3. AN-DROM'-A-CHE, wife of the celebrated Trojan, Hector, was romarkable for her domestic virtues, and for the constancy of her at tachment to her husband. See Exercise CVI., p. 305. DOMESTIC LIFE. VICESIMUS KNOX. 1. An active life is exposed to many evils which can not reach a state of retirement; but it is found, by the uniform experience of mankind, to be, upon the whole, productive of the most happiness. All are found desirous of avoiding the listlessness of an unemployed condition. Without the incentives of ambition, of fame, of interest, of emulation, men eagerly rush upon hazardous and painful enterprises. There is a quick succession of ideas, a warm flow of spirits, an animated sensation, consequent on exertion, which amply compensates the chagrin of disappointment and the fatigue of attention. 2. One of the most useful effects of action is, that it renders repose agreeable. Perpetual rest is pain of the most intol erable kind. But a judicious interchange of rest and motion, of indolent enjoyment and strenuous efforts, gives a true relish of life, which, when too tranquil, is insipid, and, when too much agitated, disgustful. 3. This sweet repose, which is necessary to restore, by relaxing the tone of the weary mind, has been sought for by the wisest and greatest of men at their own fireside. Senators and heroes have shut out the acclamations of an applauding world, to enjoy the prattling of their little ones, and to partake the endearments of family conversation. They knew that even their best friends, in the common intercourse of life, were in some degree actuated by interested motives in displaying their affection; that many of their followers applauded them in hopes of reward; and that the giddy multitude, however zealous, were not always judicious in their approbation. But the at tentions paid them at their fireside, the smiles which exhilarated their own table, were the genuine result of undissembled love. 4. The nursery has often alleviated the fatigues of the bar and the senate-house. Nothing contributes more to raise the gently-pleasing emotions than the view of infant innocence, enjoying the raptures of a game at play. All the sentiments of uncontrolled nature display themselves to the view, and furnish matter for agreeable reflection to the mind of the philosophical observer. 5. To partake with children in their little pleasures, is by no means unmanly. It is one of the purest sources of mirth. It has an influence in amending the heart, which necessarily takes a tincture from the company that surrounds us. Innocence as well as guilt is communicated, and increased by the contagion of example. And the great author of evangelical philosophy has taught us to emulate the simplicity of the infantine age. He seems, indeed, himself to have been delighted with young children, and found in them, what he in vain sought among those who judged themselves their superiors, unpolluted purity of heart. 6. Among the great variety of pictures which the vivid. imagination of Homer' has displayed throughout the Iliad, there is not one more pleasing than the family piece which represents the parting interview between Hector2 and Andromache.3 It deeply interests the heart while it delights the imagination. The hero ceases to be terrible, that he may be come amiable. We admire him while he stands completely armed in the field of battle; but we love him more while he is taking off his helmet, that he may not frighten his little boy with its nodding plumes. 7. We are refreshed wit ne tender scene of domestic love, while all around breathe rage and discord. We are pleased to see the arm which is shortly to deal death and destruction among a host of foes, employed in caressing an infant son with the embraces of paternal love. A professed critic would attribute the pleasing effect entirely to contrast; but the heart has declared, previously to the inquiries of criticism, that it is chiefly derived from the satisfaction which we naturally take in beholding great characters engaged in tender and amiable employments. EXERCISE XXVI. SCENE FROM WILLIAM TELL. JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES. Emma. I never knew a weary night before! Mine eyes refuse to close. (sl.) The old man rests: How deadly calm's the night! (") What's that? I'm grown An idiot with my fears. I do not know The avalanche! Great Power that hurls it down, Watch o'er my boy, and guide his little steps! What keeps him? 'tis but four hours' journey hence: He'd rest; then four hours back again. What keeps him? Erni would sure be found by him—he knows The track, well as he knows the road to Altorf! Melchtal. Help! (in his sleep.) Emma. What's the matter? Only the old man dreaming: He thinks again they 're pulling out his eyes. I'm sick with terror! Merciful powers! what's this That fills my heart with horrible alarm? And yet it can not see. Melch. (waking.) Where am I? Emma. Fáther! Melch. My daughter, is it thou! Thank Heaven, I'm here! Is 't day yet? Emma. No. Melch. Is 't far on the night! Emma Methinks, about the turn on 't. Melch. Is the boy Come back? Emma. No, father. Melch. Nor thy húsband? Emma. No. Melch, A woeful wife and mother have I made thee! Would thou hadst never seen ine. Emma. Fáther! Melch. Child! Emma. Methinks I hear a step!--I do! (knocking.) Aknock! Melch. 'Tis William ! Emma. No; it is not William's knock. (Opens the door.) I told you so. Your will? Enter STRANGER. Stran. Seeing a light, I e'en made bold to knock, to ask for shelter; For I have miss'd my way. Emma. Whence come you, friend? Stran. From Altorf. Emma. Altorf! Any news from thence? Stran. Aye! News to harrow parents' hearts, and make The barren bless themselves that they are childless! Emma. May Heaven preserve my boy! Melch. What say'st thy news? Stran. Art thou not Melchtal-he whose eyes, 'tis said, The tyrant has torn out? Melch. Yes, friend, the same. Stran. Is this thy cottage? Melch. No; 'tis William Tell's. Stran. 'Tis William Tell's-and that's his wife-Good night! Emma. (Rushing between him and the door.) Thou stirr❜st not hence until thy news be told! Stran. My news! In sooth 'tis nothing thou wouldst heed. Emma. Tis something none should heed so well as I! Strun. I must be gone. Emma. Thou seest a tigress, friend, Spoil'd of her mate and young, and yearning for them. Don't thwart her! Come, thy news! What fear'st thou, man' What inore has she to dread, who reads thy looks, And knows the most has come? Thy news! Is 't bondage? Stran. It is. Emma. Thank Heaven, it is not death! Of one Or two? Stran. Of two. Emma. A father and a son ? Is 't not? Stran. It is. Emma. My husband and my son Are in the tyrant's power! There 's worse than that! Thou 'lt drive me mad! Let fly at once! Melch. Thy news from Altorf, friend, whate'er it is! Stran. To save himself and child from certain death, Tell is to hit an apple, to be placed Upon the stripling's head. Melch. My child! my child! Speak to me! Stranger, hast thou killed her? Emma. No! No, father. I'm the wife of William Tell; Oh, but to be a man! to have an arm To fit a heart swelling with the sense of wrong! Unnatural-insufferable wrong! When makes the tyrant trial of his skill? Stran. To-morrow. Emma. Spirit of the lake and hill, Inspire thy daughter! On the head of him Who makes his pastime of a mother's pangs, |