to satisfy their wants and to occupy their industry; the children take care of the mulberries and the silk-worms, which are here produced in great abundance; the husband dresses the vineyard, or works in the garden, as the season may require. On an incredibly small piece of ground, a numerous family live in what appears to them, ease and affluence; and, if they can maintain themselves during the year, and pay their rent at its termination, their desires never go beyond the space of their own employment. 8. In this simple and unambitious style of life, it may easily be conceived what the general character of the peasantry must be. Generally speaking, they are a simple, kindhearted, honest people, grateful to the last degree for the smallest share of kindness, and always willing to share with a stranger the produce of their little domains. The crimes. of murder and robbery are almost unknown, at least among the peasantry themselves, although, on the great roads in their vicinity, banditti are sometimes to be found. But, if a stranger lives in the country, and reposes confidence in the people, he will find himself as secure, and more respected, than in most other parts of the world. 9. There is one delightful circumstance which occurs in spring in the vicinity of these lakes, to which a northern traveler is but little accustomed. During the months of April and May, the woods are filled with nightingales, and thousands of these little choristers pour forth their strains every night, with a richness and melody, of which it is impossible to form a conception. In England we are accustomed frequently to hear the nightingale, and his song has been celebrated in poetry from the earliest periods of our history. 10. But it is generally a single song, to which we listen, or at most, a few only, which unite to enliven the stillness of the night. But on the banks of the lake of Como, thousands of nightingales are to be found in every wood; they rest in every tree-they pour forth their melody on the roof of every cottage. Wherever you walk during the delightful 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 accompani ments, 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.* 1. It was autumn. HENRY WARD BEECHER. 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 sat 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; I'm weary on 't. Jul. Indeed? So am not I! I know no other; would no other know. Hel. You would no other know! Would you not krow 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 rieh, No other song? Your virginal,* 'tis true, Hath a sweet tone; but does it follow thence, You may, Love, and a sweeter one; and so An owl, a bat,-where they are wont to lodge, That in his meshy fortress spends his life, * A keyed instrument of music. |