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16. If

deception of vision produces a dizziness, which few spectstors have nerve enough to endure for many minutes. the eye be fixed on the crags and masses of rock, that project from the sides of the mountains, the flesh involuntarily quivers, and the limbs seem to be impelled to retreat from a scene that threatens impendent destruction. If the thoughts which crowd upon the intellectual faculties are less painful than these sensations of flesh and blood, they are too sublime and overwhelming to be described. 17. The frequent alterations and great changes, that have manifestly taken place in these majestic masses, since they were first piled together by the hand of the Creator, are calculated to awaken "thoughts beyond the reaches of the soul." 18. If the "everlasting hills" thus break in pieces, and shake the shaggy covering from their sides, who will deny that

This earthly globe, the creature of a day,

Though built by God's right hand, shall pass away?→→
The sun himself, by gathering clouds oppressed,

Shall, in his silent, dark pavilion rest;

His golden urn shall break, and, useless, lie

Among the common ruins of the sky;

The stars rush headlong, in the wild commotion,

And bathe their glittering före/heads in the ocean?

19. Reflection needs not the authority of inspiration to warrant a belief, that this anticipation is something more than poetical. History and philosophy teach its truth, or, at least, its probability. The melancholy imaginings which it excites are relieved by the conviction that the whole of God's creation is nothing less

Than a capacious re'servoir of means,
Formed for his use, and ready at his will;

and that, if this globe should be resolved into chaos, it will undergo a new organization, and be re-moulded into scenes of beauty, and abodes of happiness. 20. Such may be the order of nature, to be unfolded in a perpetual se'ries of material production and decay,-of creation and dissolution,-a magnificent procession of worlds and systems, in the marchof eternity.

LESSON LXXI.

Avalanche of the White Mountains.—THE SAME.

1. Ir is not many weeks since we published a very imperfect sketch of the sublime scenery of the White Moup

tains, from notes taken during a ramble among their erags, cliffs, and glens. Our readers will, perhaps, remember that we mentioned, in that sketch, a family, by the name of Willey, which resided about two miles below the Noteh, and six miles from any other human habitation. 2. There was an appearance of rural neatness, simplicity and content, manifested by all the members of this family, thus secluded from all the rest of the world, except the traveller whom curiosity or necessity might induce to call, that excited in us no ordinary sensations of pleasure. If the situation of these apparently innocent and happy beings produced, at that time, an uncommon interest, the fate, which has since overwhelmed them, has been no less powerful in exciting emotions of sympathy.

3. Several days since, there were reports that an accident had overtaken the family, and it was feared that they were either drowned by the swelling of the waters, which rush through the narrow defile, or down the almost perpendicular sides of the mountains, or buried beneath the falling earth and rocks; but nothing certain was known of the fact, till the receipt of the Portland Advertiser of Tuesday, which contains the following account, and which puts an end to all hope that fears previously entertained were unfounded :

4. "A gentleman from this town, who has recently returned from Conway, has favoured us with some of the particulars of a disaster, near the Notch of the White Hills, which happened last week. The afternoon had been rainy, and the weather continued so till eleven o'clock in the evening, when it cleared away. About the same hour, a great noise was heard, at the distance of several miles, like the rushing down of rocks and much water from the mountains. 5. The next morning, the people, at Conway, could perceive that some disaster, of no ordinary character, had happened, by the appearance of the mountains on each side of the road. On repairing to the spot, they found the house of Mr. Willey, standing near the Notch, unhurt, but destitute of any of the family. 6. It is supposed that they left it in their fright, and were instantly swept away, and buried under the rocks and earth which were borne down by the freshet. This family consisted of Mr. Willey, his wife, five children, and two hired men, all of whom were suddenly swept from time to eternity, by this amentable disaster. 7. Had they remained in the house, they would, probably, have been safe. Three of those unfortunate persons have since been dug out from

under the earth and rocks which were carried along with them.

8. "All the out-buildings were destroyed, with the horses in the stable. The oxen were saved. The road is filled up, several miles, to that degree, that it is thought impracticable to repair it, or make another. 9. It is supposed that a waterspout gathered, and burst against the mountain, which produced so great a freshet, instantaneously, as to carry every thing before it. Rocks, of several tons, were swept away. The Saco river had risen at Fryeburg, the next morning, ten feet."

10. Thus is stricken from the face of the earth a group, which the virtuous and the happy could not but admire,— which the rich and the proud might envy. No mortal eye was permitted to witness and survive the agonies of the awful moment, no mortal ear caught the expiring groan of the sufferers. 11. The horrors of the catastrophe are imprinted on the memory of no child of the earth. Yet were the very hairs of their head all numbered; and who is there that would not admire the kindness of that Providence, which left no "bruised reed" standing amidst a scene of bereavement, no parent to weep over the mangled and faded flower, no infant bud cut from the parent stock, to wither and die in the blast!

1.

2.

LESSON LXXII.

The Hermit.-Parnell.

FAR in a wild, unknown to public view,
rom youth to age, a reverend hermit grew
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well:
Remote from man, with God he passed the days;
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.
A life so sacred, such serene repose,
Secmed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose,-
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey;
Thus sprung some doubt of Providence's sway.
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast,
And all the tenor of his soul is lost.

3. So, when a smooth expanse receives, impressed,
Calm nature's image on its watery breast,

Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow,
And skies, beneath, with answering colours glow,

4.

But, if a stone the gentle sea divide,
Swift ruffling circles curl on every side;
And glimmering fragments of a broken sun,
Banks, seas, and skies, in thick disorder run.

To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight,
To find if books or swains report it right,

(For yet by swains alone the world he knew,
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew,)
He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he bore,
And fixed the scallop in his hat before;
Then, with the rising sun, a journey went,
Sedate to think, and watching each event.
5. The morn was wasted in the pathless grass,
And long and lonesome was the wild to pass;
But, when the southern sun had warmed the day,
A youth came posting o'er a crossing way;
His raiment decent, his complexion fair,

And soft, in graceful ringlets, waved his hair. 6. Then, near approaching, "Father, hail!" he cried; And, "Hail, my son!" the reverend sire replied; Words followed words, from question answer flowed, And talk of various kind deceived the road; Till, each with other, pleased, and loath to part, While in their age they differ, join in heart. Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound; Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around.

7.

Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray;
Nature, in silence, bid the world repose,
When, near the road, a stately palace rose.

8. There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass, Whose verdure crowned their sloping sides with grass. It chanced, the noble master of the dome

Still made his house the wandering stranger's home;
Yet, still, the kindness, from a thirst of praise,
Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease.

9. The pair arrive; the liveried servants wait;
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate;
A table groans with costly piles of food;
And all is more than hospitably good.
Then, led to rest, the day's long toil they drown,
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down.

10.

At length 'tis morn; and, at the dawn of day,
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play;
Fresh o'er the gay parterres' the breezes creep,
And shake the neighbouring wood, to banish sleep.
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call:

An early banquet decked the splendid hall;
Rich, luscious wine a golden goblet graced,

Wh... the kind master forced the guests to taste.

11. Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch they ge And, but the landlord, none had cause of wo; His cup was vanished; for, in secret guise,

12.

The younger guest purloined the glittering prize.
As one, who sees a serpent in his way,
Glistening and basking in the summer ray,
Disordered, stops, to shun the danger near,
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear,—
So seemed the sire, when, far upon the road,

The shining spoil his wily partner showed.

13. He stopped with silence, walked with trembling heart,
And much he wished, but durst not ask, to part:
Murmuring, he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard
That generous actions meet a base reward.

14.

While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds;
The changing skies hang out their sable clouds;
A sound in air présaged approaching rain,

And beasts to covert scud across the plain.
15. Warned by the signs, the wandering pair retreat,
To seek for shelter in a neighbouring seat:
"Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground,
And strong, and large, and unimproved around;
Its owner's temper, timorous and severe,
Unkind and griping, caused a desert there.
16. As near the miser's heavy doors they drew,
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ;

The nimble lightning, mixed with showers, began, And o'er their heads loud rolling thunder ran. 17. Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain, Driven by the wind, and battered by the rain. At length, some pity warmed the master's breast; ('Twas then his threshold first received a guest;) Slow creaking, turns the door, with jealous care, And half he welcomes in the shivering pair. 18. One frugal fagot lights the naked walls,

19.

And nature's fervour through their limbs recalls;
Bread, of the coarsest sort, with meager wine,
(Each hardly granted,) served them both to dine;
And, wher the tempest first appeared to cease,
A ready warning bid them part in peace.

With still remark, the pondering hermit viewed,
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude:

And why should such (within himself he cried)
Lock the lost wealth, a thousand want beside?
20. But what new marks of wonder soon took place,
In every setting feature of his face,

When, from his vest, the young companion bore
That спр the generous landlord owned before,
And paid profusely, with the precious bowl,
The stinted kindness of this churlish soul!

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