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which is impressed by sudden and intense suffering; the choking of her convulsive sobs hindered her speech; and she clung to him, like one who dreads some horrible danger. When she regained her self-command, he learned that the wretched Gaveston had watched her in her usual walk through a neighbouring wood, and, taking advantage of her loneliness, had forced her to gratify his brutal passion. “ Still art thou my own noblest wife !" said Tresilian, as he mingled his tears with hers, hiding, for her sake, the fierceness of his indignation against the ravisher. ' “ Still thou art my own best and purest One.”. Every endeavour was used by the true-minded lover to restore her serenity, and it seemed for a time successfully. She regained her calmness; she almost resumed her cheerful spirits; for she knew that the pure-hearted Tresilian was above suspicion. She knew that his love was the same; she knew that none is stained by the offence of another :--but the shock had been too much. Like the delicate flower that, drooping before the sudden storm, though but slightly bruised, may not again raise its fair head to greet the sun, so was she. Every delicate feeling of her gentle being had been wounded. She was as the sensitive plant, that without feeling of inward wrong shrinks from the kindliest touch : but for her there was no recovery. It was in vain that she attempted to be gay. Her smiles were languid, and every day less frequent. She pined away with the gnawing of her deep melancholy. Yet she was not unhappy. She could not be unhappy on the bosom of so fond a Love: but the cherishing warmth could not keep out the canker; and the sorrow consumed her heart. Tresilian stood over the cold form of that which had been his Idol. The Divinity of his life had passed away. He leaned over the grave of his happiness, with the curse of Cain upon his heart, and without hope. Fearfully wrestled he with the temptation to die and be again with her where there is neither sorrow nor suffering. Fearful was the struggle—but his destiny was not yet accomplished. More desolate than when he had before thought of leaving the scene of his love, he set out from the place of her grave—a wanderer through the earth, sworn to minister to the sorrows of his fellow-beings. Nobly did he perform his task; sternly he endured the heavy periods of his pilgrimage, the unmeasured moments that dilated to the stature of ages, rendering time an eternal thing. Often did the ever-baffled tempter meet him face to face in the wilderness of his dreary thought, not with the promise of wealth and honour and dominion, but pointing to the lowly grave, the home of rest and re-union. Ever was there the same answer—He might do nothing unworthy of her love.
Years passed away, and Tresilian, still a young man, yet grey at heart, was serving in the army of his country. The enemy was on the borders of * his native land, and the state needed the assistance of all. He paused not, though Gaveston held high command, and he must serve under his enemy. His resolve had been long taken. He felt that no revenge on one so base could equal his wrong: no vengeful infliction could expiate the suffering of the beloved. And should he degrade himself to a level with the injurer by imitating his injurious conduct? Could he raise the wrong-doer from his pitiable infamy, then should be indeed have vanquished evil: but if not, yet would he be unconquered. Nor did he descend from his dignity. One day, in a slight skirmish with a foraging party of the enemy, Gaveston, who was in command of his own party, was unhörsed, and must have perished but for the timely assistance of Tresilian, who in the rescue was mortally wounded. He was borne to his tent, rejoicing in the nearness of that rest for which he had so long toiled. Shortly after, Gaveston, not knowing his preserver, came to visit him, inquiring how he could reward his bravery. He raised himself in the bed, and, looking serenely upon him, replied, “ By believing in the forgiveness of Tresilian.”
THE COLISEUM, AT ROME. This vast amphitheatre, for the display of gladiatorial shows, was built in the first century after Christ, by Vespasian and his son Titus, emperors of Rome. Thirty thousand Jews (led into captivity after the destruction of Jerusalem by Titus,) were employed in its erection. It was more than one thousand six hundred feet in circumference, and is said to have contained eighty thousand spectators. On the first day of its being opened, five thousand, or, according to some historians, nine thousand, wild beasts were introduced to combat with the primitive Christians and other captives of allconquering Rome. . (The richer Romans also kept a number of slaves who were regularly trained for this wholesale butchery—“to make a Roman holiday."). At the conclusion of this spectacle, the arena was put under water, and two fleets represented a naval engagement. Sweet-scented water, and frequently wine mixed with saffron, was on these occasions showered down, from a grating above, on the heads of the spectators. The gladiatorial “ games” were suppressed by the emperor Honorius, in the year 404 A. D. The spirit however remained: and till the ferocity of national and religious warfare shall be subdued, society will have little reason to boast of its greater civilization. Modern humanity may have refined upon Roman cruelty, but those who suffer for its amusement are little benefited. There are worse torturers than the mere brute, and more shameful conflicts, even in Christian England, than the shows of Pagan Rome. At the sacking of Rome by the Goths, the Coliseum was spoiled of its internal ornaments; the partial destruction of the very building was reserved for the more enlightened Christian. Pope Paul 2. had as much of it levelled as was necessary to furnish materials for building the Palace of St. Mark; Cardinal Riario followed his example in the construction of what is now called the Chancery; a portion of it was also employed by Pope Paul 3. in the erection of the Palace Farnese. Enough however still remains to strike the beholder with awe, to evidence a work worthy of colossal Rome. Turn we to the monument of a mightier and more enduring power than that of the imperial or the priestly conqueror, to the record—would it were not som of a worse than gladiatorial murder. In the Protestant cemetery, at the foot of the pyramid of Caius Cestius, near the gate of St. Paul, a white marble tombstone, erected to the memory of John Keats, bears the following inscription :
HERE LIES ONE
Feb. 24th, 1821.
Self-deceit.--Are we to think that we are become men of probity, because by means of giving decent names to our vices, we have learned no longer to blush at them?-Rousseau.
The true object of Science.—To lead the mind of man towards its noble destination-a knowledge of truth, to spread sound and wholesome ideas among the lowest classes of the people, to draw human beings from the empire of prejudice and passion, to make reason the arbitrator and supreme guide of public opinion.- Cuvier.
THE LABOUR OF FOLLY. Still toiling on !-How the fierce spirit loathes This o'er-tasked being's load of drudgery! Tottering beneath the Curse of Trade that clothes His strained nerves in sweat of misery, "Twixt bodily and mental Penury, The Lord of earth, self-sold, crawls tow'rd the shrine Of Useless Toil, his heart to sacrifice. How little labour, well-shared, would suffice To buy health's needful food, the mind's rich wine, Heart-luxuries : and now, that a few drones May rot in most corrupt and painful sloth, The mass of human life, care-goaded, groans, And sinks, and, out-worn, dies.-Patience is wroth, Watching the blood-track of blind Slavery.
LIGHT AND GLOOM. The dark enshadow'd chapel; long black walls, Harsh, hard, and angular—such my pain'd sight Meets blindingly, till tortured vision falls In deep abyss of gloom, shrouding its light: On high the moon, day-girding the dim night, Gleams languidly, circled with ring immense, Like glory round 'One canonized ; quick sense Of joy rekindling in my soul. As bright The night-star of Life's hope, though dark and rude The opposing angles of all-whelming strife, As the vast city's dreariest solitudeThat many-streeted desert of still life. Dim shows the moon, with mist-spun veil o'er-cast, Like faint-eyed Hope tired with long watching fast.
THE ONE THING NEEDFUL.
Evil of Property.—The first person, who, having inclosed a piece of ground, bethought himself of saying This is mine, and found people simple enough to believe him, was the real founder of civil society. From how many crimes, battles, and murders, from how many horrors and misfortunes would not that man have saved mankind, who should have pulled up the stakes, or filled up the ditch, crying out to his fellows, “Beware of listening to this impostor; you are undone if you once forget that the fruits of the earth belong to us all, and that the earth itself belongs to nobody.”
Perfectibility of Man.—Is it possible for us to contemplate what Man has already done, without being impressed with a strong presentiment of the improvements he has yet to accomplish? There is no science that is not capable of additions; there is no art that may not be carried to a still higher perfection. If this be true of all other sciences, why not of morals? If this be true of all other arts, why not of social institution? The very conception of this as possible, is in the highest degree encouraging. If we can still farther demonstrate it to be a part of the natural and regular progress of mind, our confidence and our hopes will then be complete. This is the temper with which we ought to engage in the study of political truth. Let us look back that we may profit by the experience of mankind; but let us not look back, as if the wisdom of our ancestors was such as to leave no room for future improvement.—Godwin.
Moral Power.—Another and most important element of Moral Power is Character. The state of character is the test of Moral Power in the in dividual. What most deserves the name of character is, when the different faculties of the mind and heart are proportionately developed, so that memory, and imagination, and judgment, and social and individual feeling, and the active principles of our nature, all hold their due course, and so blend, that we may say to all the world “ this was a man.” And whenever this harmonious combination, this proportionate development takes place, there is not only a beautiful object of contemplation in the person himself; we not only see that which gives us similar sensations to the perfection of an ancient statue, or that of the construction of epic or dramatic poem, but we behoid that which has power, as well as beauty; which by its very existence exercises influence, which is in fact an incarnation of Moral Power. There are those who have only to live in order to be influential. They act unconsciously; they influence because they are. It is not necessary that they should form to themselves great purposes of affecting others; that they should deliberately say to themselves," I will act in such and such a way, upon such and such a person, or upon any collection or class of persons in society:" they have only to hold on their own consistent, beautiful, and harmonious course: when the ear heareth them, then it blesseth them, and the eye that seeth them will bear witness to them; and the heart that admires will come spontaneously and unconsciously under the power of their example. This is a power, of which the lowest in station, and the obscurest, may be possessed; of which they must be possessed, if they are really fashioning the faculties and powers of their own nature into the harmony for which they were intended by the Creator.-W. J. Fox.
Source of Sympathy-There is a first model of beauty and agreeableness, which consists in a certain relation between our own nature and the thing with which we are affected. Whatever is formed on this model, interests and delights us; whatever differs from it, is always displeasing:-Pascal.
"Where are those ramparts of Nineveh, those walls of Babylon, those palaces of Persepolis, those tern ples of Balbec and of Jerusalem?-I looked for those ancient people and their works, and all I could find was a faint trace, like to what the foot of a passenger leaves in the sand."
Volney. "old Memphis hath gone down, The Pharaobs are no more:"-Tennyson.
Is there no advance of Humanity in this Revolution of Empires ? Stand we now, yet raimented in barbarism, on the same step of the throne of knowledge, as the men of the olden time, the children of an earlier age? Have the destinies of nations been continually read within our hearing, yet unarriving at our hearts? Have we learned by rote, without understanding ? Has Man made no progress? We have progressed, though it be but little; gradually, though unconsciously: imperceptible though our progression be in the annals of the past, yet the future effect is certain. In the night of the blind and evil-causing selfishness—the shroud of our chrysalis state-star after star has risen in brightness, doing little apparently towards dispelling the universal gloom, yet illuming their immediate sphere of action, and, by the periods of their alternations, chronicling the passage of the tardy night and heralding the coming dawn. It is still dark night, but near the break of day. Self-love is yet in its infancy, but it has learned, and is learning. It was needful that it should taste the bitter as the sweet, that it might avoid the evil, and ever after choose the good. It has drunk of the poison, and nauseates it: it has scarcely tasted of the pure and palatable beverage, the wine of Health; but the goblet is even now pressed to its lips ;—but one draught—will it be ever satiate? will it return to its vomited disgust ?—Never!
We have built our happiness on self-love : true to our nature in the principle; worse than false in practice. Our self-love was self-mistaken, consequently misdirected. Man thought, or rather dreamed, that individual good was incompatible with universal; that happiness was a something he could not share, a something to be attained at the expense or, at least, independent of others. On this assumption he acted: he put on him the armour of a separate interest, of distrust; he armed himself with the two-edged sword of competition, that pierces even the piercer; and hand to hand he battled against his fellow-man for an isolated happiness. What marvel that the result was and is misery. This, amid all chances and changes, through all systems and revolutions, this would-be parent of happiness, Competition, has misruled the destinies of man, misguided his conduct, misled his universal energies. Like the bundle of sticks in the fable, the disunited have been severally broken on the wheel of varied wretchedness. How fraught with truth and interest is that fable; how rife its application to individual families : - Behold, brethren, how good and joyful a thing it is to dwell together in unity! Little children, love one another !”—How beautiful that lesson! Must it never quit the nursery?
Must it never stir from the narrowness of a dwelling-house, to wander through the length and breadth of the wide world, finding a home in every heart and an echo in every action? It shall; and man, in the might of his progression, shall win back paradise to earth; and the fruit of the tree of knowledge shall be unmixed good. Nations and individuals are tiring of the ceaseless strife of useless and gainless opposition. Philosophy has welcomed Benevolence to her bowers; and Philanthropy learns in the school of Wisdom. Hand in hand they go forth on their mission to the world, teaching the sublime truth, that mutual assistance is the best aider of mutual progression, of individual and universal advancement. It was the rejection of the help of Love by the self-sufficiency of Wisdom, the slighting of the aid of Wisdom by the sanguine
heart of Love, that