agement of their darling boy. If they would make him hardy and rugged and fearless, they must let him go abroad often in his early boyhood, and amuse himself by the hour together in smoothing and twirling the hoary locks of winter. Instead of keeping him shut up all day with a stove, and graduating his sleeping-room by Fahrenheit, they must let him face the keen edge of a north wind when the mercury is below zero; and, instead of minding a little shivering and complaining when he returns, cheer up his spirits and send him out again. In this way they will teach him that he was not born to live in the nursery, nor to brood over the fire, but to range abroad as free as the snow and the air, and to gain warmth from exercise. I love and admire the youth who turns not back from the howling wintry blast, nor withers under the blaze of summer; who never magnifies "mole-hills into mountains," but whose daring eye, exulting, scales the eagle's airy crag, and who is ready to undertake any thing that is prudent and lawful within the range of possibility. Who would think of planting the mountain-oak in a green-house? or of rearing the cedar of Lebanon in a lady's flower-pot? Who does not know that in order to attain their mighty strength and majestic forms, they must freely enjoy the rain and the sunshine, and must feel the rocking of the tempest? XLI.-A PSALM OF Life. TELL me not in mournful numbers, Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal: Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, In the world's broad field of battle, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Heart within, and God o'er head. Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Let us, then, be up and doing, Still achieving, still pursuing, -Longfellow. XLII. THE GRAVE. OH, the grave! the grave! It buries every error; covers every defect; extinguishes every resentment. From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies moldering before him? But the grave of those we loved,— what a place for meditation! There it is we call up, in long review, the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded, in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene; the bed of death, with all its stifled griefs; its noiseless attendants, its mute, watchful assiduities; the last testimonies of expiring love; the feeble, fluttering, thrilling-oh, how thrilling!-pressure of the hand; the faint, faltering accents struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection; the last fond look of the glazing eye, turned upon us, even from the threshold of existence! Aye, go to the gave of buried love and meditate! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being who can never, never, never return, to be soothed by thy contrition. If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul; then be sure that thou wilt lie down, sorrowing and repentant, on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear, more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. -Washington Irving. XLIII.-FARMER GRAY. You may envy the joys o' the farmer, Ef you worked in the woods in the winter, With a team o' unruly young oxen, An' feet heavy-loaded with clay- You may dream o' the white-crested daisies, To keep 'em from spoilin' my farm; But I never git time to look at 'em, You may sing o' the song-birds o' summer: You may write o' the beauties o' natur', Makes a pile o' hard work for the wimmin,— An' the cheeses, so plump in the pantry, When home from the hay-field, in summer, With stars gleaming over my head; When I milk by the light o' my lantern, An' wearily crawl into bed; When I think o' the work o' the morrow, An' worry for fear it might rain, But the corn must be planted in spring-time, Except when we lie in the bed An' the wood must be chopped in the winter, An' the grain must be hauled to the market, But the farmer depends upon only With conscience all spotless and clear, To dwell in a holier sphere; An' the crown that he wears may be brighter, XLIV.-EDMUND BURKE AND HIS SON'S HORSE. IN the decline of Mr. Burke's life, when he was living in retirement on his farm at Beaconfield, the rumor went up to London that he had gone mad, and the fact that was stated in support of this rumor was that he went round his park kissing his cows and horses. A friend, a man of rank and influence, hearing this story, and deeming it of too much importance to be left uncorrected, hastened down to Beaconfield, and sought an interview with the view of ascertaining the truth of the rumor. |