count, at which there was a profusion of every thing that was nice and delicate. All this exquisite cheer and magnificent preparation, Cyrus looked upon with great indifference. "The Persians," said he to the king, "have a much shorter way to appease their hunger; with them, a little bread and a few cresses answer the purpose."

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Sacras, the king's cupbearer, displeased Cyrus; and Astyages praising him on account of the wonderful dexterity with which he served him, Is that all, sir?" replied Cyrus; "if that be sufficient to merit your favor, you shall see I will quickly obtain it; for I will take upon me to serve you better than he.”

Immediately Cyrus was equipped as cupbearer, and very gracefully presented the cup to the king, who embraced him with great fondness, saying, "I am mightily well pleased, my son; nobody can serve with a better grace; but you have forgotten one essential ceremony, which is that of tasting." "No," replied Cyrus, it was not through forgetfulness that I omitted that ceremony." "Why, then," said Astyages, "for what reason did "Because I omit it?" you prehended there was poison in the liquor," replied the youth.

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Poison, child!" continued the king; "how could you think so?" "Yea, poison, sir; for, not long ago, at an entertainment you gave to the lords of your court, after the guests had drunk a little of that liquor, I perceived all their heads were turned; they sung, made a noise, and talked they knew not what; you yourself seemed to have forgot that you were a king, and they, that they were your subjects; and when you would have danced, you were unable to stand.""Why," says Astyages, "have you never seen the same thing happen to your father?" No, never," says Cyrus. "What then? how is it with him, when he drinks?" "Why, when he has drunk, his thirst is quenched; and that is all.”

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ESSON ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTEENTH.

Affliction.

Yes, sorrow can visit the bowers

Of any fair palace on earth;
And wither the delicate flowers,

And drain its sweet sources of mirth.

This life is a wilderness way,

Where roses with brambles entwine;
The path is not evermore gay;

The day does not constantly shine.

The delicate music within

The least disappointment may stop;
Remove but a spring or a pin,

The wheels of our happiness drop.

Our hope is a delicate flower,
Which yields to each furious blast,
And often we lose in an hour,

What promised for ages to last.

When the heavens are calm and serene,
We fancy 't will always be day,
Till the whirlwind and storm intervene,
And sweep the bright prospect away.

LESSON ONE HUNDRED AND NINETEENTH

Filial Devotion.

A woman of Japan was left a widow with three sons, and with no other wealth than what could be procured by their joint labor. Work became scarce; and the sons saw their mother ready to perish. With the most ardent attachment to their mother, and unable to relieve her, they formed a desperate resolution An edict had a short time before been issued,

promising a large recompense for whoever apprehended a thief, and brought him to justice. The three brothers determined to draw lots, which of them should personate the thief, and be brought before a magistrate, in order that the others might obtain the reward.

The lot fell upon the youngest, who confessed to a crime of which he was not guilty, and his brothers received the money. The anxiety visible in their countenances, and the tears which involuntarily forced themselves into their eyes, struck the magistrate, who ordered his servant to follow and watch them. They returned to their mother, and threw the money into her lap; but, when she learned how it had been obtained, she refused to touch this 'price of blood.'

This being told the judge, he sent for the prisoner, and again interrogated him concerning the supposed robbery; but he still persisted that he was guilty. Struck with the filial affection and fortitude of the youth, the magistrate laid the case before the sovereign, who sent for the three brothers and their mother, loaded them with favors, and gave an annuity of five hundred crowns to the two eldest, and fifteen hundred to the youngest.

LESSON ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTIETH.

Sunday.

O day most calm, most bright!
The fruit of this, the next world's bud!
The endorsement of supreme delight,
Writ by a friend, and with his blood!
The couch of time; care's balm and bay:-
The week were dark, but for thy light;
Thy torch doth show the way.

Sundays the pillars are

On which heaven's palace arched lies:

The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities.

They are the fruitful bed and borders,
In God's rich garden; that is bare,
Which parts their ranks and orders.

The sundays of man's life,
Threaded together on time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal, glorious King.
On sunday, heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife;
More plentiful than hope.

John Andre, aid-de-camp to Sir Henry Clinton, and adjutant general of the British army in America, during the revolution, was born in England, in 1741. He was, in early life, a merchant's clerk, but obtained a commission in the army, at the age of seventeen. Possessing an active and enterprising disposition, and the most amiable and accomplished manners, he soon conciliated the esteem and friendship of his superior officers, and rose to the rank of major.

After Arnold had intimated to the British, in 1780, his intention of delivering up West Point to them, Major Andre was elected as the person to whom the maturing of Arnold's treason, and the arrangement for its execution, should be committed. A correspondence was for some time carried on between them, under a mercantile disguise, and the feigned names of Gustavus and Anderson; and, at length, to facilitate their communications, the Vulture sloop of war moved up the North river, and took a station convenient for the purpose, but so near as to excite suspicion

An interview was agreed on; and, in the night of Sept. 21, 1780, he was taken in a boat, which was despatched for the purpose, and carried to the beach without the posts of both armies, under a pass for John Anderson. He met General Arnold at the house of a Mr. Smith. While the conference was yet unfinished, daylight approached; and, to avoid the danger of discovery, it was proposed, that he should remain concealed till the succeeding night.

He desired that he might not be carried within the American posts, but the promise made to him by Arnold to respect this objection was not observed. He was carried within them, contrary to his wishes, and against his knowledge. He continued with Arnold the succeeding day, and when, on the following night, he proposed to return to the Vulture, the boatmen refused to carry him, because she had, during the day, shifted her station, in consequence of a gun having been moved to the shore and brought to bear upon her.

This embarrassing circumstance reduced him to the necessity of endeavoring to reach New York by land. Yielding with reluctance to the urgent representations of Arnold, he laid aside his regimentals, which he had hitherto worn under his surtout, and put on a plain suit of clothes; and, receiving a pass from the American general, authorizing him, under the feigned name of John Anderson, to proceed on the public service to the White Plains, or lower, if he thought proper, he set out on his return.

He had passed all the guards and posts on the road without suspicion, and was proceeding to New York in perfect security, when, on the twenty-third of September, one of the three militia men, who were employed, with others, in scouting parties between the lines of the two armies, springing suddenly from his covert in the road, seized the reins of his bridle, and stopped his horse.