fortin than just to hae as mony. But mind ye," with a shake of her bony finger, "they maun a' be Scots. Gin I thought ye wad mairry ony pock-puddin', fient head wad ye hae gotten frae me. Noo had your tongue and dinna deive me wi' thanks,' almost pushing her into the parlor again: "and sin ye 're gawn awa the morn, I'll see nae mair o' ye enoo so fare-ye-weel. But, Archie, ye maun come an' tak your breakfast wi me. I hae muckle to say to you; but ye mauna be sae hard upon my baps as ye used to be," with a facetious grin to her mollified favorite as they shook hands and parted. Mary Ferrier.

Break! Break! Break!

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 vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still.

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

What is Life?

And what is life? An hour-glass on the run,

A mist retreating from the morning sun,

A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream.

Tennyson

Its length? A minute's pause, a moment's thought.

And Happiness? A bubble on the stream,

That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.

And what is Hope? The puffing gale of morn,
That robs each floweret of its gem

and dies;

A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn,

Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.

And what is Death? Is still the cause unfound?
That dark mysterious name of horrid sound?
A long and lingering sleep the weary crave.
And Peace? Where can its happiness abound?
Nowhere at all, save heaven and the grave.

Then what is life? When stripped of its disguise?
A thing to be desired it cannot be;
Since everything that meets our foolish eyes
Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.

'Tis but a trial all must undergo,

To teach unthankful mortal how to prize
That happiness vain man's denied to know,
Until he's called to claim it in the skies.

"

Remarks on Reading.

John Clare

Reading is to the mind," said the Duke of Vivonne to Louis XIV, what your partridges are to my chops." It is, in fact, the nourishment of the mind; for by reading we know our Creator, his works, ourselves chiefly, and our fellow-creatures. But this nourishment is easily converted into poison. Salmasius had read as much as Grotius, perhaps more; but their different modes of reading made the one an enlightened philosopher, and the other, to speak plainly, a pedant, puffed up with a useless erudition.

Let us read with method, and propose to ourselves an end to which ail our studies may point. Through neglect of this rule, gross ignorance often disgraces great readers; who, by skipping nastily and irregularly from one subject to another, render themselves incapable of combining their ideas. So many detached parcels of knowledge cannot form a whole. This inconsistency weakens the energies of the mind, creates in it a dislike to application, and even robs it of the advantages of natural good sense.

Yet let us avoid the contrary extreme, and respect method, without rendering ourselves its slaves. While we propose an end in our reading, let not this end be too remote; and when once we have

attained it, let our attention be directed to a different subject. Inconstancy weakens the understanding; a long and exclusive application to a single object hardens and contracts it. Our ideas no longer change easily into a different channel, and the course of reading to which we have too long accustomed ourselves is the only one that we can pursue with pleasure.

We ought, besides, to be careful not to make the order of our thoughts subservient to that of our subjects; this would be to sacrifice the principle to the accessory. The use of our reading is to aid us in thinking. The perusal of a particular work gives birth, perhaps, to ideas unconnected with the subject of which it treats. I wish to pursue these ideas; they withdraw me from my proposed plan of reading, and throw me into a new track, and from thence, perhaps, into a second and a third. At length I begin to perceive whither my researches tend. Their result, perhaps, may be profitable; it is worth while to try; whereas, had I followed the high road, I should not have been able, at the end of my long journey, to retrace the progress of my thoughts.

This plan of reading is not applicable to our early studies, since the severest method is scarcely sufficient to make us conceive objects altogether new. Neither can it be adopted by those who read in order to write, and who ought to dwell on their subject till they have sounded its depths. These reflections, however, I do not absolutely warrant. On the supposition that they are just, they may be so, perhaps, for myself only. The constitution of minds differs like that of bodies; the same regimen will not suit all. Each individual ought to study his own.

To read with attention, exactly to define the expressions of our author, never to admit a conclusion without comprehending its reason, often to pause, reflect, and interrogate ourselves, these are so many advices which it is easy to give, but difficult to follow. The same may be said of that almost evangelical maxim of forgetting friends, country, religion, of giving merit its due praise, and embracing truth wherever it is to be found.

But what ought we to read? Each individual must answer this question for himself, agreeably to the object of his studies. The only general precept that I would venture to give, is that of Pliny,

to read much. rather than many things; to make a careful selection of the best works, and to render them familiar to us by attentive and repeated perusals.

Gibbon.

Scene from "Virginius."

APPIUS, CLAUDIUS and LICTORS.

Appius. Well, Claudius, are the forces

At hand?

Claudius. They are, and timely, too; the people Are in unwonted ferment.

App. There's something awes me at

The thought of looking on her father!
Claud Look

Upon her, my Appius! Fix your gaze upon
The treasures of her beauty, nor avert it

Till they are thine. Haste! Your tribunal!

Haste!

[APPIUS ascends the tribuna

[Enter NUMITORIUS, ICILIUS, LUCIUS, CITIZENS, VIRGINIUS leading his daughter, SERVIA and CITIZENS. A dead silence prevails.]

Virginius. Does no one speak? I am defendant here.

Is silence my opponent? Fit opponent

What brow

To plead a cause too foul for speech!
Shameless gives front to this most valiant cause,
That tries its prowess 'gainst the honor of

A girl, yet lacks the wit to know, that he

Who casts off shame, should likewise cast off fear
And on the verge o' the combat wants the nerve
To stammer forth the signal?

App. You had better,

Virginius, wear another kind of carriage;

This is not of the fashion that will serve you.

Vir. The fashion, Appius! Appius Claudius tell me

The fashion it becomes a man to speak in,

Whose property in his own child- the offspring

Of his own body, near to him as is

His hand, his arm yea, nearer - closer far,

Knit to his heart-I say, who has his property
In such a thing, the very self of himself,

Disputed

- and I'll speak so, Appius Claudius.

I'll speak so - Pray ycu tutor me!

App. Stand forth

Claudius! If you lay claim to any interest

In the question now before us, speak; if not,
Bring on some other cause.

Claud. Most noble Appius

Vir. And are you the man

That claims my daughter for his slave?-Look at me

And I will give her to thee.

Claud. She is mine, then:

Do I not look at you?

Vir. Your eye does, truly,

But not your soul. I see it through your eye
Shifting and shrinking-turning every way
To shun me. You surprise me, that your eye,
So long the bully of its master, knows not
To put a proper face upon a lie,

But gives the port of impudence to falsehood
When it would pass it off for truth.

Dares as soon shew its face to me.

Your soul

Go on,

I had forgot; the fashion of my speech
May not please Appius Claudius.

Claud. I demand

Protection of the Decemvir!

App. You shall have it.

Vir. Doubtless!

App. Keep back the people, Lictors! What's Your plea? You say the girl's your slave. Produce Your proofs.

Claud. My proof is here, which, if they can,

Let them confront. The mother of the girl

[VIRGINIUS, stepping forward, is withheld by NUMITORIUS Numitorius. Hold, brother! Hear them out, or suffer me

To speak.

Vir. Man, I must speak, or else go mad!
And if I do go mad, what then will hold me
From speaking? She was thy sister, too!
'Well, well, speak thou. I'll try, and if I can,
Be silent.

Num. Will she swear she is her child?

[Retires.