares us for the final separation. The body is wound in the drapery of its couch, much as if the deceased were only in a quiet and temporary sleep. In these habiliments of seeming slumber, it is dropped into the wave, the waters close over it, the vessel passes quickly on, and not a solitary trace is left to tell where sunk from light and life, one that loved to look at the sky and breathe this vital air.

6. There is nothing that, for one moment, can point to the deep, unvisited resting-place of the departed,--it is a grave in the midst of the ocean,--in the midst of a vast, untrodden solitude. Affection can not approach it, with its tears; the dews of heaven can not reach it; and there is around it no violet, or shrub, or murmuring stream.

7. It may be superstitious; but no advantages of wealth, or honor, or power, through life, would reconcile me at its close to such a burial. I would rather share the coarse and scanty provisions of the simplest cabin, and drop away unknown and unhonored by the world, so that my final resting-place be beneath some green tree, by the side of some living stream, or in some familiar spot, where the few that loved me in life, might visit me in death.

8. But, whether our grave be in the fragrant shade, or in the fathomless ocean, among our kindred, or in the midst of strangers, the day is coming when we shall all appear at one universal bar, and receive from a righteous Judge the award of our deeds. He that is wisest, penetrates the future the deepest.

QUESTIONS.--1. What is said of death? 2. What, of death at sea? 3. What renders a burial at sea peculiarly melancholy and impressive?

* * * * *

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.

1. What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells?
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main!
Pale, glistening pearls, and rainbow-colored shells,
Bright things which gleam unrecked of, and in vain!
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!
We ask not such from thee.

2. Yet more, the depths have more! what wealth untold,
Far down, and shining through their stillness lies!
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,
Won from ten thousand royal argosies!
Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main!
Earth claims not _these_ again.

3. Yet more, the depths have more! thy waves have rolled
Above the cities of a world gone by!
Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,
Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry.
Dash o'er them, Ocean! in thy scornful play!
Man yields them to decay.

4. Yet more, the billows and the depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar;
The battle-thunders will not break their rest.
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave!

5. Give back the lost and lovely,--those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long,
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown;
But all is not thine own.

6. To thee the love of woman hath gone down;
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown,
Yet must thou hear a voice,--_Restore the dead!_
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!
_Restore the dead, thou Sea!_

QUESTIONS.--1. What are some of the treasures of the deep? 2. What treasures has the sea won from trading vessels? 3. Over what does the sea roll? 4. What does the writer call on the sea to restore?

* * * * *

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.

1. One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

2. Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care,
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

3. Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
While the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.

4. Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her;
All that remains of her
Now, is pure womanly.

5. Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny,
Rash and undutiful;
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.

6. Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,--
Her fair auburn tresses;
While wonderment guesses
Where was her home?

7. Who was her father`?
Who was her mother`?
Had she a sister'?
Had she a brother'?
Or, was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other'?

8. Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.

9. Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly,
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.

10. Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood with amazement,
Houseless by night.

11. The bleak winds of March
Made her tremble and shiver
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river,
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurled--
Anywhere, anywhere,
Out of the world!

12. In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran--
Picture it--think of it,
Dissolute Man!

13. Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care,
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

14. Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest,
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!

15. Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Savior!

* * * * *

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.

1. Breathe low, thou gentle wind,
(pl) Breathe soft and low;
The beautiful lies dead!
The joy of life is fled!
And my lone heart is wed
Henceforth to woe!

2. That thou should'st droop and die
At early morn!
While yet thy graceful dew
A joyous fragrance drew
From every flower that grew
Life's path along!

3. The green earth mourns for thee,
Thou dearest one;
A plaintive tone is heard,
And flower and leaflet stirred,
And every fav'rite bird
Sings sad and lone.

4. Pale is thy brow, and dimmed
Thy sparkling eye!
Affection's sweetest token
Is lost fore'er and broken!
The last kind word is spoken,--
Why did'st thou die?

5. Breathe low, thou gentle wind,
Breathe soft and low;
The beautiful lies dead!
The joy of life is fled!
And my lone heart is wed
Henceforth to woe!

QUESTIONS.--1. What rule for changing _y_ into _i_ in the word _beautiful?_ See ANALYSIS, page 13, Rule XI. 2. Why are _r_ and _m_ doubled in the words _stirred, dimmed?_ See Rule IX. 3. What is the meaning of the suffix _let_, in the word _leaflet?_ See page 240, Ex. 185.

* * * * *

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.