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nights of April or May, you hear the unceasing strains of these unseen warblers, swelling on the evening gales, or dying away as you recede from the woods or thickets where they dwell.

11. The soft cadence and melodious swelling of this heavenly choir resemble more the enchanting sounds of the Eolian harp than any thing produced by mortal organs. To those who have seen the lake of Como, with such accompaniments, during the serenity of a summer evening, and with the surrounding headlands and mountains reflected on its placid waters, there are few scenes in nature, and few moments in life, which can be the source of such delightful recollections.

EXERCISE LXX.

LOSS OF THE ARCTIC.*

HENRY WARD BEECHER.

1. It was autumn.

Hundreds had wended their way

from pilgrimages; from Rome and its treasures of dead art, and its glory of living nature; from the sides of the Switzer's mountains, from the capitals of various nations; all of them saying in their hearts, we will wait for the September gales to have done with their equinoctial fury, and then we will embark; we will slide across the appeased ocean, and, in the gorgeous month of October, we will greet our longed-for native land, and our heart-loved homes.

2. And so the throng streamed along from Berlin, from Paris, from the Orient,† converging upon London, still hastening toward the welcome ship, and narrowing every day the circle of engagements and preparations. They crowded

* The wreck of the American steamer Arctic, occasioned by her collision with the French steamer Vesta, occurred on the 27th day of September, 1854.

+ The East.

aboard. Never had the Arctic borne such a host of passengers, nor passengers so nearly related to so many of us.

3. The hour was come. The signal ball fell at Greenwich. It was noon, also, at Liverpool. The anchors were weighed ; the great hull swayed to the current; the national colors streamed abroad, as if themselves instinct with life and national sympathy. The bell strikes, the wheels revolve, the signal-gun beats its echoes in upon every structure along the shore, and the Arctic glides joyfully forth from the Mersey, and turns her prow to the winding channel, and begins her homeward run.

4. The pilot stood at the wheel, and men saw him. Death şat upon the prow, and no eye beheld him. Whoever stood at the wheel in all the voyage, Death was the pilot that steered the craft, and none knew it. He neither revealed his presence nor whispered his errand. And so hope was effulgent, and lithe gayety disported itself, and joy was with every guest.

5. Amid all the inconveniences of the voyage, there was still that which hushed every murmur,-home is not far away. And, every morning, it was still one night nearer home, and, at evening, one day nearer home! Eight days had passed. They beheld that distant bank of mist that forever haunts the vast shallows of Newfoundland. Boldly they made it, and, plunging in, its pliant wreaths wrapped them about. They shall never emerge. The last sunlight has flashed from that deck. The last voyage is done to ship and passengers.

6. At noon there came noiselessly stealing from the north that fated instrument* of destruction. In that mysterious shroud, that vast atmosphere of mist, both steamers were holding their way with rushing prow and roaring wheels, but invisible. At a league's distance, unconscious, and, at nearer approach, unwarned; within hail, and bearing right toward each other, unseen, unfelt, till, in a moment more, emerging from the gray mists, the ill-omened Vesta dealt her deadly stroke to the Arctic.

*The French steamer Vesta.

7. The death-blow was scarcely felt along the mighty hull. She neither reeled nor shivered. Neither commander nor officers deemed that they had suffered harm. Prompt upon humanity, the brave Luce (Let his name be ever spoken with admiration and respect!) ordered away his boat with the first officer, to inquire if the stranger had suffered harm. As Gourley* went over the ship's side, Oh! that some good angel had called to the brave commander in the words of Paul on a like occasion: "Except these abide in the ship, ye can not be saved."

8. They departed, and with them the hope of the ship, for now the waters, gaining upon the hold, and rising up upon the fires, revealed the mortal blow. Oh! had now that stern, brave mate, Gourley, been on deck, whom the sailors were wont to mind—had he stood to execute efficiently the commander's will-we may believe that we should not have to blush for the cowardice and recreancy of the crew, nor weep for the untimely dead. But apparently each subordinate officer lost all presence of mind, then courage, and so honor. In a wild scramble, that ignoble mob of firemen, engineers, waiters and crew rushed for the boats, and abandoned the helpless women, children and men to the mercy of the deep! Four hours there were from the catastrophe of the collision to the catastrophe of the sinking!

9. (pl.) Oh, what a burial was here! Not as when one is borne from his home, among weeping throngs, and gently carried to the green fields, and laid peacefully beneath the turf and the flowers. No priest stood to pronounce a burial service. It was an ocean grave. The mists alone shrouded the burial-place. No spade prepared the grave, nor sexton filled up the hollowed earth. Down, down they sank, and the quick returning waters smoothed out every ripple, and left the sea as if it had not been.

*The first mate of the Arctic.

EXERCISE LXXI.

TOWN AND COUNTRY.

J. SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

A Garden before a Country House.-Enter JULIA and HELEN.

Hel. I like not, Julia, this your country life;

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Would you not krow

I know no other; would no other know.
Hel. You would no other know!
Another relative, another friend,-
Another house, another any thing,

Because the ones you have already please you?
That's poor content! Would you not be more rich,
More wise, more fair? The song that last you learned,

You fancy well; and, therefore, shall you learn

No other song? Your virginal,* 'tis true,

Hath a sweet tone; but does it follow thence,
You shall not have another vírginal?

You may, Love, and a sweeter one; and so
A sweeter life may find than this you lead!
Jul. I seek it not. Helen, I'm constancy!
Hel. So is a cat, a dog, a silly hen,

An owl, a bat,-where they are wont to lodge,
That still sojourn, nor care to shift their quarters.
Thou 'rt constancy? I'm glad I know thy name!
The spider comes of the same family,

That in his meshy fortress spends his life,
Unless you pull it down, and scare him from it.
And so, thou 'rt constancy? Art proud of that?
I'll warrant thee I'll match thee with a snail,
From year to year that never leaves his house!
Such constancy, forsooth!—A constant grub
That houses ever in the self-same nut,

* A keyed instrument of music.

Where he was born, till hunger drives him out,
Or plunder breaketh through his castle wall!
And so, in very deed, thou 'rt constancy!

Jul. Helen, you know the adage of the tree;
I've ta'en the bend. This rural life of mine,
Enjoined me by an unknown father's will,
I've led from infancy. Debarred from hope

Of change, I ne'er have sighed for change. The town,
To me, was like the moon, for any thought

I e'er should visit it-nor was I schooled

To think it half so fair!

Hel. Not half so fair!

The town 's the sun, and thou hast dwelt in night E'er since thy birth, not to have seen the town! Their women there are queens, and kings their men; Their houses palaces!

Jul. And what of that?

Have your town palaces a hall like this?
Couches so fragrant? walls so high adorned?
Casements with such festoons, such prospects, Helen,
As these fair vistas have? Your kings and queens!
See me a May-day queen, and talk of them!

Hel. Extremes are ever neighbors. 'Tis a step
From one to the other! Were thy constancy
A reasonable thing-a little less

Of constancy-a woman's constancy

I should not wonder, wert thou ten years hence
The maid I know thee now; but, as it is,
The odds are ten to one, that this day year
Will see our May-day queen a city one.

Jul. Never! I'm wedded to a country life.
O, did you hear what Master Walter says!
Nine times in ten, the town's a hollow thing,
Where what things are, is naught to what they show
Where merit's name laughs merit's self to scorn!
Where friendship and esteem, that ought to be

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