21. No one stoops in doing a kind act. Mrs. Clayton is a stranger in the neighborhood, and is entitled to the courtesy of a call, if no more; and that I shall extend to her. If 1 find her to be uncongenial in her tastes, no intimate acquaintanceship need be formed. If she is congenial, I will add another to my list of valued friends. You and I, I find, estimate differently. I judge every individual by merit, you, by family or descent."

22. "You can do as you please," rejoined Mrs. Marygold, somewhat coldly. "For my part, I am particular about my associates. I will visit Mrs. Florence and Mrs. Harwood, and such as move in good society, but as to your school-teachers' wives and daughters, I must beg to be ex cused."

23. "Every one to her taste," rejoined Mrs. Lemmington, with a smile, as she moved towards the door where she stood for a few moments to utter some parting compliments, and then withdrew.

24. Five minutes afterwards she was shown into Mrs. Clayton's parlors, where, in a moment or two, she was met by the lady upon whom she had called, and received with an easy gracefulness that at once charmed her. A brief conversation convinced her that Mrs. Clayton was, in intelligence and moral worth, as far above Mrs. Marygold, as that personage imagined herself to be above her. Her daughters, who came in while she sat conversing with their mother, showed themselves to possess all those graces of mind and manner that win upon our admiration so irresistibly. An hour passed quickly and pleasantly, and then Mrs. Lemmington withdrew.

25. The difference between Mrs. Lemmington and Mrs. Marygold was simply this. The former had been familiar with what is called the best society from her earliest recollecSion, and, being, therefore, constantly in association with those looked upon as the upper class, knew nothing of the upstart self-estimation which is felt by certain weak, ignorant persors,

who, by some accidental circumstance, are elevated far above the condition in which they moved originally.

26. She could estimate true worth in humble garb as well as in velvet and rich satins. She was one of those individu als who never passed an old and worthy domestic in the street without recognition, or stopping to make some kind inquiry-one who never forgot a familiar face, or neglected to pass a kind word to even the humblest who possessed the merit of good principles.

QUESTIONS.-1. What rule for the rising inflection on Mrs. Marygold, 9th and 17th paragraphs? See Note I., page 30. 2. What kind of emphasis on I and you, 21st paragraph? See Note VII, page 22. 3. What kind of emphasis on best, 25th paragraph? See Note VI., page 21.

EXERCISE VIII.

1. TRANS-FIG'-URE, (from TRANS, implying change, and FIGURE, a form or shape,) is to change the form or figure; to transform.

2. THE SOUTHERN CROSS (in Latin, Crux Australis) is a brilliant little constellation, consisting of four principal stars, too far south, however, to be seen by us, in these northern regions.

3. THE POLAR STAR is a star of the second magnitude, forming the extremity of Ursa Minor, or the Little Bear.

THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN.

EPHRAIM PEABODY.

1. Here is a whaling vessel in the harbor, her anchors up, and her sails unfurled. The last boat has left her, and she is now departing on a voyage of three, and, perhaps, four years in length. All that the eye sees is, that she is a fine ship, and that it has cost much labor to fit her out. Those of board will spend years of toil, and will then return, while the profits of the voyage will be distributed, as the case may be, to be squandered, or to be added to already existing hoards. So much appears.

But there is an unpublished history,

which, could it be revealed, and brought vividly before the mind, would transfigure' her, and enshrine her in an almost awful light.

2. There is not a stick of timber in her whole frame, not a plank or a rope, which is not, in some mysterious way, enveloped with human interests and sympathies. Let us trace this part of her history, while she circles the globe, and returns to the harbor from which she sailed. At the outset, the labor of the merchant, the carpenter, and of all employed on her, has not been mere sordid labor. The thought of their homes, of their children, and of what this labor may secure for them, has been in their hearts.

3. And they who sail in her, leave behind homes, wives, children, parents; and, years before they return, those who are dearest to them, may be in their tombs. What bitter partings, as if by the grave's brink, are those which take place, when the signal to unmoor calls them on board. There are among them young men, married, perhaps, but a few weeks before, and those of maturer years, whose young children cleave to their hearts as they go.

4. How deeply, as the good ship sails out into the open sea, is she freighted with memories and affections! Every eye is turned toward the receding coast, as if the pangs of another farewell were to be endured. Fade slowly, shores that encircle their homes! Shine brightly, ye skies, over those dear ones whom they leave behind!

5. They round the capes of continents, they traverse every zone, their keel crosses every sea; but still, brighter than the Southern Cross or the Polar Star, shines on their souls the light of their distant home. In the calm moonlight rise before the mariner the forms of those whom he loves; in the pauses of the gale, he hears the voices of his children. Beat upon by the tempest, worn down with labor, he endures all. Welcome care and toil, if these may bring peace and happiness to those dear ones who meet around his distant fireside! 6. And the thoughts of those in that home, compassing the

globe, follow him wherever he goes. Their prayers blend with all the winds which swell his sails. Their affections hover over his dreams. Children count the months and the days of a father's absence. The babe learns to love him, and to lisp his name. Not a midnight storm strikes their dwellng, but the wife starts from her sleep, as if she heard, in the wailing of the wind, the sad forebodings of danger and wreck. Not a soft wind blows, but comes to her heart as a gentle messenger from the distant seas.

7. And, after years of absence, they approach their native shores. As the day closes, they can see the summits of the distant highlands, hanging like stationary clouds on the horizon. And long before the night is over, their sleepless eyes catch the light glancing across the rim of the seas, from the light-house at the entrance of the bay. With the morning they are moored in the harbor.

8. The newspapers announce her arrival. But here again, how little of her cargo is of that material kind which can be reckoned in dollars and cents! She is freighted with human hearts, with anxieties, and hopes, and fears. There are many there, who have not dared to ask the pilot of home. The souls of many, which yesterday were full of joy, are now overshadowed with anxiety. They almost hesitate to leave the ship, and pause for some one from the shore to answer those questions of home and of those they love, which they dare not utter. There are many joyful meetings, and some

that are full of sorrow.

9. Let us follow one of this crew. He is still a youth. Years ago, of a wild, and reckless, and roving spirit, he left his home. He had fallen into temptations which had been too strong for his feeble virtue. His feet had been familiar with the paths of sin and shame. But, during the present voyage, sickness and reflection have "brought him to himself." Full of remorse for evil courses, and for that parental love which he has slighted, he has said: "I will arise and go to my father's house;" they who gave me birth shall no longer

mourn over me as lost. I will smooth the pathway of them, and be the support of their feeble steps.

10. He is on his way to where they dwell in the country. As the sun is setting, he can see, from an eminence over which the road passes, their solitary home on a distant hill-side. O scene of beauty, such as, to him, no other land can show! There is the church, here a school-house, and the homes of those whom he knew in childhood. He can see the places, where he used to watch the golden sunset; not, as now, with a heart full of penitence, and fear, and sorrow for wasted years, but in the innocent days of youth. There are the pastures and the woods, where he wandered, full of the dreams and hopes of childhood-fond hopes and dreams that have issued in such sad realities.

11. The scene to others would be but an ordinary one. But, to him, the spirit gives it life. It is covered all over with the golden hues of memory. His heart leaps forward to his home, but his feet linger. May not death have been thére? May not those lips be hushed in the silence of the grave, from which he hoped to hear the words of love and forgiveness? He pauses on the way, and does not approach, till he beholds a light shining through the uncurtained windows of the humble dwelling. And even now his hand is drawn back, which was raised to lift the latch. He would see, if all are there. With a trembling heart, he looks into the window,—and there-blessed sight!—he beholds his mother, busy, as was her wont, and his father, only grown more reverend with increasing age, reading that holy book which he had taught his son to revere, but which that son had so forgotten.

12. But there were others; and, lo! one by one they enter,-young sisters, who, when he last saw them, were but children that sat on the knee, but have now grown up almost to womanly years. And now another fear seizes him. How shall they receive him? May not he be forgotten? May they not reject hím? But he will, at least, enter. He raises the latch, with a heart too full for utterance, he stands, silent