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5. I returned his look was no more lofty, nor his steps proud; his broken frame was like some ruined tower; his hairs were white and scattered; and his eye gazed vacantly upon what was passing around him.

6. The vigor of his intellect was wasted, and of all that he had gained by study nothing remained. He feared when there was no danger, and when there was no sorrow he wept. His memory was decayed and treacherous, and showed him only broken images of the glory that was departed.

7. His house was to him like a strange land, and his friends were counted his enemies; and he thought himself strong and healthful while he stood trembling on the verge of the grave.

8. He said of his son-he is my brother; of his daughterI know her not; and he inquired what was his own name.And one who supported his last steps, and ministered to his many wants, said to me as I looked on the melancholy scene -"Let thine heart receive instruction, for thou hast seen an end of all earthly perfection."

9. I have seen a beautiful female treading the first stages of youth, and entering joyfully into the pleasures of life. The glance of her eye was variable and sweet; and on her cheek trembled something like the first blush of the morning; her lips moved, and there was harmony; and when she floated in the dance, her light form, like the aspen, seemed to move with every breeze.

10. I returned-but she was not in the dance; I sought her in the gay circle of her companions, but I found her not. Her eye sparkled not there-the music of her voice was silent-she rejoiced on earth no more.

11. I saw a train, sable and slow paced, who bore sadly to an open grave what was once animated and beautiful. They paused as they approached, and a voice broke the awful silence: "Mingle ashes with ashes, and dust with its original dust. Tc the earth, whence she was at first taken, we consign the body of our sister."

12. They covered her with the damp soil, and the cold clods of the valley; and the worms crowded into her silent abode. Yet one sad mourner lingered, to cast himself upon the grave, and as he wept, he said," there is no beauty, or grace, or loveliness that continueth in man; for this is the end of all his glory and perfection."

13. I have seen an infant with a fair brow and a frame like polished ivory. Its limbs were pliant in its sports; it rejoiced

and again it wept; but whether its glowing cheek dimpled with smiles, or its blue eye was brilliant with tears, still I said to my heart, it is beautiful.

14. It was like the first pure blossom which some cherished plant has shot forth, whose cup is filled with a dew drop, and whose head reclines upon its parent stem.

15. I again saw this child when the lamp of reason first dawned in its mind. Its soul was gentle and peaceful; its eye sparkled with joy, as it looked round on this good and pleasant world. It ran swiftly in the ways of knowledge-it bowed its ear to instruction-it stood like a lamb before its teachers. 16. It was not proud, or envious, or stubborn, and it had never heard of the vanities and vices of the world. And when I looked upon it, I remembered that our Saviour had said, Except ye become as little children, ye cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven."

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17. But the scene was changed, and I saw a man whom the world called honorable, and many waited for his smile. They pointed out the fields that were his, and talked of the silver and gold that he had gathered; they admired the stateliness of his domes, and extolled the honor of his family.

18. And his heart answered secretly, "By my wisdom have I gotten all this :"-So he returned no thanks to God, neither did he fear or serve him. And as I passed along, I heard the complaints of the laborers who had reaped down his fields, and the cries of the poor, whose covering he had taken away; but the sound of feasting and revelry was in his apartments, and the unfed beggar came tottering from his door.

19. But he considered not that the cries of the oppressed were continually entering into the ears of the Most High. And when I knew that this man was once the teachable child that I had loved the beautiful infant that I had gazed upon with delight, I said in my bitterness, I have seen an end of all perfection.

LESSON XXVII.

The Two Bees.-DODSLEY.

1. On a fine morning in summer, two bees set forward in quest of honey,--the one wise and temperate, the other careless and extravagant. They soon arrived at a garden enriched with aromatic herbs,-the most fragrant flowers, and the most delicious fruits.

2. They regaled themselves with the various dainties that were spread before them; the one loaded himself at intervals, with provisions for the hive against the distant winter; the other revelled in sweets, without regard to any thing but his present gratification.

3. At length they found a wide-mouthed phial, that hung beneath the bough of a peach tree, filled with honey ready tempered, and exposed to their taste in the most alluring manner. The thoughtless epicure, in spite of his friend's remonstrances, plunged headlong into the vessel, resolving to indulge himself in all the pleasures of sensuality.

4. His philosophic companion, on the other hand, sipped a little, with caution; but being suspicious of danger, flew off to fruits and flowers; where, by the moderation of his meals, he improved his relish for the true enjoyment of them.

5. In the evening, however, he called upon his friend, to inquire whether he would return to the hive: but he found him surfeited in sweets, which he was as unable to leave, as to enjoy.

6. Clogged in his wings,-enfeebled in his feet, and his whole frame totally enervated, he was but just able to bid his friend adieu; and to lament, with his latest breath-that though a taste of pleasure may quicken the relish of life, an unrestrained indulgence leads to inevitable destruction.

LESSON XXVIII.

Heroism of a Peasant.

1. A GREAT inundation having taken place in the north of Italy, owing to an excessive fall of snow in the Alps, followed by a speedy thaw, the bridge near Verona* was carried off by the flood, except the middle part, on which was the house of the toll-gatherer, who, with his whole family, thus remained imprisoned by the waves, and in momentary danger of destruction.

2. They were discovered from the banks, stretching forth their hands, screaming, and imploring succor, while fragments of this remaining arch were continually dropping into the water. In this extreme danger, a nobleman who was present, held out a purse of one hundred sequins,† as a reward to any venturer who would take a boat and deliver the unhappy family. Verona, a city in the northern part of Italy, now embraced in the Austrian empire, is situated on the river Adige.

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+ Sequin, a gold coin of Venice and Turkey, valued at two dollars and twenty-one and a half cents.

3. But the risk was so great of being borne down by the rapidity of the stream, of being dashed against the fragments of the bridge, or of being crushed by the falling stones, that not one among the vast number of spectators had courage enough to attempt such an exploit. A peasant passing along, was informed of the proffered reward. Immediately jumping into a boat, he, by strength of oars, gained the middle of the river, brought his boat under the pile, and the whole family safely descended by means of a rope.

4. "Courage" cried he, "now you are safe." By a still more strenuous effort, and great strength of arm, he brought the boat and family to the shore. "Brave fellow !" exclaimed the nobleman, handing him the purse; "here is the promised recompense.'

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5. "I shall never expose my life for money," answered the peasant; my labor is a sufficient livelihood for myself, my wife and children. Give the purse to this poor family who have lost all."

LESSON XXIX.

Biographical Sketch of Major Andre.

1. JOHN ANDRE, Aid-de-camp to Sir Henry Clinton, and Adjutant-General of the British army in America, during the revolution, was born in England in 1741. He was, in early life, a merchant's clerk, but obtained a commission in the army at the age of seventeen. Possessing an active and enterprising disposition, and the most amiable and accomplished manners, he soon conciliated the esteem and friendship of his superior officers, and rose to the rank of Major.

2. After Arnold* had intimated to the British, in 1780, his intention of delivering up West Point† to them, Major Andre

* Benedict Arnold, at the breaking out of the Revolutionary war, was a resident of New-Haven, Connecticut. He embraced with enthusiasm the cause of the colonies, and, on account of his daring courage, was promoted to the rank of Major-General; but he was vicious, extravagant, cruel, vain, luxurious, and mean. Becoming displeased with the government, he basely resolved to deliver up West Point to the British, and turn traitor to his country. When Andre was taken, he escaped with difficulty, on board a British ship of war. He was made a Brigadier-General in the British army, and at the close of the war he went to England, and received 10,000l. sterling, as a reward of his villany. He died in London, 1801, detested by all who knew him.

+ West Point, a military post on the Hudson river, 58 miles north of the city of New-York.

was selected as the person to whom the maturing of Arnold's treason, and the arrangement for its execution, should be committed. A correspondence was for some time carried on be tween them, under a mercantile disguise, and the feigned names of Gustavus and Anderson; and at length, to facilitate their communications, the Vulture sloop of war moved up the North River, and took a station convenient for the purpose, but not so near as to excite suspicion.

3. An interview was agreed on, and in the night of September 21, 1780, he was taken in a boat, which was despatched for the purpose, and carried to the beach without the posts of both armies, under a pass* for John Anderson. He met General Arnold at the house of a Mr. Smith. While the conference was yet unfinished, day-light approached; and to avoid the danger of discovery, it was proposed that he should remain concealed till the succeeding night.

4. He desired that he might not be carried within the American posts; but the promise, made to him by Arnold, to respect this objection, was not observed. He was carried within them contrary to his wishes and against his knowledge. He continued with Arnold the succeeding day, and when on the following night he proposed to return to the Vulture, the boatmen refused to carry him because she had during the day shifted her station, in consequence of a gun having been moved to the shore and brought to bear upon her.

5. This embarrassing circumstance reduced him to the necessity of endeavoring to reach New-York by land. Yielding with reluctance to the urgent representations of Arnold, he laid aside his regimentals, which he had hitherto worn under his surtout, and put on a plain suit of cloaths, and receiving a pass from the American General, authorizing him, under the feigned name of John Anderson, to proceed on the public service to the White Plains, or lower, if he thought proper, he set out on his return.

6. He had passed all the guards and posts on the road without suspicion, and was proceeding to New-York in perfect security, when, on the twenty-third of September, one of the three militia men, who were employed with others in scouting parties between the lines of the two armies, springing suddenly from his covert in the road, seized the reins of his bridle and stopped his horse.

* Pass, a written licence from one in authority, granting permission to person to go from one place to another, without hindrance or molestation

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