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again-Dulcis moriens reminiscitur·

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we are short of canes

Mr. Taddy, don't let the school get into disorder when I am gone I am afraid through my illness-the boys have gone back in their flogging— I feel a strange feeling all over me is the new pupil come? I trust I have done my duty and have made my will-and left all" (here his head wandered again) "to Mr. Souter, the school bookseller Taddy I invite you to my funeral-make the boys walk in good order and take care of the crossings. My sight is getting dim - write to Mrs. B. at Margate- and inform her

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- Mr.

we break up on the twenty-first. The door is left open I am very cold. where is my ruler gone-I feel — John light the school-lamps-I cannot see a line-O, Mr. Taddy - venit hora my hour is come -I am dying-thou art dying he is dying. We-are-dying― you are dy." The voice ceased. He made a feeble motion with his hands as if he was ruling a copy-book-the "ruling passion strong in death," — and expired.

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An epitaph composed by himself, was discovered in his desk, with an unpublished pamphlet against Tom Paine. The epitaph was so stuffed with quotations from Homer and Virgil, and almost every Greek and Latin author beside, that the mason, who was consulted by the widow, declined to lithograph it under a hundred pounds. - The Dominie conse quently reposes under no more Latin than Hic JACET; and without a single particle of Greek, though he is himself a Long Homer.

LESSON CXXXI.

The Sulks.- BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE,

IN Christopher North's new series of articles in Blackwood, entitled, "Christopher under Canvas," we find the following capital picture of a boy: a bit of autobiography that is well worth quoting.

"I hereby authorize the boys of this empire to have what tempers they choose, with one sole exception-the Sulks. Once and once only, during one of the longest and best-spent lives on record, was I in the mood described, and it endured most of a whole day. The anniversary of that day I always observe, in severest solitude, with a salutary horror. And it is my birth-day. Ask me not, my friends, to reveal the cause. Aloof from confession before men, we must keep to ourselves, as John Foster says, a corner of our own souls. A black corner it is; and, enter it with or without a light, you see here or there, something dismal, hideous, shapeless, nameless, each lying in its own place on the floor. There lies the cause. It was the morning of my ninth year. As I kept sitting high up stairs by myself, one family face after another kept ever and anon looking at me, all with one expression. And one familiar voice after another all with one tone kept muttering at me, 'He's in his sulks!' How I hated them with an intense hatred, and chiefly them I had loved best, at each opening and each shutting of that door. How I hated myself as my blubbered face grew hotter; and I knew how ugly I must be, with my fixed fiery eyes; it was painful to sit on such a chair for hours in one posture, and to have chained a child would have been great cruelty. But I was resolved to die rather than change it; and had I been told by any one under an angel to get up and go to play, I would have spit in his face. It was a lonesome attic, and I had the fear of ghosts; but not then, my superstitious fancy was quelled by my troubled heart. Had I not deserved to be allowed to go? Could any one of them give a reason for not allowing me to go? What right had they to say that if I did go I should never be able to find my way, by myself, back? What right had they to say that Roundy was a blackguard, and that he would lead me to the gallows? Never before in all the world had a good boy been so used on his birth-day. They pretend to be sorry when I am sick; and when I say

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my prayers, they say theirs too; but I am sicker now, and they are not sorry, but there is no use in angry; prayers, and I won't read one verse in my Bible this night, should my aunt go down on her knees.' And in the midst of such unworded soliloquies did the young blasphemer fall asleep.

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"I know not how long I slept, but on waking, I saw an angel with a most beautiful face and most beautiful hair little young angel — about the same size as myself, sitting on a stool at my feet. Are you quite well now, Christopher? Let us go to the meadow and gather flowers.' Shame, sorrow, remorse, contrition, came to me with those innocent words; we wept together, and I was comforted. I have been sinful.'

But you are forgiven!' Down the stairs hand in hand we glided, and there was no longer anger in my eyes; the whole house was happy. All voices were kinder, if that were possible, than they had been when I rose in the morning, a boy in his ninth year. Parental hands smoothed my hair, parental lips kissed it, and parental greetings, only a little more cheerful than prayers, restored me to the love I had never lost, and which I felt now had animated that brief and just displeasure. Never has Christopher been in his sulks since that day. Beyond doubt I was that day possessed with a devil; and an angel it was, that drove him out."

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It was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rain,
Had left the Summer harvest-fields all green with grass

again;

The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the woodlands gay With the hues of Summer's rainbow, or the meadow-flowers

of May

Through a thin, dry mist, that morning the sun rose broad and

red,

At first a rayless disk of fire, it brightened as it sped;
Yet, even its noontide glory fell, chastened and subdued,
On the corn-fields and the orchards and softly-pictured wood.

And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the night,
It wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow light;
Slanting through the painted beeches, it glorified the hill,
And beneath it pond and meadow lay brighter, greener still.

And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught glimpses of that sky,

Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed they knew not

why;

And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers beside the meadowbrooks,

Mingled the glow of Autumn with the sunshine of sweet looks.

From spire and barn looked westerly the patient weathercocks, But even the birches on the hills stood motionless as rocks; No sound was in the woodlands, save the squirrel's dropping

shell,

And the yellow leaves among the boughs, low rustling as they fell.

The Summer grains were harvested; the stubble-fields lay dry

Where June-winds rolled in light and shade the pale-green waves of rye;

But, still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed with wood, Ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn-crop stood.

Bent low by Autumn's wind and rain, through husks that dry and sere

Unfolded from their ripened charge, shone out the yellow ear;

Beneath, the turnip lay concealed in many a verdant fold. And glistened in the slanting light the pumpkin's sphere of gold.

There wrought the busy harvesters, and many a creaking wain

Bore slowly to the long barn-floor its load of husk and grain; Till, rayless as he rose that morn, sank down at last the sun, Ending the day of dreamy light and warmth as it begun.

And lo! as through the western pines, on meadow, stream, and pond,

Flamed the red radiance of the sky, set all afire beyond,
Slow o'er the eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory shone,
And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into one!

As thus into the quiet night the sunset lapsed away,
And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay,
From many a brown old farm-house and hamlet without name,
Their milking and their home-tasks done, the
merry huskers

came.

Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow,
Phone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below;
The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears before,
And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks glim-
mering o'er.

Half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart,
Talking their old times over, the old men sat apart,

While, up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade, At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy children played.

Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young and fair, Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft brown

hair,

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