Sult. Consider for whom you plead-for men (if not base culprits) so misled, so depraved, they are dangerous to our state, and deserve none of its blessings.

Hasw. If not upon the undeserving-if not upon the wretched wanderer from the paths of rectitude—where shall the sun diffuse his light, or the clouds distil their dew? Where shall spring breathe fragrance, or autumn pour its plenty?

Sult. Sir, your sentiments, still more your character, excite my curiosity. They tell me, that in our camps you visited each sick man's bed; administered yourself the healing draught*; encouraged our savages with the hope of life, or pointed out their better hope in death.-The widow speaks your charities, the orphan lisps your bounties, and the rough Indian melts in tears to bless you..—I wish to ask why you have done all this?-what is it that prompts you thus to befriend the miserable and forlorn?

Hasw. It is in vain to explain:-the time it would take to reveal to you

Sult. Satisfy my curiosity in writing then.

Hasw. Nay, if you will read, I'll send a book in which is already written why I act thus.

Sult. What book? what is it called?

Hasw. "The Christian Doctrine."

all I have done was but my duty.

There you will find

Sult. Your words recal reflections that distract me; nor can I bear the pressure on my mind, without confessingI am a Christian!

LESSON C.

The monied man.-NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

OLD Jacob Stock! The chimes of the clock were not more punctual in proclaiming the progress of time, than in marking the regularity of his visits at the temples of Plutus in Threadneedle-street, and Bartholomew-lane. His devotion to them was exemplary. In vain the wind and the rain, the hail and the sleet, battled against his rugged front. Not the slippery ice, nor the thick-falling snow, nor the whole artillery of elementary warfare, could check the plodding perseverance of the man of the world, or tempt

*Pron. draft.

him to lose the chance which the morning, however unpropitious it seemed, in its external aspect, might yield him of profiting by the turn of a fraction.

He was a stout-built, round-shouldered, squab-looking man, of a bearish aspect. His features were hard, and his heart was harder. You could read the interest-table in the wrinkles of his brow, trace the rise and fall of stocks by the look of his countenance; while avarice, selfishness, and money-getting, glared from his gray, glassy eye. Nature had poured no balm into his breast; nor was his " gross and earthly mould" susceptible of pity. A single look of his would daunt the most importunate petitioner that ever attempted to extract hard coin by the soft rhetoric of a heart-moving tale.

The wife of one whom he had known in better days, pleaded before him for her sick husband, and famishing infants. Jacob, on occasions like these, was a man of few words. He was as chary of them as of his money, and he let her come to the end of her tale without interruption. She paused for a reply; but he gave none. "Indeed, he is very ill, Sir."-"Can't help it."- "We are very distressed." "Can't help it."-" Our poor children, too

"Can't help that neither."

heart but his, Jacob felt more

His hand in

The petitioner's eye looked a mournful reproach, which would have interpreted itself to any other 'Indeed, you can;" but she was silent. awkwardly than he had ever done in his life. voluntarily scrambled about his breeches' pocket. There was something like the weakness of human nature stirring within him. Some coin had unconsciously worked its way into his hand-his fingers insensibly closed; but the effort to draw them forth, and the impossibility of effecting it without unclosing them, roused the dormant selfishness of his nature, and restored his self-possession.

"He has been very extravagant."-" Ah, Sir, he has been very unfortunate, not extravagant." "Unfortunate!Ah! it's the same thing. Little odds, I fancy. For my part, I wonder how folks can be unfortunate. I was never unfortunate. Nobody need be unfortunate, if they look after the main chănce. I always looked after the main chănce." "He has had a large family to maintain."- "Ah! married foolishly; no offence to you ma'am. But when poor folks marry poor folks, what are they to look for? you Besides, he was so foolishly fond of assisting others.

know.

If a

friend was sick, or in gaol, out came his purse, and then his creditors might go whistle. Now if he had married a woman with money, you know, why then . . . . .”

The supplicant turned pale, and would have fainted. Jacob was alarmed; not that he sympathized, but a woman's fainting was a scene that he had not been used to: besides, there was an awkwardness about it; for Jacob was a bachelor.

Sixty summers had passed over his head without imparting a ray of warmth to his heart; without exciting one tender feeling for the sex, deprived of whose cheering presence, the paradise of the world were a wilderness of weeds. -So he desperately extracted a crown piece from the depth profound, and thrust it hastily into her hand. The action recalled her wandering senses. She blushed-it was the honest blush of pride at the meanness of the gift. She curt'sied; staggered towards the door; opened it; closed it; aised her hand to her forehead, and burst into tears.* * * *

LESSON Cİ.

The Highlander.-W. GILLESPIE.

Many years ago, a poor Highland soldier, on his return to his native hills, fatigued, as it was supposed, by the length of the march and the heat of the weather, sat down under the shade of a birch-tree, on the solitary road of Lowrin, that winds along the margin of Loch Ken, in Galloway. Here he was found dead, and this incident forms the subject of the following verses.

FROM the climes of the sun, all war-worn and weary,
The Highlander sped to his youthful abode;
Fair visions of home cheered the desert so dreary;

Though fierce was the noon-bearn and steep was the road.

Till spent with the march that still lengthened before him,
He stopped by the way in a syivan retreat;
The light shady boughs of the birch-tree waved o'er him,
And the stream of the mountain fell soft at his feet.

He sunk to repose where the red heaths are blended,
One dream of his childhood his fancy past o'er;
But his battles are fought, and his march.... it is ended;
The sound of the bagpipe shall wake him no more.

No arm in the day of the conflict could wound him,
Though war lanched her thunder in fury to kill ;
Now the angel of death in the desert has found him,
Now stretched him in peace by the stream of the hill.
Pale Autumn spreads o'er him the leaves of the forest,
The fays of the wild chănt the dirge of his rest;
And thou, little brook, still the sleeper deplorest,
And moisteneth the heath-bell that weeps on his breast.

LESSON CII.

The Harvest Moon.-W. MILLAR.

ALL hail! thou lovely queen of night,
Bright empress of the starry sky!
The meekness of thy silvery light
Beams gladness on the gazer's eye,
While from thy peerless throne on high
Thou shinest bright as cloudless noon,
And bidd'st the shades of darkness fly
Before thy glory-Harvest moon!
In the deep stillness of the night,
When weary labor is at rest,

How lovely is the scene!-how bright

The wood-the lawn-the mountain's breast, When thou, fair Moon of Harvest! hast

Thy radiant glory all unfurled,

And sweetly smilest in the west,

Far down upon the silent world.

Dispel the clouds, majestic orb!

That round the dim horizon brood,
And hush the winds that would disturb
The deep, the awful solitude,

That rests upon the slumbering flood,
The dewy fields, and silent grove,
When midnight hath thy zenith viewed,
And felt the kindness of thy love.
Lo! scattered wide beneath thy throne,
The hope of millions richly spread,
That seems to court thy radiance down
To rest upon its dewy bed:

Oh! let thy cloudless glory shed
Its welcome brilliance from on high,
Till hope be realized-and fled

The omens of a frowning sky.

Shine on, fair orb of light! and smile
Till autumn months have passed away,
And Labor hath forgot the toil

He bore in summer's sultry ray;
And when the reapers end the day,
Tired with the burning heat of noon,
They'll come with spirits light and gay,
And bless thee-lovely Harvest Moon!

LESSON CIII.

Thalaba among the ruins of Babylon.-SOUTHEY.

THE many-colored domes*
Yet wore one dusky hue;
The cranes upon the mosque
Kept their night-clatter still;

When through the gate the early traveller pass'd.
And when, at evening, o'er the swampy plain
The bittern's boom came far,

Distinct in darkness seen,
Above the low horizon's lingering light,
Rose the near ruins of old Babylon.
Once, from her lofty walls the charioteer

Looked down on swarming myriads; once she flung
Her arches o'er Euphrates' conquered tide,
And, through her brazen portals when she poured
Her armies forth, the distant nations looked
As men who watch the thunder-cloud in fear,
Lest it should burst above them.-She was fallen !
The queen of cities, Babylon, was fallen!.

Low lay her bulwarkst; the black scorpion basked
In palace courts within the sanctuary

The she-wolf hid her whelps.

Is yonder huge and shapeless heap, what once
Hath been the aërial gardens, height on height
Rising, like Media's mountains, crowned with wood,

*Of Bagdad.

+ Pron. bul-wurks- as in bull.